“Anyway,” he went on, “Father Brambilla worked for me for many years as part of the Church’s oversight team. He was a good friend.”
“Then I’m sorry for your loss,” I remarked.
Stadler nodded slowly, tears welling in his eyes. “Thank you. I cannot believe your associate killed him, Mr. Morgan. If he did,I would like to understand why. If he didn’t, I want to know the name of the true murderer and bring him or her to justice. I hope this is not putting you in an awkward position, but I would like to hire you and your agency to investigate the death of Father Ignacio Brambilla.”
My mind instinctively turned to potential conflicts although, in reality, I had already decided to get to the truth myself.
“Please,” Stadler said. “Please help me find the person who killed my friend.”
His eyes were full of pain, but even such open distress wasn’t enough to compel me.
“I can’t simply accept a commission like this,” I replied. “Not without first conducting due diligence and considering any possible conflicts of interest.”
I’d been stung before when an impostor had engaged me to track down a woman he’d claimed was his daughter. After discovering the ruse, I’d implemented stricter client engagement checks, and wasn’t about to ignore them, even if Stadler’s interests seemed to coincide with my own.
“I’ll think about it, Mr. Stadler, and take care of the necessary background,” I told him.
“You can reach me here,” he said, handing me his card. “I would expect nothing less than the utmost professionalism from you, Mr. Morgan. And I could hope for no more. Not under such tragic circumstances. I will wait to hear from you. Have a good night.”
“You too,” I responded, and he bowed slightly and backed away.
As he left the hotel, I sent Justine a text message.
Ask Mo to give me background on Joseph Stadler, COO of the Vatican Bank.
Justine replied instantly.
Will do. X.
Exhausted, my mind still churning with questions, I finally made it to one of the elevators and headed up to my suite.
CHAPTER6
I WOKE EARLY the following morning. The first fingers of dawn reached between the heavy drapes at the windows of my sixth-floor suite. I could hear faint sounds from the waking city, but neither sound nor light had troubled me. I’d been woken by disjointed dreams of the previous night’s events, the troubling memory of a dead man lying at my colleague’s feet. It had been a long time since I’d been to church, but I’d been raised a Catholic. Despite drifting away from the faith and all the trouble and scandal the institution had faced in recent years, I still had a special respect for the men and women who devoted their lives to God. Whether one was devout or faithless, it was hard not to be moved by a strength of belief that drove people to seek a higher, more profound connection with the divine.
I couldn’t put my finger on why the Church had shrunk into the background of my own life. Maybe my wartime experiencesas a pilot had exposed me to horrors that made me question why an omnipotent God was not more vengeful in the face of wrongdoing. Or perhaps I’d sinned so many times myself, killing in the name of necessity, that I was afraid of how I’d be received by the Almighty. Whatever the reason, my faith today felt far less real and immediate than it had as a child, but the sight of a dead priest had stirred it into life. Even someone as lapsed as I was knew it took a special level of evil to kill a man of the cloth.
After trying and failing to fall back to sleep, I rose, showered, and put on the only suit I had brought with me; a light blue linen two-piece, which I wore with an open-collar white shirt. It was professional, but cool enough to cope with Rome’s scorching July heat.
I had planned to grab breakfast and head for Private’s empty new offices on Via Attilio Regolo, near Rome’s historic shopping district, but my phone rang as I was putting on my shoes. It was Alessandro Calla, our Rome lawyer.
“Alessandro,” I said. “You heard?”
“I have,” he replied. “And arranged for a criminal defense lawyer to interview Signor Ricci. Her name is Gianna Bianchi, and she is one of the best in Rome. She’s going to see him at eight… half an hour’s time… at police headquarters on the Via di San Vitale. I thought I should let you know in case you want to sit in.”
“Thank you,” I said, cradling the phone against my shoulder as I tied my laces. “I’m on my way.”
“Good luck,” Alessandro responded. “Let me know if I can be of further assistance.”
I took a cab from the rank in the square opposite the hotel, and the driver, a young Moroccan, drove me on a circuitous route that navigated the city’s one-way system, passing the Villa Borghese Park and the National Gallery, among other landmarks. It was impossible not to be captivated by the beauty and history of Rome. Everywhere I looked, the past reached out and called to me. From the ancient stones and statues that adorned the streets to the historic buildings and churches still in use, it was hard not to picture all the past lives spent in this awe-inspiring place. People caught up in intrigue and drama in what had once been the most powerful city on earth, or ordinary folk just struggling to get by—all of them had felt the warmth of the same sun that shone down on the city today, making its terra-cotta roofs, stucco and sandstone buildings glow beneath a cloudless blue sky.
We arrived at Rome police headquarters on Via di San Vitale at 7:50 a.m. I paid the driver and went inside. Constructed of monumental white blocks of stone in the classical style, the grand four-story building took up almost an entire city block. A large archway cut through the outer façade to reveal the imposing structure was built around a courtyard used for parking. I walked under the arch to find a vaulted reception area to my left. It felt cool, almost chilly, in the early-morning shade. The lobby was quiet, but as I made my way to the reception desk, a voice called out, “Mr. Morgan.”
I turned to see a woman in a light brown trouser suit rise from a chair in a waiting area off to one side. She had wild black hair barely restrained in a messy bun and couldn’t have been more than five foot four in her three-inch heels.
“I’m Gianna Bianchi,” she said, swinging a messenger bag over her shoulder as she approached.
I shook her hand. “Jack Morgan. Alessandro told me I’d find you here.”
