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The door opens while she’s talking. The man in the suit walks out, wheeling my suitcase behind him in his right hand. His knuckles are reddened, but he looks exactly the same as when he went in. He’s still got his glass of whiskey in his other hand.
“Signor Lombardi,” the maid says, nodding to him, bending her knees into a curtsy. “Stai bene?”
“Could you call the polizia, Giulia?” he replies in an American accent that’s deeper than I expected. There’s no anger or fear in his voice. If anything, he sounds mildly amused. “I’ve left a gentleman for them to collect.”
“Si, Signor Lombardi,” the maid says. “I’ll call them at once.” She scurries off toward the service elevator.
Mr. Lombardi turns to look at me. “Is there anything else you need to collect from in there?”
I glance past him into the room. There’s no sign of Oswald, not even any sign of a struggle. The window is open, the curtains billowing in like sails. I can hear the rumble of Rome’s morning traffic outside, the smell of city fumes.
“You don’t want to go in there,” Mr. Lombardi says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Focus. You were in the process of checking out. I only saw a suitcase. Is there anything else you’ve left behind?”
“Some clothes. My handbag. It’s got my plane tickets in it.”
“Where is it?”
“Under the mattress. I always keep it there in case—” I stop myself.
“In case what?”
“In case he steals it again.”
“He’s done this before?”
“God, yes. Broke into my house and took all my credit cards, leaving me with a ton of debts the banks say I’m liable for. I moved to Chicago to escape him, but he came after me. I had a restraining order, but he followed me to Rome. Who does that? He’s a fucking psycho.”
He gives me a wry smile.
“Wait in my room.”
He opens the door opposite my own. I look inside.
The place has been trashed. Bedding on the floor, cushions off the couches, ripped open, stuffing pouring out. I turn to ask him about it, but he’s already back in my room. I take another step into his. The drawers in the cabinet have been pulled out, and the wardrobe tipped over.
“What happened in here?” I ask when he reappears, my Gucci handbag dangling from his fingers.
He ignores my question. “When’s your flight?”
“Excuse me?”
He opens my handbag and brings out the ticket before I can stop him. “Three fifteen to Chicago,” he says. “Plenty of time for breakfast. I have a reservation. You will join me.”
“Can you get off my stuff?”
I snatch my handbag off him while he’s still sliding the tickets back inside. The last thing I need is for him to see my bullet vibrator in amongst the tampons and loose change.
A flicker of a smile appears on his lips. “I will leave your suitcase with the concierge.”
“You trust him?”
“Gregory? Of course. This hotel might be a fleapit, but he’s as loyal as they come. He will have it delivered to the baggage check ready for your flight. Come with me.” He’s already turning toward the door.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know a thing about you. Why the hell do you think I would agree to go to breakfast with you? The cops will want to talk to me about this. They always do. Talk and talk and talk, and he still gets to go free, so he can keep doing this.”
“You need to eat. The police know where we are if they need us, which they won’t. Once the fear subsides and the adrenaline gets dumped, you’ll feel ravenous.” He cocks his head and frowns. “You don’t want to stay here with that... person in there. You don’t feel safe. That much is clear.
“Whatever you were planning to do between now and your flight involved having your suitcase with you, which means you’re not a tourist. You’re here for business. Either you’ve done it already, which I doubt, or you’re doing it before you leave Rome. It can’t be that urgent. It’s already eight, and you’re not dressed yet. So you were planning to do it after breakfast. By the time we’re done, he’ll be locked up, and you’ll be free to do whatever you need to do in Rome before you fly back to Chicago.”
