Chapter 9
The morning started with a call from home, where, of course, it was six hours earlier. The agents working in St. Augustine (while they dealt with Rome) had been at it for hours already.
“Figured you’d want a report,” Zach told Grant.
“So, Skye and I already had a lovely breakfast at Brendan Cosby’s restaurant.
George Maynard is still in a medically induced coma; the doctors are certain they can get him through this, which is great, of course.
We’ve also met with Ainsley, and she seems to be quite an incredible young lady, very much in love with George.
As you can imagine, we met with her right away because we checked on George and she was there; she will not be leaving the hospital. ”
“We’ve seen,” Grant told him. “And I hope I’m not being fooled, but she seems like the real deal.”
“She does, but then—”
“Some people are good. We all know that.”
“Right. Also, we’ve been in to see the forensics guy your friend Perry knows.
The guy’s name is Alan Barker, but he hasn’t been able to come up with anything other than what is known.
He suggests what I believe we all suspect—the dead man was left in the condition he was left in so that we wouldn’t be out there searching for George Maynard.
And we met one of George’s neighbors—if they’re actually what one calls neighbors when they live so far apart.
A lady named Belinda Jenkins. We’re nurturing all contacts and waiting for some kind of clue, and I promise you, we’re not letting it go. ”
“Thanks, Zach.”
“Must be hard for you, man, I can imagine. Wanting to be in two places at one time. But you know, this will break. Between us all, we will find something,” Zach told him.
Grant smiled, glancing over at Shelly who was pouring coffee into their thermoses.
“Shelly has already gotten us a contact. From the other side, you know. But he was taken by surprise by a—”
“Masked man.”
“You got it. But it’s still good to have the help.
We’ll keep in touch. We met with the daughter of the assassinated politician last night.
Today, we’re heading to the home of the man accepted to have been the killer.
We did learn from the deceased that he didn’t do it—wrong size. Anyway, back to you soon.”
“We’re all on it,” Zach agreed, ending the call.
“Anything?” Shelly asked him hopefully.
“They’ve made all the contacts they need, and they’re staying close on everything. On this side of the pond, we should be heading out any minute. Got a text; Alfredo and Sal are on the way.”
Shelly nodded. “Does it feel a bit as if you’d never been away? You were here when they arrested Antonio Martinelli. When he died. Days ago.”
Grant grimaced. “Yeah. Crazy. And the thing is …”
“The thing is?”
“I’m willing to bet there have been other murders caused by the business of these curse tablets.
The tablets just weren’t found. Authentic tablets, of course, are curses etched out on thin lead strips.
But you could vary that by using stones, maybe even cement or, if it got down to it, paper. The concept is the curse.”
“Well, if I was paying someone big bucks to curse someone, I’d want it done right!”
“Because you know what’s right. Not everyone does.”
“True.” She smiled at him. He smiled back, resisting the temptation to reach out and stroke his fingers down her cheek.
Not professional at all.
“One clue, one lead. Someone who might be involved in all this … who could give us what we need to put a stop to it.”
“In different countries.”
“The internet goes around the world,” he reminded her. “Okay, so …
“But … do you think that … well, say that people believe they’re paying for a curse. Maybe they don’t realize they’re paying for a murder?”
“Who knows? Let’s head out and lock up,” Grant said.
“There’s a plan,” Shelly nodded.
They stepped out just as a car with Sal driving and Alfredo in the front passenger’s seat arrived.
“Perfect timing,” Grant murmured.
“At least something is perfect!” Shelly said, walking ahead to slide into the seat behind Alfredo.
“Good morning. No, I’ve got this one! Buongiorno!”
“Buongiorno!” Sal agreed, looking back at her. “So, we’ve spoken with Armand Martinelli, and he’s expecting us this morning.”
“He knows we don’t believe his father was guilty. But he doesn’t want to put his mother through hell again, so we’re not going to their home,” Alfredo said.
“Okay, where are we going?” Shelly asked.
Sal winced. “The cemetery. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Grant said quickly, glancing at Shelly, who lowered her head slightly and smiled. “I’ve told her how beautiful it is. And it is a beautiful and historic place. You don’t need to be sorry at all.”
“Well, thanks for that!” Sal said. “Personally, I find them … well, they remind us that none of us is immortal.”
“Not in a physical form,” Shelly murmured, looking out the window.
“Hey, a beautiful cemetery is a great way of honoring those who have gone before us,” Grant said. “I understand Antonio’s funeral was arranged privately by the family right after he died—”
“And his grave will remain unmarked unless we’re able to prove the man wasn’t guilty, and he killed himself to defend others,” Alfredo said.
“But not to fear; we were still considered what you call point men when the man was buried—interred, I should say. His family and a priest and a few close friends were here. That’s it.
They don’t want his remains defiled by someone who thinks he killed an upcoming genius for the people of Italy.
And yes, suicide is a sin in his religion, but thankfully, all those close to him are convinced he did it to save others and therefore …
well, he died defending others. Even the man’s priest believed in him. ”
“So, we’re not all that far off,” Shelly murmured.
They arrived at the cemetery. Before they even left the car, Shelly was looking around, admiring the history and architectural wonder of the grounds.
“It’s huge!” she said.
“Eighty-three hectares,” Alfredo said. “Sorry! A little over two-hundred and five acres. And the only reason Antonio could be buried here was because the family already owned the vault. Well, I keep saying that. Technically, he’s not buried.
He’s interred in a Martinelli vault, along with his parents and grandparents.
It’s a big vault; it’s been in his family for well over a century. ”
“And how—” Shelly began.
“We begin a long walk,” Sal told her. “But there’s a brick wall along the length of vaults where he lies; it’s easy to perch there and talk just outside. Armand is a good fellow; he’ll stay and talk as long as you wish.”
They began to walk through the cemetery.
Grant had known, of course, that it was huge; it was supposedly a stretch of land that had welcomed the dead since the days when the Senate had ruled Rome, when men such as Caligula and Caesar had been around.
Now, there were paths at ground level, paths that passed by hundreds of interments in the walls and along underground passages.
There were large and small family vaults, some pristine, some having given in to the ravages of time.
There were trees and flowers scattered throughout and incredible sculptures picturing weeping angels, great statesmen, scientists, heroes of all kinds, and more.
“The Catacomb of Saint Lorenzo is here; those crypts are extensive, but the basilica, with incredible art created throughout the centuries, has hidden many of the ancient interments within the stone that’s now below the earth.
But for now, we just keep following this trail until we reach the Martinelli vault. ”
They walked, and as they did so, the very history of the place seemed to wrap around them, along with the individuality of the crypts and the markers, the fresh flowers, and the chipped and aging masonry.
Statuary was everywhere; one stone marker was topped with an angel stretched out on it, an expression of great love and sorrow on her face.
At a freestanding vault, a bronze statue of a thoughtful angel lifted an arm to indicate the entry to the tomb.
A little girl, cast in metal as well, played upon a grave.
Grant caught Shelly’s hand, pausing as he saw that they were nearing the Martinelli vault and that a man stood just outside.
Armand Martinelli. He was a man in his late twenties, with dark hair slicked back and a striking, solemn face. He was wearing a suit; he’d left work to meet with them, Grant assumed. He hoped Armand wasn’t having difficulties with his family’s company after all that had transpired.
He was glad to see Armand lift a hand and smile as he saw them arriving.
“Perhaps I could slip into the vault alone?” Shelly whispered to Grant.
“I’ll see what I can do, except …”
His whisper trailed. Shelly wasn’t going to need to slip into the tomb to find the ghost of Antonio Martinelli. The spirit or soul had remained and perhaps tarried here, knowing that members of his family would come.
Perhaps he had already found friends among the dead, other souls who remained to watch over others or perhaps sought to bring some kind of justice to the world.
Grant thought for a moment that he’d never known a spirit to have remained for evil reasons.
Perhaps those who intended ill to others were taken quickly through to another portal; he didn’t know.
Even the dead he had come to meet didn’t know.
But, in his mind, ghosts were not forces to be feared. They remained to give.
“You see—” he began to say to Shelly.
“Of course,” she murmured, glancing at Sal and Alfredo, who walked ahead of them. “And still …”
“It’s all right. I’ll keep them outside, somehow,” Grant promised her.
“Grazie!” Armand Martinelli said, coming toward them and taking Grant’s hand. “Grazie,” he said again, nodding to Sal and Alfredo and looking at Shelly curiously. Then he went off in swift Italian, asking about the beautiful young woman at his side.