The Turin Shroud Secret (30 page)

‘Freakin’ stinks in here.’ Holly Caniffe holds her nose as she helps her husband to his feet.

Jenny sidesteps them and heads for the lounge. There’s no sign of Kim. She checks the small kitchen and eating area, dumb
bitch might be on the floor sleeping off some drug or other. Nothing. She’s starting to feel embarrassed. That smart-assed
cow Holly is probably right, Kim has been out clubbing somewhere and is with some guy.

She pushes open the bedroom door. On the floor is a body. A corpse. Wrapped head to toe in a white sheet from Kim’s bed.

TURIN

Two of the Carabinieri’s finest show Fabio Goria through to the interview room and leave him there to stew.

He’s not under arrest but he knows he so easily could be. Breaking and entering, carrying an unauthorised weapon, withholding
evidence, interfering with a crime scene – they’re going to throw the book at him.

It’s almost thirty minutes before Carlotta Cappelini breaks the room’s suffocating silence with a clunk of iron locks and
a steely gaze. She doesn’t speak until she settles in the black, moulded plastic chair opposite him and places a notebook
and pen on the bolted down table. ‘Nic Karakandez, where is he?’

Goria rests on his elbows and stares at her as he sucks up the question. It’s interesting she should start with that. Not
what were you doing at Mario Sacconi’s house? Not even what do you know about the two dead bodies upstairs?

Nic.

The Arma dei Carabinieri is more interested in the whereabouts of the LAPD cop.

Why? What are they afraid the American will do or say?

Goria leans back. ‘I don’t know. He asked for my car keys, I gave them to him and he left.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

Her face shows her annoyance. ‘Why did you give them to him and why did he leave so quickly?’

‘I gave them to him because he is a friend of a friend. And he left, I presume, because he did not want to stay.’

‘If you continue like this you’re going to make me—’

‘What?’ His eyes laugh at her. ‘Charge me?’ He shrugs. ‘We both know you are either going to do that or you’re not. Nothing
I say now can alter that.’

Captain Fusco’s voice comes from the doorway. ‘How about we take away your private investigator’s licence, Fabio?’

The PI stays poker faced. ‘The people who hire me do not care whether I have a licence or not, Giorgio.’ He smiles. ‘In fact,
maybe I get paid more if they know that even when persecuted by the Carabinieri I stay loyal to them.’

‘You have a point.’ Fusco sits on the edge of the table and
smiles down on the PI. ‘But if we charge you with murder – double murder – then that’s a different thing.’

‘It is. That’s a very wrong thing. I didn’t kill Sacconi or the girl and you know the forensics will confirm that. There was
rigor in both bodies – I can prove I was at home when they died.’

‘How?’ Fusco shrugs. ‘By the time-coded security tapes from your home surveillance system, showing you entering and leaving?
I think not. We have already taken those from your house.’

Goria smiles. He has to remember not to underestimate these people – they’re good operators – among the best in the world.
‘So what now? Where are we going with this?’

‘I have a proposition.’ Fusco gets up and paces. ‘The American will contact you. I have no doubt about it. When he does, we
will have tapped your phone.’

‘He will expect that.’

‘Perhaps. No matter. You can even warn him that it is possible. What is important is that from that moment onwards, you take
instructions from us. You send him where we want, when we want. There’s a chance that if you do exactly as we tell you then
we may forget you were even in Mario Sacconi’s house.’

BOYLE HEIGHTS, LOS ANGELES

The fleeting warmth of the November day has passed by the time Amy Chang crosses town and joins the crime-scene personnel
at Kim Bass’s apartment.

She’d hoped for a death-free weekend, her first in three months, but plainly it’s not to be. She parks at the kerb in front
of the rundown entrance block, pulls on her whites and slides her case out of the back. Her breath freezes in the air as she
locks up and walks the pathway.

‘Chang. Doctor Amy Chang,’ she announces as she shows her ID to a rookie logging people in and out of the scene.

‘Afternoon, Doc.’ He already sounds like an old-timer as he lets her pass. ‘It’s up on the second floor. The lead officer
is Lieutenant Carter, he’s already in there.’

‘Thanks.’

The stairs are full of other uniforms coming and going. Taking statements from neighbours and probably hanging around a while
too long so they don’t catch for another job late on a Saturday afternoon. At the apartment door a photographer is firing
off approach shots of the landing and stairs. Two CSIs are dusting walls, a handrail and light switch.

The seldom-cleaned entrance to the apartment has already been exhaustively printed and photographed and dozens of
male and female footprints lifted. More shoe and boot impressions have been taken from the carpet and floor tiles in every
room. As usual, the whole interior of the place is bleached white by harsh forensic lights casting monstrously large shadows
everywhere. Tyler Carter turns as soon as Amy’s elegant silhouette joins the magic lantern show on the lounge walls. ‘Dr Chang
– my apologies for dragging you out at the weekend.’

‘Accepted. Where’s the body?’

‘In the bedroom. It’s tight in there so I sealed it off until you came.’

‘That’s a help. Thanks.’

Most cops can’t help but tell the ME what they think. Right from the start they fire off their theories on how the victim
died, what they might have been doing, what the cause of death could have been and how long the vic had been lying there.
Not Carter. Tyler Carter doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t offer a single personal thought on a case until the examiner asks.

One step into the bedroom is enough to tell Amy what she’s dealing with. Six times now she’s witnessed the same scene. A sheet
or quilt drawn over the head and toes of a victim. The work of the Creeper.

TURIN

Nic is cursing himself.

Those couple of hours sleep that he and Goria grabbed have cost a man his life. If they’d gone straight to Mario Sacconi’s
house after ensuring Erica Craxi was safe, he’d still be alive and the Tamara Jacobs case might be much closer to being solved.
Now all he has to go on is one final name, one last shred of information that Erica gave him: Sacconi’s best friend, Édouard
Broussard, a scientist who used to be his boss but is now in private practice. Roberto Craxi made some sizeable payments directly
to him at Sacconi’s request. He has to be involved.

As the detective drives, his eyes scan every lane and road for police cars. It won’t be long before they issue widespread
alerts for him. His first stop is a strange one. Certainly not what you’d expect from a man on the run. From the browser on
his BlackBerry he’s found a parcel firm out near the airport that will ship overnight to LA. He grabs packaging from them,
bubble-wraps the broken mirror from Sacconi’s bedroom and separately, the locket that Erica gave him. He fully understood
the importance of it when she handed it over. Even though he said nothing to Goria, he knew it was more than just a good luck
image of Saint Christopher.

He scribbles out a note, adds the envelope with the crime-scene photographs that he believes may have been gone through in
his hotel room, seals the box and pays with his credit card. For good measure he gives the guy behind the desk an extra twenty
euros in return for a promise his stuff will be on the next plane out of Turin.

Before he leaves he visits the restroom and cleans up. The journey ahead is long and dangerous. He looks at himself in the
sink mirror as he pats the water off with paper towels. If things go wrong, this could be the last time he ever sees his own
reflection.

WALNUT PARK, LOS ANGELES

The old green school bus is heading off and Mitzi is on the sidewalk waving an embarrassing goodbye to its tail lights and
her disappearing daughters, when she gets the call from Carter telling her they have a fresh body.

The guy must be psychic. He said the Creeper was overdue and lo and behold, within twenty-four hours he’s proved right. No
wonder they call him the wizard. She fires up the old car and tries to keep Alfie and the girls out of her head as she drives
out to Boyle Heights. Worries about the girls and the emotional blow-up in the Italian restaurant are still
haunting her. She just hopes Jade forgets it all for a while when she gets out on the slopes. The kid’s filled with so much
anger and pain it’s heartbreaking to even think about it. She was always Daddy’s girl – always will be – and that’s going
to be hard for everyone to deal with.

Mitzi wonders if she should let her visit him. Until now it’s something she’d completely ruled out. Just the thought of her
daughter passing through prison gates almost makes her heave. But maybe she has to stomach it. If it’s what Jade really wants
– and if Alfie consents – then she’ll have to be supportive and see the girl through it.

Eventually, the lieutenant shrugs off the ghosts of personal horrors and thinks about her work. Carter doesn’t seem as bad
as his press makes out. Not a lot of fun, granted, but there can be no doubt about his professionalism. One thing for certain,
she’s glad she’s not the lead on the Creeper case. From what she’s read in the files, this guy is grade-A sicko. A 100 per
cent sociopath without a care in the world.

Mitzi spots Amy’s van parked by the old stucco apartment block. It’ll be good to see her friend – even though the circumstances
are so wrong. She shows her ID and gets logged through. In the stairwell she suits up in Tyvek overalls and foot covers, then
pads upstairs.

‘Mitzi Fallon,’ she announces, holding her badge as she walks in. ‘Anyone know where Carter is?’

A young female CSI looks up from the couch where she’s tweezing off hair strands. ‘Back bedroom with the ME.’

‘Gotcha.’

Carter and Amy are in the far corner of the room near the head of the body when Mitzi walks in. ‘You buy a ticket for Mega
Millions this week, Detective? I sure hope so, given your ability to predict the future.’

He almost smiles. ‘Female, thirty-two, by the name of Kim Bass. Tenant of the house from pictures and paperwork we’ve found.
Lived here near on two years. Been dead a couple of days. Dr Chang’s about to get more specific.’

‘Hi Mitz.’ Amy gives her a look of genuine warmth. ‘Your lady died from strangulation with a ligature. Pick your way over
and see.’

Mitzi squeezes around the bed and follows her friend’s pointing fingers to the bloated face of the corpse.

‘Look at the marks on the neck. You can make out four lines less than two inches wide. I’d say it’s a leather trouser belt
rather than the kind of thick strap you’d normally associate with jeans.’ Amy lifts her hands as though holding the ends of
the belt in separate fists. ‘The killer was stood behind her, looped the ligature around her neck like this and crossed his
hands for extra leverage as he choked her.’ She stops gesticulating. ‘Now look back at Kim’s neck.’

Mitzi leans over.

‘You see these additional marks on and around the windpipe? These are made by fingers and knuckles.’

‘I’m willing to bet he flipped her and finished her by hand,’ says Carter. ‘Flesh to flesh.’

Mitzi gets the picture. ‘He wanted to see her die.’

‘Not just that. He wanted to
feel
her die.’ Carter points
at the corpse. ‘At first I wasn’t sure it was our boy, but this face-to-face finale is definitely his work.’

‘Any shroud?’ asks Mitzi.

Carter nods. ‘Covered her head to toe. No mistake about it, the Creeper’s back.’

TURIN

Ephrem is driving when his cell phone rings. He’s been expecting the call. Knows it’s going to be unpleasant.

‘You’ve left a mess.’ Carlotta Cappelini sounds calm but irritated.

His mind is filled with flashbacks. The blood on the bed, endless crimson pooling out of the still pumping heart of the scientist.
The girlfriend pulling her knees up to protect herself. ‘I had no time to clean up.’

‘I understand, but it is not good. Now more people than necessary are interested.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Apologise to God not me. Did you obtain the information you came for?’

‘I did.’

‘
Va bene.
The detective I told you about, he has gone missing.’

Ephrem remembers the image she sent to him, the voice
on the phone he picked up in Craxi’s lodge, the belongings he searched through at the hotel.

‘Si.
We arrested his partner but Karakandez escaped from the house. He has a car, a blue Fiat Bravo. I will text you the plate.
Do not underestimate this American. He is not stupid and he has come a long way.’

‘So have I.’

‘Then make sure you are not the one who ends up disappointed. Finish the job and finish it quickly.
Arrivederci.’

He’ll do as she wants, but not yet. First, he has another matter to take care of.

Nic gets back in the car and makes sure the guy behind the desk sees him heading off towards the airport terminal. He knows
the Italian border police will have his description and passport number and there is no chance he will be able to catch a
flight out of Turin.

Five minutes later he pulls into the fly-drive area of a cheap hotel near the airport and pays to leave Goria’s car there
for two weeks. The Carabinieri will find it. Maybe even within a couple of hours. That’s long enough not to be a problem.
He catches a transit bus to the airport terminal and follows the signs to the rental car returns. He walks quickly to the
busiest area, the one where families are losing their tempers because
staff are lazy or slow and they’re scared of missing flights. Nic watches the comings and goings and is soon able to identify
the worst of companies and even pick out the nationalities of the returning drivers. Italians weave their way back to the
bays at speed, confidently navigating lanes and honking horns for people to hurry up. Foreigners make nervous approaches,
staring upwards at signs hoping they’ve made the right choice and are not about to be sent on a hugely time-wasting trip outside
the airport roads.