The Turin Shroud Secret (33 page)

‘Was there ever anyone who meant anything to her?’

She thinks on it. ‘There was one guy. She hung out with him for about six months, till his wife found out.’

Mitzi taps the paper. ‘Name.’

‘D’rick Watts.’ She starts to write it out. ‘Fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.’

‘Why she like him?’

‘Dunno. He was kind to her. Bought her stuff sometimes. Not many guys do that. Lives over the tile shop at the Pomona Freeway
end of East 6th. I can’t remember the name of it. Watch for his old lady, she got a temper.’

‘What about Kim’s family, any beef there?’

‘Like I told the uniform, she got no folks. Never knew her old man and her mom ran out when she was a kid in
Vegas. She was brought up in care homes and some fostering.’

The interview room door squeaks open and the big moonface of Deke Matthews rises through the gap. ‘Fallon, step out here a
minute.’

Mitzi looks towards Jenny. ‘How could a girl refuse?’

The captain holds the door, then shuts it behind her once Mitzi’s walked through. ‘Have you heard from Karakandez?’

‘Not had the pleasure.’

‘Then you better call the son of a bitch and find out what the hell he’s been playing at.’

‘Captain?’

‘I’ve just had a call from the Carabinieri in Turin. Nicky boy and a private investigator broke into a house today – one where
two adults were subsequently found dead.’

‘Dead?’

He glares at her. ‘You want me to explain dead?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Karakandez then fled, having first interfered with the scene and removed forensic evidence.’

‘This can’t be as it seems, Captain.’

‘You’re right, Detective – it can’t be.’ He looks past her into the interview room. ‘Sort out that low-life in there, get
hold of your boy and clear this mess up before I have the Commissioner coming down here with a bat for my balls.’

Matthews storms off. Mitzi takes a beat before re-entering the interview room. She has to force herself to stop thinking about
Nic and focus again on the murder. She pins
on a smile for Harrison and picks up the questioning. ‘Was Kim working over the last few weeks?’

Harrison gives her a sideward look.

‘Day job – not night work.’

Now she understands. ‘Yeah. We work the same place. Pull in minimum wage at a sweat shop in the fashion district.’

‘Where?’

‘Fahed Fabrics, West Olympic Boulevard. I got her the job.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Sewing. Cutting. Piecing trash together. Mainly bed sheets, curtains, stuff like that.’

LA’s fashion district covers a hundred blocks. Mitzi knows it inside out. Running a home on short purse strings means frequenting
reject shops and warehouse sales. ‘A lot of she cats thrown together. I guess that can lead to some fights.’

‘Yeah, sometimes. Mostly we all get on.’ Jenny peers into her coffee cup. ‘Any chance of a refill?’

‘Sure. We’ll take a break in a minute. Just finish telling me about your co-workers. Did Kim pick fights with any of them?’

‘No one messed with her – or me. We had some fun, you know. There was always a bit of bitching going on but no one disrespected
us.’

Mitzi comes at it from another angle. ‘Is there a chance you went too far with anyone – crossed the line at all?’

‘What d’ya mean?’

‘Gave someone reason to carry a grudge?’

Harrison scratches at an eyebrow. ‘Not now. There was a girl, but she quit. Emma, Emma Varley. Teacher’s pet – you know the
type, worked so freakin’ hard we all looked like slackers next to her. We used to roast her a bit.’ Harrison puts two fingers
to her left cheek. ‘She’s got a birthmark here and was always tryin’ to hide it, so the harder she worked the cover the more
we gave her.’

‘She ever turn violent?’

‘You’re jerking me, right?’ Harrison laughs. ‘She wouldn’t know how. Girl’s a mouse.’

‘Mice can be dangerous – go ask an elephant. This place, Fahed Fabrics, who runs it – a Mister Fahed, or his wife?’

‘It’s a mister but we don’t see him much, maybe once a month. He’s got a couple of places downtown, all rag shops. Factory’s
run by a supervisor named James. We call him Fish Face.’

‘First name or last?’

Harrison frowns.

‘James, not Fish or Face.’

‘Last. I don’t know his first name. He can’t tell shit from Shinola.’ She thinks for a second. ‘To be fair, he’s been okay
the last few days. He rang you guys for me, tried to find out if Kim was in trouble and needed bail.’ She touches her cup
again. ‘I really need that caffeine now. Either that or you let me have some weed.’

‘Coffee’s all you’re getting.’ Mitzi waves the bunch of papers that Harrison has written on. ‘I’ll have a pot sent
through while I get people working on these names and see if Robbery have had your door fixed.’

‘Pot would be cool.’

‘Pot of coffee.’ Mitzi heads out of the room.

‘Hey, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure?’

‘Why are you being nice to me? I mean, most people think I’m a clownbitch and they treat me like shit. So why?’

‘Maybe because you’re
not
shit. Maybe it’s your life that’s shit and you just smell of life.’ Mitzi walks back to the table. ‘Get through all this
and start again, Jenny. Help me catch who killed your friend and you’ll have done something good. Wiped the slate clean. Then
you’ll be able to tell yourself you deserve a new beginning.’

Harrison nods and for a second Mitzi thinks she almost made a connection. If she’d caught this kid a few years back, maybe
she could have turned her life around.

FRANCE

Ursula Broussard is dressed modestly in a white silk blouse and ankle-length blue pleated skirt. The only real clues to her
wealth are the rows of pearls around her neck, the thick gold wedding band and huge engagement diamond on her finger.

‘I know this is going to sound strange,’ says Nic, as they stand in the study, ‘but I need you both to leave this house and
I need you to do it as quickly as possible.’ He locks his attention first on Édouard. ‘Earlier today I saw the body of your
former colleague, Monsieur Broussard. He had been tortured and killed in his bed in Turin. Murdered by a man who took his
life without a second thought.’ He switches his focus to Ursula. ‘The young woman Sacconi had been sleeping with had also
been killed –
after
she had been tied up and gagged.’

Madame Broussard covers her mouth and presses against her husband. He puts on a brave face for the sake of his wife. ‘Do you
know why?’

‘We
both
know why.’ Nic gives him a look that says it’s time to cut the crap. ‘You analysed DNA taken – correction,
stolen –
from the Shroud of Turin. Now someone is prepared to kill you because of what you found.’

Ursula speaks before her husband can answer. ‘How did you get our address, Monsieur?’

‘Erica Craxi gave it to me.’

She nods then asks, hesitantly, ‘Are they all right? Erica and Roberto?’

Nic doesn’t want to lie. ‘Not exactly. Roberto is missing – still alive, we think. Erica, though,
is
safe. I made sure of it myself.’

Ursula cups her hand and says something quietly in French that Nic can neither properly hear nor understand.

But Édouard does. Édouard has done many foolish things
in life, mostly for money, but he seldom if ever ignores the advice of his wife of thirty years. Without speaking he walks
to a wooden wall panel behind the detective and presses it hard with the palm of his right hand. A door pops open. He swings
it wide, revealing a squat black safe half a metre by half a metre, with a twist dial combination. It takes the urbane scientist
almost thirty seconds to twirl in a complicated sequence of numbers. Finally he pulls down on a heavy steel bar and swings
the door open.

Nic checks his watch. He’s been in the house almost ten minutes. Six hundred seconds for Mario Sacconi’s killer to close in
on them.

The Frenchman lifts out the only thing in the safe – an A4-sized envelope, sealed and taped. ‘This is it.’ He holds it out.
‘Everything. The full results. The original transparency. The data file and the last remains of the sample.’

Nic takes it from him and rips open the top. Inside is a glossy A4 of what looks like a giant barcode. It’s a genetic fingerprint.
Maybe the most important one in the world. Maybe God’s DNA? Or it could be just that of an unknown stranger? There’s a small
plastic envelope containing dark scrapings and a tiny, eight-gigabyte microchip for a USB port. There are notes and letters
too. Typed and handwritten documents in Italian and French. Another in English. From Tamara Jacobs to Robert Craxi.

Nic looks up. Not at Édouard. It’s clear to him now who makes the major decisions in the Broussard household. ‘Madame, we
need to leave here – straight away.’

‘Then we leave.’ Ursula Broussard opens the office door. ‘Our lives are in your hands, Monsieur.’

Édouard Broussard presses the zapper on his key ring and the electronic iron gates at the rear of the villa swing open. He
drives the black BMW 7 almost silently from the driveway out into the side street.

Nic is in the back, head down, gun levelled just below the window line. Ursula uses the in-car phone to make several calls
as her husband takes them west along the Promenade. The ocean crashes white and noisy on their left. Grand hotels flash past
on their right. Nic scans traffic on all sides. He uses the driver’s rear-view and side mirrors to aid his surveillance of
the front and anything that comes up alongside. ‘How long will it take us to get there?’ he asks.

‘Ten minutes, no more,’ says Ursula, leaning between the front seats.

‘Don’t look at me,’ snaps Nic. ‘Turn around. It’s just you and your husband in the car, remember.’

‘Pardon,’
she says, startled by his lack of manners.

Nic doesn’t care. Whoever snatched Roberto Craxi – a former special operative – needs no advantage against a middle-class
married couple and a jet-lagged cop.

The car slows into a rolling jam as a large truck crosses
both carriageways. Traffic around them struggles to get through and horns blaze.

Nic grows tense. A jam is a bad place to be. They’re going to be sitting ducks. The car in front comes to a standstill and
Édouard is forced to halt the big BMW. Nic sees a motorbike coming up in the rear-view – slaloming the stranded cars behind
them – searching for openings. The rider is clad in black leathers and a full face helmet. Perfect cover for an assassin.
Nic slides across the back seat, braces himself against a door pillar and grips the gun with both hands.

The bike weaves around the cars. Pulls level with the window of the passenger side rear door. Nic levels the Beretta at the
helmeted head. The car’s windows are heavily tinted and he presumes the rider can’t see him. The bike edges forward. Its engine
growls. Nic’s finger tightens on the trigger. The rider edges level with Ursula Broussard.

Nic repositions and sizes up a shot over her shoulder. No point going for the Kevlar-protected head, it’ll have to be either
the neck or body. Suddenly, there’s a roar. The bike dips to the right. Nic leans left. He swings his arms across. It’s gone.
The motorbike races off. Just the noise remains. A throaty roar to confirm an explosion of gasoline and exhaust fumes trailing
through a narrow gap in traffic. Nothing more.

The guy was just being nosy. He simply wanted a gawp inside the top of the range sedan to see what it was like and what kind
of person can afford a vehicle worth more than a
hundred thousand euros. Nic breathes more easily as the jam frees up and they spot signs for the Côte D’Azur airport.

The cell phone on the passenger seat rings.

Ephrem picks it up. ‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’ Carlotta Cappelini asks in a brusque manner.

‘I am outside the villa. Their lights are on. I can see the vehicle the American was driving.’

She knows he means Fabio Goria’s Fiat. ‘They’re not there. Neither is the American.’

He scans the grounds. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I just said. Our communications unit picked up a GPS lock on Édouard Broussard’s phone. As it was moving west
at a speed of fifty kilometres an hour, it is reasonable to think it is in his car and they are heading to the airport.’

He starts the engine. ‘Do you still have the signal?’

‘Si.’
She looks at the map on her computer monitor and the flashing orange dot. ‘Get moving and I will direct you.’

He slips off the handbrake and pulls out into the main road along the Promenade.

‘Did you stop the parcel being shipped?’

He was afraid she’d ask that question. ‘I was too late. It had gone.’

‘Too late?’

He chooses not to explain what had delayed him. He couldn’t leave Craxi to die a slow death in that tomb, nor could he afford
the risk that the man might escape.

Cappelini is furious. ‘What if someone in the parcel office recognised you or gives your description to anyone?’

‘They will not.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I am sure. All that is left of them are ashes. Ashes cannot speak.’

Édouard Broussard hands his car keys to a uniformed valet at the Sheraton Hotel, directly opposite the airport.

Too late to get flights out of the country, Nic and the Broussards have booked rooms and will leave first thing in the morning.
Ursula will head to a friend’s home in Switzerland – a senior diplomat with twenty-four-hour security. Nic and Édouard will
fly to Paris and catch a connection to LA where full statements will be taken by the homicide squad. Or at least that’s Nic’s
plan to keep everyone safe and get himself off the inquiry.

They collect their keys and haul the small bags they
hurriedly packed to adjoining rooms on the third floor. Nic bolts and chains Ursula’s and jams a chair beneath the handle
for good measure. He and Édouard retreat to the other room and Nic secures the door in the same way.