'We'll have to go soon, my little Sugarbaby,' he says softly, kissing her lightly in the middle of the forehead. 'Sleep just a little longer, but then you and I will have to go. There's still much for us both to do.'
10
San Quirico D'Orcia, Tuscany Nancy King was relaxing on the shaded terrace with her first cappuccino of the morning. On her lap was Paolo's new summer menu. She was pleased to see most of her old favourites were still there, including a choice of classic La Pasta Fatta in Casa, with an amazingly simple tomato sauce to go with the fantastic home-made linguini or tagliatelli. How did the Italians squeeze so much flavour out of so few ingredients? She put the menu down, took a sip of her coffee and squinted out across the sun-hazed valleys. The Tuscan countryside undulated like a series of green waves crashing towards some out-of-sight shoreline. The powder-blue sky was cloudless. Nancy felt more relaxed and alive than she'd done for years. Tuscany had certainly been the right place to choose to start over again.
Jovanna, one of the two waitresses setting clean white linen on the tables for lunch, clacked her shoes across the paved patio and wooden outer decking, breaking Nancy's moment of meditation.
'Scusi, Signora,' she said respectfully. 'There is someone in reception for you. It is a police officer.'
Nancy held her breath. She pushed her bare feet into her backless shoes, and strode quickly from the sun-toasted terrace to the cool of the hotel reception. In those brief seconds every imaginable disaster flashed through her mind. Had Jack collapsed again? Had Zack been hurt? What had brought an Italian police officer, unannounced, to her doorstep?
Nancy had expected to see a policeman, a black-haired carabiniere with a five o'clock shadow and trademark white gloves. Instead, a beautiful young woman in an immaculately tailored charcoal-grey business suit stood waiting in the marbled floor reception area.
'Buon giorno. Signora King?'
'Si.' Nancy hesitated, her heart skipping a beat.
'Buono. Sono Ispettore Orsetta Portinari. Ho bisogno…'
'In English, tell me in English!' snapped Nancy, unable to hold back her fears.
'I'm sorry,' said the policewoman. She took a beat, and then effortlessly switched languages. 'I am Inspector Orsetta Portinari and I have been sent by my boss Massimo Albonetti in Rome. My boss and Mr King worked together some time ago and now Direttore Albonetti has sent me here to see if Mr King would help us.'
Nancy's fears came down a notch. 'You mean there's nothing wrong? Nothing's happened to Jack, or to my son?'
The young inspector looked confused. 'I am sorry. I am afraid I do not understand. Your son?'
Nancy brushed hair from her face. 'You haven't come here to tell me something bad about my husband, or my son Zack? They're both all right?'
Orsetta shook her head and smiled reassuringly. 'No. They are both all right.'
Nancy leant on the black granite counter of the reception desk and sighed with relief. She managed to compose herself before turning back to the detective. 'Strange how you always think the worst when you see a police officer – even if you've been married to one.'
'si,' said Orsetta.
'Jack's not here at the moment, he'll be gone all day. What exactly is this about?'
Orsetta's face gave away the fact that she wasn't going to offer Nancy a straight answer. 'With respect, Mrs King, it is police business and I would rather discuss it directly with your husband.'
Ten years of marriage to a cop had taught Nancy to know when she was being fobbed off. Similarly, she knew that cops ducked questions only when the case was important. Her mind flashed back to Maria's newspaper. 'Is it about that murdered girl?'
The detective frowned. 'I really need to speak directly to your husband. Perhaps you have a cell phone number for him?'
Nancy's eyes blazed. It seemed Italian cops were every bit as pushy and rude as American ones. 'I'd rather not do that. Police business is not our business any longer. Now, would you like to leave a message or not?'
Orsetta's face flushed. 'This is my card,' she said, slapping it down on the cold counter. 'It is an urgent police matter. Have him call me as soon as you see him.' She glared at Nancy. 'This is not a request, Signora, it is an instruction.'
For a second the two women locked eyes. Orsetta smiled as sweetly as she could, then elegantly turned on her immaculate heels and left.
11
Days Inn Grand Strand, South Carolina The lady who answers phones at UMail2Anywhere proves as good as her word. Within an hour of the call, Stan, the delivery boy, turns up with a length of bubble wrap, four cardboard boxes, three sheets of brown paper and a roll of sticky tape. Spider appears at the door seemingly with car oil all over his hands, gets the kid to dump the gear on his bed, then quickly washes and tips him for his trouble. He's just scrubbed the skull clean of prints and isn't about to add fresh ones to the parcel he intends to send Sugar home in. Stan hangs around by the pool, drinking lime coke and checking out girls, while his big-tipping client takes his time wrapping some fragile cargo that has to be shipped air mail that afternoon. He seems a nice guy, not many customers give a tip these days, let alone ask his name and thank him. Waiting around for a real gent like that is no problem. The dude has even said he can find him some private work, running errands for a bit more than the basic he gets at UM2A. Says he might have something for him later that day, if he takes care of this package first, and does a real good job of looking after it.
Spider pulls on cotton gloves. Not long ago he'd read that cops could somehow pick up prints from inside rubber gloves. He isn't sure it's true, but doesn't intend taking any chances. When he's finished, he'll take the gloves with him. Meanwhile, he uses a Swiss Army penknife to cut off a length of the bubble wrap and forces it tight inside Sarah Kearney's skull. The plastic bulges through the eye sockets and jaw giving a grotesque illusion of membranes, muscles and even life. He wraps another sheet around the outside, holds it down with tape and places the whole thing inside one of the smaller boxes Stan brought him. He seals it with tape and wraps it in a sheet of brown paper. He cuts more bubble wrap, tapes it around the box and places it snugly inside one of the bigger boxes. He runs sticky tape around all the joints and carefully covers the outside with the remaining two sheets of brown paper. He takes a black felt-tip marker from his case and writes the delivery address in nondescript capital letters that contain no clue to his true handwriting. For a second he pauses and takes a slow, satisfying sniff of the pen. It smells of pear drops. Spider smiles at the irony of it all. Who would have thought that innocent reminders of childhood sweets could come to mind when you're handling the decapitated head of a woman you killed twenty years ago?
He flattens the spare boxes and puts them and the tape and bubble wrap inside his suitcase. Spider then carries the box out to the landing and places it at the foot of the front door. His room is on the second floor of the three-storey motel block and from the door he can clearly see Stan. The kid is checking out some teenagers in bikinis so tiny you could floss your teeth with them.
'Hey, Stan!' he shouts.
The delivery boy breaks from his adolescent daydreaming and raises a hand to acknowledge the call. By the time Stan appears on the landing, Spider has removed his gloves, tucked a cell phone between his left ear and shoulder blade and is writing something on a motel notepad while seemingly talking to someone.
'Yeah, sure, I finished the work about an hour ago and I should be able to get the accounts faxed to you sometime this afternoon. Don't you worry about it.'