Where's Ellen? (Mystery) (MPP A JOE MCFARLAND / GINNY HARRIS MYSTERY Book 1) (14 page)

CHAPTER 29

F
irst thing in the morning, three days later, Martin walked into Florio’s cramped office and sat down in one of the two metal chairs in front of Florio’s desk.

“Shit!” said Martin.

“And good morning to you, too,” responded Florio.

“Sorry. Please excuse my French. Or my Flemish. Or my Russian.”

“Huh?” asked Florio.

“When I got in, there was an e-mail from Whittaker. We hit a dead end in Moscow. The Russian authorities were — surprise, surprise — less than fully cooperative with our guy over there wanting to interview the three friends that Ellen Sanders made during her year in Russia.”

“Why am I less than shocked?” said Florio.

“The Russians said that they contacted the three, but they all refused to speak with our legal attaché over there. And the Russians said that since no Russian crime had been committed, they couldn’t force them to.”

“Or so they said. Who knows if they really contacted, or even tried to contact, the three?”

“Yeah, well our hands are tied. We can’t do anything over there without the Russian police, so it looks like we’ve come to the end of this road.”

“Too bad,” said Florio. “I was starting to get my hopes up.”

“That’s the way the cookie crumbles. I don’t have to tell you, those damn Russians are never interested in helping us, unless, of course, there’s something in it for them. And especially if any of these three people were or are spies for them.”

“So, where does that leave us now?” asked Florio.

“No place pleasant. We’re basically done. Tracing the ransom money led no place, we found nothing damning on Sanders’ phones or laptop, tracking down her old Russian friends led to a solid brick wall. I’m out of ideas.”

“We’re basically no further along than we were right at the start of the case,” said Florio. “She had many opportunities to hand over secret information, but we have no evidence that she did. The kidnapping may have been real or fake, but we don’t know which. The husband may or may not have been involved in the real kidnapping, the fake kidnapping or even her murder, but, again, we have no evidence indicating any of this.”

“The only good news in all of this,” said Martin, “is that you haven’t again suggested that the crime was committed by aliens.”

“Yeah, well, I was thinking of it, but I had a hunch you wouldn’t go for it. Give me a day or two to wrap up the report on this, and then you can sign it. We’ll then send it to the basement for storage. Or is ‘burial’ a more appropriate term?”

“Yes, ‘burial’ is probably the right term. Fortunately, human nature being what it is, we’ll continue to have more than enough other cases to keep our little minds occupied.”

“That’s good,” concluded Florio. “It sure beats unemployment.”

CHAPTER 30

“
B
uongiorno, Aldino,” said Steve Sanders as he was handed his croissant and cappuccino along with a two-day-old issue of the
International New York Times
.

“Buongiorno, Signore Johnson.”

By now, Steve was getting used to being addressed as Charles or Signore Johnson. He took his breakfast and newspaper to one of the small outdoor tables and sat down for his daily one-hour ritual. Since arriving at San Garvazio di Puglia 18 months ago, Steve had done this almost every morning. He usually rode his Vespa scooter on the two-kilometer journey from his villa’s 10-acre property up in the hills overlooking the town to the town center. In bad weather, he called the local taxi company. Once or twice a week, Ellen joined him for a quick breakfast, and then she went food shopping while Steve lingered over his cappuccino and newspaper. This ritual was broken only during periods when Steve and Ellen were traveling, usually starting out by train to Naples, about 90 miles away.

Steve enjoyed this hour of early morning solitude. He couldn’t believe the beauty of the small town, coupled with the superb weather most of the time. His life of few deadlines and demands was easy to get used to. Yet he was often unable to cast aside his growing feelings of guilt and concerns of getting caught, destroying his pleasurable coffee break.

When they first purchased the villa, it was the talk of the small, mostly agricultural town for days. The villa had been unoccupied for several years, and the locals were pleased that someone would finally again be living in it. The new buyers had a great deal of renovation work done, including installation of a state-of-the-art security system, over a four-month period.

As Steve said to Ellen shortly after moving in, “I’m glad I only speak a few words of Italian and very few people here speak decent English. I can just order my food, and say ‘hello,’ ‘good-bye’ and ‘thank you’ without having to have any in-depth discussions.”

“Yes, that’s true for you. In my case, speaking French lets me stumble through speaking rudimentary Italian. Fortunately, I understand a lot more Italian than I can speak, and they don’t realize it.”

“Great. So you’re like a secret bugging device.”

“Something like that.”

“So what have you heard them saying about us?”

“So far it’s all positive,” replied Ellen. “They’re glad that we bought and fixed up the villa; it was beginning to become an eyesore to many of them. They’re also glad that we’re paying property taxes to the town. They know that we’re retirees from western Canada, but they remain curious as hell about where you or I had worked to amass what to them is a huge fortune.”

“Anything over 10 euros would seem like a huge fortune around here. The people seem sweet and hardworking, but they are clearly mostly poor farmers.”

“Yes, but since they’re all in the same boat, they don’t think of themselves as poor. Rather, they see us as super-rich and mysterious.”

Most of the townspeople, in fact, did view the new residents as mysterious. They often left for one- or two-week trips at a time. They didn’t speak their language, and they had almost no social interactions with anyone. And they installed a massive front gate and a sophisticated security system in the middle of this rural and virtually crime-free area.

“I imagine they view us as big criminals or drug dealers who are here hiding from the authorities,” said Steve.

“Probably. But these people are very independent and believe in living as they want and letting others do the same. They’re very unlikely to mention us to the authorities. Unless we do something seriously wrong, even the local police force, such as it is, has no desire to investigate or report us. And this will continue to be the case so long as we stay out of trouble and continue supporting the village’s local fund-raising efforts.”

“I must say, I’m amazed at how often they’re raising money for something. It seems like every other day is a saint’s birthday or a national holiday or just a charitable event. And how very appreciative they are when we donate even 50 or 100 euros.”

“That’s true. And it’s an inexpensive way for us to stay on their good side. I get a laugh out of how easy it is to please them, just a few euros, for whatever lame cause they keep coming up with.”

“I agree. Although I don’t think we can ever do enough good or contribute enough money to make up for the crimes we’ve committed. In fact, for the crimes that we continue to commit everyday just by living here.”

“Steve — I mean Charles, of course — I think you’re being overly harsh on yourself. And on us. What we did didn’t really hurt anyone. Some big, fat insurance company paid the ransom, we collected prematurely on some of my stock options and grants and, perhaps someday, we’ll collect some life insurance money.”

“Yeah, but that was all done illegally. I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting the FBI or those Jasper Creek detectives to be coming for us.”

“Darling, you’re being paranoid. As long as we continue to be careful and maintain a low profile, I don’t think they’ll ever find us.”

“I don’t know where you get your confidence, much less your motivation and determination to have planned and pulled off this whole thing, but you surely don’t seem like the sweet, well-meaning lady I married.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I finally grew up. In any event, no more of this gibberish. Let’s not discuss this again, and let’s try to enjoy what we have here.”

“OK, we won’t discuss it again. But I’m not sure how successful I’ll be at trying to put it out of my mind, or at trying to make peace with it. I can’t seem to shake either my fear or feelings of guilt. In fact, if anything, they seem to get worse as time passes.”

“Well, give it your very best shot, Charles. Now, how about a walk through the gardens?”

CHAPTER 31

“
I
’ll get it, hon,” yelled Steve as he walked to the front door in response to the knocking.

As he opened the door, three handsomely dressed Carabinieri policemen were standing there. Their distinctive black and blue uniforms, with thick red stripes on the outside of the pants legs, silver braid on the collars and cuffs, and a broad white band running across their left shoulder and down to their right hip, made them immediately recognizable.

“Buongiorno. Il mio nome è Il Sergente Nazzari.”

“Buongiorno.”

“Il tuo nome Signo…?”

“Hold on,” interrupted Steve. “’Hello’ and ‘Good-bye’ is about the limit of my Italian. Do you speak English?”

“Scusate. Scusate. Yes, I speak some English. Are you Mr. Steven Sanders?”

“Who? No. You must be at the wrong house. My name is Charles Johnson.”

“Is your wife at home?”

“Uh, uh, yes. One minute.” Turning to the inside of the house, he yelled “Hon, you’d better come here.”

A moment later, Steve watched as Ellen walked through the hallway to the door — tall, attractive, her dyed-black hair shorter than she’d ever worn it in the States, a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses accenting its deep color. “What is it, Dear?”

Before Steve could respond, Sergeant Nazzari jumped in, “Buongiorno, signora. Are you Ellen Sanders?”

“What? Heavens no. I’m Edith Johnson, Charles’ wife. What is this about?”

“Si. Si. I am here with two sets of arrest warrants. One set is for a Steven and Ellen Sanders. The other set is for a Charles and Edith Johnson. They both have this for the address. So I can arrest you with which name you like. You can choose. You have to come with me.”

“This is crazy!” said Ellen. We moved here from western Canada almost 18 months ago and have been peacefully living here, not disturbing or hurting anyone.”

CHAPTER 32

T
hree months later, as they passed through Passport Control at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci International Airport
,
Joe said to Ginny, “This is a helluva lot better than going to Detroit to pick up a suspect. I could handle these assignments more often. If only they gave us a few days off for vacation while we’re here in Rome.”

“Heck yes. I’m still amazed at how long you kept on with this case on your own time. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and call it ‘tenacity’ rather than ‘stubbornness.’ I’m convinced that your efforts would have eventually borne fruit.”

“When I write my autobiography I’ll be sure to describe my superb detective skills and my super-human determination. But between you and me, it might have been a very long time before my efforts generated any results.”

“Well, I think you did very well,” responded Ginny. “You stuck with this case all this time, meanwhile dealing with all the other cases that were thrown at us by the chief.”

“Yeah. Well, I can’t really tell you why. You know how sometimes an unsolved case just gets to you and won’t let go no matter how hard you try to forget about it. Well, that’s how this case has been for me.”

“Understood.”

“It was surprisingly nice of Special Agent Florio to allow us to pick up the prisoners and to have their man in Rome meet us at the airport. If Martin hadn’t been promoted to their Chicago office, I doubt that he would’ve been as accommodating as Florio was.”

“My guess,” said Ginny, “is that Florio felt guilty about how they booted us off the case and how shabbily Martin treated us. I bet it wasn’t easy for him to get all the approvals necessary for us rather than the marshals to do this.”

“I’m sure you’re right. He must have had to call in a bunch of favors.”

“And the chief was also gracious to let us make this trip, probably his way of saying ‘nice job’ to both of us.”

“Right” said Joe. “Although I do think it’s a bit weird to mention the chief and use the word ‘gracious’ in the same sentence. He’d agree to anything to avoid actually saying ‘nice job’ to our faces.”

“Come on, don’t we have to meet Agent Davis in the baggage area?”

“OK. Let’s go.”

Karl Davis, the FBI legal attaché from the U.S. embassy in Rome, walked up to Joe and Ginny. “Excuse me. Are you Detectives McFarland and Harris?”

“Yes, we are,” responded Ginny. “You must be Karl Davis.”

“In the flesh. Welcome to Rome. Do you have any checked luggage?”

“No, we’re all set with our carry-on stuff,” answered Joe.

“OK, let’s get going. Follow me. We’ll whip through Customs quickly and then we have to hike to the other end of this airport to catch the puddle jumper to Foggia.”

“Foggia?” asked Ginny. “I thought we were going to San Garvazio di Puglia.”

“We’re going close to San Garvazio, but we’re actually going to Foggia. Foggia is where the regional Carabinieri headquarters is located, and that’s where your suspects are being held.”

“Oh, OK. That makes sense,” responded Ginny. “Too bad; we were hoping to at least get a quick look at the town where they were hiding out all this time.”

“Not a problem. We can swing through San Garvazio on our way to Foggia. It’s only a small detour.”

“Great. We’d appreciate that. Joe, you agree, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” responded Joe. “I’d like to see where they were living
la dolce vita
these past couple of years.”

“Do you two know anything about San Garvazio?”

Ginny replied, “Just the little bit I saw on the Internet as we were arranging our flights. It’s a small town in southeast Italy, about 10 miles inland from the Adriatic Sea.”

“Yes, I think you’ll find it lovely.”

“Sounds delightful. Too bad we can’t stay a few weeks and relax there,” said Joe.

Later that afternoon, following a short bumpy flight and a longer bumpier drive, Karl Davis, Joe and Ginny arrived in San Garvazio di Puglia. They parked, took a short walk through the small town center and stopped, unknowingly, for a coffee at the very same place that Steve, as Charles Johnson, went to for breakfast every morning. Finishing their coffee, they took the relatively short drive up the hill to the driveway, where the heavy gate was blocking access to the villa in which Steve and Ellen had been living, and then back down the hill and onto the road to Foggia.

“What a beautiful little town,” exclaimed Ginny.

“Yeah, and that house or mansion or villa or whatever it’s called is amazing, just from our view from the outside,” added Joe.

“Yes, and what worked to their advantage was that San Garvazio is so small and rather isolated. They were able to live quite openly and freely with very little risk that their existence would become known to anyone outside the village.”