“They need you now.”
—
Police HQ was brightly lit, giving the illusion of daytime in those windowless, high-ceilinged corridors. Nikki showed her Phoenix Seven ID card to the night guard, who called for an escort.
The plainclothes officer who came to meet her was Emilio, a nice-looking man with a fit body, thick hair, and a neatly trimmed beard.
“Ciao, Nikki.”
“Emilio! I didn’t expect you!”
The words sounded more severe than she’d intended.
Emilio was a homicide detective she had met last summer while working the Markham case. That he was here meant the situation wasn’t the usual drunk American sailor making a scene in a downtown bar, or a traffic incident. A knot of dread coalesced in Nikki’s stomach. She wanted to run…to get far away. She’d had enough of death.
Emilio moved in with a handshake and apologetic smile. “Sorry to drag you out of bed.”
“No problem,” she said, then urged her feet to follow. They walked together down a long corridor with chipped tile and yellowed paint. Bright lights buzzed overhead.
Absent the usual bustle, the place felt desolate.
“Stabbing death in Chiesa del Gesù Nuovo just after the eight o’clock mass,” he told her. “Victim was a twentysomething woman. Nobody saw the stabbing, but three bystanders tried to administer first aid. They fucked up the crime scene. The only prints we could pull off the knife were from our good Samaritan.”
“Was the victim American?” Nikki asked. The police only called Phoenix Seven in situations involving personnel associated with the US military.
“Don’t know yet,” he said. “She didn’t have ID, and none of the witnesses recognized her. But one of the helpers—the one with the prints—is Monica Lissom. She’s got an important father: Paul Lissom is the United States ambassador to Italy. He and his wife are in the US right now, but he’s sent his defense attaché down from Rome, and told Monica not to cooperate with us unless you’re involved.”
Nikki’s thoughts seemed to tangle in heavy clumps.
“How does the United States ambassador know who I am?” she asked.
Emilio shrugged. “They didn’t say. Anyway, we called Phoenix Seven and asked for you. But two of your guys came instead. They’ve stepped in this one pretty bad, and our witnesses won’t talk.”
—
They’d reached the end of a corridor. Emilio pushed the door wide and they were drowned in a torrent of competing conversations.
—
Carving a path with Emilio through the clusters of uniformed men and women, Nikki spotted the tall and sober detective Sonia Dieng.
She was speaking with a man in a dark blue uniform whom Nikki guessed was the US attaché.
His posture was rigid, his jaw set, and he spoke English with a harsh American accent: “The ambassador isn’t asking for special treatment. He’s asking for respect.”
“Unfortunately, we can’t release Ms. Lissom or Ms. Washington yet,” Sonia responded in a firm, even voice. “There’s a murderer on the streets tonight—someone bold enough to kill in a church, during mass. We need information as soon as possible.”
After the Markham case last summer, Nikki and Sonia had become friends. Outside work, the detective had an easy manner and biting sense of the absurd. Inside the office, however, Sonia was professional and humorless, a personality shift that jarred Nikki once she’d experienced the other side.
“It’s the middle of the night,” the attaché protested. “Are they under arrest?”
Sonia didn’t have a chance to reply.
The door crashed open and a voice bellowed in Italian: “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Conversations stopped as everyone turned to look.
Nikki almost didn’t recognize her friend, undercover police officer Capo Valerio Alfieri. He wore a nice shirt, slacks, and stylish leather shoes—a departure from his usual scuffed trainers and slouchy sweatshirts. But these clothes were wet and disheveled, the right sleeve of his shirt smeared with blood.
