Midnight Angels (32 page)

“It all depends, I suppose, on the circles you travel in,” the Raven said.

“I never figured my run would end this way,” Russell said, quick to
take a firm measure of the situation and assess the Raven’s intent. “People in our line of work always expect to go out in much more dramatic fashion.”

“It doesn’t have to be the end,” the Raven said. “In fact, it could be a fresh start. That is, of course, something only you can decide.”

“You mean come work for you?”

“Would it be so horrible?” the Raven asked. “The work would be the same, the pay doubled. And good men like you are hard to find.”

Russell glanced up at the sun and then across the waters of the Arno, a smirk spreading across his face. “I don’t think so,” he said in a low voice.

“I admire your loyalty,” the Raven said. “I never get enough of that from members of my group.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised to hear that,” Russell said. “Your hiring practices leave something to be desired.”

The Raven shrugged grandly. “I don’t suppose you would have any idea where I might locate the Midnight Angels?”

“Not only do I not know where they are,” Russell said. “I don’t even know what they are.”

The Raven smiled and pulled a handgun from his waistband. “That’s too bad,” he said.

He raised the gun, equipped with a silencer, and fired three shots, all at close range and all finding a critical mark. Russell crumpled slowly to the edge of the shore, his hands clutching his chest as he dropped face first onto the sand. The brown water lapped the side of his head, small, foamy waves mixed with the flow of blood oozing out of his body.

The Raven stood above him, took a quick look at the streets in the vicinity, and observed no prying eyes. He fired one final round into the back of Russell’s head, placed the gun back in its safe spot, and walked along the shore toward the Ponte Vecchio.

CHAPTER
8

K
ATE QUIETLY RIFLED THROUGH HER PURSE LOOKING FOR LOOSE
change with which to buy coins for the washing machine and dryer. Marco had already handed her the three euros he had in the front flap of his shirt. It was nearing 5:00
P.M.
on a rainy Sunday afternoon and they were the only people in the Laundromat off a side street, not far from Piazza Santa Croce. She had lugged two duffel bags filled with two weeks’ worth of wash, while Marco’s dirty clothes were bundled and tucked under his right arm.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “You practically change your shirt every hour and I’ve never seen you wear the same jeans longer than two days in a row, and yet I’m the one with all the dirty clothes.”

“There are a few positives to having a mother living close by,” Marco said. “Not many, but enough to occasionally make a visit worthwhile.”

“You don’t see her very much,” Kate said, stuffing a coin into the slot. “And you talk about her even less. I know the two of you aren’t close, but don’t you think she misses you, even a little?”

“I love her very much,” Marco said, not looking at Kate, searching out the closest laundry machine to use. “I don’t want you to get the impression I don’t. But she has her own life and her own family, and I’m not a part of that anymore.”

“You’re part of her family, too, Marco,” Kate said. “Maybe not in the same way as when your father was alive, but you’re her son, and no mother ever breaks free of that bond.”

“I can only imagine how difficult it was for you to lose your parents at the age you did,” he said. “I was devastated when my father died, and
even though many years have passed, I’m still not over it. But in a way we’re very lucky, you and I, having something like that happen to us.”

“Lucky how?” she asked.

“To this day, my father remains very much alive to me,” he said. “In many ways, more so than my mother. And I feel the same is true with you, with both your parents. You have kept them alive all these years, through their work and through your memories. They are there for you anytime you need them, no matter where you are or how late in the day it is, and that will always be true. No one can ever take them from you, just as no one can take my father from me.”

Kate stuffed her clothes into two small washing machines, separating by color as well as by need. “That’s all true, Marco,” she said, “but you know you can’t turn to a memory when you have a problem. And I don’t mean just when it comes to situations like we find ourselves in now, but in simple day-to-day moments—what dress should you buy for that party or what should I say and not say at that next job interview. Just to have them here to talk to, like I’m talking to you, going over the most mundane parts of an uneventful day.”

“Do
you have any uneventful days?” Marco asked, hoping to get a smile in return.

Kate didn’t disappoint him. “Yes,” she said, “believe it or not.”

“Then there’s hope for us, still,” he said.

The tall man in the thin leather jacket walked into the Laundromat and let the door slam behind him. There was no attendant in the room, just small sets of security cameras mounted in the corners of the ceiling. Two overhead fans spread warm air and dust, and music blared from a static-filled, in-house stereo system. Marco had his back to the man and looked toward the rear of the Laundromat, his eyes moving past a row of coin-operated machines that offered a variety of soaps, detergents, and bleaches until he closed in on the door partially hidden by a corner wall, a small latch lock in place. He turned his head, hoping to catch Kate’s attention, but saw that her gaze was already focused on the man, now standing less than five feet from them both.

The man’s thick-soled boots made streak noises against the tile floor as he walked past the coin machines, the rumble of the dryers and the whirling of the washing machines drowning out all other sounds.

“I don’t suppose either of you have any spare change?” he asked.

“We used it all to run our machines,” Kate said. “But there’s a store a few meters away that will give you all the change you need.”

“So long as you buy something,” Marco said. “It’s the owner’s only rule. He hates to do anything for free.”

“Most people do,” the man said.

Kate looked at the crumpled white shirt in the man’s right hand. “That’s not quite a full load you have there,” she said.

“I’m a limo driver,” he said. “I always carry an extra shirt in the car, cleaned and starched, part of the job requirement. But I’ve been on the move for the last two days, driving the same client around. I haven’t had a chance to get back home and clean up. We were supposed to have headed back to Milan hours ago, but she’s insisting on having drinks and dinner with some friends. At this rate, by the time I get home it will be close to sunup, and I don’t want to sit behind the wheel of my car for all that time smelling like a dog left out in the rain.”

“I was about to start running my load,” Marco said. “There’s plenty of room. You can toss your shirt in with my clothes if you don’t mind mixing it with my dirty batch. It would be a lot cheaper than running a machine just for one shirt.”

“No,” the man said. “I don’t mind.”

Kate and Marco stood silently side by side, casting an occasional glance at each other, as the man tossed the bundled white shirt in with Marco’s load.

The man had a wiry but muscular build, and Kate caught a glimpse of a long angular scar along the right side of his neck. “At the very least,” he said to them, “I owe you both a coffee.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kate said, “but thank you. We both have some reading to do and work we need to catch up on, and an empty Laundromat seems the ideal place to accomplish those goals.”

“Are you both students?” the man asked.

“Everyone
under the age of thirty in Florence is either a student, or a tourist,” Marco said.

“What about you?” Kate asked. “Do you live in Milan?”

“I live where the work takes me,” the man said, his dark eyes examining her. “The spring and summer months, I prefer to stay up North, and as long as there are tourists willing to pay top dollar to be driven around Italy, then that’s a habit I won’t need to break.”

“So you’ve been doing this work for a while, then?” Kate asked. “Being a driver, I mean.”

“Five years this January,” the man said. His body was relaxed, at ease in the company of the two students in the dust-filled Laundromat. He had maneuvered himself casually between them, his back to Marco, his full attention on the young woman with all the questions.

“Don’t you keep an extra set of clothes in the trunk?” Kate asked. “In case you get caught in the rain, or if you need to change a flat and your jacket gets torn?”

“You sound more like a policeman than a student,” the man said. “Is there a problem?”

“Not so far,” Kate said.

“There shouldn’t be any,” the man said.

“How often do you get down to Florence?” Marco asked. His tone was lighter, more conversational.

“When it’s busy, maybe three, sometimes as often as five times a week,” the man said. “It’s a fast ride up and down, especially if you avoid weekend traffic. And the client can take in the sights and be back in his hotel room before it’s too deep into the night.”

“When you’re in town with clients, you take them to the usual spots?” Kate asked. “The Duomo, the David, the Palace—those places, right? I mean, nothing out of the ordinary, side trips into smaller neighborhoods or out-of-the-way restaurants where only the locals eat?”

“No,” the man said, shaking his head. “Clients want to see the places they’ve heard or read about. They want to see what they don’t have back home.”

“What about you?” she asked. “Are you interested in seeing any of those places for yourself?”

“Me?” The man pointed to his chest. “I don’t even care about the sights they
do
want to see.”

Kate moved away from the coin machine. “Then how did you know this Laundromat would be here?” she asked. “Only local cars and cabs with Florence plates are on this street. It caters to students and foreigners staying at hostels. The closest you could have parked would have been about a half mile up from the church. That puts you about seven city blocks from here and a long way from your client, who may decide to cut
short her meal and be eager to get back to Milan, which would be hard to do if she can’t locate her driver.”

The man nodded, impressed. “That’s not a problem,” he said. “My client is familiar with the city. In fact, she was the one who told me about this place. She also told me I would find you both here.”

“I don’t know many people with their own personal drivers,” Kate said, suddenly feeling cornered in the large room, her mouth dry.

“This one you do,” the man said. “Not by name, I don’t think. I wasn’t even told her name.”

“Why did she send you here?” Kate asked.

“Nothing too complicated,” the man said. “She wants to talk to you both. There’s no rush. We can even finish the laundry. When you’re ready, we’ll take a little walk and meet up at the car.”

“And from there?” Kate asked.

“From there, I’m afraid we’re all in the same boat,” the man said. “Our final destination will be determined by the client.”

“And what if we decide not to go?” Marco asked.

The man looked briefly at him and then turned back to Kate. “I don’t think we’ll need to explore those options,” he said in a tone as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing the day’s weather.

“We’ll go with you,” Kate said, “as soon as the clothes are out of the dryer.”

“Good idea,” the man said.

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER,
Kate and Marco were walking with the man down a narrow street, heading for Piazza Santa Croce. The day had turned dark and overcast, with the rumble of rain clouds looming in the distance. Marco carried one of Kate’s duffel bags, slung over his right shoulder, his head down, feeling physically fatigued. The heavy toll of the past few days had finally kicked in, and he was now convinced that what had once seemed an innocent adventure was destined to end in the most violent way. He had been advised, by both the professor and the detective from Rome, simply to walk away, told that he’d taken the journey as far down the road as he could handle and that the safe bet would be to return to the student life he had so eagerly sought. Instead, he allowed bravado
and his concern for Kate to cloud his usually sound judgment. As a boy and now as a young man he had always been acutely in touch with both his abilities and limitations. He was also aware of how quickly and how anonymously death could strike, without any hesitation or warning. He had seen it firsthand with the death of his father. And now, here on the streets of the very city where he was born, he had the distinct feeling that he was within striking distance of his own demise.

Kate had her own concerns, walking alongside the man in the leather jacket, a duffel bag cradled in her arms. There were elements of the man’s story that troubled her. The prime question revolved around his client. What if it wasn’t a woman she might have heard about? What if the man worked for the Raven instead? As matters stood, the Raven was expecting her and Marco to be delivered to him at the safe house, so why bother going to the trouble of tracking them down at a Laundromat? Why risk something going wrong out in the open, in full view of witnesses, when he could have her in a place where he would be in full control? And if she could rule out the Raven, then who was this woman and what role did she play in all this?

They turned a corner and entered a wider street, this one filled with pedestrians, many weighed down with packages containing clothing and wine. “Is this your first time driving this client?” she asked the man, keeping her tone casual.

“No,” the man said. “When she’s in Florence, I’m her regular driver.”

“What does she do?” Kate asked.

Marco slowed his step and gave a quick look her way, wondering what she was hoping to gain with her questions.

“Does it matter?” the man asked. “She wants to see you, and I’m the one picked to take you to her.”