Chapter Twenty #2
Yet, he’d been there for her when it mattered. When she was fighting Durant Cole in the darkness of that cave. Against all odds, he’d been there.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, struggling to meet his gaze. “I want to help…I really do. But not Tito…I can’t. You know that, right?”
He nodded. “I understand. I had to ask.”
He tucked his chair gently into place beneath the table.
“I’ll get going.”
“What will you do?” Nikki asked.
“Ravenna is meeting me after lunch, to take me to Ines. If she’s the woman Maria remembered, maybe she knows more than she’s saying. It’s worth a shot.”
—
She walked him to the door. He’d stepped across the threshold when an idea occurred to her.
“What about Sandro?” she suggested. “From the other night—at the bar? He and my brother Adriano were friends in the carabinieri. Maybe he can find your guy.”
Valerio exhaled, and smiled, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Sure. That’s a good idea. I’ll text you the picture.”
—
Nikki didn’t have a number for Sandro, so she rang her father to see if he did. He answered on the third ring.
“Are you at home?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Great! I’m on my way.”
“Wait!” she said, but he’d already hung up.
—
The coffee in the Moka was hot. Nikki poured herself a cup and, righting the toppled chair, sat and opened her phone.
As usual, there were dozens of messages from Audrey Lake, who seemed undeterred by Nikki’s nonresponse.
There was a video message from Izzy, who thanked her for her visit and said that they loved her.
On Instagram, there were several messages from Sally Tate:
- Teddy is on the war path
- He’s seriously connected
- You’d better watch out
- He says he’ll report you to the police
Her most recent message from only a few minutes ago read: Seriously. Who are you?
Nikki messaged: Can you please send me the link to Claire’s blog?
Sally responded immediately: If I do, will you tell me who you are?
Nikki wrote: I’m an investigator. Trying to find out what happened to Claire. You were her closest friend. I need your help.
Sally wrote: Holy shit. I knew it! Is Teddy a suspect?
Nikki wrote: I can’t talk about that. Would you please share the link?
A few seconds passed. Then, to Nikki’s relief, Sally sent it.
—
Claire Sexton’s blog, Thornfield Manor Secrets, looked like the cover of a novel—white roses on a pale coral background. The page opened on the most recent post, dated the day before Claire vanished off the yacht in Capri.
His eyes, deep and piercing, penetrate my soul. How I long to cast aside this pretense. Why must we play these games? I swear he can read my mind with just a glance. Please, Rochester. I need to talk to you alone.
It went on like this for pages.
Nikki shifted uncomfortably as she skimmed the intimate confessions. She felt like an intruder—as if she’d found a stranger’s diary.
The entries stretched back to August, shortly before the family set sail on The Prophet.
As Sally indicated, Claire had been infatuated with her employer.
Most entries read like the thoughts of a typical young woman, but when Claire wrote about Jayston, whom she referred to as “Rochester,” the language was florid—as if she were the heroine in a romance novel.
The fixation seemed to originate at a restaurant where Jayston noticed she was cold and loaned her his jacket.
SO thoughtful. And it SMELLED like him! Heaven! Incredible.
Beyond this, Claire described only professional interactions with Jayston; nothing sexual or inappropriate. Given Lydia’s account of her daughter’s shyness and inexperience with men, Nikki wondered whether Jayston was even aware of Claire’s limerence.
Apart from her overwrought declarations about Jayston, Claire was enthusiastic in her descriptions of life aboard the yacht—exploring Greece and Croatia, and playing with Audrey. She loved and enjoyed the awkward little girl, and sympathized with the trauma of losing her younger brother.
Audrey’s tendency to run away or hide on the yacht seemed a frequent occurrence, which Claire attributed to her parents’ battles, and Audrey’s unmet need for her mother’s attention.
Claire had created the blog well after the start of the hostilities with Fiona, and by then was already clearly distressed by the adversarial relationship. The topic appeared frequently and, as Fiona’s criticism escalated, Claire’s posts darkened.
She says she’s hired private detectives to get dirt on Rochester. She says I know why you’re really here. Don’t think you’re the first one, Princess. Like she actually knows. She’s a liar. I know that. But I need to be more careful. She’ll never let him go.
Yet there were hints that their interactions had once been warmer. Claire mentioned clothing and jewelry that Fiona had once loaned her—until their rapport soured and Fiona demanded them back.
Nikki startled as the door buzzer sounded. She stood and shut her laptop.
—
Nikki’s father was on the landing, rocking back on his heels and finishing a cigarette. He stubbed it out on the iron railing.
“Ah, Nina! There she is!”
He kissed her cheeks and followed her inside, rubbing his hands together.
“Sì, sì, sì,” he muttered.
“Do you remember Sandro Balestrieri?” Nikki asked. “Adriano’s friend from the carabinieri? He said he saw you in the office.”
“Of course! He’s a big man now in the agency. I had coffee with him yesterday.”
Nikki exhaled. “Good. I need his contact information.”
“What for?”
“There’s a man who doesn’t show up in the police facial recognition search. I thought Sandro might have access to different databases.”
“What man?” He was suddenly interested. “Show me.”
Nikki texted him the photo Valerio had sent.
Raoul put on his reading glasses and studied the image, squinting.
“Don’t recognize him.” He sounded disappointed. “Looks Slavic…Eastern European.”
Nikki smiled. “Are you supposed to recognize every criminal?”
“I could—at one time,” he said, with a matching grin.
“So, will you ask Sandro?”
“Make me coffee, and you have a deal!”
—
Nikki rinsed the small Moka and started a fresh pot. Raoul didn’t seem inclined to wait. As soon as he’d made his calls and gotten Sandro’s contact details, he bolted from the kitchen and Nikki heard him tromping through the flat as she made a message to Sandro.
—
Raoul’s mission was underway when Nikki joined him in the living room. He carried in a stack of boxes, setting them in front of the sofa. They stank of dust and mildew.
“Start with that one,” he said, pointing.
Nikki sat and opened the first box. “What am I looking for?”
“Your mother’s notes. Letters. Anything with her handwriting. Just set it aside.”
He bustled away again.
—
By the time he was finished, the space was littered with dusty boxes: old family memorabilia, left by Beatrice when she and Raoul moved back to Benevento.
Under other circumstances, Nikki would have left her father to sort through these himself.
But the conversations with Izzy yesterday about Beatrice’s secret life made her wonder if she could find evidence about that mystery here.
They excavated decades of sediment—old photos, school records, personal letters, Christmas cards, and geological formations of souvenirs.
Nikki paused at a photo of her mother after boot camp, wearing Navy service dress blues, a stern expression on her childish face—large, intelligent eyes and Romanesque nose.
Her lips, pressed closed tightly in that moment, had always been so ready to curve into a laugh.
Nikki saw that smile in other family pictures—beachside holidays, and poorly lit Christmas dinners.
The longer Nikki searched, the clearer it became: There was nothing mysterious here.
No key to unlock the enigma of her missing mother.
Instead, she was unexpectedly confronted by the immediacy of a familiar grief—the faces of her mother and Adriano, memories so far faded, faces so young and hopeful, they seemed to belong to another life.
—
After a few hours, they broke for lunch.
At a nearby trattoria, they ordered panini and insalata, settling into an outdoor table to enjoy the sunlight and respite from the rain.
After the meal, as they drank coffee, Nikki asked, “What exactly are you hoping to find in Mom’s stuff?”
Raoul stared for a long moment, then took out his phone, and scrolled through photos before handing it to her.
“I’m probably hunting chimeras,” he said. “It was a long time ago, and my memory isn’t as good as it once was.”
Nikki squinted at the screen—at a photo of lined paper and handwriting scrawled in thick blue ink: numbers and dates and names.
“What am I looking at?” she asked.
He leaned forward.
“This is from Lotterio Patalano’s secret ledger,” he explained. “He kept track of shipments for the mob. See the vessel names and the code for the manifest?” He pointed. “And the port, the date. And there, on the far right—the name.”
Nikki zoomed in, sounding it out. “Damascus. They were shipping to Syria?”
He shook his head. “I thought that at first. But these records are sea routes. Damascus isn’t a port—it’s in the middle of the desert. Also, it doesn’t make sense in the context. I think it’s a code name for someone.”
“Someone inside Syria?”
“I wondered that, too, but I don’t think so. I’ve been working with some young analysts—they’re very eager…very bright. We can’t find any link between this name, and shipments to that region during that time. If there’s a connection, we’re not seeing it.”
He flicked to the next picture. “Now, look at the names here.”
Nikki zoomed in again. “Diogenes,” she read. “Another code name? Who’s Diogenes?”
Raoul pressed his lips together and wrinkled his nose. “Diogenes was a Greek philosopher. He carried a lamp, saying he was looking for an honest man.”
“Okay,” said Nikki. “I’m not seeing what you’re seeing.”