Part 39 (1/2)

”I nearly married a police officer-as you know. I would never play tricks on law enforcement officers,” she told him angrily. ”I know that you would not.”

”Then-”

”I'm sorry. You hit your head, Miss Riley. I've put through a call to your hotel, but your cousin and his wife seem to be out.”

She needed help. Mental help. That's what he was trying to tell her.

”Whereas Carnevale is healthy fun for most people, perhaps it has not been the wisest time for you to visit,” Manetti suggested softly.

She stared at him intently, but her mind was racing. I don't trust my cousin at all anymore, sad but true. You doubt my every word. And now, the man who has made me feel secure has proven to be . . .

What?

”I saw Ragnor Wulfsson after I saw the body. Find him and bring him in; then you'll have corroboration of what I'm telling you.”

”Fine. We'll watch for the man. Now, there is little else you can do here. I think you should go to the hospital, since we cannot reach your relatives-”

”No,” she murmured. ”I'm fine. No knot on my head. I'm sure I imagined my fell.” She looked at him coldly. ”I'll go back to my hotel, and stay in my room for a while.” She was certain of what she had seen, and of what had happened. And that she was personally in danger here. ”Please don't trouble yourselves too much, but if you are able to get hold of my cousin and his wife, please ... please tell them that I'll meet them at Harry's between ten and eleven. That's usually a good time to get in without a reservation.”

”Miss Riley, I'm sorry to say this, but I think it might be in your best interest to cut your visit to Venice short, and go home.”

”Thank you. Maybe you're right,” she told him. ”I'll spend my time at the hotel looking into what arrangements can be made in the next few days.”

”We'll see you to the hotel,” Manetti said.

”I can walk Jordan back-” Raphael offered.

”We'll see her back,” Manetti said firmly.

”That is kind of you, Officer Manetti,” she said. ”Especially since we must surely stop by the station first.”

Manetti frowned. ”The station?”

”I want to file a report I mean, just in case any of this proves to be real in the future, surely you'll want what happened tonight in your records.”

”Of course, of course,” Manetti murmured.

”Raphael, I'd appreciate very much if you'd come as well.” She stared at Manetti. She wanted her words recorded as she said them-she trusted Raphael to see that her account of what happened went down correctly on paper.

A police launch took them to the station. She sat with an unknown officer at a desk, ignoring his looks when his eyes fell upon her skeptically as he typed the words Raphael translated for her. Manetti looked on. As she was nearing the end of her story, there was a commotion at the front of the station. Manetti excused himself. Jordan finished, Raphael read the paper, nodded at her gravely, and she signed the typed police report.

”Let's go,” she murmured to Raphael.

He nodded, but as they started to slip out the entry, they saw that Manetti was in deep conversation with a young woman who was very upset and insistent; Manetti was trying to calm her.

”What's going on?” Jordan asked.

”The woman ... she is the sister of the gondolier who died. She is angry with Manetti, who is telling her what the autopsy report said-that her brother's body was mangled by the sea and sharks and other creatures, but that it still appeared he died from a blow to the head-slamming into the stonework of a low bridge. She says that he did not, that he was murdered.”

”She's right-he was murdered,” Jordan murmured.

Raphael stared at her.

”I know that she's right.” Jordan sighed. ”Doesn't Manetti think it's a little bit suspicious? The man finds a severed head-and all of a sudden he meets a grisly death himself?”

Raphael watched her for a moment, then whispered, ”I don't think it will help right now if you bring that up.”

Maybe, maybe not. Jordan couldn't help herself. She walked up to the two, apologizing to the woman in Italian, then telling Manetti. ”Here I go again, insulting you. Listen to her!

What kind of an a.s.s are you? Look into Sal's death, do some investigating!”

Before Manetti could reply-and she began to fear that his reply might be an arrest and a one-way ticket to an Italian inst.i.tution for the insane-she swung around, grabbed Raphael's arm, and left the station.

”I'll stay with you until we can find Cindy or Jared-” he told her, but she shook her head firmly. ”I'll be okay, Raphael, honestly. In fact, I need to be alone. And you-I want you to take care of yourself. Manetti thinks I'm crazy, but something very bad is going on here. Please, Raphael stay close to other people. And wear a cross. You've been friendly with me, and I may have put you in danger.”

”Jordan-”

”Sal D'Onofrio gave me a ride back to the hotel from the area of that church before he died,” Jordan told him. ”Please, please, Raphael, just take care of yourself.”

”And what are you going to do?”

”Please don't worry. I'm going back to the hotel. I'll be locked in-”

”You said that you would go to Harry's-”

”Later, that's hours from now, and I'll walk by the front, across the main path, and there will be many people around me all the time.”

He walked with her back to the hotel, kissed her on both cheeks. She promised to see him the next day; it was a lie, but she would call the shop when she could and a.s.sure him that she was fine.

When he left her, she hurried up to her room and moved as swiftly as she could. She didn't intend to be caught there.

Ragnor had an uncanny habit of appearing when she did.

First, she went on the Internet and found that she could still get out of Venice that night. She could get a flight to Paris that would connect her directly to New Orleans. If she hurried. If she could get out of the hotel and get a water taxi to the airport quickly enough.

She paused suddenly, feeling as though a breeze had picked up in the room, when there could be no breeze. She looked around the room, an uneasy feeling seeping deep into her bones. She jumped up and searched the sitting area, then burst into the bathroom, her heart pounding. The door was still locked. She returned to her laptop, desperate to move quickly.

She booked the flight, praying that her credit card, overextended in her travels, wouldn't be rejected. She had grown overly anxious but took the time to E-mail the cop in New Orleans, telling him her flight arrangements and her time of arrival. She was going backwards, in time. If she made the nine o'clock flight out of Venice and connected with the overseas plane in Paris, her arrival time in New Orleans would be just after midnight.

She packed up her laptop, underwear, and an overnight bag, leaving the rest of her clothing and belongings in the room, carelessly shutting her bag. Terrified that some force was going to stop her, she was running as she left the room, and had to force herself to go back and lock the door.

She didn't check out, nor did she take a water taxi from the Danieli. She hurried to the hotel across Saint Mark's Square and took a taxi from there to the airport.

After presenting her pa.s.sport, she was the last person to run aboard the plane. She watched Venice disappear, feeling a strange sorrow as the plane rose in the night sky. She loved the city like few other places in the world.

But she would be back.