Hidden Passion, page 4
Following Angelotti and Lieutenant Borromeo to what she hoped would be a place of understanding, Rennie noticed the contrasts of plain frame buildings against a backdrop of classic, eternal architecture. Somehow, all of history blends together then repeats itself with no concern for the players or the place.
They approached a beige stucco building connected with covered walkways to two similar modern structures. Signs on one said “Information” and “Museum,” and on another “Information” again. Small clouds of sunbaked dust swirled off the parking-lot gravel. No staff or tourists could be seen. It didn’t feel right. Where was everybody?
She followed Borromeo through a doorway into a plain room as Angelotti stepped aside. Two wooden chairs were in front of a cluttered desk and a few old, framed photographs and posters of Greece hung on plaster walls. Shiny marble floor tiles helped brighten the dull setting.
Rennie’s mind raced through suspicions and strategies. These hours of dramatic changes in plans were difficult to process. The ache of travel and stress had soaked into her muscles. This wasn’t just a visit to a crime scene to help Father Angelotti understand the situation and report to the Vatican, and this police officer was not happy with it. Rennie was now in the middle and had to figure a way out.
Despite his early cordial manner, Borromeo assumed a different attitude. He motioned to the wooden chairs with a flip of his hand while settling into a tall cushioned seat behind the desk.
Scarpia stepped into the room. His tight, rumpled black suit made his presence more powerful in this setting. Rennie discreetly watched him as he went to a wooden bench by the wall. He was quiet but imposing. She could see Borromeo’s eyes follow Scarpia as he moved across the space and sat down.
Father Angelotti slid forward in his chair. “Lieutenant, the church is pleased for you to allow us to be aware of this sad event. I must now return with Signora Haran and deliver a full report to our people. Prayers will be said to assist you in solving this terrible crime.”
Rennie saw a pulsing vein in Angelotti’s temple. Can Borromeo see it?
Borromeo smirked and opened a thin file of paperwork.
“We will handle this the Neapolitan way. This isn’t Rome,” he said with a staccato beat.
“To complete these papers, I must ask a few questions. It’s for these papers.”
Angelotti glanced at Scarpia, shrugged his shoulders, and turned back to the police officer. “What do you need? We’re here for you.”
Borromeo flipped a couple of pages in his files. Forms, written notes, and a checklist could be seen. “Padre, how did you know this poor Father Anastasios? What were your contacts with him?”
Angelotti’s voice took on a musical tone. “I only know of him as a name, an authority on obscure church matters. I had no contacts with him.”
Borromeo scribbled a note on a pad. “I see. So again, Padre Angelotti, what contacts did you have with him, perhaps through others?”
Borromeo’s eyes shifted from Scarpia to Angelotti and then at Rennie.
Angelotti continued with innocence, “None that I know of. He was a scholar they say. I’m no scholar. I serve God as a clerk. I help with modest business affairs.”
Angelotti turned to Rennie and tried to look humble.
Borromeo laughed loudly, “Yes, the world is full of clerks. Like me, too!”
The lieutenant reviewed his notes. His pen remained ready to write. “Yet our Holy Father in Rome and the powers of the Vatican have sent a clerk to this tragic situation. It must be important to them, and to you. In what ways?”
Rennie could sense this policeman was building a trap.
Again, a musical response.
“Well, Lieutenant, I don’t know. I’m not aware of why decisions are made. I was directed to come. That’s it.”
The priest gazed up at the fan on the ceiling. “Could we have the fan on? The air is getting warm.”
Borromeo sat back in his chair and stared at Angelotti. He tapped his fingertips together. “I have many years in this police business. It’s best that you tell me now how you might be involved. Other agencies will not be so understanding.”
Angelotti’s chair creaked as he sat more erect. “As I said, this is outside of my understanding. Whatever happened with poor Father Anastasios was done by evil men. You will not find them at the Vatican.”
He gave a quick nod as if to accent his firm statement.
Borromeo continued to stare before shifting his gaze to Rennie. “And you, Signora Haran. How did you know this poor fellow Anastasios?”
Rennie was startled. “I didn’t know him, or of him, until this day.”
“I see. You did not know him, but we need to know of what contacts you had with him. We’re trying to finish this matter. All information is necessary. This is police business.”
“I’d like to help, Lieutenant, but I’ve had no contacts with Father Anastasios. Is that his name?”
She turned to Angelotti.
Borromeo leaned forward and began to scribble more notes. “Miss Haran, why do you suppose this poor priest knew your name, but you did not know his? It’s quite a mystery.”
Father Angelotti suddenly stood up. “Scusi, Lieutenant, there is confusion here. Miss Haran knows nothing of this. We need to return to the Vatican for important church business. I’m sure you understand. As you need information, please let me know.”
He pulled at his collar.
The lieutenant tapped his pen on the file papers. Rennie noticed a subtle hint of confidence in his bearing. “Patriarca, another moment. My deepest apologies for this delay. There is some confusion, one might call it. Please know I’m humble to the will of the church, but for now, we must do what is right.”
Angelotti leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk. Slowly, he sat down. Again, he looked up at the ceiling fan.
Rennie followed his gaze. She wondered what was capturing his attention. Her anxiety and suspicions shifted into an ice-cold, defensive drive. She felt an impulse to be proactive.
“Lieutenant, how did the priest die? Do we know how he was killed?”
The officer squinted at her.
Rennie continued, “As an investigative reporter, I know the solution of any crime is best solved when all the facts are on the table and good minds, like ours, team together. I’m happy to offer whatever I know, but I can only help you if you share with us all you have at this time.”
Borromeo said nothing. He reviewed his file again and flipped over a few pages.
Rennie felt pleased. In her side vision, she could see Angelotti staring at her, his mouth slightly open.
The lieutenant slumped back into his chair and again tapped his fingertips together. “You saw him, and we know you knew him. You tell me the manner of death. That will help close this investigation, Signora Investigator.”
Rennie sat forward. “I didn’t know him.”
“How did he die?”
“That, Lieutenant, is what I asked.”
Borromeo wagged his head. “I don’t feel much cooperation from either of you. Maybe this can be handled in other ways.”
Scarpia loudly cleared his throat. It sounded more like a growl with gravel in the mouth.
Borromeo glared at him then turned back to Rennie. “How did you know him?”
Years of challenges by bosses, lawyers in depositions, and people behind scandalous stories she investigated prepared her for this. A clever distraction of his thinking would help her pivot the challenge back at him.
“Lieutenant, I’d like to help, and I need your help, but don’t kind women often go unrewarded?” She paused. “Again, I will say that I did not know this poor priest. Why do you think I knew him?”
Lieutenant Borromeo’s eyes seemed to bulge.
He blurted out, “The priest’s journal was discovered under the bed in a room he had been in. Signora Haran, your name is in that journal. Other interesting information is also in that journal. All information is being gathered. Your words are now needed. Father Angelotti, I expect your cooperation.”
His intensity grew with each comment.
No one moved. Scarpia rose quietly from the side bench and stood. Everyone noticed. Finally, he said, “Permesso,” and with a slight bow, left the room.
Rennie ignored the departure. She would not be distracted or intimidated. She was focused on Borromeo.
He again mounted his demands. “I need answers, now.”
He pounded the desk. “Signora Haran, we have a serious problem here. Father Anastasios mentions you in his belongings, several notes of your name. Why would that be? You were clearly involved.”
An idea came to her. Rennie relaxed. “Well, Lieutenant, that is easily explained. I discovered something wonderful not long ago: letters written by Jesus Christ.”
The lieutenant and Father Angelotti crossed themselves.
“I have traveled here to Italy to arrange with the church the display of these letters, so people can see them and believe. Certainly, Father Anastasios, who I’m told was a scholar might have come to Italy to see the exhibition of the letters and he knew my name because of this.”
Borromeo suddenly appeared pleased if not delighted. “Ah, ha!”
He slapped the file folder. “Si, this must be it! Signora Haran forgive me. I’m a country person. I do not know these things. This is of great help. Letters from our Lord! Amazing! Father, you and the church must be very excited!”
“Yes, of course! This is why we must return to Rome.”
Pressure slid away from Rennie’s lungs. A fresh breath flowed in. “Now, Lieutenant, could you share with me the cause of death before we leave?”
His eyebrows wrinkled, and a grimace emerged on his face. He checked his file and turned a page. Finally, he looked up.
“Father Anastasios probably died from a wooden sword stabbed into his heart. The handle of the sword was found on him and secured by the ropes that held him to the door. The door came from a small hotel in Ventotene. But, before we conclude this, I must know more about the letters you found.”
Rennie’s energy soared through her. “Yes, of course. A wooden sword? That’s odd, we didn’t see one on the body. What did it look like?”
Borromeo stared at her. “What do you mean? Why is this important? We have the weapon and photos of it.”
“That’s good. Lieutenant, please forgive me. What did this sword look like? Do you know where it’s from? May I see the photo?”
“It’s the weapon that killed the priest. That’s it.”
Father Angelotti put his hand on Rennie’s arm. “Lieutenant, I know Signora Haran is trying to assist us.”
Borromeo closed the file. Silence filled the room like the rising heat.
She wondered, Did I push it too far? There’s no reason for this. Stay strong.
The lieutenant reached into his jacket pocket and removed a cell phone. He touched it a few times then turned the face of the phone toward Rennie and Angelotti. A photo of the body of Father Anastasios was displayed with something lying across the lower part of his chest.
“Here, see it.”
Rennie reached for the phone and the officer placed it in her hand. Angelotti leaned over as Rennie adjusted the photo for more close-up detail.
“A crosier,” Angelotti whispered.
“What? A crosier?” She replied.
“Sorry, nothing.” Angelotti sat back.
She set the phone on the desk. “This is helpful. You know the cause of death and the weapon. I’m sure your skilled team can question those in the area and test the wood of the sword, as well as find the sources of the ropes that held the poor man. Lieutenant, based on my experience, which is far less than yours, you are well on the way to solving this.”
Borromeo didn’t move except for a slow turn of his eyes from Rennie to Angelotti and back.
“Signora Haran, you are correct. But more questioning is needed. You were on your way to Rome, but you are here. Both of you are here. What is the cause of this coincidence? We in Napoli might seem less sophisticated than those in Rome, but we know the ways of the world. We have a noble history and we will not forget it.”
Angelotti responded, “My dear friend, you are on the front lines of the war against evil and we support you. If you need us to return, that can easily be arranged. Just between us, I must say that I enjoy this part of our country and its dignity more than where I’m from. I would be happy to see you again. For now, the Holy Father expects our return.”
Borromeo didn’t move. “Let me advise you.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “You are lucky the body arrived at this place and not a little further away. Over there is Maricomlog Napoli. That is a place for the Ministry of Defense. ROS has an office there. Military people handle things quite differently. Maybe not so nice. Here at the park, it is my place. However, I could let them deal with this. Full cooperation in disclosing all knowledge of this matter is needed if you want to work with me instead of them.”
Naples, Italy
II / 2
A quiet group of anxious young men milled around a scenic turn-off in Parco Virgiliano. A flaming cigarette butt bounced off one man’s rough boot, but he didn’t notice. The mobile phone pressed to his ear shielded his senses from the world around him.
One of the men elbowed his partner.
“His head is in the clouds again.”
They laughed.
Stuffing the phone in his pocket, Peter gazed at the distant sea but no plan or solutions could be seen in the distance.
The others gathered around.
“What are we doing, boss?”
“Michael says we need to pick someone up and take them to safety. I’m sorting out where they are and what obstacles might be there.”
“Boss, for us there are no obstacles. We can handle it. Where do we go?”
“Over there, the archeological park. It’s just a few priests and local authorities. The timing is important, though. It’s not clear what’s happening.”
“Do we need help? We can get more guys. We could use the old decoy approach, send a guy in who appears innocent. Our van won’t stand out.”
“That’s an idea.”
Peter zipped up his jacket.
“Joe, you and Tim drive by there and scout what’s up—make sure to include the vicinity. Every detail. Be back here in thirty minutes. I’ll call you as I get more information. No one sees you, okay?”
“Got it.”
The two men climbed into the cab of the van and kicked up gravel as they turned onto the pavement. Blowing past other vehicles, the van slowed to a crawl when they got close to the target. The surveillance was easy—no traffic, limited access, the sun high, nothing moving. Half a block from the entrance, the van stopped. Tim slung an old backpack over his shoulder and got out.
“Tim, use a British accent and fake a little Italian like a tourist would do.”
“Jolly good!” he said with a shake of his head.
As Joe eased to the side of the road, his partner ambled across the parking lot and acted confused, wandering toward the buildings.
A policeman appeared from one of the buildings and yelled in Italian.
Tim waved. “Uh, do you speak English? Prego?”
He did his best to appear stupid.
Another policeman came out and whispered to the other.
The second one asked, “Why you here?”
Tim pointed to the road and took a map from the backpack.
“The bus stopped here. Is this place open? It’s an old ruin, right? Can I see it?”
The guards conferred. The new cop took charge. “Not now. Not open. Next day, okay?”
Turning the map and swiveling his head, Tim continued his act. “Say, could I get some water? It’s been a long day.”
Another minute of discussion by the police prompted another policeman to exit a building. All three talked and argued as Tim listened, understanding everything. They discussed who was there and what was going on.
Idiots, he thought.
Finally, the third police officer went back inside and returned with a plastic cup of water. “Go now.”
“Grazie, old chap!”
Tim downed the water and returned the cup. He stuffed the map into a pocket and wandered back to the road. He checked the map again, pointed down the road, and walked out of sight. Moments later, he was back in the van. Joe backed up and turned around.
“What have we got?”
“There’s an officer interrogating a priest and woman. A couple other guys—more priests—and no more than four cops right now.”
“What happened? Priests and a woman?”
“Unknown. It might not have been questioning. Maybe there was an accident. The cops seem annoyed. No carabinieri.”
“If we have to go in, what would you do? You know Peter will ask.”
“Two vans, fast in, guns out. They’d put up no fight. I doubt they could find the guns on their belts. We yell some references to the Camorra, grab the people we need, and go. Let one van stay an extra minute to hold them down. Different paths back to a meeting point. Drop the vans a block from each other, get new cars, and we’re gone.”
“Hmm, he might go for it. Damn, what’s that? Was that a ROS car that went by? We’ve got to turn around. If they’re involved, that changes things.”
A quick turn into a driveway and then a slow drive-by past the entrance to the ruins revealed their concerns.
“Slow down, way down. Don’t let them see us. If they’re going to the target, there’s no hurry.”
“Lean down. They know you.”
Tim tilted over.
“Okay, we’re past.”
