18
Sofitel Hotel, Florence, Tuscany From the moment Jack awoke, he was chasing time.
He stumbled to the bathroom, nursing the mother of all hangovers. He'd badly overslept and had less than two hours in which to meet Orsetta, find out about the case she wanted help with and then catch a train back to Siena. It was going to be tight.
Showering and shaving took fifteen minutes and he arrived in the restaurant with his skin still stinging from aftershave. Orsetta was sitting in a corner, sipping a cappuccino and reading a newspaper.
'Morning. Anything good in there?' he said, taking a seat opposite her.
'Buon giorno,' she replied, without looking up. 'Unfortunately there is never anything good in Italian newspapers.'
Jack knew what she meant. He used to read the crime-packed American papers solely as a means of keeping track of 'the enemy'.
A waiter appeared and he ordered black coffee, juice and some chopped fruit and yoghurt. It wasn't what he wanted, but he knew that he'd reached the age when he could no longer eat a cooked breakfast and not expect it to show up somewhere on his waistline.
Orsetta folded her newspaper and was putting it down when she noticed printing ink on her fingers. 'Looks like I'm being processed,' she joked, holding up her hands.
'Always good to have a set of dabs on file,' said Jack.
Orsetta rubbed her hands on a napkin, then dipped into a black calfskin document bag at her feet. She produced a weighty A4-sized Jiffy bag and then folded her arms over the top of it and looked intently across the table.
'What?' asked Jack, sensing her hesitation.
'Yesterday, you said you might need persuading to help us. Do you still feel that way?'
Jack was dry-mouthed and when he spoke his voice was as rough as gravel. The booze had left him dehydrated and he hoped the juice and coffee would come quickly. 'And yesterday you admitted you were checking me out to see that I wasn't a "cabbage case". Do you still think I might be?'
The word 'cabbage' made her laugh again. 'Touche,' she said and slid the package across the white linen tablecloth.
'Heavy,' he said, weighing it in one hand. 'Okay if I read this on the train and call you later?'
You need to call Massimo,' she answered. 'He's put a personal letter in there for you. As I said last night, he really wanted to come in person, but is out of the country.'
Jack's coffee, juice, fruit and yoghurt arrived. Within seconds he'd drained half the orange, letting the waiter move away before picking up the conversation. 'BRK's victims are always women on their own. Their typical age is mid-twenties and his MO is always to be "subtle" rather than "snatch". Believe me, this guy probably has charm. We've never had sightings of him abducting his victims, or trying to abduct them. We presume he grooms the women, maybe even seduces them. We suspect he lures them into an area where they feel safe with him, and then he strikes.'
'Premeditated and organized.'
Precisely. He's an organized killer, a planner, never taking unnecessary risks, never making foolish mistakes. He's the kind of guy that measures twice before cutting wood. Probably measures three times before cutting flesh.'
Orsetta drank her cappuccino, noting the seamless way he'd lapsed into the lexicon of murder, while mundanely mixing plain yoghurt into his chopped fruit. 'We only have one victim, a young woman from Livorno, a town on the western shoreline of the Tyrrhenian Sea. In this case there is also no evidence of the victim being forcefully abducted. We also believe our offender falls into the organized category, but it is too early in the investigation for us to say that he has not made mistakes or left clues. I hope in this respect our offender is different from yours.'
Jack finished chewing, then added, 'BRK dismembered all his later victims and scattered pieces of them in the sea, like a kid throwing bread to gulls. By the time we'd discovered what the fish hadn't eaten there was nothing for Forensics to go over, they couldn't come up with anything other than rock salt and barnacles.'
'I'm really glad I've already eaten,' said Orsetta, grimacing. She glanced at her wristwatch. 'I am afraid I am due back in Rome. In fact, I am overdue back in Rome. I hadn't planned on staying last night so I really must go.'
Jack wasn't buying her need to rush off. He suspected she was anxious to avoid any potential awkwardness between them.
'Hey, if last night I opened up doors to places you didn't want to go, then I'm sorry. Maybe we both should have known better than to play such games, eh?'
Orsetta managed a thin smile. 'Indeed we should. You know, what you said – well, it was right. I am avoiding commitment. But right now, I need to.'
Jack put his hands up to let her know that she didn't need to explain herself, but he could tell that she wanted to anyway.
'I was in a relationship for four years. I thought I was in heaven. I thought he was the great love of my life. Well, it turns out that he was the love of another woman's life as well, and had been for nearly ten years. Probably more than one other woman, if truth be told.'
'I'm sorry. Please forgive me for bringing all that up; I'm sure it was painful.'
'Of course,' said Orsetta. 'You're completely forgiven, providing, that is, that you are going to agree to help us.'
'I am,' said Jack. He tapped his hand on the case notes she'd passed to him. 'I'll read these this morning and I'll call Mass and tell him he'll have my preliminary profile within a few days.'
Orsetta folded a ten-euro tip in with the money she'd left to settle the breakfast bill. 'You have to promise me one thing, then,' she said, standing up and gathering her things.
'Sure,' Jack said, dropping his napkin and rising to say goodbye. 'What's that?'
Orsetta smiled. 'If you come to Rome to see us, then next time dinner is on me, and we stay away from the mind-games, yes?'
'I'll look forward to it,' said Jack. He gently took hold of her shoulders as she leant towards him and they kissed each other on both cheeks.
'Ciao,' she said, and left him with a smile that could light up New York, and a waft of peach perfume that could jump-start a dying heart. After she'd gone, he couldn't help but put his hand to his cheek where her lips had been.
19
Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, New York Lu Zagalsky glances over at the frightened punter in the driver's seat and wonders if she's wasting her time. First off, the loser can't get money out of the ATM machine, now he wants her to buckle up to travel less than a mile on a damned nearly deserted road in the middle of the goddamn night. Chances are that the sucker won't even be able to get it up and will then refuse to pay. 'Whatever,' she says, deciding to give it a go and clunking the belt into place. She slides some gum into her mouth and chews noisily as he cruises east down Beach Avenue.
'Vy goyoreeteh po rusky?' she asks, keen to check if he knows any Russian before she starts hurling any serious insults his way.
'I'm sorry. Say that again?' the driver says politely, his hands never leaving the wheel, his eyes fixed safely on the road.
'Just wanted to know if you spoke Russian,' says Lu. 'Lots of guys round here do, it's pretty much a Russian neighbourhood, you know?'
'Okay, I see,' says the guy, checking his speedo, making sure he doesn't break the thirty miles an hour barrier. Jeez, it's been a while since Lu has seen anyone as strung up and hung up as this punter.
'No, no, I don't speak any Russian,' he adds. 'I'm an accountant, just working down here at the moment, that's why I'm a bit lost.'
Suddenly the punter gets a whole lot more interesting. I mean, Lu tells herself, whoever heard of a poor accountant? Let him pull a ton of paper out of the ATM, get him somewhere he can take his pants off and then do a runner with the cash and maybe his wallet too? The plan sounds a good one. Hardly original, hookers have been working it for years. Nevertheless, it's still surprisingly effective, especially on a dumb ass ebanat like this one.