Rogue Angel 49: The Devil's Chord (11 page)

Chapter 13

Climbing through the open window, Annja stopped with one leg dangling over the ledge when she heard Ian’s voice calling to her from the foyer.

“In here!” she hollered, keeping an eye on the man who now sprinted over the bridge fifty yards away from the palazzo.

“I stopped in earlier, and the door was open but no one was here,” Ian said. “You didn’t answer your cell phone. I wasn’t sure if you two had gone out somewhere to eat, so I grabbed a bite myself. So weird.”

Ian strode into the office and looked about the dim room. When he saw her sitting on the window ledge, he sputtered and gave her a confused look. “Annja?”

“Scout was poisoned. The attaché case was looted. I think the thief just left. I’m on him right now. The palazzo key is in a desk drawer. Lock up, please, and I’ll call you as soon as I can!”

Annja prepared to jump off the ledge, admonishing herself for not having considered any security before dashing off to the hospital.

Now she couldn’t let the thief out of her sight. She saw the silhouette of the man on the opposite side of the little pedestrian bridge down the canal.

Inching along the narrow ledge, her footing was sure. Behind her, Ian’s head appeared out the window, along with his video camera. She wasn’t sure the chase was necessary for the show, but then again, Doug would love this footage. Leaving Ian to his pursuits, Annja dashed along the ledge and jumped onto the bridge. Soon, she was within yards of the thief. Whatever had been in the case they’d recovered was now in that backpack. And she’d lay bets it wasn’t an egg-salad sandwich.

Gripping the railing at the end of the bridge, she leaped and made the cobbled sidewalk. The thief had dodged left, down a narrow stretch between buildings too close for anything larger than a bicycle. She moved along the passage, her elbows scuffing the concrete.

The thief had spotted an iron ladder clinging to one wall; he grabbed the bottom rung and seemed to defy gravity as he pulled himself up each side of the ladder with his hands. Employing amazing upper-body strength, he only pushed off a rung with a foot every so often. With an audible
ouff,
he landed on the top of the roof.

Making a running leap for the ladder—the bottom rung was about seven feet from the ground—Annja gripped the lowest rung and used the momentum of her body to boost herself up and clasp the next rung, and the next, until she could steady herself using her feet. It took her mere seconds to breach the roof.

The curved terra-cotta shingles were at a low angle, so balancing was easy enough. Gaining speed, though, on the smooth shingles still moist with rain, proved a challenge for her hiking boots. Still, like the thief, Annja ran as best she could, bent over, stabbing the tiles to steady herself.

The thief paused at the edge of the building to look back at her. Yeah, she was on his ass. He leaped to the next building, his silhouette disappearing from her view. On the street below a clatter of tiles had broken and fallen as the thief had jumped.

“A little parkour on this cloudy evening?” Annja eyed the lower rooftop. “Just what I was in the mood for.”

She’d learned from one of the best, a parkour trainer in Paris, and enjoyed the physical challenge. She estimated the drop to be about fifteen feet with a six-foot gap between buildings. The missing tiles could either provide a foothold or a nasty slip off the edge.

The thief was already halfway across the other building.

Retracing her steps, then turning, Annja sprinted and took a running leap, pushing off from the edge, causing tiles to loosen and fall. Her body soared through the air, but she didn’t enjoy the unhampered feeling of flying; instead, she ducked and leaned into a roll as her feet touched the tiled roof. She came up to a crouch, balancing with fingertips to the tiles, but didn’t pause to celebrate the jump.

The thief had already leaped, landing on another close building, she presumed. She could see his head, and he was running along the edge of the building that paralleled the one she stood atop.

They were two stories aboveground. The thief balanced with arms out, tracking something—he disappeared. The thief dropped over the side of the roof.

Annja quickly arrived at the edge of the next building and saw the bus. Vehicles in the city were rare, so it must be a tourist bus. It wasn’t open on the top with seats for people to sit and take pictures, but instead the roof was flat, offering a nice landing platform. And there, the thief crouched without looking back and up to see if she would follow.

Annja tracked the bus to the farthest edge of the building, gripped a steel bar positioning power lines or cables, and swung out over the gap below, kicking hard to get the most momentum. She released her hold and landed on the building opposite. The tiles had a greater curve than the previous roof and did not offer good footing. She slipped, grasping at the closest tiles. A leg slid over the edge and dangled in the air.

She wouldn’t go over the edge, but the time lost had allowed the bus to get a good distance away. Two buildings away, the bus turned right, out of her view.

Scrambling up to a squat and scanning the area, Annja spied a ladder hugging the building across the street the bus had passed, but to attempt the twenty-foot jump was suicidal. She raced around the edges of the building, seeking a ladder, some way down. Instead of risking more time lost, she ran for the rooftop door. It was open and the stair access was not blocked.

She raced down the two stories and landed in the lobby of a private apartment building. The concierge lifted a hand to question her as she ran for the front doors, but she was out and gone before he could voice his dismay.

Now on the street, she veered around the corner and didn’t see the bus. That didn’t stop her from running north in the direction she had last seen the bus traveling. The neighborhood was mostly residential, yet there must be a tourist site close by. Why else would the bus be in the area? And so late? The sun was setting behind the buildings. Maybe it was a night-time tour?

She couldn’t see above the buildings to check for landmarks to gauge her position. The city wasn’t that big, though the Cannaregio was a large
sestiere.
If she didn’t stay close to the bus, she’d lose the guy.

Feet swiftly tracking the tarmac, she neared an intersection. The
ting
of bicycle bells announced their approach, and Annja veered widely to the right to avoid the duo of bikers, yet she had to stop abruptly not to collide with another biker bringing up the rear. She grimaced in reply to the man’s effusive curse at her, but took it in stride and resumed her pace.

Ahead, a bus approached the intersection. Pumping her fists, Annja ran onward, thankful that the vehicle stopped before driving through the intersection. That gave her a good look at the bus roof, and she didn’t see the thief clinging to the top. Was it even the same bus?

Arriving at the bus as it crossed to the next street, she ran alongside it, seeing no heads in the windows. It wasn’t a tourist bus. Inside, the seats were not arranged in rows but rather pressed up against either side of the vehicle, facing one another. Not that she could be sure the bus the thief had dropped onto was a tourist bus; she hadn’t seen any logos from her position above and looking down. But the fact remained: the thief was gone.

She swung around behind the bus, managing a good view inside the back window. She confirmed there were no occupants.

Grasping a light pole at the following corner, she huffed and puffed to a halt. Pressing her cheek to the pole, she scanned where she had come from and all other directions. She’d lost the thief and, with him, possibly the Lorraine cross. Scout wasn’t going to like hearing about this. Nor would Roux.

It had been because she’d not locked up the palazzo—Annja stopped the self-blame. If the thief had wanted access to the palazzo, a door, locked or unlocked, would not have stopped him.

But now that she considered it, how had the thief known there would be something of value inside that particular palazzo? And if so, surely other things might have been taken. The Etruscan disk alone had to be worth tens of thousands. She hadn’t noted that it had been missing. Whoever had entered the palazzo had sought only the contents of the case. Had they been followed from the canal by the thugs who had been interfering with their dives?

It seemed a possible option. But who were
they
and who did they work for?

A gunshot sounded close by. Annja jumped and ran toward the noise, backtracking down the street in the direction from which she had come. She wasn’t able to judge which canal had been the source of the noise because she’d lost track of her location.

Suddenly, a man wearing a baker’s apron, white pants and tennis shoes ran across the street. His gestures were exaggerated, hands going to his head and then splaying out in dismay. Annja figured he must have seen the shooter.

Had someone been shot?

Gaining on the baker, she passed him by and he called out that he would contact the
policia.
A body lay sprawled in the alleyway next to the bakery. The dead man was dressed head to toe in black. He’d worn a backpack as Annja had pursued him across the rooftops. Now the backpack was gone.

Someone had beaten her to the prize. Had the thief been on his way to hand off the stolen goods? Had his contact been instructed to shoot him after receiving the goods?

A pool of blood formed beneath the body’s shoulder. She didn’t need to press her fingers to his neck to confirm death. And though she was compelled to rip off the head mask, she didn’t want to disturb the crime scene and didn’t expect it would actually be a face she recognized. Yet, what was that?

The distinctive scent of tobacco lingered on the man’s body. The same smell she’d noted when battling the knife thrower in the church courtyard.

“Interesting.”

Frantic, the baker arrived beside her, waving his cell phone. He explained in Italian that he’d called the police. Annja could already hear the sirens and judged they would arrive via the nearby canal.

The baker asked if she knew the victim. She shook her head. “Just walking through the neighborhood and heard the gunshot. Did you witness this? See anyone run away from the scene?”

The man crossed his arms over his rotund girth, the epitome of the plump baker dressed all in white. Flour even dusted his cheeks. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he replied in Italian. “Was in the shop. I heard the sound and ran out.”

The man fidgeted and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Annja didn’t believe him. But whether or not she believed him, the shooter could still be in the vicinity.

The police sirens neared. She put a hand on the baker’s shoulder and met his gaze. “Tell the police everything you saw. It’s important. I’m going to take a look around.”

She’d call Tomaso Damiani with all the information she had, but right now, she had to scope out the surrounding area. Guessing that the thief had fallen forward after taking the bullet to his chest, she looked across the street in the direction the thief had been running. Toward the canal.

Taking off, she headed toward the water. The police boat was docking, and two officers had already disembarked, hands to their holstered pistols as she passed them. She considered calling out to them, but she had no solid information to provide beyond what they would see for themselves.

If the shooter wanted to make a fast escape, he would have hopped into a boat. Annja reached the dock and looked both ways. The wake from the police boat still rippled against both sides of the canal. A few gondolas were parked nearby, and one slowly floated away from where she stood, but it was occupied by a kissing couple.

Scanning upward and around behind her, she noted the rooftops were clear of people. No one raced away on the cobbled streets.

Following along the canal, Annja focused on the alleys between buildings and ran another quarter mile farther along, hoping to glimpse something out of the ordinary. It was well past 10:00 p.m. and getting more difficult to see in the darkness.

Stopping at a bridge peopled with a dozen tourists taking photos, Annja decided she’d given it her best shot.

Pulling out her cell phone, she called Ian. He’d locked up the palazzo and was now back at the hotel. She was walking there now, she explained, telling Ian that she’d lost the thief, only to see him killed. He agreed they should go to the hospital to check on Scout.

At her hotel room, Annja took a quick shower, combed her wet hair into a sleek ponytail, and slipped on black leather pants and a gray T-shirt. She gave Tomaso a call and detailed finding the man on the street with a bullet wound. She’d also told Tomaso about her chase across the
sestiere
. The thief had taken whatever it was they’d found in the canal.

Tomaso had been pleased she hadn’t touched anything at the palazzo and she hoped Ian had the forethought not to touch anything, as well. Tomaso intended to make arrangements to investigate the palazzo with a team to take photos and fingerprints. He said he’d try to meet Annja at the hospital, but when he realized how late it was, he said they could talk in the morning. And if Scout was resting, he probably wouldn’t be in a talking mood right now.

She signed off by agreeing to meet him at the police station at ten in the morning; meanwhile Ian met her in the hotel lobby. He handed her a slice of warm pizza. She wasn’t even going to question its origin. It was warm and smelled like oregano and spicy sausage.

“Cheers,” she said and bit into the oozy goodness.

Chapter 14

The hospital was quiet this late at night; still, Annja checked with reception. Visiting hours were open until eleven, so she had a few minutes to spare. Ian had mentioned how much he disliked hospitals. It was the smell. He’d spent a lot of time in a hospital as a child with a heart condition. He was fine now, but he had inhaled sharply upon entering the facility, and Annja had looked at him to make sure that he was okay.

He was chatting amiably to her as they navigated the hallways in search of Scout’s room. Specifically he wondered if she’d been shot at while pursuing the thief.

“Nope, not a target this time,” she said. “I’m in one piece.”

He patted the wound on her scalp, his expression relieved. She’d forgotten about the cut. It was almost healed. Since taking Joan’s sword in hand, she healed just a little faster than normal. It wasn’t as though she’d been bestowed a superpower, but it was still pretty cool.

Annja nodded to a cleaning woman who pushed a cart of linens and supplies out of Scout’s room.

“Are you sure this is right?” Ian asked as he entered the private room before her.

The space had been cleaned. The bed was empty, the fresh sheets folded down and tightly tucked, in wait for the next patient.

Annja checked outside the door for the identifying chart, but the slot that held that information was empty. She checked the next room, feeling sure she had the right one, and found it was occupied by a woman with her arm in a sling.

Turning, she walked right into a nurse wearing pink scrubs who wielded an armload of charts and a questioning yet weary smile.

“I think I must have the wrong room,” Annja said. “I’m here to see Scout Roberts.”

“He left earlier.”

“Oh. I understood he was supposed to stay for twenty-four hours for observation.”

“We can’t force a patient to stay,
signorina.
I think he left just after your previous visit. I remember you were in here earlier. Is he your husband?”

“Oh, no. Just a friend. Did he, uh, mention where he was going?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

Joining Ian, they exited the hospital. He exhaled noticeably once outside.

“A guy forgets that smell after a while,” he said. “It’s very powerful.”

“Come on, we’d better head over to the palazzo.”

He nodded. “Scout must have returned not long after I locked up there. That was less than an hour ago.”

“I called Tomaso at the police station and explained everything to him. The Venice police should be there now. You didn’t touch anything?”

“No. Except the front door pull.” He fished in his pocket and handed her a key. “I had intended to return that to Scout. He can’t even know the cross was stolen, can he?”

“I’m not sure.”

Annja was too curious over Scout’s quick escape from the hospital. Was that what it had been? An escape? He’d left immediately after she had left him snoring in bed? She’d told him she was going to check the palazzo and lock it up. He’d told her where to find the key. Without the key he wouldn’t be able to get inside the palazzo. Unless he had another key.

Or he had no reason to return to the palazzo.

Something felt very wrong.

“Let’s hurry,” she said and sprinted down the hospital steps, picking up to a brisk pace in the direction of the palazzo. “You’re sure you didn’t walk by Scout on the way to or from the palazzo?”

“Positive. And if had walked by, why wouldn’t he have called out to me?”

“You could have passed each other on opposite sides of the street.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

Yes, she knew Scout did not like Ian for reasons that were unclear to her. Did he have something to hide?

“He was just surprised about having a cameraman following him around,” Annja offered.

Digging out her cell phone, Annja called Roux while she picked up her stride. The phone rang unanswered, so she shoved it into her pants pocket.

Ian led the way to the palazzo. Tossing him the key, Annja wondered where Tomaso and his crew were. Perhaps he’d decided to wait for morning? Might not have had a full team working this late at night. It was possible.

She went inside, into the foyer after Ian and rushed into the office. Ian had secured the window shut earlier.

“You said you didn’t touch anything?”

“Nope. Even pulled a sleeve over my hand before closing the window.”

“Let’s stick with the no-touching rule,” she said. “The police haven’t been here yet.”

She looked around. The open, empty attaché case still sat on the towel on the desk. If Scout had been in here since, he would have likely moved the case.

She swept her gaze around the room, ill-lit by a low-watt bulb in a table lamp. The dusty bookshelves were as before. The plate with the sandwich crumbs still sat on the desk. Scout’s glasses lay on the floor near the desk leg.

Why did the scene of the crime feel wrong?

Her phone rang. Annja’s pulse spiked as she pulled out her phone and offered a quick hello.

“You called at an awful hour, Annja.”

“Roux. I thought you were on your way to Venice? Where are you that the hour is awful? No, don’t bother telling me. There’s been a hitch.”

“Scout.”

He stated the name; it hadn’t been a guess. A feeling of dread scurried up the back of Annja’s neck.

“Roux, how well do you know Scout Roberts?”

“Not at all. I did tell you I had just met him at an auction when this expedition came to light.”

“Well, he’s a treasure hunter for starters. And maybe a lot more...”

Annja sat on the corner of the desk, and just when she was about to touch the edge of the open case, she retracted her hand suddenly. Instead, she peered at the case, looking for some aggravation to the edges that only another object could have created when attempting to force it open. Nothing. Had someone actually cracked the digital code?

Nudging the case with her knee to better study the lock, she caught Ian’s hiss. She pointed to her knee and whispered, “Didn’t touch it.”

“What’s that?” Roux asked.

“Nothing. I’m at a crime scene, looking over the evidence. A crime possibly perpetrated by your treasure hunter.”

“He’s not my treasure hunter, Annja. Do you know
why
he is a treasure hunter?”

“Why does any man sink to such low levels?”

“Some do it for the thrill. You know a thing or two about the thrill, eh, Annja?”

She didn’t have time for this conversation. But the more the man kept talking, the longer it would be before she’d have to reveal the contents had been lost, at least temporarily. “So why does Scout do what he does?” she asked.

“According to the online trail, it seems he fell on hard times a few years ago. He was discredited for writing a paper on the Peru expedition that put the blame for his crew members’ deaths on another man on the team.”

“Completely false.”

“Exactly.”

“So he was disgraced?”

“First, forced out of the University of Columbia. Then he bought a new home and quickly spiraled into bankruptcy.”

“So now he’ll do anything for some cash,” Annja guessed.

“Right. Except, the paper trail ends because...”

“Because?”

“I’ve turned up a coroner’s report for Scout Roberts. He died by hanging two months ago in Miami Beach, Florida.”