The Turin Shroud Secret (23 page)

She takes a seat the other side of the desk. ‘I’d try to do that if I had a clue what stoic was.’

He takes his feet off the chair, spins round and drops his meaty forearms on the desk. ‘Stoic: noun. A person who can endure
pain or hardship without showing their feelings or complaining.’

‘Ah, now I get it. Doesn’t sound much like me, Captain.’

Matthews smiles. ‘LA’s most abused liver just checked itself into rehab and has taken Homicide Detective Jordan Lynch with
it.’

Mitzi gives him her best so-what’s-that-got-to-do-with-me look.

‘Meaning Tyler Carter needs a number-two on his serial case.’

She drops her head into her hands. ‘Boss, I’ve got Nic Karakandez in Italy on the Tamara Jacobs killing and he’s only a week
away from sailing off to God knows where. And—’ She stops herself. No. She’s not going to say she has personal problems,
he probably knows already.

‘And what?’

From the look on his face he doesn’t know. Even Matthews isn’t so mean as to make fun out of the mess she’s in. ‘And nothing,
sir. I was just having trouble transitioning from pissed and rightfully letting-off steam to professionally stoic.’

He slaps his hands on the table and smiles. ‘No problem. You did it real well. Get Carter to give you an extra pair of hands
to cover the Jacobs case until you crack it or it falls
down. We’ll run another week and then review. This way you can work both, okay?’

Her face says it’s not but her mouth has learned to be compliant. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s all.’ He swings his feet back up on the spare seat and reaches for the financial papers he had been worrying over
when she came in. ‘Stoicism suits you, Fallon.’

‘Thank you, sir. Would you like your door slammed hard enough to come off its hinges or just sufficient to break the glass?’

TURIN

Fabio Goria chain-smokes as he drives. ‘We are not going far. Across the river, about six kilometres south-east, into the
forest. Craxi and his wife own a holiday lodge – a place to hide. They put it under her maiden name.’

It’s raining heavily now. As he looks out of the window, Nic can’t see much beyond the edge of the highway. ‘You said they
were hiding. What or who are they hiding from?’

Goria looks his way. ‘I hoped you could tell me that.’

‘The Carabinieri?’

‘Possible but unlikely.’ The PI takes a last draw of his cigarette and flicks it through the window slit, a tumbling red
firefly crashing and bouncing in the blackness. ‘If I were hiding from the Carabinieri, I would not do it on my own doorstep
at a place they could easily trace.’

‘Then I don’t know. Things don’t add up at the moment. But my instinct tells me Craxi is connected to my case and to the Shroud.’

‘The Sacra Sindone has more than its fair share of mysteries. You have learned a little about it?’

‘Only from a fake verger. So I have a trust problem.’

‘Ill seldom comes from trusting strangers too little.’

‘Is that a wise old Italian saying?’

‘My father’s.’

‘And is he wise and old?’

Goria laughs. ‘Not really. He died in his forties of alcoholism, but he left his impressions, like most parents do.’

Nic looks out of the window at the flat fields rushing past. The last of the city lights have gone. The car is picking up
speed down a dual carriageway heading into the countryside. ‘Given what you said about Craxi and his service record, is it
a good idea to go surprising him in the dead of night?’

‘You are right, even though Craxi is almost sixty, he could snap your neck and bury you in the dirt like a dog does a bone.
So we will not be alone and not giving him that opportunity.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Five minutes later the Fiat turns off the Corso Chieri and down a tight, winding road heading to the Strada Communale di Valpiana.
Goria kills the headlights as he slows almost to a
halt and then eases the car onto a bumpy stone track running off to the right. ‘We stop here and walk.’

Nic unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out in the misty rain and closes the door as quietly as possible.

As they trudge into the woods, the Italian takes out a cell phone and sends a short pre-written SMS to one of his team. A
minute later the phone vibrates in his hand. He stops and turns to Nic. ‘Now I make a call. The person who answers will be
Roberto Craxi.’

Nic looks surprised.

‘One of my men slipped a phone through a window vent when Craxi went out in his car this evening. When he finds it he will
not touch it. Only when he is sure that it is not an explosive, will he pick up.’ Goria makes the call.

As expected it rings out without any answer.

‘The tone is distinctive,’ says the PI, almost mischievously, as he calls again. ‘You know the Pink Panther?’

‘Of course. Henry Mancini – you picked it because he’s an Italian composer?’

‘No.’ The call fails once more and he dials for a third time. ‘No, not Italian – Mancini was American. His family, though,
come from Abruzzo, as do Roberto’s.’ Suddenly he pulls the phone from his ear and thrusts it at Nic. ‘It’s him.’

Nic grabs the handset. ‘Mr Craxi, please don’t hang up, I’m—’

The line is already dead.

‘He’s gone.’

‘Keep trying. Press redial.’

Nic tries again and listens to the call connect.

He’s picked up.

‘Mr Craxi, my name is Nic Karakandez.’ He tries to cram in as much as possible to stop him hanging up again. ‘I’m from the
LAPD and I have to talk to you.’

This time the line doesn’t go dead. Nic can tell the connection is still live. There’s an eerie silence broken by the crackle
of electronic static. ‘I need your help. I have to talk to you about Tamara Jacobs and your relationship with her.’

There is still no answer.

Nic ploughs on. ‘Please. I know you are there. I know you are listening. I’ve come all the way from Los Angeles to talk to
you and I’d like to meet with you and ask a few questions.’

Still nothing.

‘Mr Craxi – Signore – will you see me? Can we meet somewhere?’

Just the hiss of cyber-silence.

Nic looks worried. He glances at Goria. ‘I’m not sure he’s there.’

‘Keep the line open,’ says the Italian. ‘We walk down here and in a few minutes you will see his lodge and my men.’

Nic keeps talking as they weave their way through the trees and down a soft, slippy embankment of wet soil and rotted leaves.
Through the wood comes the sight of yellow boxes of light. Windows. Goria reaches for his belt and unclips a military-standard
walkie-talkie, the type that
scrambles signals and allows you to talk to people up to five miles away.

Nic watches as he whispers in Italian. Watches as he repeats the message and waits. Watches as his face gradually changes.

‘There’s something wrong,’ says Goria. ‘Very wrong.’

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

Tyler Carter is either a wizard or an asshole. The Homicide Unit seems divided on the issue. A year-on-year record of turning
in the best clean-up rate in the state means the smart money is on him hitting captain within the next few years. What’s beyond
doubt is that the thirty-three-year-old is arrogant, introverted and disrespects almost everything and everyone.

Carter comes from banker wealth and can’t help but stand out from the crowd. He was supposed to tread the gold road like his
daddy and his granddaddy before him. Only he had other ideas. He wanted a badge and a gun, not a briefcase and diversified
share portfolio. Even Daddy and his millions couldn’t stand in the way. Wall Street’s loss turned out to be the LAPD’s gain.
Everything is going well. Or at least it was – until eight months ago.

Until the Creeper.

The Creeper is the name of the serial killer he’s hunting, a moniker the cops hope the press never get hold of. To date, the
perp has ten kills notched on his bedpost and there isn’t anyone on the task force who would be surprised to find at least
another ten down to him.

Mitzi Fallon sits at Carter’s desk learning what she’s let herself in for.

‘The nickname comes from the fact the guy’s never been seen—’

‘Never?’

Carter flashes her a steely look. ‘I don’t like interruptions. If you need clarification, wait and ask at the end.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Let me finish and you won’t need to ask unnecessary questions. The perp has never been seen. He creeps into the homes of
women living alone and kills them in their sleep.’

Mitzi’s about to ask how but decides to save it.

‘Always the same MO. He pulls a bed sheet or quilt tight around their arms and legs so they can’t struggle. He kneels on them
and chokes them manually.’ Tyler guesses what’s in her mind. ‘Left-handed, always only one hand. ME says there’s evidence
in some cases he put his right hand over their mouths.’

Mitzi wonders if the victims bit him, if there was a chance of DNA.

‘We got genetic fingerprints from the first and third victims – first and third we know of, that is. I’ll give you files.
First was hair and saliva. Shin hairs and wool sock fluff – caught on the side of the bed when he climbed up on the vic. Third
was flesh and blood from a bite when he put his right hand over her mouth. Before you ask, yes, we ran database searches.
The guy has no record and the FBI drew blanks as well. I even checked with Canadian police. You can ask questions now.’

She looks across and takes him in – the chiselled, well-shaven face, clear blue eyes, immaculately cut short, dark and grey-free
hair, beautiful black suit and crisp white shirt. Perfect. Too perfect. ‘Do you ever laugh, get drunk, jerk off or have any
vices?’

‘No.’ His voice is as cold as his eyes.

‘Good. Only I’d hate to think there was anything normal about you.’ She gets up from her seat.

‘Where you going? I’m not finished.’

‘Tampon. I have a particularly heavy period at the moment and I need to change my sanitary product as quickly as possible.
I’m using the super-strength version – maximum protection it says on the box – to absorb as much of the menstrual flow as
possible for as long as possible. You can ask more when I’m done.’

His perfect jaw drops.

Mitzi turns and smiles pleasantly as she opens the door. ‘I’ll bring us both coffee on the way back. Then maybe we can round
off with a summary of exactly what you want me to do and I can tell you exactly how I need to be treated in order for you
to get me to do it.’

TURIN

The two men hurry to the bottom of the steep embankment. Nic drops back as Goria jerks the black butt of a gun out of his
belt.

In the soft earth and rotting leaves in front of them is the body of a man. Motionless.

Then slowly moving. Alive not dead, but certainly injured. Goria drops to one knee beside the prone figure. He points his
gun into the half-light spilling from the lodge twenty metres away. Then he shines a torch into the injured man’s face. ‘Are
you okay?’

‘Someone hit me.’ The man’s fingers go to the back of his head. ‘I’m sorry.’ He struggles to his feet and looks dizzy.

The private detective steadies him, gives him time before pressing him for more information on the attack. Nic moves towards
the log cabin. He hears a sudden sound. A rustle in the open, over to one side of the building. Like an animal caught in bushes
trying to shake free. He steps closer, stands off about five metres.

‘Fabio,’ he whispers.

The Italian looks round and slides away from his injured colleague.

Nic points towards the thick shrub and says, ‘In there.’

Goria takes a breath, swings over his light and gun. The beam picks out a scratched and bleeding face. A human face. A woman’s
face.

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

Mitzi puts two mugs of black coffee on Tyler Carter’s desk. ‘I figured you didn’t do cream or sugar.’

‘You figured right.’ He takes the drink nearest him. ‘Matthews said good things about you.’

She takes it as a thawing of the ice. ‘Nice to know. He mention anything about a raise, promotion or early retirement?’

Carter almost smiles. ‘Not that I heard. Jordan’s illness has come at a bad time.’

‘For him or for you?’

‘Both. I’m not as cold as I look. He may be a drunk but he was a better cop than most. Jay gave a hundred per cent effort
a hundred per cent of the time. Point is, our killer is due. Overdue for that matter.’

‘You know I’m still working the Tamara Jacobs case?’

‘Matthews said. Out-of-town hit by the sound of it. Help me out on this – really help me out – and I’ll give you men and brains
to clear up your file.’

‘Deal.’

Carter reaches behind and grabs two handfuls of manila files. ‘Forensics, psych profiles and crime pattern analysis on the
Creeper. Read and digest.’

‘You said he was
overdue.’

‘Kill pattern shrank from nine months to six, then to three. Held at twelve weeks for two kills, then we had another last
month and one more just twelve days ago.’

‘He’s escalating.’

‘Probably doesn’t know it, probably thinks he’s got everything under control and is feeling at his most powerful.’

‘But he’s not?’

‘You worked a serial before?’

She shakes her head. ‘A double murder, but both killed at the same time. Two serial rapes. One with more than a dozen attacks
to the bastard’s name.’

‘Similar and not similar. Rape is usually about power and sexuality, the offender often goes to excess to control – ropes,
bindings, verbal threats and there can be signs of rage on the victim’s body. Serial murder can be a host of things. Our perp
isn’t sexual and there isn’t rage.’

‘Attacking a woman in her own bed at night isn’t sexual?’

Carter nods at the files he’s just given her. ‘No point to this conversation right now – you’re not properly informed. Read
the profiles, then we’ll talk more.’

A knowing smile starts to crease her lips. ‘C’mon, you’re holding back. If you need a hundred per cent effort, you’ve got
to give me a hundred per cent information.’