So accustomed to Mario’s disregard, his sudden proximity sent a surge of hot tension through her.
“What do you want?” she demanded, keeping her face impassive.
He stared for several seconds, breathing heavily through his nose. His face was flushed, lips pressed together, jaw working.
“You think you’re so fucking special.”
Mario was a big man, with decades of densely packed muscle and fat. He’d always seemed eager to leverage his size, to violate her boundaries. Three years ago, during her first weeks and months on the job, he’d jostled her in the hallways, shoving her against walls. Once he’d stumbled into her and grabbed her breast as though clumsily trying to steady himself. She’d decided long ago that she’d break his arm before she ever let him get that close again.
“Go back to your desk,” she said.
He was blocking her egress, the closed space of the cubicle suddenly suffocating—the stink of garlic and heavy cologne masking a deeper, gamier odor. His gaze roved across her body, lingering on her breasts and coming to rest between her legs before flicking back to her face. He edged closer.
“You think you should have special rules,” he said. “Special treatment.”
“Not special rules.” Nikki stood, prepared to fight him back if he took another step. Her arms twitched, primed to strike. “Just the usual rules; the rules that say you should do your job properly…that you should answer a call for backup from a colleague…that you shouldn’t lie in an investigation to save your ass. You and I both know what you did. If you can’t handle that, maybe you should find another place to work because I’m not fucking going anywhere.”
For a moment, she thought he really would hit her. He stared, seeming to consider. Then, abruptly, he turned and strode from the office, door slamming behind him.
It took a while for Nikki’s heart to stop hammering. She did push-ups and squats and kicks. For another hour she made an effort to work, then finally slipped on her motorcycle jacket and left the office.
She jogged across the base, cold air and sunlight working into her, surveying the pale yellow of the stucco buildings, the blocky concrete constructions and high metal fences. It was an ugly facility, but she’d always liked it: the structure and order of the military organization, and the sense of otherness that the Americans brought. Here, she’d become a professional investigator at Phoenix Seven—a job that gave her purpose. Not even assholes like Mario had affected her drive.
But now, something had changed. She felt a hollow place in her center, a sense of entering an empty room with only echoes and shifting shadows to remind her it had once been filled. The world looked different, too. Stripped of color.
She wanted to get back to the way things used to feel, but couldn’t seem to find the map.
—
Her phone rang. She answered and heard Sonia’s voice. “Are you here already?”
Nikki hated this feeling: like she’d missed a step.
“Where am I supposed to be?”
“I called the Phoenix Seven duty phone. Your guy answered. He said he’d tell you. We needed you at the station. We had a witness come in.”
Silently, Nikki cursed Mario.
“I’ll come right away.”
“No. Not there. We’ve identified the victim: Claire Sexton, a nanny for a British family. They’re scheduled to berth their yacht in Molo Luise this evening. The family can speak with us now. Meet me at the marina near Castel dell’Ovo.”
—
The rain was starting again. Not yesterday’s torrent, but a persistent drizzle. As Nikki rode down the hill from the airport into the city center and then along the waterfront, raindrops spattered her helmet, obscuring her vision.
Sonia stood near the harbor where local fishermen kept their dinghies. Nikki approached, past the bobbing rows of sailboats. Rain hit fiberglass decks, the gentle pattering sounds accompanying themetallic notes of cables striking the masts. Nearby, two white-haired men sat on crates, poles propped, lines in the water, a cut-off plastic bait jug between them.
Nikki apologized. “Sorry I wasn’t at the station when you needed me.”
“There are problems on your team,” Sonia observed. “Your supervisor needs to get things under control before Phoenix Seven loses the trust of my colleagues.”
Much as Nikki agreed, she wasn’t about to trash-talk her team—even to Sonia.
“What did I miss?” she asked. Sonia gestured and Nikki fell in step beside her.
“Police report from Capri, and photo match with our victim,” Sonia said. “Claire Sexton was working for Jayston and Fiona Lake aboard their yacht,The Prophet. She went missing Saturday night, along with some jewelry and cash. The Lakes filed a police complaint. The captain ofThe Prophetconfirmed the ID at the morgue.”
