Chapter Eight #3
Dorotea closed her eyes. “The young woman who was killed…she knew her killer…she was afraid. She wanted to keep something secret. She knew the killer would meet her.”
Nikki’s attention focused. She examined Dorotea’s face.
“How do you know this?” she asked.
“I know,” Dorotea intoned.
“Did she tell you?”
“She didn’t tell me with words.” The woman tapped a pink fingernail against her temple.
Nikki’s irritation was a bright ember burning through her patience. She bent down to get on the level with Dorotea, and looked sternly in her birdlike eyes.
“I realize you need to make a living with this act,” she said. “But a woman was killed. The murderer could kill again. Please stop your performance and tell me: Did you meet the victim? Did you speak to her?”
Dorotea was silent as she considered. Then she shook her head, chest puffed, and unfurled her hand.
“We did not speak.”
Nikki dug in her wallet, found the bills and paid, then turned and strode away.
Signora Dorotea called after her. “You are a child of Napoli, full of light and darkness…the divine and infernal wrestling…”
—
In the office, Nikki was relieved to find that Pasquale was her duty partner today. Of all the men in Phoenix Seven, she preferred her shifts with Pasquale since he did his job well and was good company. Unfortunately, Angelo was also in the office. He summoned her when she arrived.
He stood behind his desk, leaning onto his fists, elbows locked.
“This isn’t like last time,” he said. A vein pulsed in his temple. “You don’t get to take time off the schedule and pretend to be a detective. You work your shift, like everyone else.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Angelo said. “Mario told me you got another by-name request to assist the police investigation yesterday. This has to stop. Your work is here. I can’t have you prancing off anytime you want.”
“I can’t help it if the police ask for me,” Nikki pointed out.
Spots of red were rising in Angelo’s cheeks.
“Romano says you know that Black lady detective. He saw you on Via Toledo together.”
“Detective Inspector Sonia Dieng?”
“Yes. Her. Is she your girlfriend?”
“And by that, you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” he barked. “Don’t pretend with me. Is she your girlfriend? Is that why she keeps requesting you?”
Nikki’s incredulity was matched only by her outrage. But showing her anger to Angelo would only reinforce a perception she didn’t want to feed. She kept her voice flat.
“If you’ll recall, Inspector Dieng and I worked the Markham case together.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Nikki took a deep breath. “Detective Inspector Dieng is not my girlfriend—but it wouldn’t be your business if she was.”
Angelo was working himself into a froth.
“It would most certainly be my business! Phoenix Seven does not permit conflicts of interest.”
Nikki’s words were ice. “In the past six months, Romano has dated two different carabinieri officers and a US Navy lieutenant. Would you consider these conflicts of interest?”
“I’m not talking about that with you,” Angelo protested.
Nikki continued, raising her voice. “Mario’s running a security consulting business as a side hustle. Would you consider that a conflict of interest?”
“Get out of my office.”
Nikki maintained eye contact for a few beats before leaving Angelo, shutting the door behind her.
—
Not long ago, Nikki had believed she could get along with Angelo.
After the heat of summer had ended, after the admiral was released from hospital and returned to work and Nikki was recovering from the worst injuries she’d sustained in her fight with Durant, her suspension was lifted.
Angelo had been courteous—commending her work and welcoming her back to Phoenix Seven. But the civility didn’t last.
On the day Admiral Redford brought Angelo and Nikki to his office to award Nikki a medal, Angelo had bristled with indignation.
“It isn’t appropriate to reward an individual investigator,” he explained earnestly to the admiral. “Phoenix Seven works as a team—so the team should get the award.”
He seemed incensed by Admiral Redford’s refusal to listen to his reasoning, and afterwards became cold and dismissive towards Nikki.
Nikki’s irritation with Angelo gradually transformed into disgust, and a hopelessness that anything she said would sway him. She also felt a sort of heady recklessness in their interactions, and an inability to play along and soothe his wounded ego.
—
Returning to her desk, Nikki checked her phone and messages and emails, and dug into overdue paperwork. She heard Angelo leave, but didn’t look up as he stomped past, slamming out the door.
After a while, Pasquale pulled up a chair and chatted, discussing his family’s plans for Christmas, and his wife’s online business selling handmade lace. It was a quiet morning, and they left the office for a long coffee break at the outdoor café before heading back to work.
—
The morning stretched on, and neither Sonia nor Emilio called. Nikki, who expected to continue supporting their investigation, vacillated between disappointment and relief. Despite her defiant words to her father, she had ambivalent feelings about assisting the police in this particular case.
Before this past summer, before the Markham case and the investigation with Durant, she trusted her instincts and capability.
When the world was ugly or unfair, when everyone else was losing their minds, she kept a clear head.
But things had changed. Gone was the clarity, the calm.
In its place, rooted like a parasite, was a persistent red glow of rage.
Despite her efforts to get her emotions under control, the fury was growing—so intense, so close to the surface, it could erupt without warning.
Yesterday, her anger towards Fiona Lake had become such an obvious liability that Sonia, for all her tolerance, had taken note.
Nikki was ashamed to have lost control like that.
Worse, she didn’t trust herself to be able to stop it next time.
—
Nikki turned next to researching Claire Sexton, whose online presence was far less prolific than Monica’s and Kami’s had been.
Her Instagram account consisted mostly of artistic scenery shots, or a grey cat named Mister Rochester.
There were a handful of pictures of Claire herself: early twenties, a baby fullness to her cheeks and lips, smooth brown skin, and short hair in tight, springy coils.
Her gaze was always turned away from the camera—so Nikki didn’t have a sense of her eyes, only the shield of her long lashes.
After some searching, Nikki found a short video interview of Claire on the London-based Albion Nanny Agency website.
—
“Tell us a little about yourself and what made you decide to become a nanny,” a woman off-screen said.
Claire’s gaze flickered upwards only briefly, followed by a shy and awkward smile.
“Right,” she said, and took a deep breath.
“So, ever since I was a little girl, I’ve had this sort of…
well, massive love for kids. I reckon I’ve never properly grown up myself, you know?
I did a Level Three diploma in early years development, then moved to London.
I was proper lucky, and found this amazing family to work for.
And that’s how my nanny career got started.
I’ve moved on from that family, and now I’m with another lovely family. ”
Her words were slow but passionate. When she finished, she looked up at the interviewer, who said, “That was perfect,” and Claire smiled fully, eyes gleaming.
Nikki was struck by the girl’s innocence; so young and hopeful, her sweetness giving a bizarre contrast to Fiona Lake’s characterization of the nanny as a “sneaky little cunt.”
The interviewer continued. “What would you say to someone who was thinking about being a nanny?”
“Get ready for a ride…it’s tough and incredible, yeah? You’ve got to stay strong, like, really embrace all the learning bits, ’cause there’s a lot. And remember, like every single day, you’ve got this chance to make a proper difference in a kid’s life!”
The video clip ended. Nikki copied and pasted the interview link in an email to Sonia.
—
The phone rang. It was Nikki’s father.
“I’ve been speaking with Fons. You remember Fons, don’t you? The butcher?”
It took a moment for Nikki’s brain to latch onto the right gear. She vaguely remembered Fons De Luise—her father’s friend. When she was little, he’d slip her a twisted paper of mortadella pieces while gossiping with her father.
“His shop is near Chiesa del Gesù Nuovo,” Raoul continued. “He saw a man sprint past. Then, a second man, also running.”
“Tuesday night?” Nikki asked. “Are you talking about the murder?”
“Exactly! Fons thinks they might have been the murderer and his accomplice.”
“Or two guys trying to get out of the rain,” she said.
He made a noise that could have been a grunt. “Perhaps. But he said they were running hard.”
Nikki exhaled. “Okay. But after the murder, I’m sure plenty of people were running away.”
“It happened before that.”
She frowned. “Two men sounds premeditated. You thought this was a crime of passion.”
A pause. Then, “Perhaps.”
“Did he say what the men looked like?” she asked.
“He didn’t get a good look.”
“Did he tell the police?”
“They interviewed him. Fons doesn’t think they took him seriously.”
Nikki sighed. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“You should talk to him.”
“I thought you didn’t want me involved in this investigation,” she said.
Another pause. Then Raoul said, “It’s only Fons.”
“Alright,” she said.
“Good. We’ll go tonight.”
“I’m busy,” she protested. “I’m teaching class.”
“Nina!” That familiar scolding tone from childhood. “I thought you wanted to investigate this murder! Tomorrow, then. Francesca and Gianni invited us for dinner. We’ll stop by Fons’s shop on the way.”
—
The station never called. It was only when Nikki was packing up to leave the office that a text message came in from Sonia on her personal phone.
Thanks for the information, it read. And thanks for your help on the interviews. Just so you know, we’ve decided to continue the investigation without Phoenix Seven.