The cab crawled by the body, the driver unable to take his eyes off the broken corpse. He sped up once past the bloody mess, and I saw Luna give me a final glance before the vehicle disappeared around the bend.
I pulled out my phone and dialed emergency services on 112. When my call was answered, I said, “Do you speak English?”
“Yes,” a man replied. “Of course. Please state the nature of your emergency?”
“My name is Jack Morgan. I’d like to report an accident.”
The operator took details of my location and a brief account of what had happened before telling me the police were on their way.
With the call made, I approached the body and conducted a quick search. I didn’t find any personal possessions other than a cell phone, which I slipped into my pocket. The shooter’s left arm was in the pool of blood spreading out from his cracked skull, but his right lay limp against the asphalt. I lifted it and rolled up his shirtsleeve to discover a series of distinctive tattoos.
I pulled his sleeve all the way up to his shoulder and used my phone to take photographs of the body art. I could see religious and occult symbols, skulls, crosses, strange fleur-de-lys, but nothing immediately recognizable, so I sent the images to Mo-bot for analysis.
When I had everything I needed, I rolled down the man’s sleeve, repositioned his arm and then took some photos of his body and close-ups of his face, which I also sent to Mo-bot.
I had a feeling the cops would search me, so as I stepped away from the body, I removed the SIM card from his phone and put it in the second slot in my own.
I walked to the patch of shade beneath the stone pine next to the sheepfold that had saved our lives and stayed clear of the trunk and neighboring boulders, which had become a mine of forensic evidence. There were dozens of bullets buried in the pockmarked bark and embedded in the stones. I turned away from the body and gazed at the beautiful Technicolor countryside shining under the glorious Italian sun and waited for the police to arrive.
CHAPTER17
TWO HOURS LATER, I found myself in the very same interview room where I’d met Matteo earlier that day, only this time I was on the wrong side of the table being held as a suspect, interviewed by Mia Esposito. A uniformed colleague lolled against the wall near the door, while an electronic recorder captured our conversation. I was aware my filthy suit smelled of churned earth and sweat, and desperately wanted to take a shower.
“And you say he jumped?” Esposito asked. There was no chance of me leaving anytime soon. It seemed she was intent on going over my story one more time. I’d already told her what had happened, leaving out Luna’s presence as promised, but otherwise offering the truth: that I’d visited the location to look into the accident that had led to city prosecutor Filippo Lombardi’s death, and when I’d arrived a man had opened fire. I toldEsposito I had been able to climb to the outcrop, had fought the man, and had watched him jump to his death.
“And you didn’t push him?” she asked.
I shook my head. “He jumped when he realized I’d got his gun.”
“But there was no witness,” Esposito countered. “Who can say what really happened?”
“You can see the state of the tree,” I replied. “And the number of shots fired. There’s no doubting what really happened.”
“And how did you get there? Remind me.”
“I took a taxi,” I replied. “He didn’t want to wait, and I don’t remember his number.”
I didn’t want her interviewing the driver and learning Luna had been with me. “I paid cash and let him go because I wasn’t sure how long I would be.”
“I see. And you planned to walk back to Rome?”
“Uber,” I said. “Or a phone call.”
Esposito grunted and smiled. “I don’t know who this dead man is, but he should have taught you a valuable lesson, Mr. Morgan. Rome is no place for innocents. And it is even worse for the guilty. You are shining a light into the shadows, revealing things other people want hidden. My advice would be to forget whatever it is you are doing here and go home.”
I nodded slowly. “Does that mean I’m free to leave?”
She hesitated and glanced at her colleague.
“Yes,” she said at last. “I see no reason to doubt your account. You’re free to go.”
Twenty minutes later, I walked out of police headquarters,reunited with my possessions, and breathed in warm evening air scented with rich aromas of food coming from restaurant kitchens dotted around the neighborhood. I was glad to be out. I walked away from the imposing building, took out my phone, and dialed a number while looking for a cab.
“Jack,” Justine said when she answered. “Where have you been? I must have left half a dozen messages.”
My phone vibrated as notifications arrived.
“I’m just getting them now,” I replied. “My phone’s been off. I was arrested.”
