“He said Antonelli is behind the killings, right before he was shot.”
“That’s terrible. Poor man.”
I nodded. I couldn’t shake the memory of the priest dying in front of me.
“But you were unhurt?” she asked.
“They didn’t seem interested in me, thankfully,” I said. “It’s clear they wanted to silence Father Carlos, but they weren’t quick enough.”
“Do you think he was telling the truth?”
I nodded.
“Does that mean Matteo Ricci is a liar?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” I replied. “But I do know I want to talk to him again.”
“I want to come with you,” she said. “We’ll go first thing in the morning.”
She turned for the door.
“Don’t I get a say in that?” I asked.
“Of course not,” she replied with a mischievous smile. “Meet me on the Via di San Vitale at eight tomorrow.”
I nodded. “And I’ll ask Gianna Bianchi to join us.”
CHAPTER43
I TRIED TO get hold of Justine again once Faduma had left, but there was no reply. After grabbing a gyro from one of the local Turkish takeout stands, I went to bed, exhausted.
I hardly slept and when I did drift off, I was troubled by dreams about the death of Father Carlos. I kept waking with a terrible feeling of guilt. I could and should have done more to protect him. Looking back on my career, I wondered how many more innocents might still be alive if I had just been that little bit faster, stronger, or better.
I rose before dawn and went for a run along the coast, relishing the relative peace and quiet, the streets sparsely populated by other early risers, runners, people coming off their night shifts, and workers just beginning their day. I covered ten kilometers in forty minutes and returned to the apartment where Ishowered and dressed in the black T-shirt and jeans I’d worn briefly the previous night.
I took a cab from Ostia to police headquarters on the Via di San Vitale and arrived at 7:55 a.m.
Faduma was already waiting outside. She wore a dark green maxi summer dress.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Morning,” I replied.
It didn’t feel like a good one to me.
“Any sign of Gianna?” I asked.
Faduma shook her head just as the lawyer emerged from the large archway that at the front of police headquarters. She looked distraught.
“Mr. Morgan, I have terrible news,” she said. “According to the duty officer, Matteo Ricci tried to hang himself last night. He’s in Ospedale Fatebenefratelli under armed guard.”
CHAPTER44
FATEBENEFRATELLI HOSPITAL WAS located on Isola Tiberina, a small island in the center of the Tiber near the Marcello Theater. Approached from the tree-lined southern bank of the river, across the cobbled Cestio bridge, the hospital looked like one of the classical terra-cotta apartment blocks found in the upmarket older parts of Rome. The windows of the three-story building were surmounted by white stone frames, beveled slightly, giving the building additional character.
Gianna had driven us to the hospital in her dark green Audi Q7, weaving skillfully through the city traffic so we covered the three-mile journey in under fifteen minutes. She spent most of the drive on the phone, speaking to Mia Esposito to ensure we had access to Matteo when we arrived at the hospital.
He was in a private room on the third floor and there were two uniformed Carabinieri posted outside. Gianna presented heridentification and they allowed us into Matteo’s room. There was a window overlooking the river. Matteo had a dressing around his neck and was dozing beneath a sky-blue sheet. He was surrounded by monitors and an IV feed. This shadow was a far cry from the confident, competent man I’d hired to run the Rome office, and I was struggling to understand how he’d unraveled so quickly and comprehensively.
