Still, if they’d attended the casino together, there was a chance that some of the staff would remember them and might be able to identify Graziella for me. It was certainly something to ponder and in all probability something to act upon, too. In fact, I was a little surprised I hadn’t thought of it before, and that only made me wonder what else I might have overlooked. There had to be other angles to work, more avenues to explore.
One thought that did occur to me was that Martin and Antea might be able to tell me something useful about the Count, but I wasn’t sure how to ask without rousing their suspicions. Martin had obviously harboured reservations about my mugging story, and even if I sent Victoria down to speak with them on my behalf, it was an obvious risk, and one I wasn’t prepared to run just yet.
Another avenue to explore was the heavyset character with the pronounced limp who’d followed Victoria and me into the dead-end alley. I didn’t know whether his involvement went anywhere beyond an overdeveloped sense of curiosity, but the way he’d tracked us had suggested he was interested in my movements at the very least. If he approached me a second time, I made a promise to myself that I’d talk to him and try to find out what was behind his snooping.
Then, of course, there was Count Borelli himself. Perhaps I could call at his home – legally this time – and ask him very politely why Graziella wanted him dead, before going on to enquire if he knew where she might be storing my book? Unfortunately, it didn’t strike me as a very credible option. A slightly more appealing alternative was to break back into his palazzo to see if I could find the answers to those questions for myself. Problem was, the place was crawling with police, and even if I went in the dead of night, I’d be taking a huge gamble. The Count and his live-in staff would be on edge right now, their senses heightened, and that made the chances of my being caught infinitely higher.
More to the point, why did I care? True enough, I was a touch miffed by the way Graziella had hoodwinked me, but it could be I was overcomplicating things. So far as I was aware, she was the only person who could link me to the bombing, and I had a funny feeling she wouldn’t be giving my name to the police anytime soon, since I could put them onto her in turn.
Hmm. So okay, maybe now I was simplifying things a little too much. The happy scenario I’d just outlined ignored one or two salient points. Like, for instance, it hadn’t escaped me that Graziella might not be altogether satisfied by the way the Count had evaded her dastardly plan, and it wasn’t too extreme to suppose she might decide to make another attempt on his life. And while, on the one hand, I supposed I could run with the notion that it was no concern of mine, if I did nothing to stop her, I’d have a man’s death on my conscience. Worse still, if she was caught, I didn’t imagine she’d hesitate to lead the authorities straight to me in the hope that her punishment might be reduced.
Oh, and then there was that other trifling detail – Graziella still had my copy of
The Maltese Falcon
and I still wanted it back. Yes, I’d put on a brave face with Victoria, but superstitions are the damnedest things. They get deep inside you, work on you, until you trust them instinctively no matter what your head might say. I could tell myself that I was capable of penning a good story without Hammett’s novel for company, but in my heart, I didn’t really
believe
it.
And to some extent, I didn’t
want
to believe it, either. The book had always been there for me, watching over me when I was writing, and I missed it badly – not just because it was a handsome object, but also because of what it represented to me. Writing a novel even half as good as the
Falcon
was something to aspire to – perhaps even something worth dedicating one’s life to – and it couldn’t hurt to be reminded of that whenever I found myself stuck writing a particular passage, or griping about a set of edits.
What’s more, I couldn’t deny that I was experiencing the desire for some kind of revenge. Graziella hadn’t simply stolen something precious from me and duped me into doing her bidding – she’d also hurt my pride. As a thief, it went against the grain to be burgled, but what really rankled was the way Graziella had questioned my professionalism. True enough, I’d taken a sabbatical from my larcenous ways, but while I’d been plagued over the years by doubts about my ability as a writer, I’d never had any concerns about my talent as a housebreaker. I knew I was good at accessing other people’s homes, and even better at swiping their things, but Graziella had treated me like a bumbling amateur. She’d insulted me, but worse than that, she’d underestimated me, and I had an undeniable urge to make her pay for it.
So, in conclusion, when I broke everything down, I had plenty to ponder. And, to be perfectly frank, I wasn’t altogether sorry to find myself preoccupied. Why? Well, it was far more preferable than thinking about Victoria.
Right now, she was in her bedroom across the hall from me – perhaps reading my manuscript, perhaps fast asleep. Earlier on, we’d worked together to position the two intruder alarms in the hall and the living room, and then I’d made sure that she had her pepper spray and the Taser gun close at hand before going to my own room for the night. I’d offered to book her into the Hotel American just along from my apartment, which she’d point-blank refused to let me do, but for the time being she was as safe as I could possibly make her, short of sleeping on the floor of her room. On a different day, in other circumstances, I dare say I would have done just that. It was very probably the noble thing to do, and I can tell you without any hesitation that if I’d been writing the scene myself, it’s undoubtedly what my lead character Michael Faulks would have insisted upon. Mind you, Faulks has something of a runaway libido, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’d have ended up seducing the woman he’d tasked himself with protecting.
Now, I’m not suggesting for one moment that I’d have attempted the same thing with Victoria. In fact, the very idea petrified me. But, no matter how hard I tried to block it from my mind, there was no denying that something had passed between us in that alley (and I don’t just mean saliva).
The kiss, that was the problem. I was a fool for having pulled the move and, in hindsight, I didn’t doubt that a squirt of Victoria’s pepper spray would have been a lot less toxic. I wasn’t at all sure how things stood between us now, and from the way Victoria had avoided eye contact with me during the evening, and taken herself to bed at shortly before nine o’clock, I couldn’t escape the fact that she was very likely as confused as me.
She was a work colleague, yes, but she was also my confidante and the closest friend I’d ever known. Given the choice, I’d rather have shut myself inside the palazzo strongroom with a hundred briefcase bombs than jeopardise our relationship. And yet, because I was a moron who’d acted on impulse, I might have done precisely that.
Listen, I can’t pretend that I’d never noticed Victoria was attractive. She was slim but curvy, smart and funny, and she was more than my equal in just about any department you could care to mention. We liked the same things, shared the same passions, and there was no denying that we’d flirted a little over the years. But the kiss had taken things to another level – one that felt so precariously high I was a little surprised my nose wasn’t bleeding.
Was it my imagination, or had she reciprocated? Did that mean it was something she’d secretly wanted to have happen between us, or had she been trying to save me from embarrassment? Was she experiencing the same conflicting emotions as me, or was it all a lot simpler for her? Was she upset?
Questions
. I had far too many, and very few that were welcome. Victoria had said that we should erase the entire episode from our minds and I wished to hell I could do just that. In fact, if a little genie had appeared at the foot of my bed and granted me three wishes right then, my first would have been to go back in time and stop the entire episode from happening. Oh, and if you’re wondering what my other two wishes would have been, that’s easy. Number two, to get my book back safe and sound. And three? Well, that would have been to make it through the entire night without waking to find someone pressing a gun into my stomach.
Damn genies – they never materialise when you need them to. Sadly for me, other people had a habit of doing just that, and one of those pesky individuals happened to be jabbing a gun into my gut.
She had red hair this time. A bright punk-red. The strands, which fell to her shoulders from a centre parting and curled outwards, looked to have been made from the cheapest of plastics. Realistic, it wasn’t. Striking, it most certainly was.
Her outfit was just as memorable. Black leather gloves and a zipped leather biker jacket, black commando pants with multiple pockets, black training shoes and, of course, the jet-black pistol.
The gun was large and mean-looking and it was fitted with a silencer. The silencer wasn’t a detail I was especially pleased by, but then again, neither was the gun, and to be honest, I didn’t like the way her finger was curled around the trigger all that much either.
One of my guilty little secrets is that I don’t know a great deal about firearms, which is something of a no-no for a mystery writer. In the past, I’ve had readers email me to say that I’ve got the details all wrong in one of my books – that such-and-such a weapon doesn’t have a safety, or that Faulks has fired one more bullet than a Glock could possibly hold. But there were certain pieces of information I’d picked up over the years, and one of them was that it was never a good thing to have an automatic pistol aimed at you. Oh, and if you were unfortunate enough to find yourself in such a scenario, one of the least pleasant places to be shot was in your intestine. It hurt like merry hell, by all accounts, but left untreated, it also had a nasty habit of causing your demise.
I’d had characters use suppressors in my books before and there was only ever one reason for it. They wanted to kill quickly and efficiently and escape undetected. So all things considered, my situation didn’t look all that encouraging.
‘Don’t shoot me,’ I said. I understand it’s de rigueur to utter those words when you find yourself likely to be fired upon. ‘Please,’ I added, which was an embellishment I’d devised for myself. Good manners cost nothing, right?
‘Sit up,’ she said, and motioned with her gun for me to do just that.
I could see that she was gesturing with her gun and, come to think of it, I was able to describe her wig, her outfit and her weapon with such clarity because she’d taken it upon herself to switch on the lamp in the corner of my room. Strange. Sudden light was usually capable of waking me, but tonight it seemed that only a pistol pressed to my belly button could hit the spot (and boy, how I wished
that
wasn’t so).
‘Put your hands behind your back.’
Ah, now that was a command I was perfectly happy to obey. Shuffling towards my headboard, I slid my fingers beneath my pillow. Somewhere underneath was the stun gun Victoria had given me. Fifty thousand volts. If only Graziella moved a little closer, I might have a chance. Flip back the lid, slide the switch to one side and plunge the fizzing prongs deep into her neck. With any luck, she’d be completely disabled, unable to get a shot off.
It was a fine plan, and without question the best one I had at my disposal. Just one problem. I couldn’t find the damn stun gun.
‘You are looking for this?’ she asked, removing the very weapon from the bulky pocket on her thigh.
Oh, good grief. So that was just the bright light and the fact she’d fumbled around beneath my head that had failed to wake me. Typical. The one night when I knew I might have to be on my guard, I’d slept as if Victoria had slipped Rohypnol into my cocoa. Maybe it was the after-effects of the drug Martin had pumped into my system. I was beginning to wonder if he truly had been a doctor – it would have made a lot more sense if he’d treated me to a dose of horse tranquilliser.
Graziella turned the stun gun in her hand and smiled at me the way a cat might smile at a mouse before removing its entrails. Or, more accurately, the way a cat burglar might smirk at an out-of-practice thief before shooting him in the tummy.
‘You would use this on me?’ she asked, and pouted as if she was terribly upset by the notion.
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ I said. ‘Given you’re holding a gun on me.’
She thumbed back the lid on the stun gun, exposing the prongs, then flicked the switch until the bluish current buzzed in her hand. She rolled down her lower lip, intrigued, before passing an appraising eye over my body. I drew back my legs, folding them at the knees until there was as much distance between us as possible. The move seemed to amuse her. She smiled and cut the charge, returning the device to her pocket.
‘You opened the briefcase.’ She rolled her eyes and shook her head. The toxic-red wig shimmied like a hula skirt, the vibrant colour making her skin appear paler than normal – as if she was suffering a bout of anaemia.
‘You think? What gave it away?’
There was a glimmer in her eye, but it failed to reach her lips. ‘You are a fool,’ she said, in a voice leaden with fatigue. ‘You should be dead.’
‘I was lucky. The vault contained the blast.’
She winced, as if she’d feared I might say that. ‘The coins? The paintings?’
‘Gone. Everything’s toast.’
She released a long breath and raised the gun to scratch her temple with the muzzle. Shame my reflexes weren’t unbelievably fast. If only I could whip my hands out from behind my back and get to the trigger before she caught up with the move, I could decorate my bedroom wall with her brains. Then again, maybe she’d slip and do it for me.
Nope, sadly not. She lowered the gun, casually resting her elbow in the palm of her hand. I glanced down at her shapely waist. No climbing harness.
‘How’d you get in?’ I asked.
‘Your door,’ she said simply.
Huh, so she really was as good as I’d feared. Opening the locks I’d selected would have been tricky, and then there was the alarm sensor in the hallway. Part of me wanted to ask her how she’d managed to sneak in so easily. Only my ego, and a little professional dignity, stopped me from doing just that.