Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
Angelo held up his watch, frowning.
“It’s important to be on time,” he intoned. “Everyone needs to pull their weight, signorina. Not only when it’s convenient. While I’m focused on the American ambassador, I rely on the professionalism of this team.”
“What’s happening with the ambassador’s daughter?” Nikki asked.
“You’ve been out of the loop,” he said, scarcely suppressing a grin. “The world doesn’t simply stop when you’re away.”
“Would you brief me?”
“It’s need-to-know,” he said. “You’re not on the case anymore.”
Nikki could see his deliberation—the pleasure of keeping the information from her contesting with his compulsion to showcase his superior knowledge. At last, he tipped his head as if the balance had shifted.
“The police found forensic evidence that Signorina Sexton was in the apartment rented by the ambassador’s daughter, Monica, and her friend, Kami.”
Nikki was surprised. “She was in their flat?”
“Perhaps even staying with them.”
She thought of Valerio’s words: You don’t take that kind of risk unless you’re desperate or insane.
“If she was staying in their flat,” she said, “why not kill her there? Why wait to kill her in a church with potentially hundreds of witnesses?”
“Precisely my thoughts!” agreed Angelo, clearly unable to hide his excitement.
“What does Monica say?” Nikki asked. “Did she tell you what Claire was doing at her flat?”
“She denies it.”
“She must be lying.”
Angelo’s chin tilted, face flushed. “As I told the detectives! I knew she was lying. My instinct is never wrong. I understand Americans. There are subtleties in such knowledge. The police could learn a thing or two from this humble investigator.”
“Why do you think she lied?” Nikki asked.
“I believe she’s afraid.”
“What could be more frightening than facing a murder charge?” she asked.
He leaned forward, rising on his toes. “That’s the question!”
As they talked, Mario had been noisily packing his bag. Now, he hefted it onto his shoulder with a grunt.
“Are you coming?” he asked loudly.
Angelo’s face, which had been animated, froze. He glanced at Mario. “On my way.”
These last words were spoken in the same abrupt tone Mario always used.
“Is Iacopo here?” Nikki asked, remembering that his name was on the duty roster for the afternoon shift.
“He’s going to be late,” Angelo said and, handing her the duty phone, followed Mario out.
—
Nikki settled into her cubicle and checked Angelo’s notes from the morning. It had been quiet. No break-ins or accidents. Nobody arrested.
It was a relief to have the office to herself, and nothing on the agenda. She could think about the case.
Rummaging in her rucksack, she grabbed the notecards, the edges starting to soften, removed the rubber band, and laid them out. She reviewed these and digested the new information.
Two young women, educated, privileged—facing murder charges. They had lied about knowing Claire. Why? What connected the three women?
Whatever it was, it had to be more frightening than murder charges.
The most obvious clue was the cocaine. Drugs introduced the specter of organized crime. Had the women been smuggling drugs for the Camorra?
She shuffled the cards slowly, pausing on the interview with Claire’s mother.
Lydia said that Claire had been afraid: She sounded…different…not herself…. She was in tears…wanted to hop on the next flight back.
If Claire had been involved in cocaine trafficking—if she’d even brushed up against the Camorra—it might explain her distress.
Nikki scanned the pale pinks and peaches of Claire’s blog site, searching for confirmation of this hypothesis. But Claire seemed to have been more child than woman, her naive infatuation with Jayston dominating her writing.
Nikki winced a little as she reread the post: Oh, please, Rochester. I need to talk to you alone. There must be some explanation.
She doubted Claire possessed the subterfuge to maintain a secret self—one that smuggled cocaine while maintaining the appearance of a sweet-natured nanny obsessed with her employer.
What could have possibly induced Claire to compromise her future, her work for the Lakes, the proximity to her beloved “Rochester”—for the risky proposition of drug smuggling?
Unless it was Jayston himself who had brought her into it.
—
Sonia answered on the second ring.
“How’s your uncle?” she asked.
They discussed Preston and Izzy for a few minutes before Nikki said, “Angelo tells me that forensics puts Claire in the same flat as Monica and Kami.”
Sonia sighed. “It’s not looking good for them.”
“Do you think it’s tied to the cocaine?”
“We do.”
“Have you read Claire’s blog?” Nikki asked. “She was infatuated with Jayston. He could have influenced her—maybe even gotten her involved in drug smuggling?”
“We searched The Prophet yesterday,” Sonia said.
“No evidence of drug transport. The cocaine came from Signora Lake’s personal supply.
Fiona confessed—and Jayston confirmed that his wife has had long-term issues.
It looks like Claire took the cocaine when she left the yacht in Capri, along with Fiona’s jewelry. ”
“To sell it?” Nikki asked.
“Yes. We think this is how she met our suspects—selling cocaine at a club.”
“But why leave the yacht so suddenly?” Nikki asked. “Why steal Fiona’s jewelry and drugs, and run? She was such an innocent kid. It’s completely out of character.”
“It seems Fiona was cruel to her,” Sonia said.
“But she’d been cruel for months,” Nikki said. “Claire hated her. And why not tell Jayston or the agency?” She hesitated. “Her mother said that Claire called from Capri—that she sounded frightened. She wanted to come home.”
A long silence. Nikki checked the connection. “Sonia?”
“What were you doing talking to Lydia Sexton?”
“I went to Claire’s memorial in London,” Nikki said. “I saw the notice—and it wasn’t far from where I was staying.”
Another pause. Nikki suddenly realized she should have reached out sooner.
When Sonia spoke again, her words were clipped.
“You had no authority. No jurisdiction. Do you realize how badly this could hurt our investigation? At trial, they’ll say you were tampering with witnesses.
And the British police won’t be happy when they hear you overstepped. What the hell were you thinking?”
Nikki was suddenly hot. She peeled off her hoodie.
“I’m not on the case,” she said. “So, I wasn’t under the authority of the Naples Police or Phoenix Seven. I acted as a private citizen. I was fully transparent with Lydia Sexton about this.”
“Did you talk to anyone else?”
Nikki told her about Sally Tate and Teddy Sexton. She was honest about the latter, painfully so—including the social media fallout.
Her mind replayed it, face and neck burning. She’d put herself in such a vulnerable position—hadn’t anticipated or prevented his attack. If she ever decided to interview a witness undercover again, she would be better prepared.
“I can write it up for you,” she offered.
Sonia exhaled. Her voice was dry. “The last thing I need is a paper trail. Theodore Sexton’s lawyer called the station this morning, demanding to know which Italian detective attacked his client. Of course, I told him he was mistaken. I didn’t believe for a moment you’d do such a thing.”
Nikki hadn’t expected Teddy to be so motivated to track her down, although she might have anticipated it if she’d thought more carefully about his sudden aggression in the empty after-hours London streets.
He was a man used to winning. His violence had been reflexive, an instinct to restore his sense of control the moment he realized she’d lied to him.
He’d been fighting for his ego; Nikki had been fighting for her life.
“I didn’t attack him,” she said. “I defended myself.”
She could still feel his palm on her thigh, the warm alcohol taste of him, his tongue in her mouth. Pain and panic as he gripped her throat.
“I see that,” said Sonia. The edge in her voice vanished as quickly as it had come. “Did you give him your name?”
“My first name.”
“Did you file a police report about the assault?”
“No,” Nikki admitted.
Sonia didn’t say the other part, the part Nikki was thinking.
Self-defense only mattered in a courtroom.
It wouldn’t stop Teddy from filing a complaint.
It wouldn’t stop an investigation, a suspension, or worse.
And she definitely couldn’t afford a lawyer.
Teddy Sexton could destroy her without ever throwing a punch.
At last, Sonia sighed. “Hopefully, I put him off. He may drop it.”
Nikki paused, then asked: “How badly did I hurt your investigation? Is Teddy a suspect?”
“His alibi checked out. He was in London when Claire was killed. I have to go. We’ll talk later.”
—
Iacopo arrived while Nikki finished her call. Sullen and silent, he didn’t bother explaining his lateness. After a few minutes, he stomped out, muttering something about coffee.
Clipping the duty phone to her belt, Nikki also left.
The air was cold and dry as she crossed the base’s central spine.
Her personal phone pinged. A text from Mac: I’d really love to buy you dinner.
No, she wrote back.
You don’t even know what I’m offering, he wrote. We can help each other.
Not interested, she replied, and blocked the number.
—
It was 16:45, the end of the workday, and personnel moved across the concrete courtyard towards their cars. She maneuvered past them and was through the glass doors of the shop when she heard a shout—someone calling her name.
In the café adjacent to the shop, the defense attaché sat with Ambassador Paul Lissom. He stood as Nikki approached, his voice discordantly cheerful.
“Investigator Serafino! Just the person we need! Can I buy you a coffee?”
He glanced at his empty cappuccino cup and, beside it, the ambassador’s untouched espresso.
“No, thank you,” Nikki said. “I thought you’d both be back in Rome.”