“We found the knife,” Sonia continued. “It was by the altar in the chapel—far from the body. There were marks on the floor. We think somebody threw it. Was it you?”
“I don’t remember,” Monica said. She seemed dazed, eyes focused on some distant point.
“You didn’t throw it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your prints were on the knife,” said Sonia. “So, we know you held it.”
Some light seemed to blink out behind those clear eyes. Monica rested her head in her hands and spoke to the ground. “I don’t know.”
They stayed in the interview room for another hour, but Monica provided nothing else.
—
Monica’s friend and travel companion, Kami Washington, was more expressive. Despite the hours alone in an interview room, she was alert. Anger seemed to assert and sort her thoughts, a fuel of injured justice.
“We were the good guys!” she shouted. “You can’t treat us like suspects. We were the fucking heroes. You need to catch the motherfucker who did this. You hear? You need to fucking catch that guy.”
“Was it a man?” asked Sonia. “Did you see the person who stabbed her?”
Kami was emphatic. “He was long gone by the time we got there. It was a figure of speech, you know?The guy?”
She told the same story as Monica—about hearing a noise and investigating, about finding the stabbed woman, and administering first aid. But there were places where the story diverged.
“She definitely said something. It was likeGerdorGreed, or something. You’ll have to ask Monica.”
She also remembered the knife.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Monica threw it really hard.”
—
Afterwards, Emilio and Sonia and Nikki talked it over.
“Do you think she really doesn’t remember picking up the knife?” Emilio asked.
Sonia shrugged. “It was an intense and traumatizing moment. Sometimes people forget.”
“I hate to admit it,” said Emilio, “but I’m inclined to agree with Angelo. They’re lying. We should keep them in custody.”
Sonia turned to Nikki. “What do you think?”
“Not lying,” she answered. “Or, at least, not exactly. I don’t get the sense that they’re a threat—but they aren’t telling us everything.”
Sonia pressed fingers to her lips. “So, you don’t think we should keep them?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Nikki said. “The ambassador is on his way back to Italy and this could become a political headache if you put them in jail. I think it would be a gesture of goodwill if you let the American attaché take charge of them.”
Sonia nodded. “I don’t think they were directly responsible for the assault. But we need to push on their stories. Once they surrender their passports, they’re free to go—but tell them not to go far.”
—
The sun was rising over the city, the air chilly and damp as Nikki rode her Hornet the short distance to her flat. Hours ago, the empty nighttime streets had given her a clear path to the station. Now, under the grey glow of a cloudy sky, the roads were chaotic and crowded. She maneuvered around it all, brain sluggish, the residual thrumming energy from the nighttime coffee insufficient to focus her.
The interviews seemed to have recorded badly in her tired mind.Memories juddered and stalled, replaying unimportant details: mascara smudged beneath Kami Washington’s eyes, and Monica Lissom’s hands, nails bitten to the quick.
—
