Eventually Gabe calmed down. He remembered the huge risks durmdvl was taking on Ava’s behalf, and he decided everyone should be forgiven an occasional faux pas: “No GF,” he wrote. “I’m not conventionally handsome.”
He didn’t have long to wait for a response, and when it came, he was relieved to see that the topic had been dropped: “K. Whatever. Just crash w/a friend.”
Gabe’s mind sorted the possibilities. When he remembered that Jess lived nearby, he felt some embarrassment. He’d been uncomfortable around her ever since she’d declined his invitation to the Silver Kingdom Renaissance Faire, but he had to go somewhere. He hadn’t slept in almost two days. Plus, he rationalized, Jess deserved to know that Ava was okay. He shot a quick note to durmdvl, logged off the computer, and headed for Jess’s apartment.
The alarm rang at six in the morning. Ava dressed, went downstairs, and bought the Malta Independent and the New York Times. After determining there were no malicious stories about them in the news, Ava obtained a telephone directory and looked up the Catholic archdiocese. She called the bishop’s office but heard an answering machine. Frustrated, Ava hung up. She ordered breakfast and returned to the room. Paul was still asleep. Waking him, she said, “I called Bishop Garagallo.”
Paul yawned and cleared this throat. “Super. What’s up with him?”
“I got the answering machine.”
“Did you leave a message?”
Ava stiffened. She wasn’t his cute little secretary. “Look, why don’t you call? Here’s the number. I’m taking a shower.” She went into the bathroom and let the door slam behind her. Paul grinned. He grabbed the remote, clicked on the TV, and found the news. The lead story concerned Pope Benedict, who’d waived the traditional fifteen-day waiting period to enable the cardinals to elect a new pontiff before Holy Week. Benedict was scheduled to hold his final public audience in St. Peter’s Square on Wednesday, when he would address tens of thousands.
In local news, the Labor Party had gained several seats in parliament, three workers were hospitalized after a construction accident in Bizazza Street, and rain was expected later that night. To Paul’s great relief, nobody mentioned two American murder suspects on the lam.
By eight o’clock Paul had dressed, left the hotel, and found a payphone. He called the archdiocese. The receptionist who answered understood English. Paul asked to speak to Bishop Garagallo. “The bishop is not yet in. May I take a message?” the receptionist said.
“Yes, of course you may, but I must see him today.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s possible. He’s very busy.”
“I have to see him because we want to make a seven-figure capital contribution to the Church.”
The woman paused, counting zeros. Pressing his advantage, Paul continued.
“It’s imperative that we negotiate the benefaction’s terms and conditions with the bishop today.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Would ten thirty be acceptable?”
Breakfast arrived: eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast, plus a steaming pot of coffee for Paul and a cup of hot tea for Ava. Ava finished showering and dried her hair. She left the bathroom to find Paul working the New York Times crossword puzzle.
“How’s it going?”
“Decent. We have an appointment with the bishop at ten thirty, but I’m stuck on an obscure clue.”
Ava was surprised and pleased. “How did you get the meeting?”
“Let’s say American ingenuity.”
Ava smiled and pointed to the crossword. “Lay it on me.”
“Stately seventeenth-century French dance. Six letters.”
“Hmmm. I’m not sure. It could be P-A-V-A-N-E or M-I-N-U-E-T.”
Paul frowned, wadded up the paper, and dropped it in the trash.
Gabe knocked on Jess’s door. He heard movement inside and a sexy voice asked, “Who is it?” Gabe envisioned Jess peering through the peephole and seeing his distorted, haggard face. “Jess? It’s Ava’s friend, Gabe. Sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency.”
Jess flung open the door. She was wearing a short satin bathrobe. Gabe felt dizzy.
“What’s the emergency?” Jess asked. “It’s Ava, yes? Is she all right? Tell me she’s all right!”
“Ava’s fine. We contacted her. She’s—” Gabe caught himself. He looked around suspiciously. Anyone could be listening. “Do you mind if I come inside?”
“Oh, of course. How rude of me. Please come in. Have a seat.” Jess took in his stained clothes and unshaved chin. He also stank. “You look terrible. Have you slept recently? May I offer you something to drink?”
“Sure,” replied Gabe, trying to keep his eyes on her face. “Got a Coke?”
She went into the compact kitchen and pulled a can from the fridge. Gabe sat on the comfortable sofa and watched her put on a kettle to boil. She brought his Coke and sat next to him.
“Will you tell me the whole story?”
Gabe nodded. “Yeah, okay, but it’s pretty long.” Involuntarily, he glanced down at her exposed thigh. “You might prefer to wear something more…”
Jess grinned. His face was crimson. She popped up from the sofa and went into her bedroom to change. Gabe couldn’t help but notice that she’d left the door ajar.
Jess called out, “Is Ava still in Malta?”
Gabe freaked. “What? How the hell did you know she went to Malta?”
“Her parents told me. They’re really worried. They called a friend with the State Department, or was it the DOJ? Anyway, they reported Ava missing, unofficially, of course. This morning they got word that Ava passed through immigration on Malta. They left a message on my voice mail.”
She emerged from her bedroom in a white silk outfit to find Gabe with his head in his hands.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s…” He sighed. “It’s complicated, but if you know she’s in Malta, you’re probably not the only one.”
After breakfast Paul asked the concierge to call them a cab. The taxi sped to the bishop’s office. They arrived a few minutes early, went into the historic building, passed through extensive security, and gave their names to the grandmotherly receptionist. She invited them to wait on an antique settee. Moments later the receptionist’s phone buzzed. She answered, uttered a few words in Maltese, and hung up. Then she smiled at Paul.
“Someone will be with you shortly.”
Before long an assistant escorted them into an ornate private office where a surprisingly young man wearing a suit and tie sat behind an enormous ebony desk. He rose and greeted them in English.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ava said. “We were expecting Bishop Garagallo.”
The man laughed. “Please accept my sincere apologies. I’m Zeke, the bishop’s executive assistant. His Excellency had to attend to urgent matters that arose at the last minute. He’s sorry, but he won’t be able to meet with you today. He asked me to see you and provide any assistance or information you require. I hope you’ll understand. He’s a very busy man.”
Ava’s eyes narrowed. She detected an undercurrent of falsehood in his practiced courtesy.