Chapter 28

FLORENCE, ITALY

Nora was right. Pinky Man raced to the Florence airport. But the trail ran cold at the rental car drop-off. The AirTag stayed with the car, so Pinky Man is now somewhere in the crowded airport, if not already on a plane heading to who-knows-where.

Peretola Airport is a madhouse. There are no separate departure and arrival areas like in the U.S., and cars and cabs zig and zag, stopping abruptly to load and unload travelers.

Ryan looks around for a place to pull over, but the van is too big. He needs to get inside before his quarry gets away. “Can you take the wheel?” Ryan asks Nora. “If he gets to the gate we’ll never—”

Nora shakes her head. Of course. Ryan’s the only one who can drive stick.

“You need to go inside. See if you spot him.”

“Okay, but what if I see him? What then?”

“Tell security he has a gun.”

Nora appears skeptical. But when he judders to a stop, she gets out and hurry-walks into the terminal.

As Ryan circles the airport a second time, he receives a text:

Don’t see him and can’t go to gates without ticket

Ryan contemplates having her buy a ticket to anywhere. But it’s pointless. The airport is large and Pinky Man could be boarded by the time she gets a ticket and makes her way through security. He texts back, asking her to check what flights are leaving within the next hour. That might at least narrow down where the man was rushing off to.

Ten minutes later, he retrieves Nora.

“He stopped somewhere before he went to the airport,” Ryan says in a rush. “Does the AirTag show the address?”

“Yeah, I pinned it.”

Nora taps her phone. Ryan hears a chime on his phone and sees the address arrive by text.

“What now?” Nora asks.

Ryan pauses. “This is pointless. Let’s go meet the others.”

She seems surprised he’s giving up. Crestfallen. But she says nothing.

It takes an hour to return to the Arezzo train station. He stops at the street adjacent to the drab entrance.

“I’ll meet you on the platform.”

She shakes her head, confused.

“I need to get the van back to the rental company.”

She looks at her phone. “There’s a train to Rome in thirty minutes.”

“I should make it, but if not, I’ll catch the next one. You go on ahead.”

She doesn’t respond, just climbs out of the van. Turning, she says, “I’ll see you on the platform.” It isn’t a question, but it sounds like one.

And she’s right to think he won’t show. He can’t put her at any more risk.

Half an hour later, he pulls up to a small resort in Madonnino, the place Pinky Man stopped before heading to the airport. It’s another bed-and-breakfast. Pinky Man must have stayed here. Maybe he can find out the man’s name.

He pulls the van to an iron gate securing the resort. There’s an intercom. He leans out the window and finds the call button. There’s a structure at the top of a hill ahead. Another old farmhouse converted to lodging.

He presses the button. After a moment, a voice says something in Italian.

Ryan says, “Hi, do you speak English? I’m interested in seeing the lodge—I’m from an American university and we need longer-term housing for our abroad program.” He doesn’t like to lie. But maybe he can recommend the place for next year’s law journal trip.

The voice, this time in English, says, “Can you make an appointment? We have guests checking in soon and need to finish getting everything ready.”

“I leave today. If there’s any way you can show me, it can be quick. I’m sorry, I’ve been visiting a number of properties and someone I met said yours would be perfect. It could be a lot of business for you if it works out.”

There’s another long pause. Then the iron gate comes to life, the doors swing open.

Ryan jams the stick shift into gear and putters up the hill.

He’s met by a short heavyset woman. She watches as he parks. An unleashed dog rushes up to him when he gets out.

“Don’t mind Bella. She loves to welcome guests.”

Ryan crouches down and lets the dog lick him on the face. Few things in this world can make you feel better than a dog.

Ryan comes over, shakes hands. Shows his Georgetown student ID and explains the school’s annual trip, exaggerates about the school needing additional accommodations for the abroad program.

The woman, Angie is her name, gives him a quick tour.

First the outdoors—the infinity pool overlooking more vineyards, the postcard-perfect cypress trees. The area is nicer than where he and his classmates stayed. He tells her as much.

“I know that place,” she says without elaboration, as if Ryan’s B and B is a rival.

She shows him the common area for guests. It has tile floors, a long wooden table. That’s when he sees the guest book. It’s large and is on a stand with the open book displaying signatures.

“You get many American guests?”

“Oh yes. And a lot of Germans. People from all over the world.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah, except for the Swiss.”

Ryan doesn’t know what that’s about and doesn’t ask. “I love the guest book. Everyone signs in when they arrive?” He examines the book with admiration.

“Oh yes, I insist. We have their registration. But it’s nice to have an informal record that other guests can read.”

He tries to make out the names of the visitors. But she calls him over to the patio where they serve a multicourse breakfast every morning.

Angie eyes a woman sitting by the pool. “Six courses and she wants only toast. The Swiss…” She shakes her head. “And they always give less than five stars.”

Ryan needs to get back to that book. “Any American guests lately?”

“We had a man this week. He didn’t say where he was from, but I know a Philly accent when I hear one. He’s American, but lives in the UK now.”

Ryan doesn’t pry. He can’t seem too eager. “Speaking of accents. Do I detect Chicago?”

She laughs. “Good ear. But don’t make me say ‘da Bears.’”

“Well, your place is amazing. I’m going to recommend it to the school.”

“Okay, well, make sure to tell them to book early. It’s harder with larger groups. Most rooms only have double beds, so it’s not set up for the roommate thing. And remember, if you look at the reviews, anything less than five stars were the Swiss.”

She escorts Ryan to the door. “Shoot,” he says as they pass the guest book. “I seem to have set down my phone.” He makes a show of checking his pockets. “The patio maybe.”

“I can check.”

When Angie leaves, Ryan pulls out his phone. He snaps photos of the open guest book pages. He flips the prior page and nervously takes another photo.

He then calls out, “Sorry, I found it.”

Back in the van, he pulls up the photos.

The most recent page has only three names. The first is a woman from Switzerland. The toast lady. There’s another woman’s name. Then he sees it.

“Peter Jones, Lackford, England.”A fake-sounding name if he’s ever heard one. Says “Ryan Smith.”

The woman said the American guest lives in the UK. Jones is the only guest from the UK. And Nora learned that of the two flights leaving soonest from the airport, one was to London’s Heathrow.

He’s got him.