She gasped.
“It’s okay. I’m out now. Some guy tried to shoot me and Luna Colombo, Matteo’s former partner.”
“Jeez, Jack. Are you all right?”
“Nothing a shower and an old-fashioned won’t fix,” I told her. “I’ve sent Mo-bot some photos of the shooter’s tattoos. I need to know straightaway if she identifies them. And I’m going to need the details of someone local who can analyze a SIM.”
“You’re borderline obsessive, Jack Morgan,” she responded. “You get shot at and your mind is still locked on the case.”
“The detective in charge thinks I should go home.”
“I think you should too,” Justine said. “Come back to me, Jack. Let someone else take care of this.”
“I can’t,” I replied. “I’ve taken on the Chief Operating Officer at the Vatican Bank as a client. He wants to know the truth about Father Brambilla’s death.”
“Don’t we have someone in Rome who can handle it?” she countered.
“Matteo was still in the process of staffing up. The people he’s hired haven’t started properly yet or had their Private training. I’m all there is.”
She sighed. “I don’t like you getting shot at.”
“Me neither. I don’t know what Matteo was into, but I might have made a mistake hiring him. I feel a little responsible for this mess and want to fix it. I underestimated the extent of corruption in Rome. Innocent or guilty, I have to find out the truth about him,” I said. “I will come home as soon as it’s done.”
“Be—”
“Careful,” I interrupted. “I know. I will. And I’ll call you later. Love you.”
“Love you, you infuriating obsessive,” she replied, before hanging up.
I pocketed my phone and made a beeline for a cab that had responded to my hail.
“Hassler Hotel,” I said, jumping in the back.
CHAPTER18
THE TAXI TOOK me to Via Bocca di Leone and I walked two blocks through the luxury shopping district, passing busy sidewalk cafés, to the Spanish Steps where tourists thronged in the evening sun. Its glow caught the tops of the old buildings and shadows gathered in the narrow alleyways beside them as the day neared its end. I climbed the ancient stone steps, picking my way past people taking selfies and photos of the church at the top, the city laid out at the base.
The doorman at the Hassler nodded a greeting as I went inside. I saw his eyes flick up and down my filthy suit, but his training meant he knew better than to remark on my dishevelment. Hotel staff saw all sorts of oddities, and a higher star rating often correlated with more outrageous guests. My dirty clothing would not be the strangest thing this man had ever seen.
I walked into the cool marble-lined lobby, looking forwardto a shower, but the moment I stepped inside I knew such simple pleasures would have to wait. Faduma was seated on a chair from which she could see everyone who entered. She saw me the moment I came in. Her impassive expression gave nothing away. I still had no idea whether she was friend or foe but at least my background check had established she was probably honest.
I walked over to her. As I drew nearer, she got to her feet.
“You look like you could use a drink,” she said, leading me into the lobby bar.
She didn’t seem fazed by my appearance, and we took our seats at a table in the quiet room. A waiter came over immediately.
“Iced water, please,” I told him.
“Orange juice,” Faduma added. “You’ve had quite the day,” she said to me while the waiter walked away.
She produced an iPad from a satchel she had slung over her shoulder and put the device on the circular table between us. She switched it on and flicked through a series of photographs of Luna and me at the spot where Filippo Lombardi had driven off the road, or more likely been forced off. The photos had been taken with a long lens and showed the gunman attacking us, my ascent, our fight and his death. Faduma paused at the photo of Luna getting into the cab.
“Why did you conceal her involvement?” she asked, tapping the image of the detective being driven away.
“How did you get these?”
“I followed you, Mr. Morgan.”
