Four hours later, they landed in Florence, Remi rubbing her eyes with exhaustion. She should have snatched some sleep on the plane, but she had been too excited. They were closing in on the killerl she could feel it.
Even better, by a lucky coincidence, the purchaser of Pestilence lived in the very same city that housed the archives for the archaeological excavation of the Church of Saint Pantaleon of Nicomedia, the church marked on the map hidden inside the cryptex. Perhaps she’d find the time to duck into the archives in the middle of the investigation.
Perhaps? No, she must find the time.
Luckily, they had been able to get to Florence quickly. Torsson had to flash his badge to get them onto a flight that was just departing Paris. Now they headed for the taxi stand just outside the terminal so they could go to the home of Pier Paolo Manetti, the famous Italian TV host. Torsson had gotten his address from the bill of sale.
As soon as they got off the plane, the Interpol agent had called the Florentine police to ask for a situation report. They had informed him that Manetti was lunching at his usual restaurant, a place not far from his house called Marco’s. They sent him the address and said that if he followed his usual pattern, he’d go home after lunch.
“Good,” Torsson said, speaking passable Italian. “Give us the number of the man you have on him.”
Remi watched as Torsson’s face hardened. “What? This is important. I know you have other work but … well get him back as quickly as you can.”
He hung up and turned to Remi and Daniel.
“They only have a man on him part-time. They’re overstretched. Apparently, they’re following some terror suspects as well. Several Iraqis and Syrians on the watch list have come to Florence in the past couple of days. And they have most of their remaining plainclothes officers in the major crowds because it’s tourist season.”
“This is Florence,” Remi objected. “It’s always tourist season.”
Torsson shrugged.
“Do you think the terror suspects might be linked to the painting?” Remi asked.
“I doubt it. We haven’t found any connections like that so far. Come on,” Daniel said impatiently, heading for the taxi stand. “Let’s get to him as quick as we can.”
They hurried out of the airport and grabbed a taxi. As Remi sat in the back seat, she looked out the window with an eagerness bordering on glee. Not only were they close on the trail of the murderer—whether it turned out to be Manetti or not—but they were now in the same city where the archives were for the church she needed to explore.
Perfect.
The murder first, she reminded herself. Those archives aren’t going anywhere.
Remi tried to focus on the case, thinking through what they knew so far.
Remi had actually spoken with Manetti once on the phone a couple of years ago. He had been preparing a show on the cryptex and other medieval mysteries and wanted her as a guest.
“Aren’t you the fellow who talks with people who claim to be lizard aliens?” she had asked.
“Oh, you saw that episode? Do you think there might be a connection between the invaders from the constellation Draco and the cryptex?”
She had hung up.
Now she had to meet this idiot in person.
Idiot, yes, but a useful idiot. The fact that he had purchased the painting for 180,000 euros showed he had a serious interest in it, and that he thought it held some deep occult truth.
That confirmed Remi’s gut feeling that the stars in each painting had some sort of significance. Perhaps they linked together to spell out a message or code.
The killer obviously thought so. He obviously wanted to collect all four.
Sitting in the taxi from the airport with the two lawmen, Remi had a horrible thought. What if the killer already had one of the paintings before he started the killing spree? Maybe he only needed to get this one final painting to achieve his goal?
Would that stop the killings, or only lead to a mass slaughter? What was the killer building up to?
“Daniel, what do you think the killer is after?” she asked. “What would a man obsessed with the Apocalypse want?”
Daniel, sitting next to her, grimaced. “Nothing good. He got really showy in the way he killed his first two victims.” Remi shuddered at the way he said this, assuming, like her, that there would be more. “I think he wants to strike out in self-destructive nihilism. Like school shooters. They want to die like your regular teen suicide case, but they’re different because they want to take a bunch of people with them. Your usual teen suicide shows hatred for themselves. School shooters hate themselves and everyone else. They want to prove to the world that nothing matters.”
“So this is what we’re facing,” Remi murmured.
“It’s just a theory, but yeah. That’s what my gut tells me.”
“Your ‘gut’ and mine agree,” Remi said and sighed.
Torsson, sitting next to the driver, glanced at them through the rearview mirror.
“You’ve hunted serial killers before?” he asked.
Daniel gave him a bitter smile. “Me, plenty of times. This is only her second.”
The Swede looked shocked. “I’ve been an officer for almost fifteen years and never tackled a serial killer case.”
“They rarely go international,” Daniel explained. “Sometimes the perpetrators don’t have the means or the self-control. More often they’re simply creatures of habit, staying within a well-known region to commit their crimes.”
“Except this one,” Torsson said.
“Lucky us,” Daniel replied with false delight. “Although our man might not fit the exact definition of a serial killer, at least not yet. He wants the paintings and has some sort of grudge against those who own them. Remi here thinks they have occult symbolism, so maybe he sees the legal owners as rivals in the spellcasting business. And yes, I do think he’s going to escalate. No one goes around bumping people off who don’t need to be and then suddenly throws up his hands, shouts ‘I’m done,’ and retires to Florida.”
Torsson nodded. “I’ll need to liaise with the local Interpol office. Set up the practicalities of our investigation here. It’s not far from the highway into the city. I’ll have the driver drop me off there and you can proceed to Manetti’s home.”
“But we’re going to Manetti’s right now!” Daniel objected.
Torsson shrugged. “Orders are orders. I’m sure you have bureaucracy in the FBI too.”
“We sure do,” Daniel grumbled. “But can’t you wait a couple of hours?”
“No, unfortunately I can’t. We have to check in immediately after we get to a new country. International law. Do you speak Italian?”
“I speak American,” Daniel grumbled.
And some French you don’t want to admit, Remi thought.
Torsson got on his phone. “I’ll send Remi the name and number of the plainclothes officer who has been assigned to Manetti. Unfortunately, he just went off duty. He said he’d check on the suspect in half an hour.”
“We’ll get there first,” Remi said.
Torsson gave them a bitter smile. “Italian police are not the most efficient in the world. I can tell what they’re thinking: that a famous and slightly ridiculous TV personality couldn’t be a murderer, and that he wouldn’t be a target of a murderer in broad daylight since he’s so well-known. They are very good at rationalizing ways to not do their job. They did promise to watch his house all night, and I think they will actually do that.”
“We’ll have solved this by then,” Remi objected.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Daniel said. “All right. Go do your paperwork and join us as quick as you can.”
The taxi took a diversion into an office suburb with glass and steel buildings that spoke of none of the beauty for which Florence was famous. Leaving Torsson in front of a nondescript office with only a small sign to announce the presence of the world’s most important international law organization, Daniel and Remi proceeded to the center of town.
As they did, the matchless skyline of one of the world’s most beautiful cities came into view. Remi had seen it many times, and yet every time it lifted her heart and took her breath away.
They passed along a bridge spanning the Arno River, its banks lined with elegant old palazzos of stone that shone red in the brilliant Italian light. Beyond rose the marble and brick domes of the city’s great churches, and the solid spires of various towers erected by the great families of the Renaissance both as artistic statements and for defense. They did not rise as high as the famous ones in Bologna, as if their owners did not want to mar the exquisite skyline of their city.
Those towers had been necessary, Remi remembered, for as much as Renaissance Florence had been a center of art and learning, it had also been a whirlwind of backstabbing politics and intrigue. Back in those days, the lovely streets had been washed in blood.
And if they didn’t hurry, they would be again.
“Should we have called ahead to Manetti?” Remi wondered.
“We went through this,” Daniel replied. “If Manetti is the killer, we’d only end up warning him.”
“I suppose,” Remi said, fidgeting. “And it’s doubtful the killer could have learned about the sale and gotten here so quickly after Paris.”
“Right. He’d have to stash the painting, ditch that ridiculous King Arthur getup, and get here unobtrusively. Not something you can easily do in just a couple of days. Then, of course, he’d have to track down Manetti. We’ll question the guy and if we’re satisfied that he isn’t guilty, we’ll put him under police protection. I hope the cops here are better than their army.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Daniel snorted. “World War Two.”
“They didn’t fight so badly.”
“Spoken like a true Frenchwoman.”
“Oh, God! Typical American. You think you won World War Two all by yourselves, even though you came in two years late.”
“Well, we did win it.”
“No, the Russians were the ones to break the Germans’ back. The only thing the Americans and the other Allies did was to save Western Europe from Communism after the Soviets saved it from fascism.”
“You’re welcome.”
The taxi let them off in front of an old palazzo at the intersection of two narrow side streets. As Daniel paid the driver, Remi stared at the heavy wooden door, her heart pounding. Finally, she would see one of the paintings up close. Finally, she would speak to one of its owners.
Would he have any answers for her? He had seemed like a crank on the phone, and the few snippets of his show Remi had watched had not changed her perception, but he was deep into occultism and conspiracy theories. While all that was simple nonsense, he might have some valuable insights into the nature of the man they hunted.
Unless he was the man they hunted.
They needed to take care.
The taxi drove off, turned a corner, and went out of sight. No one was nearby on this little back street.
Quietly they crossed the street to the heavy wooden door studded with brass. Remi recognized it as 18th or 19th century, an imitation of old medieval portals. It had been a fashion in the early modern period to imitate the glories of the Middle Ages.
Remi was about to ring the worn ivory doorbell when Daniel put a hand on her arm. He nodded toward the door, and she saw it stood slightly ajar.
“Maybe I’m just a paranoid American who never made the world safe for democracy,” he whispered, “but I don’t think it’s normal to leave your front door open.”
“No,” she whispered back, “not even in Europe.”
Putting one hand on the butt of his pistol inside his jacket, Daniel used the other to push the door open. Both of them winced as it made a deep creaking sound.
A flight of worn marble steps led up to an interior door, also open.
Daniel stepped through and pulled out his gun.
“Is this legal?” Remi whispered.
“Not really, no,” Daniel whispered back.
Daniel tiptoed up the stairs, motioning for Remi to stay put. She hesitated until he was about halfway up, then followed.
She wasn’t about to be left behind, not when they were this close.
Her partner didn’t seem to notice her following, because without looking back he got to the top of the landing and disappeared through the door.
Remi got to the landing a few seconds later and found herself in a front hall adorned with engravings of religious subjects and battle scenes. Daniel was heading down a passage to the right. Remi saw a large room ahead to the left and made for it. Splitting up would cover more of the house more quickly.
Creeping down the hall, her footsteps muffled by a worn old carpet, the room slowly came into view. Oil paintings hung on the walls. Ornate Empire style side tables held antique clocks and delicate porcelain.
After another few steps, the entire room came into view.
Remi stopped short, frozen with fear.
A rotund little man lay face down in a pool of vomit, not moving. Another man, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, stood over him.
Remi took a sharp inhalation of breath. The stranger whipped around and saw her.