To start at the beginning of the story go here.
By a miracle of whatever saint watches over decrepit French housing, the tenement elevator was still working. It banged and rattled in its ancient conveyor so much, though, I wished I had taken the stairs.
In the apartment Sophie had found something to replace the coffee table that her dead pimp had destroyed. It was approximately the same height, but it was a mystery other than that as it was covered with a wide sheet of paper and an open notebook, a glass of white wine holding it all down. Whatever her latest project was, it engrossed her enough that she didn’t acknowledge me when I came in.
Examining the table, I recognized the rectangular paper covering it as a city map, blue grids laying out the river to the west and the ocean to the south, brown ones capturing the hills and mountains to the north and east. In different colors, Sophie had marked locations throughout town, some a bright pink and others a cool blue.
“What this?” Sophie swiveled her head to me, quick enough that I think I may have taken her by surprise. Perched on the end of her nose were a pair of granny glasses. I hadn’t realized that she needed reading spectacles, and I found that surprise allowed me to suppress a titter. It wasn’t that she looked silly with the glasses, but they were very cute, which wasn’t a word that I typically applied to Sophie. Testifying to that, an earpiece of the glasses brushed against a scar on her neck.
Emerging from her concentration and surprise, Sophie smiled and greeted me. She must have been hunched over the maps for a time as she paused to clasp her hands above her head and stretch. I admired the action, her back arching, the move producing an exhalation that squeaked near the end in a way that matched the daintiness of the glasses.
Finished, she asked me if I wanted any food. I politely declined and repeated my question, pointing to the maps and notebook. She smiled, seemingly pleased at how much she had accomplished, and swept a hand over the papers. “Ricerca,” she answered. Even with the Italian Sophie had taught me, the word escaped me. I conferred this with a blank stare. “Research,” she clarified, which only earned her a cocked eyebrow for how much that left out.
She quickly pointed to various dots on the map, most of which were located outside of Old Town or even the city proper. “Bordelli,” she answered, her index finger floating over three dots, one after the other. After making that short circuit, she pointed a finger to a pink dot, close to the river and just north of the stadium. “Rosa is clean, a house that is run by the lucciole.” Her fingernail floated over to a blue dot, located in the mountains north of Old Town where we had visited. “These are run by men, who keep the women.” She landed her digit on a colorless circle. “And this, I do not know.” Those dots, I noted, made up most of the markings.
I stepped close to Sophie, but remained standing, my apparently superior eyesight allowing me to view the markings from further away. While the idea of Sophie digging around alone in such matters made me nervous, I had to appreciate her work. I had seen intelligence briefings in the Corps that didn’t have this kind of thoroughness. I said as much.
“Grazi,” she replied, eyes were still on the map. I continued to hover over her wondering, “So why are you collecting this information?”
Sophie leaned back into the couch. Watching her come up with an answer, I wasn’t sure she knew herself. “It may have utility,” was her dubious reply.
“To the police, maybe,” I said, my mind still on the encounter with Inspector Rotella. “Not so much to us.” I said this mainly because of my concern around Sophie investigating this kind of thing alone. Another part of my brain was already thinking on how the information might be used.
Not privy to my competing thoughts, Sophie frowned, chewing on the nub of her glasses, considering what I said. “Non si sa mai,” she replied, and I suppose she was right. You never can tell.
Still, her use of idiom struck me as an attempt to avoid a real answer. Knowing that it would annoy her, I sat down on the couch to take off my shoes. My bulk cratered the old sofa, causing Sophie to bounce into me, for which she punched me in the shoulder teasingly. I was grateful for that as it made the feel of her body against mine easier to ignore, especially since she hit on one of my bruises. That only made me realize how much my feet hurt and how much I had been on them in the last few days. With the work tracking down the bordellos, that must have been true for Sophie as well. I slid over to give her more room.
I continued to stare at the map as I peeled off my shoes. As if it were a change of subject I said, “If we’re going to do something about this Nika, I think it’ll have to be soon.”
Not disagreeing, but unsure what I meant, Sophie swept her blond hair out of her green eyes and tilted her head at me. “Why?”
“Mitnick’s,” I started then paused, unsure how to describe the Avoritet. Was it Mitnick’s organization, his La Cosa Nostra? His bosses? Did I bother to explain to Sophie that we might be going up against the entire corrupt heart of a new Russian empire? Would she care? It seemed unlikely that she would, but it didn’t mean she shouldn’t know. “Mitnick has men he works with. Or maybe for? They call themselves the Avoritet. Criminals, but corrupt government officials as well. Mostly former Soviets. They’re coming to town and I think the girl, Nika, her safety is somehow important to all of it.”
Unsure why, I restated what Sophie had said after leaving the Russians’ brothel. “If we get her out, maybe it can cause enough trouble for Mitnick and his pals to disrupt their operations here.” It occurred to me that kind of trouble would probably cause problems for Sartre as well, but I can’t say that upset me too much.
Sophie gazed at the map, sweeping over the city as if planning a bank heist. “How?” she asked, her English defaulting to a monosyllabic question.
“Lanzo? The Corsican?” Sophie nodded and I continued, “His friends, the Idiots, want to kidnap her for ransom. Sell her back to Mitnick.”
Sophie spit on the floor, a hostility in her eyes that made me fear for my own life. And testicles. She launched into a fusillade so loaded with anger that I couldn’t tell if her Italian tirade was made up of questions or accusations.
I held up my hands, as much defensively as to implore her to give me a moment to explain. “I’m not saying we actually let them do it.” Sophie did pause at this, her anger barely restrained. “I’m saying we let Mitnick think they kidnapped her. Then she’s got a chance to disappear. With Lanzo if she wants.”
That settled Sophie and she paused, returning to stare at the map. Back to me, she expounded on her question by adding a few words, “How do we do this?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go.”
Sophie laughed then, laughed at the danger and desperation, at the plan that lacked so many details it could hardly be called a plan. I couldn’t help but wonder in that moment, not for the first time, if Verdicchio’s blade had excised something from her, had cut out some piece of self-preservation that she didn’t really miss anyway.
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a polished and published prequel to this story go here.
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