Chapter 10
“Sal,” Shelly said as soon as they were in the car, “what do you know so far? A similar murder? Is that why—”
“Well, from what the cops on-site said, we’re presuming it was a murder,” Sal said as they drove. “Gino Tarelo, newsman, correspondent, and,” he added, glancing at Stacy and Grant through the rearview mirror, “a man who had wholeheartedly supported our deceased politician, Vincenzo Mero.”
“Presumed murder?” Grant asked.
“Apparently, it’s supposed to look like a suicide, but even our patrolmen who went into the house doubt it, despite the fact that an open, bloodied razor is in the man’s hand.
They just don’t believe a human being could have done that to himself, not when he had had an accident recently and had a pack of opioids in his kitchen.
If you want out and you can do it that way, why take the effort to slit your own throat? ” Sal asked.
“And this happened—” Grant began.
“Neighbors heard noise; the patrol car was near the residence. At this moment, not even ten minutes ago,” Sal said.
“We’ll be there in another two,” Alfredo offered.
And Alfredo was right.
Gino Torelo’s home was on a handsome bricked street. It wasn’t ostentatious, just a nice house with a brick porch, probably built in the 1800s. Two cop cars were already in front when they arrived. Sal pulled up on the walk, and they quickly exited the car. Shelly glanced at Grant.
Now they were looking at ten to twenty minutes from the time of the incident. That might well mean that he could touch the corpse …
With half a dozen local cops around. And, in most instances, no one was to touch the body until the coroner or medical examiner had arrived and given forensics and detectives the goahead. They hurried out of the car.
As they headed into the house, they were met by the officers who had been on-site, along with those keeping the crime scene closed off outside. It seemed that Sal and Alfredo were known and respected; they easily passed up the steps of the charming Victorian porch to the entrance of the house.
And they immediately saw the man; apparently, he’d been in his parlor.
An old-school newspaper lay open on the ottoman in front of the large, upholstered chair where he remained seated, eyes open as he seemed to stare at the world.
Blood had drained from a massive slash across his throat and flooded the front of his shirt down to his pants and the chair.
As they entered the parlor, the officer who had been standing guard at the scene within the house quickly turned, ready to stop them from entering, but saw that Alfredo and Sal were in the lead and allowed them to go on in.
He began speaking, naturally, in their native language and doing so in a manner so rapid that Shelly truly had no idea what they were saying.
Grant, however, understood the gist of the words.
“The officer is just glad the investigators have arrived. They’ve called for forensics and the medical examiner, and they’re grateful Alfredo and Sal got here so quickly,” he told her.
“But—”
“Can I touch the dead man?” he said softly. “Occupy our friends as they say goodbye to the man who was in here,” he told her.
She nodded, hurrying over to where the group was speaking.
She offered her hand to the officer, while Sal explained who she and Grant were and Grant went to hunker down by the body.
“Prego!” she said softly, and looked at Sal and Alfredo before adding, “Please let him know how sorry I am that my Italian is terrible. And just how much we on the other side of the pond appreciate the help we’re receiving here.”
The officer was young; thankfully, he seemed to like her.
He spoke softly, and Sal quickly interpreted. “He says it’s wonderful when countries can cooperate when it comes to law enforcement. These days, we all need one another.”
“Sì!” Shelly said.
Then the young man excused himself, and she knew Sal and Alfredo would want to examine the scene, as Grant had made himself appear to be doing.
She, too, walked closer to the dead man.
“No way in hell he did that to himself,” Grant said, an edge to his voice.
“Agreed,” Sal said.
“Of course, a medical man or woman—” Alfredo began.
“Will say the same damned thing. Our killers aren’t as amazingly clever as they think!” Sal said.
“I was about to say that we’ll need a doc to agree, but I’m sure any medical person—or any person with any kind of training whatsoever—will agree,” Alfredo said.
“So,” Grant said, “may we begin a careful look for—”
“A curse tablet. Of course! We’ll all get to it in these few minutes we’ll have for ourselves!” Sal said.
“I’ll take the left bedroom,” Alfredo said.
“Right bedroom,” Sal told them.
“Upstairs,” Grant offered.
“Right here,” Shelly said, looking around the room. They all hurried off on their separate searches.
For a moment, Shelly just stood there. She glanced at the man and wished it didn’t feel that her heart was breaking.
From what she’d heard, he’d been a good man, reporting in a manner to make people come together.
And he’d supported a politician who wanted people to get together, to talk, to come around.
Now they were both dead.
It seemed so tragically wrong!
And, of course, with the way they’d split up, she didn’t know if Grant had managed to get anything from the dead man or not.
She stood very still for a moment, closing her eyes, willing the spirit, if he remained, to speak to her.
No one came to her. She hoped the man’s transition from life to death had been slow enough that Grant might have seen what the victim had seen before he died.
The room had a fireplace.
Whoever was behind all this seemed to have an obsession with fireplaces. In the case of George Maynard’s house, the tablet had been by the porch. But here …
She walked over to the fireplace. It was handsomely composed of brick and concrete, but it was the original fireplace, and …
She went down to her knees, searching all around the area where the last of the bricks met the stone that was the base of the old structure.
A fire had been lit recently; the burned remnants of the logs remained.
A metal frame had been set up so that the logs would be in a great position to burn and burn.
She stared for several seconds before she saw it, blended in with a leg of the metal frame. She dug quickly in her pocket for gloves and then reached for the item, drawing it out as carefully as she could. A fragile, rolled-up piece of metal.
Sal came upon her first.
“You found it?” he asked. “Of course, you found it. A curse tablet?”
“I think so. I’m afraid to unroll it,” she said, rising carefully with the object in her hand. “Rolling metal. Very—”
“Ancient!” Grant said, hurrying down the stairs and to her side. “Whoever was here, whoever did this, was a true adherent to the old ways,” he said, studying the metal roll-up. “We need to be careful opening it.” He looked at Sal. “We can bring it to your lab, possibly, or—”
“Forensics and medical here,” Alfredo said. “We’re lead on this. We’re taking this wherever we can to study it and get on the trail. Damn, Grant, you were the one who was right from the beginning on this. We just weren’t certain, but …”
“Talk to your people. We can get going,” Grant said.
They headed out. As they did, Shelly looked at Grant, but she knew he wasn’t going to tell her anything until they were alone.
She hoped he had gotten something. Because in this case, she was certain the soul of the man hadn’t remained behind.
The door to the home was open. There were men and women there in medical attire and a few in vests with initials on them that suggested they were crime-scene investigators or forensic experts. She nodded to all and stepped out on the porch, leading the way for Grant, Alfredo, and Sal.
But she had barely walked out the open door before a shot rang out.
And it just missed Shelly, slamming into the edge of the opened door not five inches from her face.
She had been through every class in the academy and had been in the field long enough to quickly react. She dropped flat, rolling, searching her surroundings, amazed that anyone had fired at them when the house itself was surrounded by police.
“Macchina!” someone among the police in the front of the house shouted, instantly heading for his own patrol car, followed by a woman Shelly assumed to be his partner.
Grant was down by her side. “Are you all right?” he demanded.
“Yes, fine. You?” she asked, rising.
“I’m fine. You have wood splinters on your cheek,” he told her, carefully plucking them off her face.
“Taken by surprise, I admit,” she said.
Sal and Alfredo were out then, both furious.
“What? These people. Idiots, firing here!” Alfredo spat out.
Sal swore in English and Italian, racing down the steps. Shelly hurried after them. “Don’t go after any of your people, Sal; no one could have known that a car driving by had a gunman in it!” she said.
“I know, I know … but we are trying to appear good, competent, and we almost get you killed!”
“I’m an agent of our federal government, Sal. We know our risks!” she assured him. “And your cars are after him—”
Alfredo and Grant reached them. “We’re going after that car, too!” Alfredo said, already heading for their car.
They ran after him and were quickly inside. Shelly was grateful the men had done whatever was necessary for her; she was armed, as they all were.
And each was prepared for whatever came their way.
But nothing did.
They drove after the police car; they set the warning siren on their own car, moving hastily through traffic.
Sal went on the radio; no one had gotten a tag number on the car. They did know that it had been a blue Alfa Romeo. That was all anyone at the front of the house had managed to see.
Sal was on the radio as Alfredo drove.
He turned to Shelly and Grant in the rear seat and told them, “The vehicle registration plate was apparently covered with mud or some other substance that blacked it out. Not that our people would have noted a number at the time; it happened so fast.”