‘Trophies. He told the woman they were proof of his virility.’
‘Jesus. Please tell me this psychopath is on Death Row so I can go cheer when the big day comes.’
‘Better than that. He turned up dead in a motel in New York. Someone tied him to a chair, stuffed part of a bed sheet in his mouth and shot him in the testicles. According to the ME, the killer waited at least an hour before he pulled the sheet out of his mouth and put the gun between his teeth and fired the second bullet.’
‘Nice job.’
‘You’re not alone in thinking that. No one dug too deep to find the triggerman. Least of all, Fitzgerald. He barely seemed surprised. If you follow my drift.’
She nods. ‘I hope the hospital manage to fix him up. Get him a liver transplant, or whatever it takes.’
‘We’ll pull some strings. See what we can do to hike him up a donor list.’ He searches the layer of papers on his desk and pulls up a sheet. ‘This is for you.’
She takes it and stares at a list of names.
‘They’re private numbers for all the main British Embassy staff here and in London.’
‘Thanks. I’ll trawl them when I get back to California.’ She notices a half-smile. It’s the kind bosses always have when they know something you don’t. ‘What’d I miss?’
‘I spoke to your supervisor, Miss Donovan. She’s happy for you to be seconded to run this case from Washington, least ’til we see whether it’s got road to run or is just a dead end.’
‘She never mentioned this when I updated her last night.’
‘I spoke to her an hour ago. She expects you to call her after this meeting.’
‘Captain, I’d really like to see my daughters. I’m sure you can understand that.’
‘Then clear this up quickly, Lieutenant. And let’s not kid ourselves, both you and I know that someone’s going to have to go to England, and that sure as hell isn’t going to be me or Lieutenant Fitzgerald.’
56
Angelo Marchetti wakes Gisela the hooker.
He pays her off and bundles her out. Now he needs to shower, dress and get ready for his breakfast meeting.
The upcoming face-to-face is, after all, why he flew here some thirty hours ago.
He’s acutely aware that the man he’s meeting also owns the room he’s staying in and the illegal casino downstairs where last night he won several thousand pounds. No big deal, considering the business he’s about to conclude will net him millions. Millions and a new start. One far away from Owain Gwyn and his army of do-gooders.
Marchetti fastens the slim-cut white shirt that hangs loose over blue jeans. In the mirror, the thirty-four-year-old studies flecks of grey in his jet black locks and designer beard. His youth has gone and the signs of ageing make him nostalgic. As a teenager he played soccer for Napoli. Three short years during which he earned millions and spent much of it helping the poor in Campania.
Then came his blackest day.
A leg-breaking tackle that robbed him of his first international cap. The type of injury that would lead to years of rehab, painkillers and failed comebacks. At first, he fell back on his investments and continued to be a dedicated young philanthropist, building projects and hope for street kids in Scampia and Secondigliano. It was these acts that attracted the Arthurians to him and for a time gave him a reason to live. He worked hard at keeping young Italians out of the grasp of the Camorra and the Mafia.
Then had come the second blow.
Both he and his wife were having secret affairs. She with a former teammate. He with drink and drugs.
At first, the addiction was purely painkillers. They tamped the physical and mental hurt. Then as loneliness bit he befriended cocaine and heroin.
He moved to America to be out of the reach of the mob-owned dealers he owed money to, but as his debts grew so too did his addictions. He added gambling to his opiates in a bid to raise enough cash to pay everyone off and start again. Only he lost ten times more than he won.
The rap on the door shakes him from his thoughts.
He peeps through the spyhole.
Three figures fill his view — two large men, both armed.
And him.
The man Gwyn had spoken so much of.
The one the SSOA fear and hate the most.
57
Mitzi all but slams the phone down on Donovan.
The last thing she wanted was to stay in DC.
Ruthy, Jade and Amber are going to give her hell when she tells them that the couple of days she promised to be away is going to be more like a couple of weeks.
Now she needs more clothes. Unless she wants to end up smelling worse than Irish or his car. What’s left of it. What’s left of him, for that matter. She makes a mental note to call the hospital — right after she’s worked her way through the list of names Fulo gave her.
A vending machine coughs out something close to coffee and she takes it to Irish’s desk in the Homicide Squad Room. The whole square yard of space smells of him. Booze, fast food and dust have seeped into the cloth and wood where he’s done all his hours. Or not done it, judging by the piles of stuff stacked up.
She clears junk and gets down to the job of calling around. Systematically, she works her way through the private office and cell phone numbers of Britain’s entire senior diplomatic staff in the USA, both present and past.
No one picks up.
Unperturbed, she leaves messages for them to get back to her but doubts that they will.
Mitzi’s about to call her sister when a woman with spiky black hair and a pale, androgynous face appears at the edge of the desk and catches her by surprise. ‘Hey! Don’t go creeping up on people like that.’ She puts her hand to her chest. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘Sorry. Are you the lieutenant sent from the FBI?’
Mitzi looks over the dyed locks, black top and matching skinny jeans and boots. ‘Not if you’re the Grim Reaper. What’s with the look?’
‘I’m Kirstin Collins.’ She gestures to her clothes. ‘I’m working drugs, undercover at a club, but I was helping Irish out as well. Do you know how he is?’
‘Lieutenant Fallon.’ She stretches out a hand. ‘From what I heard, he’s in a bad way.’
‘Looks like you took a whack yourself.’
‘Yeah, that’s just because I can’t put make-up on. I always look this bad, even without the bruises.’
Kirstin laughs.
‘I’m going to call the hospital in a minute and check on him. Take a seat.’ Mitzi points at a chair. ‘Irish spoke highly of you. Said you’d make a good cop one day.’
‘One day?’ She laughs. ‘He’s got a cheek. Fulo says you’re running his case, that right?’
‘I guess so. Why? Have you got something?’
She tries not to stare too much at the black eyes and plastered nose. ‘You know Irish got a lead on the SUV and the Lincoln from Traffic?’
‘Yeah, I’m up to speed.’
‘Well, I looked on the map for all-night food joints near the exit where the vehicles came off. There were only a few. None had surveillance on their parking lots.’
‘That’s the way the cookie usually crumbles, Kirstin.’
‘I know. But I did talk to the overnight managers about whether they saw anything suspicious.’
‘I’m guessing one of them did, or else you wouldn’t be recounting this tale.’
‘Right. Guy called Ludo working ANAR, the All Night All Right franchise out near Stead Park, noticed a Lincoln leaving his lot. Minutes later a tow-truck appeared, hooked up the SUV and hauled it away.’