The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series) (16 page)

Claire raised her head to look at me. “Dad died on the way home from Heathrow after his meeting in Rome.”

I nodded, guessing where she was going.

“What if my father’s car crash wasn’t an accident?” she said. “What if he alerted these people to the fact that he had information about the key? They’re pursuing us, Ethan’s missing, Ben is dead. That means my dad’s death might have been deliberate.”

I thought it was possible, but I also recalled what Colin Butler had said about Simon Hamilton’s recent piece on the Russian mafia. Had Simon angered some Russian arms dealer who was out for revenge? Rubbing my temples, I mulled it over. I remembered thinking earlier that I don’t believe in coincidences. What could be more of an unlikely coincidence than Simon’s car accident on the day he left Rome after a mystery meeting? And that meeting seemed, from his notes, to have been related to the Custodians. My heart pounded. Had he met with a Custodian? Or with someone who knew about the secretive group?

When Claire stood up and walked to the window I saw her reflection in the old glass, a pale, undulating version of her that appeared incredibly vulnerable.

“Falcone’s investigating the man who wants the key. But if this guy was responsible for your father’s death, why would he have him killed before taking possession of the book?” I asked. “He was destroying his one lead to the key.”

“Dad must have posed a threat of some kind. He was a journalist, don’t forget, and maybe he threatened to go public with what he knew. However valuable the key is, perhaps the risk of exposure was worse. And this man, whoever he is, probably guessed that either Ethan or I would find the book after Dad died. All he had to do was watch us and wait. Somehow he must have discovered that Ethan retrieved it from the safety deposit box at the bank early last week.”

Suddenly she was crying, sobbing so hard that she had to take big breaths. She walked to the bed with one hand in front of her like a blind person and collapsed on the mattress. I rushed over and knelt down in front of her, taking her hand in mine.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay. It’s just that I always feel so guilty when I think of that last evening. I wish Dad and I had been able to have dinner together, so I would have a happy memory to hang on to. Instead, I only remember being angry and resentful.” She coughed to clear her throat. “I sometimes think that if I’d reacted differently, said something else, he would have changed his plans. Then he wouldn’t have gone to Rome, got on that flight, been on the motorway at that time of day.”

She glanced up at me and then pulled her hand away. “I’m going to get dressed.”

Left crouching by the bed, I watched her disappear into the bathroom. When the door closed, I rested my forehead on the edge of the mattress, aware of the heavy feeling in my chest, acknowledging it, understanding how Claire felt. Two years ago, my mother had been killed in a pedestrian crossing while responding to a text I’d just sent her. Everyone — Dad, Leo, Josh, Anita and all my friends— tried to convince me it wasn’t my fault. The driver, an elderly woman whose license had been annulled because of previous infractions, had shot through the red light. But I couldn’t help feeling that if Mum hadn’t been looking at her phone, at my text, she’d have seen the car coming, or she would have been walking faster, would have been out of harm’s way when that ton of metal came hurtling through the crossing.

For months, I’d been crushed with grief and guilt, a deadly combination that I was already more than familiar with. My little brother Toby had died in a swimming pool while I was supposed to be watching him. I couldn’t see a pool now, twenty years later, without breaking into a cold sweat.

I stood up and inhaled deeply to shift the pressure in my chest. It was time to refocus. If the Custodians were responsible for Simon Hamilton’s death, then Ethan was in terrible danger. We had to find him before it was too late.

Back at the wobbly table, I picked up the business card I’d found in the notebook.

“Claire, does the name Luca Gardi mean anything to you?”

“Give me a minute,” she called back through the closed door.

Momentarily at loose ends, I stared at the notebook until the phone buzzed loudly again and I hurried to pick it up. As I hoped, it was Colin Butler.

“Any news?” I asked impatiently.

“Yep. Not very interesting though. Dante Angeli Vanucci. Aged thirty-seven, lives in Florence, owns an outfit called Angeli Arte. He has a gallery that is open to browsers, but ninety percent of his business is done privately. He sometimes buys pieces and sells them on to buyers or agents, or he acts as a broker between seller and buyer and takes a percentage on the sale. A lot of buyers prefer to remain anonymous.”

“Sounds a bit shady,” I said.

“Apparently not. Art buyers don’t want the world at large to know they’ve got a million pound Renoir hanging in the living room, so the transactions are often conducted in confidence. Perfectly above board, according to my source.”

“So, no sign of anything illegal?”

“Nothing I can see. He takes pieces to the big auctions at Sotheby’s and Christie’s occasionally to remind people that he’s in the business, but he has a reputation for being eminently discreet. Very wealthy. Attractive, if you like the tall, handsome type, judging from a photo I found.”

I laughed. “I really appreciate your help. Oh, and anything on Falcone?”

“Not yet. I put out some feelers to a chap in Rome. I’ll let you know.”

“As soon as I’m back in London, I’ll buy you that pint I owe you. Thanks again, Colin.”

“De nada,” he replied. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that was Spanish, not Italian.

I grabbed my bag and took out my very dead mobile to plug it in now that Claire’s phone had enough power to operate. It took a few minutes for mine to show any signs of life. When it did, I saw I had about a dozen voicemails. Most were from Leo, scattered over the last two days, and one was from Laura with a message that made my stomach flip. I played it back twice.

“Great news, Kate! The Randall Group project is a go. Big meeting on Wednesday morning to introduce them to the team members. So tomorrow we have a lot to do. I want you working on the presentation with me as we have to make the best possible impression right from the start. I’m planning on being in the office obscenely early, so get there as soon as you can. Love ya.”

I stared at my screen, my thoughts tumbling over themselves. Randall was the sustainable design project I’d been waiting for. I knew I could do a good job for them. If I didn’t turn up tomorrow, Laura would cover for me, but I absolutely had to be at the meeting on Wednesday. To miss it would almost certainly mean that Alan would take me off the team.

I checked the time. Five past one in the afternoon. The flight I’d booked from Venice airport was at seven. If I could get another ticket for Claire, we’d fly back to London together. We could research the Custodians just as well from there. And we’d have the help, welcome or not, of Detective Lake.

Thinking of Lake, I decided to call him. Because of the short charging cable, I had to kneel down by the bed to use the phone. His number was on my contacts list, and he picked up at once.

“It’s Kate Benedict.” I rushed on before he could interrupt or ask me awkward questions. “There’s something I hope you can look into. About six weeks ago, Ethan’s father, Simon Hamilton, died in a car crash on the M4. We— Claire and I— have concluded it wasn’t an accident after all. Someone deliberately killed him. Will you check it out? Would there be any information on file that might indicate that the car was tampered with? Or maybe a tire was shot out?”

“That sounds a little far-fetched,” Lake said. “But I’ll investigate. Simon, you said? Do you have the exact date and location?”

I gave him the details. “If you find out that Simon’s death was intentional, that would help Ethan, wouldn’t it? Prove his innocence in Ben’s murder.”

“Possibly.”

“It would have to,” I argued.

“Not if Ethan had something to do with his father’s death, it wouldn’t.”

I held the mobile away from me, glaring at the screen. Lake was still talking.

“I’ll look into it,” he said. “And we can discuss it tomorrow morning. Why don’t you and Miss Hamilton come in at nine?”

“Okay.” I pressed the End button and stared at the phone until Claire came out of the bathroom. She was wearing the same clothes, which still looked good on her, even with the spot cleaning after the fizzy drink spill.

“Were you on the phone?” she asked.

I told her about Lake and reminded her I had a flight booked for that evening. “We should both go to London,” I said. “We can work with Detective Lake to find Ethan and we’ll be safer there too.”

She gazed at me as though I had two heads. “You’re not thinking of leaving me alone here, are you? Because I’m not leaving Italy until I hear from my brother. Besides, I don’t have my passport with me.”

My excitement about going home dissipated like the steam in the cold bathroom, leaving only a clinging damp chill. Suddenly tired, I turned to sit down on the mattress and banged my shin against the frame. I rubbed my leg, infuriated by the metal bed and the cramped room that felt like a prison cell.

“Oh,” was all I could say. I didn’t intend to abandon Claire. Even though our relationship was still fragile and I sometimes felt like I was walking on broken glass, I couldn’t leave her. My head started to ache, a dull throb in my temples, which I rubbed to no effect. Another day lost at work and a difficult conversation with Detective Lake loomed in my future.

I gave myself a mental shake. A confrontation with Lake was the least of our problems. I knew from experience that when the aura moved as fast as hers did, death could come in a matter of days. Eight months ago, I’d seen an aura like hers over a doctor who’d died less than a week later. But, I reminded myself, a similar aura had appeared over the head of my best friend too. We’d endured some scary moments, but she was alive and well, and doing the job she loved. Claire would be okay. I hoped I would be too.

“What were you saying about Luca Gardi?” Claire asked.

I got up, went to the table and picked up the business card. “This was in the notebook.”

She took it, read the front and checked the back. “The name is familiar. Let me think for a moment.” She tapped the card. “I’m fairly sure it was Gardi who sent the book and the key to my grandfather back in 1948.”

“And how did Gardi end up with the book in the first place?”

“I’m not sure. When Grandma moved into a nursing home a year or so ago, Dad spent several weeks clearing out her house. He found the book inside a cardboard box, together with my grandfather’s war memorabilia, including his Italy Star medal, some old photos, that kind of thing.”

She settled against the pillows on the bed and opened another lemon soda, holding the can far away from her as she pulled back the tab. “Grandma told my father that the book had arrived a couple of years after the war ended, that it had been sent by a soldier who’d saved Grandpa’s life.”

“Really? What happened to your grandfather?”

“I only remember parts of the story. In 1944, he was a captain in the army. He’d fought in North Africa and was with one of the first units to land in Sicily. I don’t know all the details, except that he was shot during a fight with some Italians who were smuggling artworks out of Italy.”

“They were working with the Nazis?”

“No, this was later, after the Italians had joined up with the Allies. Well, some of them had. I got the impression, from what my dad said, that this was more of a private enterprise, expropriating stolen artworks originally intended for shipment to Germany. You wouldn’t believe how much art went missing during the war. First the Germans stole from Jews and anyone in Occupied territory. Then the Allies, Russia in particular, looted massive quantities of art from Germany. It was the ideal time for opportunistic theft by individuals. It’s likely that’s what this operation entailed. The Italian soldiers were loading crates onto a train when my grandfather’s unit discovered them. Apparently, after all the shooting, everyone except my grandfather and Gardi had been killed. Grandpa was badly injured and Gardi took him to a field hospital on a donkey cart. Then Gardi disappeared.”

“And all the art had been loaded by then? Onto the train?”

“I’m not sure about that. All I heard was that somehow Gardi tracked down my grandfather in England and sent him the leather-bound
Della Pittura
book. He said he was terminally ill and wanted to leave it with someone he could trust. That’s what my grandmother told Dad anyway.”

I crossed the tiny room to grab another bag of nuts from the snack stash Brian had brought in. We had to get some real food before I passed out from salt overload.

“What did your grandfather do with the book?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. I’m not sure anyone ever gave it another thought until Dad found it. It was just another relic of a war that no one wanted to remember.”

I chewed on a handful of nuts, trying to draw connecting lines between the fragments of information we’d collected so far. They were far more meager than I would have liked.

“What’s the address on the card?” I asked.

“There’s a street address in Pianoro, near Bologna. Why?”

“We should pay a visit, see what we can find out.”

“You’re running on fumes, Kate. Apparently Gardi had TB or a fatal disease of some kind, and that was nearly seventy years ago. He’s been dead a long time.”

“But there may be someone in his family who remembers the book. You know these small villages. The families stay for generations. We just need a bit of luck to find someone who remembers Gardi.”

Claire shook her head. “It sounds very unlikely. Besides, how would we get there?”

“By train, as far as Bologna at least, and then probably a bus. And we’d be heading in the right direction towards Florence.” That reminded me. “I think Dante left a voicemail. I didn’t want to answer it for you.”

She picked up her phone and listened to the voicemail. “Just another message saying he’s going into a meeting. He’ll call back soon.”