Читать книгу Fatal Cover-Up - Lisa Harris - Страница 10

ONE

Talia Morello stared out across Rome’s ancient Colosseum, unable to shake the uneasiness she’d felt all afternoon. Someone was watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she glanced around the massive stone amphitheater with its iconic vaulted arches. Drawing in a steadying breath, she told herself she was simply being paranoid. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the eerie feeling.

She wiped off a row of sweat from her forehead. Of course, it was impossible to know for certain if someone really was watching her. Four million tourists visited this historical monument every year, and today, even with the steamy July heat, the Colosseum seemed busier than normal, with its never-ending lines snaking around the outside of the monument.

She lifted the bright orange flag she was carrying a few inches higher to ensure the fifteen enthusiastic tourists who had shown up in the heart of Rome to visit the famous site didn’t get separated from her in the crowd. It was her job to see that they left having experienced the best tour of the ruins—even if dismissing the feeling that someone was watching her was proving impossible.

She studied the crowd as she led them toward the last stop of the tour. Someone from a group of Japanese tourists was holding up a selfie stick for a photo. A small crowd clustered together at one of the open spaces overlooking the floor of the Colosseum. Her attention shifted to a man standing against one of the stone walls to the left. He wasn’t a part of the group, and didn’t seem to be paying attention to his surroundings. Had she seen him before today? Normally, she wouldn’t have given him more than a passing glance, but while most of the tourists had cameras or cell phones to take photos, he didn’t. A second later he smiled and hurried toward to a woman holding on to two little girls.

Talia swallowed hard. She was just being paranoid. The text she’d received last night was nothing more than a coincidence. A wrong number.

Except she knew that wasn’t true.

I know you have the paintings. Meet me at the Spanish Steps when you get off work. I know who murdered your husband. You don’t want to be next.

Her heart pounded. While she didn’t know about any paintings, the mention of her husband’s murder proved this was no coincidence.

“Were all the gladiators slaves?” A twelve-year-old wearing a baseball cap and a New York Yankees shirt pressed in beside her.

“Slaves?” she asked. The boy’s question yanked her away from Thomas’s death and back to the present. She pasted on a smile as the group kept walking. “No. Actually, some of them were ex-fighters, knights, or they could be anyone drawn in by the roaring approval of the crowd and the hopes of winning. And no,” she said before he had a chance to pose the frequently asked question, “they didn’t always fight to the death.”

Talia shifted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, then proceeded to answer another dozen questions as they walked through the amphitheater that had once held seating for the more than 50,000 spectators. Centuries ago, it would have been tightly packed, much like today, as spectators flocked to watch gladiatorial combats, hunts and wild animal fights, and at times even mock naval battle. But focusing on the Colosseum’s rich history was proving impossible.

She glanced at her watch. Another five minutes and she’d be done for the day. On a normal Monday, she might have plans to meet a friend for dinner. Today, all she wanted to do was escape back to her apartment and forget about the sinister message. Except she knew she wasn’t going to be able to dismiss it that easily.

I know who murdered your husband.

The words played over again through her mind. But it was more than Thomas’s unsolved death that haunted her. He’d been shot during a drug raid, with stolen goods found in his possession. He’d been buried three days later in disgrace. And Talia had been left feeling betrayed by the man she loved. They’d promised to love and honor each other, and she’d meant every word of her vows. But instead he’d dishonored her with his crimes.

As soon as the last question from one of the tourists had been answered and she’d thanked them for coming, she let out a sigh of relief and headed for the exit. She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. Normally she loved exploring the history of Rome’s landmarks, but not today. Today, the thick walls seemed to close in on her as she pressed through the crowded walkways.

And she still had yet to decide her next move.

She slipped on her sunglasses and hesitated outside the exit, knowing she had three choices. She could go to the police, but what could they do? It wasn’t as if an actual crime had been committed. Not yet. And on top of that, she’d found out the hard way that you couldn’t always trust those sworn to protect.

Her second option was to follow the demands of the message and head toward the Spanish Steps, an option that made her even more nervous than going to the authorities. What happened when they realized she didn’t have what they wanted? That was why her best choice seemed to be to ignore the message and go home. She started walking again. In less than five minutes she could be sitting on the subway. In another fifteen she could be in her apartment, lost in a good book on her balcony while trying to forget everything she’d left behind three years ago.

Talia stepped over a crack in the cobblestone walkway as waves of memories flooded through her. As much as she wanted to simply hide, she knew she’d never be able to just ignore the message. The local police department back in the States had never found Thomas’s killer, but neither had she ever heard of any paintings involved in his case. What was the connection of these art pieces to Thomas’s death? How had they found her, and why, after all these years, did someone think she had them? And how was it possible for whoever sent the message to know something the police had never discovered?

The string of questions unnerved her. She glanced toward the subway station that would take her to the Spanish Steps and hesitated again. She had the private numbers for both the detective who’d led the investigation into Thomas’s death as well as the chief of police he’d worked for. It was still morning in south Texas, so before she contacted the Italian authorities or met with whoever had sent the message, it made sense to talk to the Americans. Decision made, she pressed through the throng of tourists coming and going from the Colosseum toward the subway and home.

A second later, she felt someone rip her bag from her shoulder, then push her down onto the ground. A sharp pain shot up her knee on impact as a man wearing a hooded long-sleeved T-shirt took off down the uneven pathway with her bag. Before she could get up, a second man shouted and took off after the thief.

Someone helped her to her feet. Another person handed her her sunglasses, which had fallen off. She thanked them both as she steadied herself. Her legs felt as if they were about to collapse beneath her. The fear pounding through her wasn’t just because she felt violated and vulnerable. Could this incident somehow be related to Thomas’s death and the threat she’d received? She managed a breath, then started back down the road, weaving her way once again through the crowd. About a minute later, the man who’d taken off after the thief ran back toward her, carrying her bag.

“Thought you might want this,” he said out of breath as he handed over the purse.

“Wow. I can’t believe you got it.” Her hand shook as she took it from him. “It all happened so fast.”

He shot her a smile. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“And normally I’m the one who tells tourists how to avoid getting robbed.”

Except today she’d been the one lost in thought and had become an easy target. “So you’re a tour guide.” It was more of a statement than a question,

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess I was distracted today.”

She clutched the strap of the bag tighter, distracted by threatening messages and the reminder of her husband’s murder. It was no wonder she hadn’t even noticed the man.

“Unfortunately the guy who snatched it got away,” the man said, “but I saw a couple police officers not too far ahead. If we could come up with a description—”

“No...it’s okay.” The last thing she wanted to do right now was talk to the police. “Petty theft is an everyday occurrence, and besides, the guy’s long gone by now. I’m just thankful to have my bag. Replacing my ID would have been a nightmare.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and shrugged. “I’m just happy I could help.”

She knew he was American from his accent. Just over six feet tall, he was dressed casually in gray chino shorts, a black T-shirt and a black baseball cap. Dark brown hair, brown eyes and good-looking... Okay, very good-looking. Not that it mattered.

“Are you all right?” His gaze dropped to her knee.

“I think so.” She glanced down at the trail of blood on her leg just below the hem of her dress, where she’d scraped it on the rough pavement. “It’s nothing. But thank you again. I’m not sure how you were able to get it back, but you really did save me a lot of hassle.”

“Not a problem, but hey...” He caught her eyes as she looked up. “Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee? It will give you a few minutes to catch your breath and clean up your knee.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I’d like to.”

She hesitated. Maybe a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt. The diversion would help calm her nerves and right now she definitely needed to calm down.

“I saw a little café just around the corner,” he continued, glancing back down the street. “What do you say?”

“Okay.” She answered before she’d had a chance to really think about it, then immediately questioned her decision. She’d gone out with a few men since moving here, but never more than once or twice, and certainly not with a stranger. She pushed away the concern. It wasn’t like this was a date. He was just a friendly American who’d come to her rescue.

“I never got your name,” she said as they sat down at one of the small outside tables at the busy café a minute later. She signaled to the waiter and ordered two espressos in Italian, then pulled out a package of tissues from her bag and started dabbing at her knee.

“Joe Bryant,” he said, settling into his chair. “From Virginia.”

“Talia Morello, born and raised in Texas, actually,” she said.

“For a Texan your Italian is flawless.”

“My father was Italian and has family here, so I ended up spending most summers in Italy while I was growing up. What about you, though?” she asked, wanting to shift the conversation away from herself. There were things—personal things—he didn’t need to know about her. “Are you here on holiday?”

“The trip’s work-related, actually.” He pressed his fingers against the table, then pulled out his badge. “I went for the tourist look today, but I actually work for the FBI’s art crime team.”

“Art crime team?” She glanced at the badge, panic settling in as she repeated his words. This couldn’t be another coincidence. She received a message demanding some artwork and now the FBI’s art division was here? She searched her brain for a connection, but nothing made sense.

“Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy,” he said, breaking into her thoughts, “but I know who you are. I’m actually here because I was hoping for a chance to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

The familiar scenery around her began to blur. The line of shops down the avenue sprinkled with tourists, the smell of pizza baking, purple and red flowers wilting in the afternoon sun...

She’d moved to Italy to escape the questions.

“I know he was a police officer,” he continued. “I know he was accused of stealing from a number of police raids, that he was murdered and that the murderer was never caught. I know you were even questioned once as to whether or not you were involved—”

“I was cleared of any charges—”

“I know, and I’m not here to accuse you of anything. I’ve gone through the reports and they clearly show that no evidence ever led back to you.”

Not that that fact had stopped the accusations. She bit the inside of her cheek. She’d worked so hard to put Thomas and his murder behind her, along with the shame in discovering he’d been involved in something illegal. And now everything about today was forcing her to dredge it all up again.

“Listen,” he said, as the waiter slid two espressos in front of them. “This isn’t how I planned to approach you, but it is very important that we talk.”

“Agent Bryant—”

“Please...you can call me Joe,” he said, handing her a business card with the FBI logo on it along with his name. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“Joe... Thomas died a long time ago.” She ran her finger over the card before looking back up at him. “And even though his killer was never found, his case was eventually closed. So unless you have the name of his murderer, I don’t know what you could tell me that would matter at this point.”

“I don’t have that, but what if I told you that some new evidence has surfaced regarding his case?”

New evidence? Was that what all of this was about? A wave of nausea swept through her. There had to be a connection between Agent Bryant—Joe—this recently surfaced information and whoever had sent her that threatening text message.

“What did you discover?” she asked. “More evidence of his guilt?”

If that was what he was talking about, she didn’t want to know. Not after all this time. Not after moving to Italy to start a new life, a life without the stigma of his murder and his betrayal. She and Thomas had just celebrated their six-month anniversary days before he’d been murdered. The chief had come to her house personally to tell her what had happened.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he’d said, “but Thomas was shot tonight after a drug bust gone wrong.” He’d hesitated from where he’d sat across from her in their living room. “And unfortunately, we have solid proof pointing to the fact that he was involved—possibly for quite some time—in stealing evidence, both money and drugs, from a number of raids.”

At that moment, everything she knew and believed about the man she’d fallen in love with had been completely shattered.

“Not more evidence of his guilt,” Joe said, adding a packet of sugar to his drink. “But we have found a lead to the person who murdered him.”

“I don’t understand.” Her hands shook as she took a sip of her espresso. “How is the FBI’s art crime division connected to Thomas’s murder?”

She needed to know. Because if there was new information on the case, she’d have expected to hear the update from Thomas’s department. Not the FBI. And while she might want to forget the past, a part of her also needed closure. Which was why as much as she wanted to stand up and walk away, she knew she wouldn’t be able to until she heard what he had to say.

* * *

Joe took a sip of his espresso before answering her question, knowing that what he needed to tell her was going to be difficult for her to hear. Two days ago, he’d flown across the Atlantic, following a lead, in order to talk with her in person. And yet since his arrival there hadn’t seemed to be a right moment or a right way to approach her.

“Three months ago a young man was killed during a museum heist,” he began.

She shook her head. “Okay, but what does that have to do with Thomas?”

“Forensics was able to match the bullet that killed him to another murder where the same gun was used. It was the same gun that killed your husband.”

He caught the pain in her eyes and took a moment to study her reaction while giving her the time she needed to digest the information he’d just given her. He’d done his homework before catching the flight to Rome, but she looked younger than he’d expected. From her file he’d learned she was twenty-seven. She had a large family on her father’s side, but only one sibling, a sister named Shelby who lived in Dallas. Her parents were both deceased.

Today, her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail with loose wisps around her face. She was pretty in that classic sense, and fit in perfectly as an Italian in her black-and-white dress and wedge sandals. And from what he knew about her so far, she was the kind of woman he’d like to get to know better. Not that he would. He’d gotten involved with a woman once before while working a case, and he’d learned quickly to never mix FBI business with personal relationships.

“Are you okay?” he asked, when she didn’t respond.

“I don’t know.” She stared at her cup. “This was just the last thing I was expecting to hear today.”

“So you believe me?” He couldn’t exactly blame her hesitation. A complete stranger had walked up to her off the street and started talking to her about her husband’s murder.

“Enough to hear you out,” she said finally.

He glanced around the crowded café, wishing they were somewhere more private. But at least with the chatter of customers and the sound of cups clinking, no one would be able to listen in on their conversation.

“Okay,” he began, “during the recent heist, two paintings worth over two million dollars were stolen. It was the fourth time in the past several years where thieves used a similar pattern. All the works were stolen during the day while the museum was open. And each time they strategically took small pieces of art with high price tags. The difference this time was that one of the guards was killed trying to stop them.”

Talia shook her head. “I’m sorry someone was killed, but I still don’t understand what this has to do with me or with Thomas. He didn’t steal art. He stole drug money and cocaine.”

He caught another flicker of pain when she spoke and regretted having her dredge up so much from her past. “When Forensics came up with a match, I went to your husband’s department and got your husband’s file. Among the case notes, there were three postcard-sized paintings by nineteenth-century Italian artist Augusto Li Fonti logged as a part of Thomas’s personal belongings, but they’re never mentioned again.”

“Three postcards?” Her eyes narrowed as she took a sip of her espresso. “I don’t remember any mention of postcards, or understand why that would be significant.”

“In the second museum heist we believe to be connected to the case I’m working on now,” he continued, “there were three paintings the size of postcards stolen. And because it’s not uncommon for the cartel to trade valuable artwork as collateral, it’s very possible for something like that to be found at a drug raid. I believe they were at the house where your husband was killed.”

She set down her cup. “And you think I have them?”

“You could have them without realizing how valuable they are.”

A shadow crossed her face. “There are still people who believe that I knew what my husband was up to. And possibly even helped him.”

“Did you?” he asked.

“No...” She hesitated, clearly unsure if she could trust him. “I need to tell you something.” It seemed she’d decided she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

“Okay.” He waited for her to respond.

She paused one more time then pulled out her phone, clicked on a message and handed it to him. “I received a text message late last night. They told me to bring the three paintings to the Spanish Steps when I got off work. Apparently you’re not the only one who believes I have them.”

He quickly read through the message. “You were planning to meet them?”

“I can’t,” she said. “Because I don’t have what they want.”

“So you don’t remember any small paintings or drawings in your husband’s personal things?”

“Maybe... I don’t know.” She pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “After the investigation closed, the department gave me a box of his personal things. I spent days sorting through all his stuff. I ended up giving some of his personal things to my mother-in-law, then donated most of the rest.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “You have to understand I’d just found out that my husband was a dirty cop and skimming money from police raids. I didn’t exactly want to keep reminders of him around.”

He understood what she was saying, but now there was something else she needed to know. Someone else—perhaps someone with access to the information he had—had made the same connection to Talia that he’d made. And whoever was after the paintings had killed before. Which meant if that person believed she had them, then her life was in danger.