A pause. Then, “Perhaps.”
“Did he say what the men looked like?” she asked.
“He didn’t get a good look.”
“Did he tell the police?”
“They interviewed him. Fons doesn’t think they took him seriously.”
Nikki sighed. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“You should talk to him.”
“I thought you didn’t want me involved in this investigation,” she said.
Another pause. Then Raoul said, “It’s only Fons.”
“Alright,” she said.
“Good. We’ll go tonight.”
“I’m busy,” she protested. “I’m teaching class.”
“Nina!” That familiar scolding tone from childhood. “I thought you wanted to investigate this murder! Tomorrow, then. Francesca and Gianni invited us for dinner. We’ll stop by Fons’s shop on the way.”
—
The station never called. It was only when Nikki was packing up to leave the office that a text message came in from Sonia on her personal phone.
Thanks for the information, it read.And thanks for your help on the interviews. Just so you know, we’ve decided to continue the investigation without Phoenix Seven.
Nine
The self-defense class started at 18:00 but Nikki liked to arrive early to arrange her gear and warm up before the students arrived. At 17:22 she parked her Hornet and made her way to the storefront studio. It was dark and the streets were chilly, a stiff wind gusting between the buildings.
The hours following Sonia’s text had been unsettling and difficult. Nikki had closed up work and gone home for a quick bite and some time at the punching bag, her mind replaying the moment in the restaurant when her fury had taken control. The little girl’s disconsolate wailing had given excruciating insight into who the dead woman had been to her. Nikki had some sense of Claire now—the animated kindness of that shy smile. She could picture her rushing in to comfort the girl. But Nikki hadn’t helped anyone. Instead, she’d shouted at Fiona Lakefor fuck’s saketo do her job properly.
Shame washed through her in hot, uncomfortable surges. She’d never lost control so completely in a professional setting. She knew better—should havebeenbetter! Sonia had warned her that the credibility of Phoenix Seven hung by a thread, and what had Nikki done? Only pulled out the biggest, gnarliest knife she could find, and slashed the line. She’d squandered the only currency she carried: respect. Angelo’s words echoed in her thoughts:This isn’t like last time. You don’t get to pretend to be a detective.
As she approached the studio doors, a dark figure in an overcoat peeled away from the shadows and stalked towards her.
Nikki tensed.
She seemed to know that posture, the boxer’s frame filling the coat: the angular lines, the surety of his stride. Unbidden, her mind filled in the version of Tito as a teenager as he grew into that bulk. It was asudden, visceral memory—the warmth of his body beside her, the cedar smell and pepper taste of him, that small twitch of his left hand, the rare flash of a sudden smile.
But the illusion of Tito collapsed the next moment, a trick of the light. The figure approaching her seemed to shrink, resolving at last into the compact form of Benedetto De Rosa.
“Signorina Serafino,” he said.
Nikki nodded, keeping her face fixed.
“Signor De Rosa,” she replied, crouching to unlock and heft the heavy metal grate on its rails. “I’d prefer you not meet me here.”
His expression, always enigmatic, had a particular intensity this evening.
“The situation’s changed,” he told her. “We need to talk.”
He isn’t worse than Tito, she told herself.Nothing could be worse than finding Tito here.
