Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (40 page)

“You're on.”

They walked to the concierge's desk. The woman smiled and ran one hand over her shiny blond hair. Her smile changed into a frown when Caro asked about Villa Primaverina.

“It's on one of the islands,” the concierge said with a faint German accent.

“Isla Carbonera?” Caro asked.

The woman gave a short nod.

“What's the best way to get there?” Caro asked.

“You can't.” The concierge narrowed her eyes. “It is private. No tourist boats go there.”

“Surely you can arrange a water taxi.”

“Are you a guest at the Bauer?”

Jude slid a fifty-euro note over the woman's desk. “Does the Signore Raphael Della Rocca live at Villa Primaverina?” he asked.

“He owns the island.”

“Who is he?” Caro asked.

“A rich man who hates tourists.”

“We need to see him,” Jude said.

“You would have better luck at the Vatican.”

“It's important.”

“I can arrange a private water taxi, but it will be expensive.” The concierge tapped an ink pen against her palm. “Make sure the boat stays. You don't want to be stranded.”

“Why not?”

“It's a long swim back.”

 

Moose put his fingers into his ears, trying to block the sound of the girl's screams, but the hotel's walls were thin. The Zubas were in the next room, and each time the girl wailed, the men told her to squeal louder.

No one will ring the bloody police
, Moose thought.
Not in this stink-hole.

“Put a bung in it!” He threw a shoe at the wall.

Everything had gone pear-shaped earlier that night after the Zubas had butchered the young couple. Next, they'd stalked a girl in a green dress and dragged her to their room. Moose didn't know what they were doing, but it wasn't love bites or the old rumpy-bumpy. Drinking blood was one thing, dismemberment was another.

He cringed as one of the Zubas yelled something in Russian. The woman shrieked. Moose wished he had an iPod. He'd turn it up full blast, listening to Leona Lewis sing “Bleeding Love”—God, what a set of pipes.

The girl whimpered. There was a pause, and the Zubas laughed.

Moose's mobile phone vibrated, skidding on the table's smooth surface. He snatched it up and grimaced when he recognized Wilkerson's number.
Pip-pip, cheerio, and all that rot
, he thought.

“You're blown,” Wilkerson said. “Find the Zubas and meet me at the airport.”

“Now? But I thought the Clifford girl was here.” Moose glanced at the wall. The pictures were shaking.

“You can't track her now. The police are looking for you and the Zubas. Someone reported a disturbance at the Hotel San Gallo—were you there?”

“Not by myself, mate.” Moose exhaled through his teeth. “I told you not to bring the Zubas. They're wreaking havoc. First off, they killed a couple. Said it was the Clifford girl and her fellow. I told them they had the wrong people, but no, the Zubas think they're bright sparks. They butchered the pair. Dumped their body parts into the canal.”

“Why didn't you stop them?”

“Two against one?” Moose cried. “Against
them
? I told you I wouldn't be piggy-in-the-middle. And
you
said you'd take care of it, that you'd drug them.”

“It was supposed to work. I don't understand.” Wilkerson sighed. “Were there any witnesses?”

“There always are.” From next door, a screech rose up. Moose rolled his eyes.
Cor blimey.

“Did you clean it up?” Wilkerson asked.

“Yes, ducky. And it will cost you extra.”

“Find the Zubas and bring them to the airport.”

“They're engaged at the moment.”

“Doing what?”

“They snatched another girl. They're with her now.” Moose held out the phone for a moment. “Do you hear the yelling? And that's just the love bites, I'm afraid.”

“Ruddy fuck!”

“I'm sure they did that, too, before they—”

“Never mind,” Wilkerson snapped. “Get them.”

Bugger that. I'm out of here
. Moose disconnected the call. Next door, the screaming snapped off. He dug through the desk and found the number for the Venice police.

“Two men have butchered a woman at the Hotel Domus Cavanis. Room forty-five. Hurry.”

He left the hotel, cut across St. Mark's Square, and caught a water taxi to the airport. Two police boats sped by, toward Vaporetto No. 1, where he'd just left.
That was quick
, Moose thought, and leaned against the tufted seat.

When he stepped on the Learjet, Wilkerson was sitting in the back, reading
USA Today
. He lowered the paper, and his glasses slid down his long nose. “Where are the Zubas?”

“Apparently someone heard the woman's screams and called the police.”

“The police have the Zubas?”

“It's possible, mate.”

“I'll tend to them later.” Wilkerson folded the newspaper and stood. “I've got to tell the pilot to submit a new flight plan. We're flying to Bulgaria.”

“Is that where the Clifford girl has gone?”

“No, she's still in Venice. But your work here is finished.”

“Because of the blooming Zubas?”

“Not entirely. I've got to see a man about a dog,” said Wilkerson.

“A real dog?” Moose squinted.

“No, Moose.” Wilkerson started down the aisle toward the cockpit, then turned his head. “You have absolutely no sense of humor, do you? It's just my way of saying ‘Sod off,' but in a kinder, gentler way.”

Moose smirked. “Aren't you the lad.”

 

The water taxi skidded past Isla Murano toward a brightly lit island with a steep, medieval wall. The driver pointed, shouting into the wind, “Villa Primaverina.”

The taxi puttered around the wall toward a rectangular landing. Behind it, the villa rose up. It reminded Caro of a floating hotel, a four-story Italianate the color of oyster shells. Grand, curved steps plunged down to the water.

Nearly every window in the villa glowed.
A generator?
Caro wondered.
Underwater cables?
The taxi passed a sign:
Proprieta Privata—Guardi da dei Cani.
Guard dogs? The concierge hadn't been kidding. Signore Della Rocca didn't want guests. The boat chugged around floats and buoys and approached the rock landing. A tall man with a crew cut stepped out of the shadows. He smoothed his hands down the front of a white dinner jacket, then he straightened a red bow tie.

The Signore?
Caro mused.

Lights shone down on the man's scalp, the fine hairs jutting up like wires. His long chin was knobby and dented like a potato. As the water taxi coasted to the landing, Caro saw a sailboat, a yacht, and a speedboat. The tall man glared.
“Proprietà privata.”
The driver's knees shook as he explained that Caro and Jude were behind the insubordination.

“Vaffanculo!”
The tall man lifted one finger and drew a circle in the air.

“What's he saying?” Jude asked.

“The island is private. He told us to leave, but in a rude way. I'm telling him about my uncle.” Caro stood up and the boat swayed.
“Ascoltami!”
she called.
“Il mio zio è un amico del Signore Della Rocca.”

“I speak English,” the tall man said. “Who is your uncle? And who are you?”

Caro detected a slight German accent mingled with Italian. “Could we speak privately?” she asked. She didn't know if Sky News reached this island, but even if it didn't, she was leery of giving her name.

“No,” the tall man said. “State your business or leave.”

Jude unzipped his backpack and jotted a note on a napkin.
Sir Nigel Clifford's niece must see Della Rocca about a triptych.
Then he passed it up to the frowning tall man.

Panic twisted through Caro's stomach as she watched the man read the note. After a moment, he opened a mobile phone and pivoted, giving a full view of his mammoth shoulders. His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke into the phone.

The driver spat in the water. “The police will come now.”

The tall man turned. “Signore Della Rocca will see you.”

The driver scrambled to his feet and helped Caro out of the boat. Jude hopped out with their bags. Caro saw a flash of green as wild parakeets flitted into the olive trees.

“This way.” The tall man strode ahead, his shoes clapping over the stone path.

“Nice chap.” Jude frowned. “Large vocabulary, too.”

The island wasn't landscaped so much as sculpted. Stone nymphs danced around a fountain. Further out, boxwood hedges formed crosses. Next to the front steps, topiaries were carved into mythological beasts.

Caro followed the tall man to a terrace. Stone gargoyles peered down from an upper balcony. Music drifted from the house, and she recognized the rhythmic beat of “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. It was about raw, animalistic sex. Phoebe used to play it all the time.

The music lent a jarring note in this sumptuous atmosphere. Caro wondered just how old Della Rocca was.

Jude grabbed her arm. “I don't like this,” he whispered.

The tall man strode toward the main entrance, up rough marble steps to a terrace. Caro stared at the man's wide shoulders. She could have set teacups on them with room for scones and clotted cream. He stepped past the life-sized statuary and opened a massive front door.

Caro stepped into a vestibule, and her reflection moved over a black-and-white checkerboard floor. A grand staircase curved up into the gloom. The tall man strode toward an arched hallway. Caro started to follow, then she heard a tinkling noise and looked up. A six-tiered crystal chandelier swayed from a domed ceiling, the prisms trembling in rhythm with the eerie music. Perhaps Signore Della Rocca was a heavy metal musician.

A word floated into her mind:
Hardly.
She looked up to see if Jude had spoken. But his lips were clamped together. Her mind was playing tricks. She stared at the oil paintings that lined the staircase wall, hunting dogs biting into feathered things.

The music changed to a Type O Negative song. As the goth-metal band sang “Haunted,” their dark, heavy voices echoed like liturgical chants.

“Odd music selections, wouldn't you say?” Jude whispered.

“Depends on what you call odd,” she said. “At least it's not Cradle of Filth.”

They caught up with the tall man in the hall. The violent artwork continued, with hunt scenes giving way to Hieronymus Bosch paintings. Caro peeked into a large, formal room with French antiques grouped around a zebra rug. A bombé chest held a collection of crosses. She relaxed. Crosses didn't mesh with vampires or devil worshippers.

The disturbing music got louder when their escort flung open double doors and directed them into a windowless library.

A man with long platinum-blond hair sat in a plush Bergere chair, petting a small black dog with a monkey face. It growled, the dark eyes shifting from Caro to Jude.

“I am Signore Raphael Della Rocca,” the blond man said with a faint Italian accent. “Welcome to Villa Primaverina.”

Caro had been expecting an older fellow, but Signore Della Rocca looked to be Jude's age, early thirties, maybe even younger. His dark eyes and brows made a striking contrast against his pale hair. He wore a black shirt and faded jeans with gaping holes.

Caro started to introduce herself, but Della Rocca held up his hand.

“I know who you are,” he said. “Sky News claims you're dangerous.”

“I can explain,” she said, pushing down a fresh surge of panic.

“Please do.” Della Rocca gestured at a carved settee. Jude tucked his bag under a table and sat down. Caro continued to stand, clutching her bag. In case she had to run, she'd be ready.

“Beppe thinks you are disturbed by my music.” Della Rocca nodded at the tall man. “But I think you are disturbed by me. Whatever the cause, not to worry. I have changed the selections. I trust they will be to your satisfaction.”

Beppe?
Caro glanced at the man. He stood beside the doors and stared straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back. She wondered when, and how, he'd shared this information with his employer.

Della Rocca sat down. Pearl Jam began to sing “Alive,” something their host was clearly not. Della Rocca laughed. “Perhaps you prefer Smashing Pumpkins? Or Sting?”

She narrowed her eyes. Only a moment earlier, she'd hoped he would play something by Sting.

Caro glanced around the library, wishing she could poke through the books. “Your villa is lovely,” she said.

“Grazie mille,”
Della Rocca said. “A house like this would be unbearable without books. And yes, you may look at them later.”

She tilted her head. Had she spoken out loud? She looked at Jude to see if he'd heard, but he was talking to the dog. The animal showed its teeth, then lurched forward and snapped.

“No!” Della Rocca snapped his fingers at the dog. “Bad Arrapato!”

“
Arrapato
means ‘horny,' ” Caro told Jude, who immediately withdrew his hand. The dog's silver tags jingled, and he showed his teeth again.

You speak Italian?
asked Della Rocca.

“Yes,” she said.