Private Rome

Chapter 5

My Uber arrived forty minutes later, and I finally reached the Hotel Hassler on the Piazza della Trinità dei Monti at a little after 1 a.m. The Hassler is located at the top of the Spanish Steps and is one of Rome’s most prestigious hotels, its grand white stone façade looming over a small cobbled square. Inside there are magnificent restaurants, and suites offering some of the finest views of the Eternal City. Alessandro Calla, Private’s local corporate lawyer, had suggested the hotel because of its proximity to the centro storico of Rome, and it was no hardship to stay among the narrow streets, crooked alleyways and ancient buildings that were reminders of the city’s glorious past.

The hotel itself was a strange mix of old and new, the solid seven-story imperial-style building housing wood-paneled lounges and glass-and-steel suites. Gilt, marble and fine leather mingled with contemporary furniture and abstract art, but somehow the clash between present and past seemed to work, linked by the common value of luxury that infused every aspect of the place, from the food to the service.

A uniformed doorman held the door open and welcomed me by name as I entered the lobby, where a chalk-white marble floor met a curved onyx wall. I headed for the elevators but paused when my phone rang. I was grateful to see it was Justine returning the calls I’d made while waiting for my car to arrive.

“Jus,” I said, answering.

“Everything okay, Jack?” she immediately asked.

Local news had been told someone had been murdered at La Posta Vecchia but no further details had been released, so there was no way Justine could have had any idea what had happened. “There’s been a death,” I revealed, and she stayed quiet. “Matteo Ricci has been arrested for killing a priest at the Private launch party.”

“Oh, Jack,” she gasped. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s not been good,” I replied. “The poor priest was shot at close range and Matteo was found holding the gun, but he claims he’s innocent.”

“Do you believe him?”

It was a very good question.

“I don’t know. I mean, how well can a person know someone they’ve only met four times? Our interview process is designed to gauge performance, not weed out potential killers. I found him standing over the victim, holding the murder weapon, but something about it doesn’t add up. If he wanted the man dead, why shoot him at the party where there was no chance of avoiding capture?”

Justine murmured agreement.

“And there was a woman lurking around the hotel. She claimed to be a journalist but refused to give me her name.”

Justine sighed. “So, you’re not coming home?”

This was meant to be a quick in and out trip, five days to attend the launch, take care of the last of the paperwork involved in launching the business, and meet the investigators Matteo had chosen to form the core team as they started their training.

“I—” I began, but Justine didn’t let me get any further.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I know you can’t leave a situation like this.”

I breathed out a sigh of relief. Justine and I had been together through some turbulent times, but as Private’s chief forensic psychologist and profiler she knew the demands of the job.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you,” I remarked.

“You were an angel in a previous life,” she replied.

I laughed. “If you say so. Listen, can you do me a favor and ask Mo-bot to check out someone called Luna Colombo?”

Maureen ‘Mo-bot’ Roth was Private’s head of technology. She was a world leader in digital security and data collection and management. She was also a renowned white hat hacker, someone who used their understanding of technology for good, though I suspected she was also a notorious black or at least gray hat in her free time, crossing the line into criminality when necessary.

“Luna was Matteo’s partner in Rome police. Before they took him away, he told me I had to talk to her.”

“Sounds like you’ve got the beginnings of a case,” Justine replied. “I’ll get right on it. You know what I’m going to tell you?”

“Be careful?” I guessed.

“That’s right.”

“I will,” I replied. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Speak soon.”

I hung up and continued toward the elevators. As I left the reception area and passed the lounge bar, I saw the distorted figure of a man reflected in one of the mirrors and turned to see Joseph Stadler. Like me, he still wore his tuxedo. I’d undone my bow tie in the Uber, but his was impeccably taut.

“Mr. Morgan,” he said. “I’m sorry to intrude upon you at your hotel at this hour, but I felt it imperative I see you after tonight’s terrible tragedy.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Stadler?”

“I wanted to speak to you at La Posta Vecchia, but the police kept us all separated and I was concerned you might leave Rome quickly after such a blow,” he replied. “I know you by reputation, Mr. Morgan. You are the best private investigator there is.”

He hesitated, perhaps expecting a response, but it was too late for me to pretend to be taken in by easy praise, which from a stranger is sometimes a sign of attempted manipulation.

“Anyway,” he went on, “Father Brambilla worked for me for many years as part of the Church’s oversight team. He was a good friend.”

“Then I’m sorry for your loss,” I remarked.

Stadler nodded slowly, tears welling in his eyes. “Thank you. I cannot believe your associate killed him, Mr. Morgan. If he did, I would like to understand why. If he didn’t, I want to know the name of the true murderer and bring him or her to justice. I hope this is not putting you in an awkward position, but I would like to hire you and your agency to investigate the death of Father Ignacio Brambilla.”

My mind instinctively turned to potential conflicts although, in reality, I had already decided to get to the truth myself.

“Please,” Stadler said. “Please help me find the person who killed my friend.”

His eyes were full of pain, but even such open distress wasn’t enough to compel me.

“I can’t simply accept a commission like this,” I replied. “Not without first conducting due diligence and considering any possible conflicts of interest.”

I’d been stung before when an imposter had engaged me to track down a woman he’d claimed was his daughter. After discovering the ruse, I’d implemented stricter client engagement checks, and wasn’t about to ignore them, even if Stadler’s interests seemed to coincide with my own.

“I’ll think about it, Mr. Stadler, and take care of the necessary background,” I told him.

“You can reach me here,” he said, handing me his card. “I would expect nothing less than the utmost professionalism from you, Mr. Morgan. And I could hope for no more. Not under such tragic circumstances. I will wait to hear from you. Have a good night.”

“You too,” I responded, and he bowed slightly and backed away.

As he left the hotel, I sent Justine a text message.

Ask Mo to give me background on Joseph Stadler, COO of the Vatican Bank.

Justine replied instantly.

Will do. X.

Exhausted, my mind still churning with questions, I finally made it to one of the elevators and headed up to my suite.