The Vesuvius Isotope (The Katrina Stone Novels) (9 page)

The cacophonous chatter of my small collection of loved ones was reverberating maddeningly through my head. I clawed at my hair and scalp for a moment as if to physically contain the uproar.

What happened to him?

As I struggled to connect the disparate pieces of information I had before me, a notion struck. I reached into my purse and withdrew Jeff’s phone once again. I clicked into his Internet browser.

It was all right there.

Jeff had our bank accounts bookmarked. The more I rummaged through them, the more I understood of my husband’s final actions. In recent weeks, he had sold stocks collected since he was eighteen years old. He had withdrawn enormous sums of money from our long-term investments as well as our liquid accounts. He had obliterated our retirement funds. Jeff had not wiped out our finances entirely, but he had plundered them for millions of dollars.

Who is Alyssa Iacovani? And what has she done to him?

Please, God, please, let me find the truth about my husband, and let me find a truth that preserves all that I cherish of him.

See Naples and die

-Anonymous

Chapter Seven

A soft breeze gently rocked the boats in the Bay of Naples, and the golden rays of sun converging upon their decks began to dance. The image was all too familiar. And then something dawned as if for the first time.

He is gone. Really. Forever.

Having just stood up from the small bistro table, I sat down again, heavily. I buried my face in my hands and began to cry. Once I began, I sobbed unabashedly. I could not see. I could not breathe. And I could not stop crying.

When my sobs finally faded to sniffles, I could barely remember where I was. My head was throbbing, and I could feel the puffiness of my face. In a daze, I looked around. The check had been in front of me. I was sure of it. But now the bill was gone, and I did not remember paying it.

I wiped my face on my napkin. There was a tall glass of water in front of me that I also did not remember. I closed my eyes and took a long deep drink. When I opened them again, there was a young man sitting across from me.

“Are you feeling better now,
signora
?” he asked in a thick Italian accent.

“Ah, yes—um, thank you.”

“Do you need some help? I could call you a taxi?”

I guessed him to be about my daughter’s age. A baseball cap perched backward on his forehead revealed a kind face lacking the eventual roadmap of experience. His sleeveless shirt exposed arms that looked much less naïve; both were completely covered to the wrists in tattoos.

“Thank you again,” I said. “But, no, I’m fine now. Thank you so much, really.”

“Why are you alone?” he asked.

“Uh, what?”

“Why are you alone?” he repeated matter-of-factly. “You’re a very beautiful woman, sitting and crying in a Naples café by yourself. I don’t get it. Have you just been dumped or something? Because, if so, I think it was—how do you say?—his lost!”

“Are you serious?”

He laughed. “
Normale!
Of course I’m serious!”

“For one thing,” I said indignantly, “my last shower was days ago, in San Diego. For another, I’m old enough to be your mother. And for a third, if I were your mother, I would kick your ass to kingdom come for sitting down uninvited and hitting on a stranger old enough to be your mother! Excuse me!”

I stood to leave and reached for my purse, and the boy’s eyes fell upon my large diamond engagement ring and wedding band.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the cockiness gone. “I did not mean to offend you. I was not trying to be rude. You seemed lonely and very sad, and I was hoping I could make you smile. I see you are married.” He gestured toward my rings. “I think you are married to that American on TV, Donald Trump. Please, sit down. I will wait with you until your husband returns.”

I paused, still standing, and I felt myself smirk. “Thanks. But I really do have to go.”

He reached across the table. At first I thought he was reaching for my purse, and I started. But his hand fell gently onto my arm. “Listen,
signora
, I don’t mean to scare you. But Naples is not a good city for a foreigner, especially a woman foreigner, to be alone. Naples has crime. Naples has
camorra
.”

“What is
camorra
?”

“Like in the movies, the criminals.”

“Mafia?”

“Yes. So, please. When you are out, stay with your husband.”

“I’m on my way to meet him now, so don’t worry.”

“Can I walk with you? I’d feel better. I’m sure he won’t mind. I don’t think you are old enough to be my mother, but if you say so…” He smiled.

Charming. Lexi would drool.

“And how do I know that you are not the Godfather himself?” I asked, and he cracked up.

“If I was
camorra
,” he said, “I could afford a car. I would not offer to walk with you. I would offer you a ride.”

I thanked the young man profusely for his concern and assured him with some degree of condescension that I would not be requiring any help.

I was so, so wrong.

I gathered my belongings and wiped my eyes one more time with my napkin before heading away from the restaurant. As I approached the bridge leading off the island, I looked behind me. The boy was ten feet away. I scowled.

“I’m not following you,
signora
,” he said. “There is only one bridge.”

He had a point. But that bridge led almost directly to my hotel, and I could not return to it as long as he was still behind me. So instead of going to rest in my room, I decided to drop in on Alyssa Iacovani again, when she was no longer expecting me.

Well aware that my stomach was now very full, I quickly decided that another cab ride like the one I had taken earlier was not on the agenda. I turned around to face the anonymous boy once again. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me where there is a bus stop and how to get a ticket?”

“
Prego
,” he said and led me into a convenience store.

A moment later, armed with my bus ticket, I approached the stop and stood next to a dozen or so locals. And so did he. I glared at him.

“If you don’t want me to stand here,” he said, “I can wait for you to leave and then catch the next bus.”

“Thanks,” I said, laughing a little. “I don’t suppose that is necessary.”

“Do you know what bus number you need?”

“Um…” I began, and he shook his head in a silent scolding.

“I’m going to the Naples Archeological Museum,” I said and then quickly added, “My husband is meeting me there.”

He explained to me that I needed to take the Number Two bus, which would follow a continuous loop through downtown Naples, stopping at the railway station and at several of the major tourist attractions.

“Now, please, do not be afraid,” he said. “I am taking the same bus. But I will get off before you. I live in the Spanish Quarter. You’ll be able to wave ‘bye bye!’ ” He waved cheerfully at an imaginary target.

I smiled wearily, feeling a bit stupid. And, admittedly, a bit grateful.

I had not ridden a bus in years. There must have been a hundred people crammed onto the one that pulled up to our stop. By the time I entered and found a place to stand that was near the driver, my new friend was nowhere in sight. I took care to hold my purse in front of me with my arm over the zipper and the strap laced more than once around my hand. I also had a death grip on the leather.

The bus lurched from one stop to another, and I listened intently for the driver to announce the stop for the Naples Archeological Museum. Two Metro policemen boarded and began shoving their way between the wall-to-wall passengers. The police approached each passenger in turn, and each passenger extracted a ticket for the policemen to see.

“
Billete
,” one said when they reached me. I produced my ticket.

The two policemen looked at each other. Motioning between my ticket and my face, they began a heated discussion in Italian. Finally, the dialog ceased, and one of them turned back to me. “
Settanta-cinque euro
,” he said.

“Huh?” I asked and shrugged my shoulders.

The policemen turned back to one other, and they began yelling back and forth again, shaking their heads. Finally, one took out a small notepad and wrote on it. “75€” his script read.

“Does anyone here speak English?” I asked, straining to turn my head and peer through the crowd. Dozens of pairs of eyes dropped to the floor of the bus. Others continued to stare straight ahead as if I had not spoken at all.

We proceeded through two or three additional stops, with both policemen yelling feverishly at me in Italian, before the bus screeched to a halt and one of the transit cops grabbed me by the top of the head. He roughly turned my head toward the window, which he pointed through with a long stabbing finger. “
Bancomat!
” he said emphatically.

The policeman was pointing toward a cash machine. Finally, I understood that they were telling me I owed them money. I had been through the procedure dozens of times during college weekend jaunts from San Diego across the border to Tijuana. These officers expected seventy-five euros from me in exchange for leaving me alone.

I thought for a moment. Then I flashed a sweet smile at both policemen and stepped casually off the bus.

The bustle of downtown Naples was around me in full force as the automatic doors of the bus snapped shut with their characteristic metallic sigh. The honking of horns and overlapping voices of hurried pedestrians blended together in a murky haze of sound.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the two policemen exchange a look of triumph as I stepped toward the cash machine. I reached into my purse and withdrew my wallet, from which I pulled my debit card. I withdrew eighty euros from my checking account and handed the cash to one of the policemen. I returned my wallet to my purse.

“Thank you, Officer, uh… Carmello Rossi,” I said, peering at the name badge on his uniform. “You may keep the change.” I smiled again at his partner and made a quick mental note of his name badge as well—Franco Dalfani.

The officers exchanged a few words in Italian as Rossi motioned toward the banknotes in his hand.

“May I go now?”

My eyes had just fallen upon Dalfani when he leapt toward me and snatched my purse from my shoulder. I had no time to react, as Rossi grabbed me by the shirt and began shoving me into the street.

I cowered at the onslaught of cars, brakes screeching and tires squealing as drivers swerved to avoid us. The policemen appeared unconcerned as they marched into the traffic with determination, dragging me roughly alongside them. I dug the heels of my shoes into the pavement, fighting against the inevitable pull toward a destination unknown. But the effort was pointless. Against Rossi, I had no chance.

We reached the opposite side of the street, and before me was a tall building. I looked up at its façade. It was then that I knew I had made a terrible mistake.

My experiences in Baja California had taught me that a cash bribe was invariably the fastest route to getting rid of police of questionable ethics. I had expected that the Naples police would simply pocket the eighty euros and walk away. Instead, Officers Rossi and Dalfani were shoving me into the Naples Police Station.