Midnight Angels (26 page)

CHAPTER
1

J
OSEPHINE MARIA COLLINS GLARED AT THE RAVEN, HER EYES BOILING
with hate, ignoring the stench of his thin cigar, her arms pinned to her sides by the thick cord tied around her waist. It held her in place to a wooden pole in the center of the room.

The Raven stood across from her and smiled. “We never did hit it off, you and I,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “I was never sure why that was, exactly. I suppose some people are just not meant to be simpatico.”

“Or maybe I figured you for the turncoat you actually turned out to be,” Josephine said. “You had the smarts to work with Frank, Andrea, and the professor. You just didn’t have the spine. You’re nothing more than a criminal.”

“Possibly true,” the Raven said. “Yet Frank and Andrea are now long dead. As for the professor, well, let’s just say for the moment he and I stand on equal footing, but I expect that situation to resolve itself in short order. And then there’s you and your beloved little shop. What to make of all that?”

“The years have only made you all the more insufferable,” Josephine said. She didn’t even glance at the two young men in dark jackets who stood off to the side, awaiting their next order, instead focusing the full weight of her scorn on the Raven. Then, abruptly, she laughed. “The
Insufferables
. That would be a more apt name for your group than the Immortals, which isn’t even original, let alone true. You and the rest of them will be forgotten the moment you die.”

“I didn’t come to listen to you blather, old woman,” the Raven said.

“And I know you didn’t come to shop or have a cup of tea,” she said. “Which leaves us with only one thing. And if that’s why you’re here, then you’ve wasted not only my time but yours.”

“I know you didn’t take them,” the Raven said. “But you know who did. What I think you might know—and what I would very much like to know—is where they are at this very moment.”

“The Midnight Angels are in Florence,” Josephine said with a wide smile, “where they belong.”

The Raven dropped the thin cigar to the ground, stepped in closer to Josephine and slapped her twice across the face, each blow leaving behind a red stain. A tear formed at the corner of her right eye, but she didn’t make a sound.

“I have nothing more to say to you,” she said. “I might die today, but I will die knowing you will never possess them.”

He stepped away from Josephine and glanced at the two men standing on either side of her. “I’m getting nowhere, as you can see,” he told them. “Perhaps you can persuade her to approach our situation with a more open mind.”

The Raven leaned against a bookcase stacked three deep with books and manuscripts, and folded his arms across his chest, indifferent to the muffled screams and muted cries less than ten feet away. He perused the assorted books, then reached up and grabbed a tattered copy of an early edition of Victor Hugo’s
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
, leafing through several pages. He looked over at Josephine, now streaked in sweat and blood, the bones of her hands disfigured, her legs hanging limp, held in place by the thick cord wrapped around the wooden pole.

“This is a very valuable copy,” he said to her, holding up the book. “You should take better care of your collection. It would be worth a lot more if it were in mint condition.”

Josephine opened her eyes and glared at him. “I don’t keep them because of what they might be worth,” she said in a soft voice, blood pouring down the corners of her mouth. “I keep them because of what they mean to me and to the people who come here. I don’t expect a mercenary such as you to understand such sentiments, nor do I care to explain them.”

The Raven tossed the Hugo novel to the floor, walked over to Josephine and clutched her face in his right hand. “Here’s something I expect you to understand,” he said. “Whether you tell me about the Midnight
Angels or not, I will let you live. At least long enough to stand here and watch your precious shop with all its priceless memories burn to the ground.”

Josephine was caught off guard, her face now colored as much by fear as by pain. “There is a great deal of history in here,” she stammered, “too much to be destroyed. Even a monster like you should understand.”

“There’s no profit in it for me,” the Raven said with a slight shrug. “So why even bother to make the effort? Now, if I were given a reason, then perhaps I could be persuaded to let one or two trinkets go.”

Josephine looked around her shop through tear-filled eyes, the memories unfolding as if they were scenes from a movie preserved in her mind, the countless nights spent in witty and warm conversation surrounded by close friends and devoted associates all coming vividly to life. The echoes of the tales spun by the many visitors were all there to be heard; the carefully orchestrated plans for the daring undertakings of the Society were also there to be rehashed and put back into play. But most of all there were the faces of the men and women who had come through that battered front door and affected her life in ways she could never imagine. She froze on the image of a younger version of herself, filled with the passion and energy of her cause, geared to take on the unseen and unknown enemy, poised to help unearth and rescue yet one more lost artistic treasure, the thrill of it all worth more than any sum of money she could ever imagine. It was a journey worth taking, and for the first time since she saw the Raven earlier in the day, Josephine Maria Collins managed to smile.

“Do what it is you came here to do,” she said. “The quicker the better.”

He moved his lips close to her ear, his hand holding a firm grip on her bruised and tearstained face. “There is something I want to tell you before you die,” he whispered. “I will leave this city the owner of the Midnight Angels, and I will leave behind two other bodies to keep you company in the afterlife—your esteemed friend Professor Edwards and young Kate herself. I will be rid of you all, each of you knowing you have failed. Now stand here and watch, old woman, and let the last sight you see be the rising flames.”

The Raven released his grip and nodded at the two men. “Burn it to the ground,” he said as he made for the front door, “and we’ll see which burns quicker, old paper or old flesh.”

“Did she tell you anything?” the younger of the two asked.

“Not in so many words,” the Raven said. “But she served her purpose and is of no further use to me.”

“There’s some valuable work in here,” the older man said. “Seems a shame to torch it all.”

The Raven turned and glared at him. “See anything you would like?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on one or two of the folios she has stashed on those top shelves,” he said, pointing to an antique hutch to the left of the bound woman.

The Raven walked back into the heart of the room and stood across from the older man. “Show me a work that has caught your eye,” he said.

The man stepped around a small table set for three, hopped onto a stepladder and swung open the glass door to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. He stretched for a book on a top shelf and then stepped down and walked back toward the Raven. “It’s the earliest edition of any work by Vasari I’ve ever seen,” he said, handing the Raven the book. “Out in the marketplace, with the right buyer, it could fetch as much as two hundred, maybe even three hundred thousand.”

The Raven held the book in his right hand and ran the fingers of his left along the frayed leather spine. “It’s damaged, and therefore worthless,” he said. “As is most anything else you would find in this place. It was not her intent to collect and care for great works in order to sell them for profit. If it were, this place would be spotless, the temperature would be controlled, and no one would be allowed to go near these books.”

“She was sitting on hundreds of thousands of dollars,” the man said, absorbing the lesson the Raven had passed his way. “And she let it all go to waste.”

The Raven shrugged, glancing over at Josephine.

She stared back hard at him, the force of her hatred evident, despite her pained expression. “You have earned your place in hell,” she said.

“And when the time comes, I will take it with pleasure,” the Raven said, with a slight bow of his head.

He made his way around the tables and watched as one of the two men lit a cloth napkin and tossed it on top of a stack of books and papers. The older man held a revolver and was walking toward Josephine. “No need to waste a bullet,” the Raven said, freezing the man in his step. “Let the flames do their work.”

CHAPTER
2

K
ATE MADE THE TURN OFF PONTE ALLE GRAZIE AND WALKED
with studied care down the slope that would lead her to Via dei Neri. She was alone and lost in thought, her mind filled with images of the Midnight Angels and the chaos and bloodshed inspired by her discovery. She had been in Florence for such a short period of time, yet already thought of the city as her home, and, despite the many dangers she had encountered, she knew it was where she wanted to live. It was the place she thought she could accomplish her finest work, where she would best be able to take the incomplete dreams and desires of her parents and see them come to fruition. It was also where she felt closest to them. She realized her passion for the city’s most famous artist had evolved into a personal obsession, but she had always found comfort and solace in the words and works he left behind, and now, more than ever, she felt a human connection between herself and a man long dead but still very much a living presence on the streets of Florence.

Kate crossed onto the wide Via dei Neri and stopped to gaze into the window of Piccolo Slam, a clothing store that catered to men and women of her age. She took note of the man who stepped in next to her, a chocolate gelato cone in one hand and a small batch of paper napkins in the other. Through their reflection in the glass, she could tell he was looking at her.

She turned to face him. “You have chocolate on your cheek and chin,” she said in Italian. “And if you don’t eat quickly, you will stain your expensive jacket.”

“I was a slow eater as a child,” he told her, responding in English, “and a sloppy one as an adult.”

“What do you want?” Kate asked.

“I would like to finish my gelato without ruining my jacket,” he said. “And perhaps a minute or two of your time.”

“Why should I give you any time?” she asked.

“I have a great answer for that one,” he said. He reached into the front right pocket of his jacket, careful not to spill any of the gelato, pulled out a small black leather pouch and flipped it open. Kate glanced down and saw a photo ID on one side and a policeman’s shield clipped to the other. He let her look at it for a moment, then snapped it back in place.

“How do I know it’s real?”

“Because if I meant you any harm at all, I wouldn’t need to flash a fake badge and ID in order to make that happen,” he said, finishing off the last bits of his gelato. “I’m here to help, and if you are as smart as I’m told you are, you’ll take it.”

“What sort of help do you think I’m in need of?” she asked.

“Let’s walk while we talk, shall we?” he said, pointing the way back up Via dei Neri. “I always find the conversation moves at a crisper pace when people are on the go, which is one of the many reasons I hate having to talk to anyone in an interrogation room.”

“Is that why I’m not under arrest?”

“Why would I need to arrest you?” he asked. “It’s not as if you found a long lost work of the Renaissance world’s greatest artist and helped mastermind its theft. Now,
that
would be a reason to put cuffs on you and drag you to the nearest police station. But you didn’t do that, did you?”

Kate hesitated for a moment, then started to walk back up the wide street by his side. “What do I call you?” she asked.

“Captain Rumore, if you want to keep it formal,” he said. “Otherwise, you can just call me Antonio or Rumore, either one.”

“Antonio, what’s a member of the Rome Art Squad doing in Florence?” Kate asked.

She took note that he seemed pleased she’d called him by his given name. He had a calm and confident manner, and she felt at ease in his presence as well as safe. She was also quick to notice that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen in her life.

“Hey, now,” Rumore said, “it’s me who’s supposed to be asking the questions, not you. Let’s try to stick to some sort of proper procedure.”

“Okay,” Kate said. “What would you like to know?”

“Do you know how this street got its name?” Rumore asked her.

“If I were to guess, I’d say that since the word neri means black, it was named after the Florentine Black partisans. It might also have been named after the Neris, a very well-known and wealthy sixteenth century family.”

“Both excellent guesses,” Rumore said.

“But both wrong,” Kate said.

“Yes, very,” he said. “In truth, the street is named after Francesco Nori, whose family was as close to the Medicis as one could get.”

“And Francesco was the one who saved Lorenzo’s life,” Kate said, “during an assault in the cathedral. He took the blows meant for Lorenzo and died in his place.”

“The Pazzi assault,” Rumore said. “Fourteen eighty-seven. The family had a few homes on this street and, over time I would imagine, Nori became Neri and thus a street was born. I doubt he envisioned it to be the shopper’s delight it has turned out to be, but then again, not much else is known about Francesco other than that he died in place of his friend.”

“That’s something great to be remembered for,” Kate said.

“Three people have died in the last few days,” Rumore said, his manner and voice still relaxed and in control, “since the rumor surfaced of an artistic find that would net the owner many millions. That sort of talk tends to bring everyone out from under his pile of wood, looking for the golden goose, or in this case, three very special Angels.”