‘If that’s the case, I’ll talk to him in Italian. But our charade will work better in English.’
Frankie nodded and dialed the number, although he had no idea what Jones was planning. Neither did Payne, for that matter, yet he patted Frankie on the shoulder and assured him he’d be fine. A woman answered on the fourth ring, and Frankie spoke to her in rapid Italian, explaining who he was and what he needed. Thankfully, she said she could speak English and would be willing to talk to Jones. Frankie handed him the phone and whispered, ‘Her name is Gia.’
Jones thanked him with a wink. ‘Gia, I’m so sorry to call you at such a late hour, but there’s been an accident.’
‘Are you all right?’ she asked in near-perfect English.
‘I’m fine. A little banged up but fine. Although I can’t say the same about your truck.’
‘The vehicle is in bad shape?’
‘Yeah, the whole side’s caved in. I plowed into it something good.’
‘Pardon me?’ she said, confused. ‘I don’t understand. You hit your own truck?’
‘What? No!’ Jones sighed loud enough for her to hear. ‘I’m sorry. I guess I’m doing a pretty bad job of explaining this. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m still a little shaken up from things.’
‘Not a problem, sir. Just take a deep breath and tell me what happened.’
He sucked in a gulp of air for her benefit. ‘Boy, let me try this again. I rented my car from a different agency, not yours, and as I was backing out of my parking space, I slammed into one of your trucks. I should’ve seen it because it was just sitting there. But, man, I hit it pretty good.’
The sound of typing preceded her next comment. ‘And the vehicle is heavily damaged?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I caved in the whole side and shattered its window.’
More typing. ‘And why are you calling us instead of the actual renter?’
‘Well, that’s just the thing. I don’t know who it belongs to. I assume it’s someone at the hotel, since it was parked in their lot, but I don’t know who. I came inside and asked the manager if he knew, but he didn’t. That’s when he suggested that we call you to find out.’
The clicking of keys continued. ‘And you’re sure it’s one of our vehicles?’
‘I think so. When I checked to see if anyone was inside, I noticed a pamphlet on the front seat with your company’s name on it. That’s how I got this phone number to begin with.’
Silence engulfed the line for the next few seconds. ‘Do you have any other information, sir? The make of the truck, the registration number, the -’
‘I wrote down the license plate. Will that help?’
‘Yes, sir, that would be great.’
Jones read off the digits and waited for her reply.
‘Sorry, sir, there seems to be a discrepancy here. The license you gave me belongs to one of our vehicles, but its itinerary says nothing about Milan. That’s where you are, right?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Then I don’t see how you could have hit this truck. The vehicle with this particular license should be in Orvieto, not Milan.’
‘Orvieto?’ he said, feigning confusion. ‘Is that near here?’
‘Not at all. That’s why I’m guessing you’ve made a mistake.’
‘But I’m not. There’s no doubt in my mind I hit this truck. If you don’t believe me, I can put the hotel manager back on the phone. This truck is sitting twenty feet from us.’
The sound of clicking started up again. ‘Hold on, sir. I’ll double-check my records if you’d like. Can you give me that license plate again?’
Jones repeated the numbers, even though he started to doubt his plan. He figured, if she was reluctant to believe that the truck was even in Milan, then there was little chance that she’d answer any of his questions about Boyd.
‘Sir,’ she finally said, ‘while I was rerunning the license plate, something caught my eye. The customer you’re looking for is obviously in Milan, just like you suggested.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘I noticed on my computer that she just rented a second vehicle.’
‘Excuse me?’ It took a few seconds for things to sink in. ‘Wait a second! Did you say she?’
‘Yes, sir. The driver of the truck just rented a Fiat from our Linate Airport office.’
Jones mouthed holy shit to Payne before he talked to Gia. ‘And how long ago was that?’
‘About a minute, sir. The order just came up on my screen.’
40
Fenway Park,
Boston, Massachusetts
Nick Dial had always wanted to see Fenway Park. There was something about the Green Monster, the thirty-seven-foot left-field wall, that captivated his imagination. His obsession started when he was a boy, during the summer he lived in New England. He and his father used to listen to games on the radio, then they’d go in their backyard and imitate their favorite Red Sox players.
Dial smiled as he thought about the ballpark on his flight to Boston. He imagined what the grass was going to smell like, the dirt was going to feel like, and the Monster was going to look like. He’d been waiting for this moment his entire life and couldn’t wait to get there.
All that changed, though, when he walked out of the tunnel and saw the crime scene spread before him. The playground of his dreams had been stained by the reality of his job.
Dial wasn’t there for a baseball game. He was there to catch a killer.
The cross had been planted on the pitcher’s mound with the victim facing home plate. His muscular arms stretched toward first and third, while his feet were angled toward the pitching rubber. A garbage bag had been slipped over the victim’s head to protect his identity from the news choppers that hovered over the field. Meanwhile, several officers searched around the cross for physical evidence.
Strangely, Dial saw a second team of cops standing in front of the Green Monster. He tried to figure out what they were doing, but the fence was over 300 feet away, and his already shitty vision was being obscured by the spotlights. Throw in the wattage of the stadium lights, and Dial felt like he was standing in the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, even though it was midnight in Boston.
‘Hey you,’ a cop yelled in an accent thicker than chowder. ‘Get outta here. This field is off-limits.’
Dial whipped out his credentials. ‘Where can I find the man in charge?’
‘Probably takin’ a leak in the dugout. Captain’s got a wicked large prostate. Can’t last ten minutes without hittin’ the crapper.’
Dial nodded, pulling out his notebook. ‘What can you tell me about the vic?’