Fatal Cover-Up

She lifted the bright orange flag she was carrying a few inches higher to ensure the fifteen enthusiastic tourists who had shown up in the heart of Rome to visit the famous site didn’t get separated from her in the crowd. It was her job to see that they left having experienced the best tour of the ruins—even if dismissing the feeling that someone was watching her was proving impossible.

She studied the crowd as she led them toward the last stop of the tour. Someone from a group of Japanese tourists was holding up a selfie stick for a photo. A small crowd clustered together at one of the open spaces overlooking the floor of the Colosseum. Her attention shifted to a man standing against one of the stone walls to the left. He wasn’t a part of the group, and didn’t seem to be paying attention to his surroundings. Had she seen him before today? Normally, she wouldn’t have given him more than a passing glance, but while most of the tourists had cameras or cell phones to take photos, he didn’t. A second later he smiled and hurried toward to a woman holding on to two little girls.

Talia swallowed hard. She was just being paranoid. The text she’d received last night was nothing more than a coincidence. A wrong number.

Except she knew that wasn’t true.

I know you have the paintings. Meet me at the Spanish Steps when you get off work. I know who murdered your husband. You don’t want to be next.

Her heart pounded. While she didn’t know about any paintings, the mention of her husband’s murder proved this was no coincidence.

“Were all the gladiators slaves?” A twelve-year-old wearing a baseball cap and a New York Yankees shirt pressed in beside her.

“Slaves?” she asked. The boy’s question yanked her away from Thomas’s death and back to the present. She pasted on a smile as the group kept walking. “No. Actually, some of them were ex-fighters, knights, or they could be anyone drawn in by the roaring approval of the crowd and the hopes of winning. And no,” she said before he had a chance to pose the frequently asked question, “they didn’t always fight to the death.”

Talia shifted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, then proceeded to answer another dozen questions as they walked through the amphitheater that had once held seating for the more than 50,000 spectators. Centuries ago, it would have been tightly packed, much like today, as spectators flocked to watch gladiatorial combats, hunts and wild animal fights, and at times even mock naval battle. But focusing on the Colosseum’s rich history was proving impossible.

She glanced at her watch. Another five minutes and she’d be done for the day. On a normal Monday, she might have plans to meet a friend for dinner. Today, all she wanted to do was escape back to her apartment and forget about the sinister message. Except she knew she wasn’t going to be able to dismiss it that easily.

I know who murdered your husband.

The words played over again through her mind. But it was more than Thomas’s unsolved death that haunted her. He’d been shot during a drug raid, with stolen goods found in his possession. He’d been buried three days later in disgrace. And Talia had been left feeling betrayed by the man she loved. They’d promised to love and honor each other, and she’d meant every word of her vows. But instead he’d dishonored her with his crimes.

As soon as the last question from one of the tourists had been answered and she’d thanked them for coming, she let out a sigh of relief and headed for the exit. She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. Normally she loved exploring the history of Rome’s landmarks, but not today. Today, the thick walls seemed to close in on her as she pressed through the crowded walkways.

And she still had yet to decide her next move.

She slipped on her sunglasses and hesitated outside the exit, knowing she had three choices. She could go to the police, but what could they do? It wasn’t as if an actual crime had been committed. Not yet. And on top of that, she’d found out the hard way that you couldn’t always trust those sworn to protect.

Her second option was to follow the demands of the message and head toward the Spanish Steps, an option that made her even more nervous than going to the authorities. What happened when they realized she didn’t have what they wanted? That was why her best choice seemed to be to ignore the message and go home. She started walking again. In less than five minutes she could be sitting on the subway. In another fifteen she could be in her apartment, lost in a good book on her balcony while trying to forget everything she’d left behind three years ago.

Talia stepped over a crack in the cobblestone walkway as waves of memories flooded through her. As much as she wanted to simply hide, she knew she’d never be able to just ignore the message. The local police department back in the States had never found Thomas’s killer, but neither had she ever heard of any paintings involved in his case. What was the connection of these art pieces to Thomas’s death? How had they found her, and why, after all these years, did someone think she had them? And how was it possible for whoever sent the message to know something the police had never discovered?

The string of questions unnerved her. She glanced toward the subway station that would take her to the Spanish Steps and hesitated again. She had the private numbers for both the detective who’d led the investigation into Thomas’s death as well as the chief of police he’d worked for. It was still morning in south Texas, so before she contacted the Italian authorities or met with whoever had sent the message, it made sense to talk to the Americans. Decision made, she pressed through the throng of tourists coming and going from the Colosseum toward the subway and home.

A second later, she felt someone rip her bag from her shoulder, then push her down onto the ground. A sharp pain shot up her knee on impact as a man wearing a hooded long-sleeved T-shirt took off down the uneven pathway with her bag. Before she could get up, a second man shouted and took off after the thief.

Someone helped her to her feet. Another person handed her her sunglasses, which had fallen off. She thanked them both as she steadied herself. Her legs felt as if they were about to collapse beneath her. The fear pounding through her wasn’t just because she felt violated and vulnerable. Could this incident somehow be related to Thomas’s death and the threat she’d received? She managed a breath, then started back down the road, weaving her way once again through the crowd. About a minute later, the man who’d taken off after the thief ran back toward her, carrying her bag.

“Thought you might want this,” he said out of breath as he handed over the purse.

“Wow. I can’t believe you got it.” Her hand shook as she took it from him. “It all happened so fast.”

He shot her a smile. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“And normally I’m the one who tells tourists how to avoid getting robbed.”

Except today she’d been the one lost in thought and had become an easy target. “So you’re a tour guide.” It was more of a statement than a question,

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess I was distracted today.”

She clutched the strap of the bag tighter, distracted by threatening messages and the reminder of her husband’s murder. It was no wonder she hadn’t even noticed the man.

“Unfortunately the guy who snatched it got away,” the man said, “but I saw a couple police officers not too far ahead. If we could come up with a description—”

“No...it’s okay.” The last thing she wanted to do right now was talk to the police. “Petty theft is an everyday occurrence, and besides, the guy’s long gone by now. I’m just thankful to have my bag. Replacing my ID would have been a nightmare.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and shrugged. “I’m just happy I could help.”

She knew he was American from his accent. Just over six feet tall, he was dressed casually in gray chino shorts, a black T-shirt and a black baseball cap. Dark brown hair, brown eyes and good-looking... Okay, very good-looking. Not that it mattered.

“Are you all right?” His gaze dropped to her knee.

“I think so.” She glanced down at the trail of blood on her leg just below the hem of her dress, where she’d scraped it on the rough pavement. “It’s nothing. But thank you again. I’m not sure how you were able to get it back, but you really did save me a lot of hassle.”

“Not a problem, but hey...” He caught her eyes as she looked up. “Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee? It will give you a few minutes to catch your breath and clean up your knee.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I’d like to.”

She hesitated. Maybe a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt. The diversion would help calm her nerves and right now she definitely needed to calm down.

“I saw a little café just around the corner,” he continued, glancing back down the street. “What do you say?”

“Okay.” She answered before she’d had a chance to really think about it, then immediately questioned her decision. She’d gone out with a few men since moving here, but never more than once or twice, and certainly not with a stranger. She pushed away the concern. It wasn’t like this was a date. He was just a friendly American who’d come to her rescue.

“I never got your name,” she said as they sat down at one of the small outside tables at the busy café a minute later. She signaled to the waiter and ordered two espressos in Italian, then pulled out a package of tissues from her bag and started dabbing at her knee.

“Joe Bryant,” he said, settling into his chair. “From Virginia.”

“Talia Morello, born and raised in Texas, actually,” she said.

“For a Texan your Italian is flawless.”

“My father was Italian and has family here, so I ended up spending most summers in Italy while I was growing up. What about you, though?” she asked, wanting to shift the conversation away from herself. There were things—personal things—he didn’t need to know about her. “Are you here on holiday?”

“The trip’s work-related, actually.” He pressed his fingers against the table, then pulled out his badge. “I went for the tourist look today, but I actually work for the FBI’s art crime team.”

“Art crime team?” She glanced at the badge, panic settling in as she repeated his words. This couldn’t be another coincidence. She received a message demanding some artwork and now the FBI’s art division was here? She searched her brain for a connection, but nothing made sense.

“Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy,” he said, breaking into her thoughts, “but I know who you are. I’m actually here because I was hoping for a chance to ask you a few questions about your husband.”

The familiar scenery around her began to blur. The line of shops down the avenue sprinkled with tourists, the smell of pizza baking, purple and red flowers wilting in the afternoon sun...

She’d moved to Italy to escape the questions.

“I know he was a police officer,” he continued. “I know he was accused of stealing from a number of police raids, that he was murdered and that the murderer was never caught. I know you were even questioned once as to whether or not you were involved—”