Bella Italia (21 page)

“Look, making choices is part of our job, Carlo. The hotel security included. We purposely chose a somewhat remote middle-class hotel. When we made that choice we didn’t compare the disadvantages to the advantages.” He took one hand from the steering wheel and counted on his fingers. “Compared to the more modern hotels, La Ninfa has relatively fewer rooms, so, therefore, fewer staff members. Also, the security there can be seen as quite amateurish. Only one camera at the reception desk and no night security. It would seem like an illogical choice, but we did that because we chose to keep this case low profile, as it was the best way to protect this family.” He nodded. “I understand that you are worried. I am, too. We wouldn’t be very good detectives if we kicked back and relaxed all the time, right? This is all part of it, Carlo. We have the whole thing under control, that’s all that matters in the end. In a few minutes our guys will get extra backup. For as much as that’s even necessary.”

Martuccia decided to remain quiet. He had the impression that Tardelli was making the situation sound far less serious than it was in reality. The security was fine, but an extra man wouldn’t hurt. The Monster was a sly and calculating man, who would go to whatever extreme was necessary and up until now had managed to stay out of their reach. He shouldn’t be underestimated. If he managed to pull another stunt, which was his biggest fear, there could be more victims and their careers would be over permanently. That’s why he felt he needed to be there as soon as possible.

Salvatore walked into the hotel lobby dressed in his homeless outfit. In the back of the lobby, he could see one of the replacement detectives sitting down. The man was reading a magazine and dropped it down a few inches to look at him as he saw him approach from a few yards away.

“Hey, buddy,” Salvatore said in a hoarse voice to the detective. “I’m totally broke. Can you buy me a beer?”

Giuseppe Bianchi took in the man approaching him. It was one of the many homeless people around here who came to beg for money from the tourists. “No, I don’t have any money on me,” he said in a very irritated and decisive tone. “So, go on and get out of here!”

Salvatore pretended to be disappointed while he thought:
And he calls himself a detective? He doesn’t even recognize me through my disguise—this security is a joke.
He shuffled on for a moment and the moment that the detective looked up, irritated once again, from his magazine, he struck.

Incredibly fast, he took a knife from his pocket, leaned forward, and stabbed the detective in his stomach. While he leaned down on the man, he could hear him sigh and felt the life flow from his opponent. The man didn’t even have enough time to alert anyone else. He pulled the knife from the man’s body and quickly covered the bloodstain with the magazine. It wouldn’t take long before it was clear that the man was dead, but by that time he would have already taken his next step. The knife disappeared back into his pocket, and he staggered back in the same manner to the front desk.

Before Salvatore had even reached the front desk, the receptionist had already turned his head, looked at him with contempt, and waved him a way with a limp hand. “How many times do I have to tell you people that you’re not welcome here? Turn around and get out. Or should I call the police?”

He won’t be getting up any time soon, so he can’t help you.

The man turned his head back to face the TV screen. He didn’t want to be disturbed during his television program. Salvatore muttered a few unintelligible words under his breath and pretended to head toward the exit. When he saw that the receptionist was no longer paying any attention to him, he jumped behind the counter. The receptionist was far too overwhelmed to respond. He couldn’t understand how a homeless man could do such a thing.

Salvatore pulled his knife. With his other hand he reached for the man’s big head of hair. When he got a good grip, he pulled the man by the hair.

“What … are you … doing?” the overwhelmed man stammered while he was forced to stand up.

Salvatore pulled the man closer toward him and pressed the knife point against his throat. “Bring me to the place where they keep the security camera recordings.”

The man pointed to a door that connected the lobby to another space. “Th-there …”

Patronello shoved the man in the direction of the door. He held the man’s hair in an iron grip and the knife point against the receptionist’s throat. “Open it!”

The man pushed down on the door handle and opened the door. “In that cupboard there,” he said, his voice shaking.

Salvatore pushed him farther forward and pulled open the cupboard. A quick glance was enough to confirm that the man had been telling him the truth. He took the knife from the receptionist’s throat; the man was literally shaking on his legs. With one swift move, he stabbed him right below his rib cage, on the man’s left side. He collapsed instantly, letting out a heavy moan.

He closed the door, which connected the office to the reception area, with one quick, careless kick. He walked right past the body on the floor and concentrated on the camera system. For someone with the kind of technical insight that he had, this was easy as pie. The system was outdated, just like everything in this hotel was. He took the videotape that was recording out of the machine and destroyed it. Quickly, he checked if there was a backup tape that may have also recorded him. Then he pulled the knife from the man’s body and wiped the blade on the man’s shirt and placed the knife back into the inside pocket of his jacket.

He couldn’t lose a single minute now. Without even giving the dying receptionist another glance, he walked to the door and opened it carefully. He could see that there still weren’t any other people in the lobby at the reception desk. He took a room key from the board behind the desk and took the elevator to the third floor. Once he arrived there, he opened the elevator door as quietly as possible and got out. He walked through the hallway as if he’d had too much to drink. “Room 4 … room 34,” he mumbled. “Or was it 36? Why are those numbers so damn small?” As he staggered on and slowly came closer to room 38, he braced himself. It wouldn’t take much longer before the policemen would take action. He stopped, held the key obviously in front of him, and let his other hand slide into his inside pocket of his jacket, while he began mumbling something into his phone.

Bernardo Esposito began to head toward the drunken hotel guest. The outward appearance of the man seemed off somehow. He didn’t trust it, but he didn’t exactly know why. Why was he digging around his inside pocket when he clearly had the room key in his hand? He heard him mutter something into his phone. Because the drunk wasn’t facing him, he was unable to see his face. This had every indication of a silly hotel guest who had one too many drinks, but still … According to the rules, Bianchi should have signaled to him that someone was making their way to the third floor. Maybe his colleague had drawn the same conclusion as he had and had counted on him to guide this drunken fool to his room?

Playing it casual, he approached the man. In order not to increase the tension of the situation, he didn’t pull his service gun. He was just going to check things out. “Good evening, sir.” He showed his ID. “Police. Is there something I can help you with?”

The gloves
. That was it. That’s what was bothering him.

Salvatore had waited until the detective was right near him. He pulled the knife from his inside pocket, turned slightly, and struck him hard.

Esposito was a fraction of a second too late to pull his gun. Salvatore stabbed him directly in the chest. The detective’s eyes seemed to bulge out. How could he have been so stupid? He dropped to his knees and fell to the floor.

Salvatore dragged the body to the stairwell. He took off his coat and covered Bernardo Esposito with it.

He pulled his hand through his hair, adjusted his jacket, and walked straight to room 38.

Tardelli slowed down well in advance so he wouldn’t race into the parking lot loudly and attract any unwanted attention. That could raise suspicion. He parked diagonally in front of the entrance. They got out and closed the door, quiet and controlled. Martuccia led the way with a fast pace. He had to restrain himself not to run.

In the hotel lobby, he summed up the situation with one single glance. Giuseppe Bianchi sat slumped over in a chair in the lounge. The bottom of his white shirt was soaked in blood. Martuccia felt his stomach turn. He continued walking. The desk was unmanned, there was no one else present in the lounge or the hallway, and the red light on the security camera was off. This was exactly what he had feared. They were too late.

“You take the stairs, and I’ll take the elevator,” Tardelli said, who was right behind him.

Martuccia walked past the reception counter toward the stairs. As he passed the elevator, he saw that it was on the third floor. He did not know what was happening on the third floor. To avoid drawing any attention, they both decided to take the stairs. He rushed to the stairwell. While he jumped on the third tray, he hoped that Esposito had the situation under control.

Tardelli, meanwhile, called for backup and asked for an ambulance.

When Martuccia reached the second floor he slowed down. Halfway up the third step, he took his gun from his holster. He had no idea what was waiting for him yet. Only that he knew he was ready for whatever that was. Then he stumbled on Esposito’s covered-up body.

There was a knock on the door. Petra responded first. “We’re only supposed to open the door for the police.”

Hans sat upright in bed and looked at the door. Niels was sleeping. He hadn’t heard the knocking at all.

The fact that Niels had fallen asleep without any problems was quite remarkable considering that he had faced quite a lot today. They had both agreed: tomorrow they would make it clear to Martuccia that they wanted to return to Holland as soon as possible. They had done what they came there to do and that was enough. Staying much longer wouldn’t be good for Niels. They could do the rest by phone, email, or Skype, if needed.

“Police. Would you mind opening the door?” they heard someone say in English on the other side of the door.

“That must be Martuccia,” Hans said. He stepped out of bed and walked to the door. He had not really recognized the voice as belonging to the detective, but the distance between them and the door could have distorted his voice somewhat.

“Are you sure?” Petra asked worriedly.

Hans nodded, opened the door, and pulled it a few inches toward him. He didn’t take the risk of opening the door completely. Through the opening this created, he could see someone standing there. The man wore a somewhat old-fashioned outfit and was holding up a badge in his right hand. Because of the hat and glasses, he couldn’t see his face very well. The detective kept his left hand in his pants pocket, leaving his jacket somewhat open and showing his gun holster, which clearly had a gun in it.

“It’s the police,” Hans said to Petra. He did hesitate for a moment. Had he ever seen this man before? Definitely not at the police station.

“I’m up here to relieve my colleague, and I wanted to introduce myself.”

“But we just had a replacement?”

“That’s correct, but my colleague who was up here was called away to a more pressing case. My name is Salvatore Costello.” Salvatore put out his hand.

Hans didn’t understand why Bernardo Esposito hadn’t personally checked in with them when he left, but he opened the door farther so he could shake the man’s hand. Only then did he notice the gloves. Why would this man wear gloves inside?

Salvatore grabbed his hand and pulled him toward him. Then he pushed Hans backward with his whole body and let go. Hans fell back into the room.

Without hesitation, Salvatore stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. The father, who had brought him so many problems in the streets of Peschiera, had hit his head against the wall and now lay dazed on the ground. He grunted and slowly raised his upper body.

Hans felt a pounding headache. He put his hand on the back of his head and felt something warm and wet.

Salvatore stood next to him. With a very fast motion, he took the fake badge and put it back in his inside pocket and pulled his gun from the holster.

Niels was startled awake from all the commotion. When he sat up, Petra immediately placed her arm around him. She felt him tense up.

“That’s him!”

Salvatore pointed the gun barrel straight at Niels and Petra. “Quiet!” he hissed in English.

“What … what is going … on here?” Hans stammered. He made an attempt to stand up.

Salvatore now pointed the gun at Hans, who was slowly standing up.

“Quiet! Move over to the bed!”
Patronello demanded. Hans looked directly into the barrel of the gun and calmly moved backward to sit on the bed. Salvatore was now mostly worried about the woman. A mother would give her life for her child.

This is why he kept the pistol pointed at the mother and son, while giving the father a cautionary look. The man had to understand clearly that one wrong move would immediately lead to the death of his wife and child. He had to keep an eye on the man, but didn’t expect him to do anything stupid. He took the razor-sharp knife from his jacket and placed the gun back in the holster.

Hans knew who this man was and what he had come here to do. If he didn’t take action, this man would kill them. All three of them, because this time he wasn’t going to leave any witnesses behind. Why did he put his gun away, when one simple shot would be far easier and more effective?

When he saw the knife in the man’s hand, it became clear. Gunshots made a lot of noise. That would draw attention, which is exactly what he wanted to prevent. He had only used the gun to intimidate him, but would use the knife to kill them. He may very well be injured, but he should be able to overpower someone with a knife, especially because the bastard had to get closer to be able to touch him at all. He had to use that to his advantage—he had to use that against him.