“Notice anything?” Sci asked.
Mo-bot shook her head.
“Just a wall.” And then she understood. “No bullet hole to match the position of the exit wound.”
Sci smiled like an indulgent teacher. “Bingo. There’s a large exit wound, meaning there should be a bullet somewhere around here. The fact there isn’t one suggests he was killed elsewhere. The ease with which I spotted it means this was either staged in a rush, or it’s been put together by someone who knows they can rely on the police not to find the truth.”
“Or doesn’t care if they do,” Mo-bot suggested.
“This was another murder designed to look like a suicide,” Sci said.
“Do you think Esposito knows?” Mo-bot asked.
“Either she’s in on it, and this is all for show,” Sci replied, “or she’s too junior to matter and no one cares what she thinks. I don’t think she would be deploying all these people if she already knew what really happened.”
“I should go over and tell her what you’ve found, shouldn’t I? Being a Good Samaritan and all,” Mo-bot said, relishing the prospect.
CHAPTER92
JUSTINE’S PHONE RANG as she and Faduma crossed St. Peter’s Square on their way to the headquarters of the Vatican Bank. She saw it was Mo-bot and answered the call.
“Hey.”
“Trotta is dead. Murder staged to look like suicide.”
“Jeez,” Justine replied. “Whatever this thing is, everyone who touches it ends up dead.”
“Let’s hope not everyone,” Mo-bot said. “I’ve been trying to get hold of Jack. If you reach him before I do, let him know.”
“Will do,” Justine responded.
“And let me know if you get anything from the Vatican.”
“Of course,” Justine said, before hanging up.
“Everything okay?” Faduma asked.
“Trotta is dead. Murdered.”
Faduma shook her head slowly. “What the hell is this thing? Why are all these people being killed?”
Justine was unsure what to make of the journalist next to her. Faduma was clearly whip-smart, diligent and inventive, but Justine had previously had bad experiences with journalists. Most seemed to value their next story above all else and would willingly toss people into the fire of a smoking-hot headline.
They passed through the border security checkpoint, walked along Via Sant’Anna and went inside the rotunda that housed the ancient bank.
Ten minutes later they were being led to Stadler’s office by a somber-faced assistant who didn’t give her name. When they reached the open-plan room on the top floor, Justine saw what she guessed was Altmer’s desk covered in bouquets of flowers and condolence cards. It had become a small and poignant shrine. She lowered her head as she passed, and saw Faduma do the same.
They were taken in to see Joseph Stadler, and Justine was surprised to find him with the man Jack had identified as Father Vito, who was in fact Cardinal Vito Peralta. They were seated on a couch near the window.
“Ms. Smith, Ms. Salah,” Stadler said, crossing the room to greet them. “I hope you don’t mind but I’ve asked Cardinal Peralta to join us. He would like to bring his subterfuge to an end.”
“Subterfuge?” Justine asked as she and Faduma sat down opposite the men.
“I have not been completely honest,” Cardinal Peralta said.
“I’m sorry for your loss by the way,” Faduma interjected.
Stadler looked puzzled and Cardinal Peralta nodded sagely.
