Death Under the Venice Moon (19 page)

I could picture Larry mentally analyzing my scenario. Why was he so quiet? What happened to the background voices? Quiet as a tomb.
Stop it.

"Not bad, not bad. Let me run that by the people here."

"Who are you with?" I glanced at the side mirror. A car was coming at crazy speed. It looked like a…damn…
Polizia Stradale
. "Sorry, got to go.
Ciao
." I buckled up, gingerly turned on my turn signal, and put my car in drive. Too late—the Italian Highway Patrol automobile drove up right behind me. And it was hard to ignore. Unlike the
Carabinieri
's vehicles, this one was neon blue; sort of reminded me of the California sky.

What now? I had zero experience regarding Italian police. Naughty or nice? I was about to find out. A young man in a snazzy uniform and black boots to die for came around the passenger side of the Focus and knocked on the window, motioning me to roll it down.

"
Signora
"—he lifted his hand toward the visor of his hat, but didn't touch it—"
tutto bene?
"

"
Signor Ufficiale
." I had no clue how to address him. I called him Mister Officer, and he reacted with the shadow of an amused smile. He probably thought I was an idiot. An entertaining idiot. I was about to prove him right. "
Signor Ufficiale, devo prorpio andare al gabinetto di brutta
." I rocked back and forth in my seat to convey the idea of how bad I needed to use the bathroom. "I'm calling information to see if there is a public bathroom not too far. I'm a tourist."

He bought it. Turned out there was a major rest stop just a little way ahead. The highway patrol with the fancy boots and hat got into his flashy BMW and escorted me to the place with bathrooms. He instructed me how to get back to the
autostrada
and on my way to Venice. So why are Italians always complaining about their cops? Had I been really headed for Venice, I might have offered him a drink.

Instead I thanked him loudly, locked Kyle's Focus, and headed toward the building, making sure I walked a little hunched over and with stiff legs. I was so pleased with my performance, I almost forgot about the dark sky.

It was hardly the kind of rest area I had imagined. I was rediscovering my own homeland. Hundreds of cars and SUVs filled the lot, and I noticed two tourist buses. One was a double-decker. Really? From London? The gas station to the side could serve twenty cars at a time, and the building itself was a combination restaurant, souvenir and grocery store. I assumed there would be plenty of bathrooms, for a fee.

Before I reached the last row of parked cars, the cop's BMW sped away into the
autostrada
. Automatic streetlights came on in response to the diminished daylight rather than the hour of the day. I was feeling good about my decision, glad I did this. I should have rented a car the minute I got off the plane and gone to visit relatives instead of imposing on Kyle.

As I approached the main entrance, I noticed a beat-up car parked in the front row. It looked strangely familiar, an older vehicle showing its age. I glanced at the license plate without slowing down. Province of Venezia. The tailgating car.

An unexplained pang of anxiety landed on my chest.
Memorize the number on the plate. Write it down once you're inside. Even better, write it down while you're sitting on the toilet. Good.
I kept repeating the numbers to myself and walked by without hesitation. There was movement inside the car. I stepped up my pace.

Once I reached the main entrance to the restaurant, I looked back. A man was busy locking the car. He wore a brown leather coat.

It couldn't be.

I hurried inside, looking to blend in with the crowd and hoping to feel reassurance from the presence of so many people. But I couldn't help myself; I kept looking back. Was he following me? Why?

He wasn't a policeman; at least I didn't think so. Had he followed me all the way from Lazise? From the restaurant? Hell. Maybe all the way from Innsbruck. How could I be so stupid? And how about Larry? He was a cop. He should have been aware of this kind of stuff. What if the man were the lover Olivia wanted to stay with? That would make sense. Perhaps he assumed I was Olivia's mother?

Stop it, Lella.

He walked slowly, staring straight ahead. I could see him clearly from where I stood pretending to check out some Italian magazines, my eyes on the glass windows opening into the parking lot. I was so shaken by his presence, I had no idea what magazine I pretended to read.

He could take all the time in the world. Where was I going to hide? With only one way in and probably only one way out, all he needed to do was wait.

He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Kyle's age. Brownish hair and a medium build. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary set him apart from other men his age. If not for the brown leather coat, I would have not suspected him to be the same person sitting alone in the Lazise restaurant, the same man I bumped into by the bathroom. Of course, now I knew that was no accident. He was spying on me. I felt trapped, trapped in a public place among hundreds of people speaking dozens of languages.

I should call Larry. Stop it, Lella.

He stood inside the large glass doors and seemed to blink, probably looking for me. Well, I wasn't going to make it easy. I turned my back to him and kept fingering the magazines. My stomach in a twist, I felt his approach. With a long, vocal sigh, I turned and headed toward the bathrooms, passing just inches away from him. Panic flared in his eyes. I was about to enter the expanse of the women's room, and once again he would be left waiting outside.

Italian public bathrooms, while substantially different from the ones in the States and a hassle due to the exact change required for the user fee, had one factor in common with the public bathrooms back home—always more women than stalls. Today that was a plus. I could wait. I had all the time in the world. Well, sort of it. I needed to share the license plate of my stalker with someone, just in case.

In case what?
Get real.
I waited for my turn, and once I made it inside the toilet, I sat and pulled out my phone. I would speak to Larry. This was the perfect place to do it. Fewer women here would understand English than Italian, I hoped.

It was Larry who answered the phone. I don't know why I felt lucky. It was his phone I called, after all.

"I need you to do me a favor." Straight to the point, this wasn't the place for pleasantry. "Do you have something to write with?"

"Lella? Where are you? What are you talking about? Are you still parked on the emergency lane?"

Damn, here we go with the million questions.

"Never mind all that. I need you to write something down, now. I don't have much time. It's a license plate. Are you ready?"

"Sweetie, tell me you aren't getting into trouble." His best snake charmer's voice since his arrival in Europe. Impressive.

"Really, Larry? You are so predictable. Are you going to help me out or do I need to call 113 or whatever the emergency number is around here?" I figured by now even non-English-speaking women were listening to my shrieking. The last thing I wanted was to attract attention. Yep, I was really good at that.

"Okay, give it to me. I'll have Kyle write it down." He shifted gears, now all business.

I repeated the numbers twice. "It's registered in the province of Venice. I'm not sure about the make of the car, but it's an old vehicle."

"And you know all this because?"

"Because the jerk has been following me. You know? T-A-I-L-I-N-G me? Ever since Lazise."

"If you knew you'd been T-A-I-L-E-D since Lazise, why didn't you say something?" He was good! I even felt a little pang of affection tugging at my heart.

"Long story, don't have time to go into details. There is a throng of not-so-happy women waiting outside my stall door."

"You are calling from a public bathroom? Damn, Lella, what have you gotten yourself into?"

"I'll be waiting for a call back. So hurry up. I'll go sit at the bar for now." When I opened the bathroom door, I was greeted by solemn silence as the line of women parted to let me through.

Because it was late afternoon, the bar wasn't that busy. I crawled up onto one of the stools, mentally cursing whoever came up with that concept. Certainly not a person with short legs. I ordered a cappuccino and, while I waited, surveyed the place to see where my stalker had parked himself.

Too funny; he played busy looking through magazines, or pretending to, just as I had. How pathetic. He couldn't even come up with his own spying technique? The barman slid the steaming cup in front of me. I loaded it up with artificial sugar and real cocoa powder.

I felt eerily calm and in control. What was that American cliché? The calm before the storm. Yes, the perfect metaphor. Had I been a gambling woman, I would have bet Larry wouldn't be the one calling me back.

At this point in our relationship he wouldn't try to trick me into anything. He would probably have the Italian detective call me, hoping to extort information. Yes, any minute now they would call, unless they were out in the boonies without access to the police information grid.

I felt the halo of foam left around my mouth by the wonderful cappuccino. I licked it off. Who cared? No one knew me and I would probably never come this way again. I'd slurped up all the frothy stuff and was looking at the dressed-down coffee and milk—really all cappuccino is made of—when "California Girls" interrupted my analysis of this important Italian beverage.

Luckily for me, I hadn't placed that bet. Larry was on the phone. "The Opel is registered to a Nicola Martori, and it's a Chioggia address. Do you want me to spell the name? Do you know him?" He said it all in a very polite and impersonal way. What was he up to? "How is the information going to help you?" No sarcasm. Amazing.

"Nicola, huh?" I twisted to look at the man in the brown leather coat. My cheating dead husband's name was Nicholas. Bad omen?

"Yes, Nicola." He waited. I liked the way he pronounced the
co
in the name.

"Larry, you don't need to be concerned about me. I'm at one of those fancy rest areas typical of Italian
autostrade
. What is he going to do? Kidnap me? We are surrounded by lots of people. His options are limited, and I know how to scream in Italian and English." My attempt at humor was wasted on Larry.

"Are you planning on waiting him out? Even if it means spending the night there? I assume they are open twenty-four seven." He had a point. A damn good point.

"Huh. I haven't gotten that far. I'll think of something."

"Of course you will. That's the part I'm most concerned about. I'm up in the mountains of Trento with Kyle, the detective and a special group of Carabinieri. We have a map of all the structures in the area, even the ones that have been abandoned by the owners for years. We are going to check them all. I'm told some are only accessible on foot. I'll let the Carabinieri find those. I'm not up for the task. Would you like the detective to send a patrol car to escort you over to Giada's place?"

"No." I looked up. Brown coat was on the move. "Got to go. You be careful out there."

I could hear Larry cussing when I disconnected.

Nicola Martori was now in the line waiting to get into the self-serve section of the restaurant. I left a tip on the bar counter, lowered myself back to earth, and hurried to line up with the hungry crowd. Mistake. That wasn't where he was headed at all. Instead he stepped to the side and sat at a small deserted table, which probably gave him a sweeping view of every angle.

Smart. What now? What was I going to do? I tracked back to the magazine rack, well aware of brown coat's eyes on me. This was getting old. I hesitated only a second, grabbed a glossy publication, paid for it, folded it under my arm, and walked straight to the stalker's table.

The expression on his face was priceless. I thought for sure someone would have to sweep his eyes up off the floor if they bulged out a little more. His face turned ashen, and even without my glasses, I could see his lower lip tremble.

I stopped in front of him and in my sweetest voice I asked, "Excuse me, is that seat taken?" I pointed to the chair directly across from him.

I guessed he still hadn't found his voice, because he shook his head, his eyes avoiding mine. His hands gripped the edge of the table.

I smiled, unzipped my jacket, plopped down, and crossed my legs, relaxed and comfortable—a person set to stay for a while. His Adam's apple bobbed fast and furious, like a drop of water on a hot skillet.

A sense of power came over me but left just as quickly. I opened the glossy magazine. It would be the ideal prop for me in this game of cat and mouse, and it didn't hurt to know I was the cat.

Forgive me, Flash.

The magazine fought back; it wasn't willing to stay open. I used both hands to flatten it. The table was so small the spread-out pages took up most of the surface. I felt the man's eyes following my every move. He was even more transparent than I. He seemed to suddenly stop breathing. I looked up and saw him staring. At what? The magazine? What was so special? And so I checked it out.

Augusta the concierge, not looking much like the concierge I remembered, smiled at us from the center page. Her hair was dark, not gray, and combed in a sort of fluffy soft look around her face. She wore makeup. A light blue shirt was revealed beneath a darker jacket. The professional photo showed her from the waist up. Apparently she had been interviewed by the magazine. The headline read, "Could Cruz Have Been Saved?" The next page had a small headshot of Kyle and several pictures of Cruz—Cruz on his
Gemelli
, Cruz walking on the beach.

I was dying to read the article, but even more I was interested in why the story produced such a strong reaction from this man. Did he know Augusta? Cruz? He couldn't possibly know Kyle or my son would have recognized him at the restaurant, unless he didn't see him there.