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That remains to be seen.
He’s uttering a meaningless warning about being careful when another call comes in. It’s from my contact at forensics.
I end the first call and accept the second. “What did you find out?”
“A lot actually, thanks to the fact that we didn’t have to dig deep. It went a lot quicker than I expected. Although, it was a motherfucker to get the remains through that narrow cave opening and to carry those bags out of the gorge on foot.”
“Spare me the dramatics. Just give me the facts.”
“And here I was hoping for a sympathetic ear. I still have blisters on my feet. The gash in my hip from squeezing through the gap in that rock needed stitches.”
“You owe me. Suck it up.”
“So cruel,” he says with dramatic humor before he finally turns serious. “Right. You’ve got yourself an interesting case. I have dental record matches. The male was Lisandru Albertini, forty-two years old. The female was his wife, Maria Albertini. Thirty-eight.”
My cousin and her husband.
“Both were shot in the back of the head, execution style. There were no signs of disintegrated clothes or threads of fabric. They were buried naked. The chemical analysis shows they’ve been dead for approximately two months. I’ll have to do more tests to nail the exact date of their deaths.”
Fuck. It’s what I expected, but for the sake of the kids, I hoped it would be different. “What about the shotgun I gave you? Is that the gun that was used?”
“I was coming to that,” he says with mild irritation. “Be quiet and try not to interrupt. According to the firing-pin matching and breech-face markings, the shell casings we found on the site were fired from that shotgun. They were shot at close range. No other injuries. No signs of struggling. Classic case of homicide.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, considering the information. Why would the old man kill his own granddaughter and his grandson-in-law? The only plausible explanation is that they discovered his treasure and decided to dip their hands in his crate. I can’t think of another reason that would motivate him to make orphans of his great-grandchildren and saddle him with their care.
“What do you want me do?” Fred asks.
“Report it. I need death certificates.”
“What do I say about the discovery?”
“You can say I found the grave. I’m away on business, but when I get back, I’ll make a statement.”
He sighs. “I hope you can pull those strings you said you can, because I really like my job here.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.”
“Okey dokey. If you say so.”
I’m about to hang up when he says, “Oh, and Angelo? Now we’re quits. No more favors.”
I chuckle as I end the call. He’ll jump when I tell him to.
The wind has picked up. Heavy clouds hang dark in the sky. A moment later, rain pelts the windowpanes of the cabin. The swell rises to a few meters, bobbing the boat like a cork on the choppy surface. Being used to rough seas, the violent water doesn’t faze me. I get some work done before relieving the skipper at the helm so that he can take a much-needed break. Navigating through a storm is physically and mentally exhausting.
For the next three hours, I focus on nothing but the battle with the violent elements of nature. By the time the lights of Marseille come into view, we’ve outrun the storm.
The café where Hugo dines is in the port district. The men I pay to keep my business tidy in France are waiting when we dock. A few flank me while the rest go ahead to do reconnaissance. A man standing guard at the top of the cobblestone street nods when I arrive, letting me know the coast is clear.
I make my way down the alley and open the door with the cabaret-style letters spelling the name on the glass. It’s too warm inside. Smells of paprika, onions, and fried fish hang in the air. The chatter is loud. All the tables in the small space are occupied. The clientele are men. They’re mostly dock workers who come in for a hearty, affordable meal after a long day of labor. They’re the tough kind, the people Hugo hangs out with because many of them do illegal business on the side, and cops like Hugo collect their kickbacks in exchange for turning a blind eye.
My men enter behind me. The diners look up. The room goes quiet. Hugo stills in the middle of shoving fish stew into his mouth. His ruddy cheeks pale as recognition sparks in his eyes. He squirms in his chair when two of my men take up a position next to him.
The owner catches the gaze of a burly woman who puts a bowl of steaming fish soup in front of a customer and tilts his head toward the back. She scurries away and disappears through the kitchen door. The owner is next. He knows who I am. Everyone in the city does.
One by one, the customers abandon their meals and file through the door. When Hugo makes to get up, my man pushes him down with a hand on his shoulder. Another man locks the door.
Hugo swallows as I sit down opposite him.
