“No,” she replied, “but I’d love coffee.”
“Scooch over,” Mo-bot said to Sci, making space for Justine and me to bring our chairs up to the table.
“Morning,” Faduma said. “So, if Matteo is telling the truth, someone else could have killed Father Brambilla. Someone else who was at the party.”
I nodded. “Someone who was nimble enough to get in and out of that room without being noticed.”
Sci poured Justine and me freshly made coffee.
“Altmer was at the party, right?” Faduma asked. “What if he kills Brambilla, and someone else takes out Altmer.”
“Or it was Luna Colombo?” Justine suggested.
“Wow,” Faduma replied. “Of course. Maybe.”
“They have to be our prime suspects,” I said. “We need to know what Altmer was doing at the bank, how he was connected to the Dark Fates. And I’m going to talk to Elia Antonelli and find out what he and his daughter have really been up to. Stefano Trotta was at their house and then turned up at the Inferno Bar. What do they know about him? What does Luna know about Brambilla’s death?”
“I’d like to talk to Trotta directly, if that’s okay,” Mo-bot said. “See if my old friend and I can put the squeeze on him.”
“Old friend?” Sci responded, still tucking into his waffle stack. “Speak for yourself. I’m a vigorous young go-getter.”
“Positively teenage,” Mo-bot teased.
“Sounds like a plan,” I said, sipping my coffee. “You and Sci check out Trotta. Justine and Faduma, go to Vatican City and see what you can find out about Altmer. Ask Joseph Stadler to give you access to whatever records you need. And I’m going out to Antonelli’s family farm to ask the old gangster and his daughter some difficult questions.”
Chapter 91
“You think we’ll get to do some sightseeing when this is over?” Sci asked. Mo-bot looked at him incredulously.
“Bodies piling up and you’re thinking about booking tours?” she replied. “Just focus on the road.”
He was driving the Maserati they’d borrowed from Valentina.
“I love Rome,” Sci protested. “It’s such a beautiful city.”
Mo-bot rolled her eyes. Decades of working serious crime, analyzing scenes and hunting criminals, had robbed the job of some of its drama, but she still wasn’t as blasé about it as Sci.
“You can go out to play when all this is over,” she said in a patronizing tone.
“I’m not a child, you know,” he remarked as he signaled for a right turn. “But that would be nice.”
Mo-bot knew something had happened to Trotta the moment they rounded the corner and joined Via Metronio. The wide, leafy residential avenue ran alongside the Basilica di San Giovanni a Porta Latina and the old missionary college, both buildings surrounded by ancient high brick walls. On the other side of the street stood luxury apartment blocks and grand old villas, surrounded by mature trees that reached high toward the sun.
The road was blocked by police patrol cars, vans and unmarked vehicles. There were local residents in the gardens of the neighboring mansions and apartment blocks, watching events, and a small crowd of passers-by gathered by the wall of the basilica. The high branches shaded them from the burning sun. If it hadn’t been for the clear indications that something was very wrong, Mo-bot would have been focused on the beauty and architectural history of the stunning street.
Sci pulled up behind a row of parked cars.
“This probably isn’t good,” he said.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Mo-bot replied.
“Same,” he said, reaching for the holdall on the back seat. “I’ll take a look inside.”
Mo-bot felt stifled by the humid air the moment she left the air-conditioned car. She scanned the crime scene, centered on Stefano Trotta’s house, and saw someone she recognized. Mia Esposito was talking to some plain-clothes officers.
Mo-bot walked over, but a uniformed officer at the cordon prevented her from getting too close.
“Inspector,” she yelled. “Inspector Esposito.”
She registered her name, glanced at Mo-bot and immediately frowned. She excused herself from her colleagues and walked over.
“What’s happened here?” Mo-bot asked.
Esposito said nothing.
“Listen, I’m the one who should be upset,” Mo-bot said. “You arrested me. Wrongfully.”
Still nothing.
“Is Stefano Trotta dead?” Mo-bot tried.
“How would you know that?” Esposito countered.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you,” Mo-bot replied.
“Instead of you asking me questions, I should be asking you about the whereabouts of Jack Morgan. Did he send you here?”
Whatever was in that house, it hadn’t put Esposito in a good mood.
“You tried that already, remember? When you held us without charge,” Mo-bot retaliated.
Esposito bristled.
“I didn’t mean any discourtesy, Inspector,” Mo-bot remarked, checking her own frustration. “I can see you’re busy.”
She backed away. Esposito scowled at her before returning to her colleagues.
When Mo-bot joined Sci on a patch of grass by the basilica wall, she saw he was piloting a tiny drone through Trotta’s villa. The screen on the remote control gave them eyes on the interior. There in the living room was Stefano Trotta’s body. He was seated on a large couch, gun in hand, an apparent suicide.
“Grim,” Mo-bot observed.
“Not a nice way to die,” Sci remarked, favoring the exit wound on the side of Trotta’s head.
Mo-bot saw him frown and pilot the drone around the room. On-screen, the drone was broadcasting a view of a blank wall.
“Notice anything?” Sci asked.
Mo-bot shook her head.
“Just a wall.” And then she understood. “No bullet hole to match the position of the exit wound.”
Sci smiled like an indulgent teacher. “Bingo. There’s a large exit wound, meaning there should be a bullet somewhere around here. The fact there isn’t one suggests he was killed elsewhere. The ease with which I spotted it means this was either staged in a rush, or it’s been put together by someone who knows they can rely on the police not to find the truth.”
“Or doesn’t care if they do,” Mo-bot suggested.
“This was another murder designed to look like a suicide,” Sci said.
“Do you think Esposito knows?” Mo-bot asked.
“Either she’s in on it, and this is all for show,” Sci replied, “or she’s too junior to matter and no one cares what she thinks. I don’t think she would be deploying all these people if she already knew what really happened.”
“I should go over and tell her what you’ve found, shouldn’t I? Being a Good Samaritan and all,” Mo-bot said, relishing the prospect.
Chapter 92
Justine’s phone rang as she and Faduma crossed St Peter’s Square on their way to the headquarters of the Vatican Bank. She saw it was Mo-bot and answered the call.
“Hey.”
“Trotta is dead. Murder staged to look like suicide.”
“Jeez,” Justine replied. “Whatever this thing is, everyone who touches it ends up dead.”
“Let’s hope not everyone,” Mo-bot said. “I’ve been trying to get hold of Jack. If you reach him before I do, let him know.”
“Will do,” Justine responded.
“And let me know if you get anything from the Vatican.”
“Of course,” Justine said, before hanging up.
“Everything okay?” Faduma asked.
“Trotta is dead. Murdered.”
Faduma shook her head slowly. “What the hell is this thing? Why are all these people being killed?”
Justine was unsure what to make of the journalist next to her. Faduma was clearly whip smart, diligent and inventive, but Justine had previously had bad experiences with journalists. Most seemed to value their next story above all else and would willingly toss people into the fire of a smoking-hot headline.