Murphy's Law (36 page)

Dante looked up from the printouts. “How do we know what?”

“How do we know he arrived after the murder?”

“He was seen arriving by about fifty people, that’s how we know.”

“Well…” Nick shifted from foot to foot, thinking furiously. He wasn’t used to thinking without moving on ice. He felt dizzy. “Once Gary LeSabre forgot his anniversary. We were in Seattle and we had a big game the next day. He flew to Boston, bought some flowers, grabbed a cab to his house, gave his wife the flowers, kissed her, went back to the airport and grabbed the first flight back. We didn’t even realize he’d been gone.”

Dante stilled. “Do you think that’s what Tim Gresham did? If he’s the murderer, he’d be too smart not to have taken the flight he said he did. So the question is—did he catch an earlier flight to come over just long enough to kill Kane and fly back in time to catch the flight he says he was on?

“Loiacono, get the reservations office at Fiumicino Airport and get the person in charge. Ask if their reservations show a Tim Gresham taking a short round trip from Boston to either Rome or Milan. Nick, who else flies from Boston besides Alitalia?”

“Delta and World Airways,” Nick answered.

Dante already had the phone in his hand. He nodded to another phone across the table. “I’ll take Delta. You take World Airways.”

“Okay.” Nick picked up the receiver, his mind in overdrive.

Dante looked at him oddly. “This is a real long shot.”

“Humor me,” Nick said.

Dante started to dial twelve for information when he noticed that Loiacono wasn’t on the phone to Alitalia. Loiacono usually sprang to obey orders. He was pounding furiously on the keyboard of his computer. “What are you doing, Loiacono? I thought I told you to call Fiumicino.”

Loiacono grunted, pressed enter with enough force to punch through the plastic and sat back, his eyes glued to the monitor. “It’s quicker to hack into Fiumicino’s reservations computer, sir.”

“Hacking into… Loiacono, isn’t that illegal?”

“Yes, sir. Technically. Ahhh…” A smile creased his features and Nick wanted to shiver. It looked unholy. Loiacono looked up at Dante. “I’m in, sir. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” Shaking his head in wonder, Dante rounded the table to stand behind Loiacono. Nick joined him. “See if you can find a reservation for Tim Gresham, arriving June 30th.”

Three seconds later, they had it.

“Okay.” Dante leaned forward. “Now see if there’s another reservation in that name the previous day.”

Loiacono tapped and brought up another page. “Nothing, sir.”

“Well, as I said, it was a long shot. But let’s be thorough and try all the airlines. Loiacono, do you think you could—”

“Certainly, sir.” Loiacono bent over his keyboard.

“Wait!” Nick almost shouted, and both men frowned at him.

“What?” Dante asked plaintively.

Nick knew what a major effort Dante was making. He was straining with every cell in his body to be in the
piazza
now. But they needed to be thorough.

It was worth a try. “If it’s quick, can Loiacono check for another name? Tim Dunham. D-U-N-H-A-M.”

Dante shrugged. “Loiacono?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ten seconds later, all three men stared at the data. Timothy Dunham had made a twenty-four hour trip from Boston to Rome and back, arriving on June 29th.

“
Tombola
,” Loiacono said.

“Bingo,” Nick echoed.

There was a clatter on the landing and the door burst open. A white-faced Nicoletti burst into the room.

“What’s the matter, Nicoletti?” Dante moved toward the young officer. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Nicoletti was panting, sweat dripping down his pasty face. “
Commissario
!” he gasped. “Miss Murphy, outside—oh, my God.”

Nick was closest to the wall and had a knee brace, but he beat Dante out the door.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

Faith chanted the words to drown out the terror as she clung to the little stone tablet the pigeons had been perched on. She’d made a wild leap as Tim had pushed her off and had barely caught on to it. She scrabbled for a better handhold.

“Damn you!” Tim reached down and to the right. He tried to pry her fingers off the tablet.

With a whimper of terror, Faith edged her hands around until she was on the other side of the tablet, out of his reach. With a grunt of anger, he climbed out on the balustrade as far as he could, stretching dangerously out, hand scrabbling for hers. He could almost touch her.

He smiled.

Good old Tim. My pal.
The good guy who was doing his damnedest to kill her.

Tim stretched further and she could feel the brush of his fingertips against her hand. She whimpered and edged closer to the wall. Tim’s arm was trembling. He lunged and slipped and almost fell.

There was a high-pitched scream, then another. A man shouted. Faith chanced a glance down at the square far, far below. People were congregating and a man had his arm lifted, pointing at them. Faith looked away. The view was terrifying and made her dizzy.

Another woman screamed. A loud police whistle sounded.

Tim was edging his way back to the walkway. His feet hit the bricks with a slight thud. He straightened and looked at her. She looked back, numbly.

“It’s made of stone, what you’re holding on to,” he said conversationally. “It’s stone and porous and provides a bit of a grip. But you’re sweating and soon you won’t be able to hang on any longer. You’ll never survive the fall. Everyone saw I tried to rescue you, but couldn’t. So I went for help. It will take me a long time to find help. I expect that by the time I make my way downstairs, you’ll be smeared all over the square. And, of course, I’ll be a heartbroken colleague and former lover. Goodbye, Faith.” His head disappeared.

She heard the click of the door closing.

Faith’s fingers were throbbing. She slipped and her heart shot up into her throat. She wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer. She’d never been an athlete. She had no strength in her arms and hands. Her hands slipped again and she caught herself just in time.

Her face was wet with tears and sweat, and drops of salty liquid burned her eyes. She was panting so hard the hot air burned her throat.

She looked down. There was a crowd gathering and she could hear the murmurs above the pounding of her heart. Two men were rounding the corner at a run, one limping, pushing their way through the people, two tall, broad-shouldered men…

“Nick!” she screamed. Her heart hammered and she had to shake the tears and sweat from her eyes to focus. It was crazy, but she felt that as long as she could see him, nothing bad could happen to her.

The sounds of boots clattering. Some men were dragging over what looked like a large piece of canvas.

She sobbed. Her hands were going numb. She couldn’t hold out much longer. “Nick!” she screamed again. “Help me!”

“Faith, hang on.” Nick had a megaphone and his amplified voice carried in the still air. “We’re setting up something to catch you. We’re here. I’m here. You’re going to be okay, honey. Just hang in there.”

“Nick,” she whimpered. Her arms were shaking with fatigue.

She saw four men holding the corners of a red-and-white striped piece of material. It looked like an awning, ripped off a storefront.

Her right hand slipped and she screamed. “Nick!”

“It’s okay, honey.” His voice drifted up, reassuring and strong. “We’re almost—” She heard muffled sounds.

She was too terrified to look down. Suppose they weren’t set up yet? She couldn’t hold on for more than a few seconds. It would be impossible to survive a fall from this height. She was going to die. Her arms were trembling uncontrollably. She couldn’t feel her fingers. Her wrists ached.

She was slipping…

“Faith!” Nick’s voice boomed. She could barely concentrate and could hardly hear him over the pounding of her heart. “Listen to me carefully, sweetheart. On the count of three, I want you to let go. I want you to fall straight, then curl up like a somersault with your back down.

“You have to land on your back, honey, with your legs and head tucked in. Is that clear? You can’t land on your stomach or you’ll break your back. Faith? Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Faith!”

“Yes!” she yelled.

“Okay, on the count of three. One, two, three…let go!”

Oh, God
.

Faith let go.

It lasted a century. It lasted a second.

For a moment, she seemed to hang suspended in air. Then a giant fist slammed into her, pushing her down, faster, faster…

She curled in on herself in the fetal position, hugging her knees, pulling backwards, and hit the canvas with her back, bouncing high at an angle, her limbs splaying out.

Her foot connected with something solid and the canvas slipped as one of the men fell from the force of her kick. She fell and bounced again, less violently this time, then again. Finally, she stilled.

There was a moment of silence, then several pairs of hands reached for her as the canvas was lowered to the ground. She was placed on her feet. She swayed and was grasped in two strong arms. Not Nick’s. She would recognize Nick’s embrace anywhere.

“Thank God!” Dante said, and held her at arms’ length. His face was white and covered in sweat. “Jesus, you had us scared, Faith.”

Other police officers were crowding around and she was hugged half to death. Faith swiveled her head. Nick was usually larger than anyone else around and impossible to miss. Where was he?

“Where’s Nick?” she asked, just as they heard a loud groan. They all turned to look.

“Shit!” He was on his back, clutching his leg. “I just busted my other leg!”

“Ow! That hurts!” Nick had always thought of himself as stoic. In the course of his hockey career, he’d bled, broken bones and sprained muscles with depressing regularity. He’d just sucked it up. Usually, however, the doctors at least tried to make it better.

Nick was aware, however, that he’d violated Rule Number One of life in Siena—never,
ever
get sick on the day of the Palio. If you do—you’re on your own.

“Quit bellyaching, Rossi,” the doctor said curtly.

He was an orthopedic surgeon, and—most of the year, but not today—a friend of Dante’s. Dante should have been here, but he was too busy booking Tim Gresham for murder.

The doctor had obviously drawn the short straw for duty this afternoon. His name was Giacomo Benedetti, he was from the Giraffe
contrada,
and he had no sympathy for Nick’s strained quadriceps whatsoever.

“Here, hold this.” Dr. Benedetti took Nick’s hand, pressed it over the cold compress on his thigh and disappeared.

Two seconds later, Nick could hear the talking heads of the state broadcasting network, RAI, beginning their coverage of the Palio from Siena starting up on a TV in the next room. The actual race wouldn’t begin for another two hours, but the parade—men and boys dressed in meticulously correct silk and satin medieval costumes, gravely marching around the track to the stately beat of drums—had just begun.

Nick knew every step of it by heart, beginning with the tolling of the ancient bell atop the tower of city hall
.
Each contrada would be represented, with a prize given for the most elegant. There was no sense that this was an historical reenactment.

The men—and it was strictly a politically-incorrect display of male power and plumage—wore their stunning costumes with no sheepishness. They walked, carrying rippling banners, or rode gloriously caparisoned horses, with the swagger of knights of a powerful city, the city Siena had once been, bigger, more powerful and richer than Paris.

No one wanted to miss the parade. Least of all Dr. Benedetti.

Nick had been rushed to the
Le Scotte
hospital by four police cars, sirens screaming. Ever since then, he’d been receiving less than stellar care on this day of days. And here he was, sitting on a cot in the emergency ward, pants down around his ankles and no doctor in sight. The entire hospital seemed eerily empty.

“Poor Nick,” Faith said softly. “Does it hurt a lot?”

Nick put on his bravely suffering face. There were worse things than being wounded and tended by a grateful woman who was pretty and smart.

Faith had refused any medical attention and had refused to leave his side. She’d ridden up with him and had sat with him through Benedetti’s ministrations.

Nick looked at her, measured angles, and said, “If you could just bend down and massage my thigh…”

“Sure.” Faith bent obligingly and laid her soft, slim hands on his thigh and rubbed gently.

Ah.
Nick breathed out.
Bliss.
It almost made the pain go away, which was a bonus since Benedetti had been in too much of a hurry for painkillers. There was an added advantage in that Faith’s sundress gaped open.

“A little lower,” he murmured, and Faith bent down. He could see the tops of her pretty, conical and braless breasts, pink little nipples and all. Gave him a nice little buzz.
Hmmm.

Faith stopped kneading, tracked his intent gaze and straightened, plastering a hand over the front of her sundress. “You’re a sick man, Nick Rossi.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “If it weren’t for the fact you saved my life, I’d leave you here to the tender mercies of the doctor.”

“But I did, and you won’t.”

“Right.” She smiled at him, her face glowing.

It was so great having her back, looking at him with softness in her eyes. Having Faith around was going to make the coming bleak winter bearable.

“We’re going to have fun when we get back.” Nick put his hand over hers. “We can—”

“Time to strap you up.” Dr. Benedetti came back into the room, a big roll of gauze in hand.

A touching show of concern, but Nick could hear that the RAI programming had gone to a commercial break. He knew that whatever medical care he was going to get was going to have to fit into two coffee commercials, a preview of that evening’s shows and a cold remedy spot.

But it had been worth it. Worth getting hurt on the day of the Palio. Worth even a permanent limp. He’d never, ever forget the sight of Faith dangling by her fingertips, impossibly high up. So high up a fall would have splattered her all over the square.