Chapter 9 #2
Grant got as far as “Special Agent Shelly Mahoney, Armand—”
Sal apparently thought he could explain more clearly and went off in a spate of Italian that was so fast Grant could pick out only a few words.
Apparently, he told Armand that Shelly was part of the same special unit Grant was with, and she didn’t believe the man’s father was guilty any more than the rest of them.
“But they’re hoping for a greater insight into your father,” Alfredo said in English.
Armand grinned. “English. Of course, prego!” he said.
Grant knew that the man’s comprehension of English was good; his few words were barely accented.
“May I?” Shelly asked, indicating his family’s handsome crypt.
“Sì, sì!” Armand told her. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a key and opened the iron gates to the vault. “Prego!” he said softly.
“Grazie,” she told him, nodding sadly as she entered.
The spirit of Antonio Martinelli was apparently aware that Grant could see him, as could Shelly. He even understood what was happening. He gave Grant a nod of acknowledgment and thanks and headed into the vault.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware,” Grant explained to Armand, “but I found an ancient curse tablet in the fireplace of his home after Signor Mero was killed. Not ancient, of course, but a modern replica of an ancient curse tablet. Now, we’ve found a similar curse tablet at the home of a man named George Maynard in the States.
It was there when a burned-to-ash corpse was discovered, which didn’t prove to be George Maynard.
Now Maynard has been found, but he’s in the hospital fighting for his life.
And we’re afraid that other tragedies may be occurring around the world.
I’m curious as to whether you might know if your father had read about any such sites or, more logically, if he knew of anyone playing around with such sites who might have known him—and known that he would do anything to protect his family. ”
“You’re talking about the internet?” Armand asked, frowning.
“It’s a theory, Armand,” Grant told him.
“But we know the internet is filled with groups that revolve around people, places, and objects. We have teams searching through everything they can find on curse tablets, but thus far, we don’t really know where to start.
The world’s population is estimated to be about eight-point-two billion, and while many of that number are children, it allows for an incredible number of groups dedicated to one philosophy or … pretense,” he said.
Armand was frowning in confusion.
“Murder for hire,” Sal said.
“In other words, there may be a site out there dedicated to ancient Greco-Roman curse tablets, but the true intent of the site is to attract clients who are angry about something and who might even feel justified in ordering an ancient curse tablet and hoping that the curse would do what it was meant to do. Of course, whoever is collecting on this makes sure that the curse works.”
“My father was a good guy, kind to everyone. He had a lot of friends,” Armand said.
“Is there any possibility that he had friends who might have also been friends of—or enemies of—Mr. Mero?” Grant asked.
“So, someone who knew them both wanted Mero dead—but knew they could get my father to confess to the crime and kill himself because of his fear for his family?” Armand asked.
“I’m sorry,” Grant said. “It may sound farfetched—”
“Not as farfetched as the idea that my father would kill anyone,” Armand said quietly. “Grant—I may call you that?” Armand asked.
Grant smiled. “Please do.”
“I am good with computers, good at searches, and I know all my father’s passwords. I will go home, speak with my mother, get into his business and his personal communications and his searches as well. I will do this immediately and get back with you tonight, if I may.”
“Armand, that would be greatly appreciated,” Grant assured him.
“No, no, Grant. If I can do anything, anything at all … my mother, she cries all day. My wife is afraid for the children. My entire family … well, per piacere! Anything to help you, and all our thanks for this, and for believing what we know to be true!” he said, sounding a little desperate.
“When you can—I understand she’s devastated and not in great shape. When you can and however delicately you can, please, see if she can think of anyone,” Grant told him.
Armand nodded. He looked at Sal and Alfredo. “And thank you, my friends. You could have considered this case to be over, gone on to other work, thinking a killer had been caught and was now dead.”
“We’ve been at this a while for our separate branches. But we’ve worked together before. And what we’re always after is the truth, not an easy fix,” Alfredo assured him.
As Alfredo spoke, Grant saw that Shelly and the ghost of Antonio Martinelli were coming out of the crypt. The ghost appeared to be pleased. He looked over at Grant and nodded to him gravely. And, of course, seeing others, he kept his distance before heading back into the tomb.
“Beautiful flowers by the tombs,” Shelly told Armand. “And the crypt itself is very nice.”
“As nice as a place for the dead can be,” Armand told her, a sad smile touching his lips.
“But thank you. My family has owned this for a few centuries, I believe. I’m not sure I like the concept of knowing where my remains will one day lie, but my mother is happy to know that she’ll rest for eternity beside my father.
They truly loved one another. Anyway, my most sincere thanks again.
And I will begin my research and be back with you as soon as I have anything, or even if I come up with nothing. ”
Thanks went around their group again in English and in Italian. Then Armand walked away in one direction, while they headed in the other.
“What now?” Alfredo asked Grant.
Sal groaned before Grant could answer.
“Forgive me, but food. I’ve had no breakfast yet, and I believe we are coming close to a midday meal,” he said. “I’m sorry; I think better when I’m fed.”
“Why don’t we head to the little Krewe or Blackbird house?” Shelly asked. “We have all kinds of meat and cheese, bread, chips, fruit—you name it.”
“Ah! We get to dine on Uncle Sam again,” Alfredo said.
“We shall go there and plan the rest of the day,” Sal said, but he asked, “Where do we go from here? Maybe Armand will find something; maybe he will not.”
“For one, at the house,” Shelly said, “we can check back with our headquarters and find out if any of our tech people have made any discoveries. I know Angela has found several sites focused on the curse tablets, but nothing yet that has any connection with anyone on them or either of the victims we know about. But they’re thorough; they’ll keep going.
Though it will help if they’re able to get more on the men who were killed—and on Antonio. ”
Shelly sat with Grant in the back seat of the car, but it was evident she wasn’t going to tell him anything until they reached the house. Where they could be alone.
As they traveled, Sal suggested they might think better if they went to see the Vatican, but he was obviously kidding, and, of course, they all laughed.
Food was real for them; people needed to eat, just as they needed to sleep.
Seeing the wonders of Rome didn’t actually fall into the same category.
Despite the traffic in Rome, they reached the house easily enough, as it was only midday. And in a way, they did get to do a bit of the tourism thing, with Sal and Alfredo pointing out all the wonders of Rome along the way.
But …
“Wait!” Grant said.
“Wait?” Sal asked.
Grant looked over at Shelly. “Thinking about tourist things—there’s an exhibit on ancient curse tablets at the Roman Baths. It might not hurt—”
“A plan. We will have lunch and head to see the exhibit. It may do nothing for us; it may give us something,” Alfredo said.
They continued to the house. When they were inside, Shelly quickly went to the kitchen and removed meat and cheese and condiments from the refrigerator. Grant quickly produced plates, offered whatever juice, soda, or water they might want, along with bags of different chips.
“Be right back!” Shelly said.
He echoed her words and followed her; she was waiting for him just inside her door. Once he stepped in, she closed it.
“So?” he said anxiously.
“I believe Armand may well get us what we need. There were cryptic emails, which were fully explained to Antonio Martinelli when he was attacked on a dark street after leaving a restaurant by the Spanish Steps. He was shown pictures of his wife, of Armand, of his grandchildren … family members. He was warned they would die—die horribly—if he didn’t do all that was required of him.
The pictures had been taken by someone who had been spying on his family—the man in the old pandemic mask and baseball cap who was warning him.
He warned me the emails weren’t as blunt, but we’ll find out what he was talking about. But he asked me one thing.”
“What’s that?” Grant asked her.
“That we don’t put it out anywhere that he was innocent until we can produce the real killer and see he’s behind bars,” Shelly said.
“That’s a big order. But … well, I take it Antonio liked you all right and trusted you. Because we may need to find him again.”
“And I think we will when we need to,” Shelly said. “Oh! Guess what else?”
“What?”
“He’s grateful he’s gotten to meet up with the ghost of Vincenzo Mero! And Vincenzo knows Antonio didn’t kill him. And between the two of them, they are truly happy to do anything for us they can,” Shelly said.