It was a chaotic end to the evening and not at all the one I’d hoped for. I was about to call Justine Smith, my colleague and girlfriend, but the press pack suddenly became agitated and I saw movement at a side door not far from me. The group of police officers standing nearby expanded like a lung taking in air, and the door opened to reveal Matteo being frogmarched by a couple of cops in uniform.
I hurried over.
“Matteo,” I said, but my voice didn’t carry above the hubbub, and his attention was elsewhere.
“Luna!” he yelled. “Luna!”
His attention was fixed on a tall, dark-haired woman in a tight black cocktail dress and heels. She stood at the edge of the semi-circular driveway, staring at him with pity in her eyes.
“Luna!” he yelled to her one last time before she kicked off her heels and started across the lawn toward the police cordon.
Matteo was hustled toward a waiting police car, and the press pack pushed against the line of cops, shouting questions, taking pictures, calling his name.
He looked around fearfully as he was manhandled into the back of the vehicle.
“Jack,” he said when his eyes met mine. “I’m innocent. I didn’t do it!”
I tried to get closer but was held back by one of the officers in his dishonor guard.
“Talk to that woman,” Matteo called to me. “Luna Colombo — my former police partner. Speak to her!”
An officer slid in beside him, slammed the door shut, and another cop thumped the roof. The car sped away.
I hurried around the squad of cops and ran for the lawn, to see the woman called Luna still jogging barefoot toward the police cordon. She produced an identity card from a small purse and showed it to one of the officers, who stood aside and allowed her to pass into the crowd of journalists.
I tried to follow, but when I raced over to him and pleaded for admission the same officer only replied in terse Italian and waved me toward the long driveway on the other side of the lawn. I stood on the tips of my toes and tried to pick out the fleeing Luna, but she had already vanished into the trees on the far side of the lawn. She was beyond my reach for now.
Matteo had brought me to the hotel and his keys would undoubtedly be in the back of the police car with him, so I joined the handful of bemused guests walking down the driveway, heading for the main road where they hoped to find transportation back to the city.
Chapter 4
I was almost at the main gates opening on to Largo della Stazione di Palo, a service road that led to the Strada Statale 1 Via Aurelia highway back to Rome. La Posta Vecchia’s manicured grounds lay behind me: half a mile of driveway flanked by lush vegetation. Parked automobiles lined the road near the ivy-covered stone archway that marked the entrance to the grounds, but none was available for hire. When I spoke to the drivers, I discovered they’d all been pre-booked by guests who were still being interviewed.
The lights of the hotel didn’t reach this far so all I had to guide my way was a half-moon up above and the occasional passing vehicle leaving the estate. Beyond the stone archway, I could see the road wasn’t the sort of place taxis touted for trade. It was a quiet country lane that connected the surrounding properties with the main artery into Rome. I resigned myself to ordering an Uber, which would involve at least a forty-minute wait. I pulled my phone from my jacket pocket and was about to open the app when a figure stepped out of the shadows beneath a tree.
“Mr. Morgan?”
It was a woman, her silhouette slim, tall, graceful. As she drew nearer, I saw a warm, open face and eyes that were spirited and bright. This was someone who didn’t miss much. She wore a long red dress that hugged her figure closely.
“Trying to find a ride?” she asked.
I nodded. She knew me, but I had no idea who she was. Her outfit suggested she was a guest from the party.
“Have we met?” I asked, certain I would have remembered her.
Her English was fluent, but there was the hint of an East African accent beneath a more noticeable Italian one. Ethiopia or Somalia maybe.
“No,” she replied. “We haven’t met. But I know who you are by reputation.”
“And you are?” I said, driven to directness since my polite invitation for her to introduce herself had been deflected.
“I’d rather not say. Not until I know whether I can trust you.”
She could be direct too it seemed.
“Trust me with what?” I asked.
“I have to trust you to tell you.”
I wasn’t in the mood for riddles. “If there’s an investigation you’d like us to undertake, you can contact—”
“Your country manager?” she asked, cutting me off. “Because I’m pretty sure he passed me a few minutes ago, sitting in the back of a police car.”
“The authorities will get to the bottom of this tragedy and Matteo will be exonerated. In the meantime, there are other members of my organization who can help you,” I said. “If that’s why you’re here.”
“Who?” she asked. “Who else do you have on the ground in Rome?”
I hesitated.
“Matteo Ricci did all the hiring. Once you’d recruited him. Do you even know who you have working for you?” she pressed me.
She’d got right to the heart of my concerns about the new business. I now had so many operations, I couldn’t take the same level of interest in them as I had when there had just been the original office in Los Angeles. I increasingly relied on the country managers to do the right thing and follow Private’s rigorous training program and corporate ethos, but no matter how tight a ship we ran, we couldn’t plan ahead for every eventuality. In this particular case, no amount of training could ever compensate for what seemed to be a basic error of judgment on my part: hiring a killer to run the Rome office.
“Did Matteo invite you?” I asked the woman. “Are you a friend or a former colleague of his?”
“Neither,” she replied. “I never made it inside your party, Mr. Morgan. I’m a gatecrasher.”
I studied her more closely, wondering who she really was. She didn’t seem dangerous, but she wasn’t friendly either.
“I’m trying to discover the truth,” she went on. “Following a lead.”
“Not police. A rival detective? Or a journalist maybe?” I suggested, and her eyes flashed. “Our publicity team would have arranged an invitation, Ms. ...”
“Nobody. I’m Ms. Nobody. It’s not the kind of lead a publicity team can help with. I’m more interested in why a decorated Rome police inspector leaves the force to work as a private investigator.”
“I only hire the best people,” I responded.
“Perhaps. But it still feels an odd choice for Inspector Ricci to make. And sudden, too.”
“If you know something about what happened here tonight—”
“I don’t,” she interrupted. “That’s why I came here. To find out. I wasn’t expecting there to be a murder.”
“Find out what?” I tried.
“Again, you are asking me to trust you without earning it.”
“Why wouldn’t you trust me?”
“Because you appear to hire killers, Mr. Morgan.”
That stung.
“In my experience killers are more likely to lurk in the shadows,” I replied pointedly.