She might not have succeeded if Wyatt hadn't landed beside her a split second later, with an almighty splash, leaping for the boat and wrenching it back with all his weight against it.

  Neither of them was exactly bulky, but Wyatt was bigger and taller, and Juliette thought that it was his final effort that won the day. The boat veered around thanks to their combined efforts. And that meant, as Alessandro made his desperate bid for freedom, he accelerated straight into the beach's rocky edge.

  The impact was jarring. Juliette felt the boat shudder and shake as it hit the rocks, throwing her off balance. Wyatt, too, lost his footing, but he managed to grab hold of the boat's side and steady it as it bounced back from the impact.

  The boat's bow crunched into the rocks, sending Alessandro flying forward, his head slamming into the boat's steering wheel. For a moment, he lay there, stunned. The boat's speed abruptly bled away and it floundered in the shallows. Juliette and Wyatt clung on tight, trying to steady the vessel.

  Then, she clambered aboard the boat, scrambling toward the front where Alessandro was struggling to his feet. Wyatt was keeping hold of the boat in case their suspect tried any other desperate moves.

  He turned to face her, his eyes wild. “You can't do this!" he yelled back. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

  "You disobeyed a direct request from an officer of the law," Juliette pointed out. The fact he was speaking to them in English was an indication he'd understood that request just fine.

  Alessandro glared at her, his breathing heavy and labored. "I was just trying to protect myself," he said, his voice shaking. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

  "That's a very strange way to go about it," Wyatt said. "But we can talk about this out of this boat. On dry land. In the police station. Then, you'd better give us a version that we'll buy."

  ***

  An hour later, having called in a police car to take Alessandro into custody, Juliette arrived at the police station where he was. She and Wyatt had detoured to a scenic strip mall to buy a quick change of clothing in a local second-hand store, and dry their wet garments at the lavanderia, or launderette, next door to the store.

  Now dry and comfortable, they walked inside. She was feeling positive about this interview, as if their earlier actions might hopefully bear fruit. Without a doubt they were going to face down a guilty man who had behaved erratically. What was he guilty of? The evidence pointed strongly to these murders.

  "You have a prisoner waiting for us, I believe?” she asked, as they walked in. “We're here to see Alessandro Bellini."

  The officer immediately jumped up from his chair. "Yes. He was causing a disturbance so we moved him to the holding cells. I will go and get him now. The interview room is the second door on the left, if you want to wait there."

  He rushed out of the room, looking purposeful. As he exited the room, Sierra rushed through from the back office.

  “I’m so glad you got him,” she said. "I'll observe from the other room, if there's not much space, and message you if there’s anything I need to research while you’re speaking to him," she volunteered.

  "That's fine. Listen in, and see if you can confirm anything that's mentioned," Juliette said, thinking that this sounded like a solid plan.

  The room was sparsely equipped, with a steel desk, a steel bench, and two wooden chairs opposite. They sat down, and a minute later, Bellini was escorted in.

  He was a small, wiry man with greasy black hair that hung over his forehead like a mop, and eyebrows that looked set in a permanent frown. His face was pinched into a suspicious expression and Juliette immediately noticed the way his gaze darted around the room, as if he was looking for a way out.

  The police sat him down at the desk and he stared around. She allowed him a minute to adjust to his surroundings. He looked as if he needed it.

  "Signor Bellini," she began, keeping her voice level. "We understand that you were arrested last night outside a nightclub."

  He stared at her and his dark eyes, which up until now had been dull and emotionless, flared to life.

  "I have nothing to say to you," he spat, crossing his arms over his chest.

  "We need to ask you some questions about the murders that have been happening in Naples. We believe you might have some information that can help us."

  Bellini's eyes widened in astonishment. "Murders? What are you talking about? I don't know anything about any murders."

  Juliette leaned forward, her eyes locking onto his. "You were arrested, with a hammer and rope outside a nightclub, and we have reason to believe that you were trying to grab someone."

  Bellini's face contorted with anger. "That's a lie! I was just trying to get some money from those tourists. I didn't hurt anyone!"

  "Then why did you have the hammer and rope?" Juliette asked, her tone firm.

  He gritted his teeth and looked away, refusing to answer.

  "Why?" Juliette pressed.

  "Because I was angry!" he suddenly shouted, showing an abrupt about-turn in the control of his emotions. "I was angry at the world and everyone in it! I didn't care what I did or who I hurt!"

  Juliette saw an opportunity and took it. "That sounds like someone who might have been capable of committing the balloon murders. Do you know anything about them?"

  "I don't know about them, and I don't care! Why aren't you listening? I'm telling you I was mad at the world and everyone in it. I was going to teach them a lesson!" His eyes were wild and his fists clenched tightly at his side.

  "Why were you angry, Mr. Bellini?" she asked, trying a different approach.

  "Because...because I just am!" he yelled, slamming his hands down on the desk. "You wouldn't understand!"

  "Try me," Juliette said calmly, watching him closely.

  Bellini looked up at her, his eyes full of rage and pain. "I didn't have a choice," he whispered. "I was born this way, with this anger inside of me. It consumes me and I can't control it. It started when I used to inhale that gas, the balloon gas. The helium. We all did it as a dare, but I ended up doing it too often. I used to pass out, and wake up confused. And now, sometimes, I feel like I've breathed that gas all over again, but it makes me angry."

  Juliette frowned. She wasn't sure whether the helium gas really had exacerbated Bellini's mental state, or even if it was capable of doing so, but the point was that he was clearly prone to rages, and that while in the rages, he acted with some violence.

  "What were your movements yesterday?" she asked.

  Bellini's features twisted into a sneer. "Why should I tell you? You don't care about me. You just want to pin those balloon murders on me."

  Juliette leaned back in her chair, studying him. "We're not accusing you of anything, Mr. Bellini. We just want to know what you were doing yesterday."

  "I was looking for more supplies of the helium," he said.

  "Why is that?" she asked. "Was your supplier short of it?"

  "No, I was," he said. "My supply was sold far more quickly than usual."

  "And who bought it?" Juliette asked. This was vitally important. What he said could lead them straight to the killer.

  "Just higher demand than usual," he said. "It's summertime. Everyone is selling balloons and having parties."

  "Any special orders?"

  "I don't track them. Some orders are delivered, some are collected, and some I send via courier or van."

  Juliette nodded. "And what did you do after you got your helium supply?"

  "I had to drive the whole way to the outside of Rome!" he protested. "It took most of the day. I only got back in the late afternoon, and then I had to drop the canisters off at all the storage points and outlets. It was late evening before I was done. And then, I went to the club. I drank a lot and I’m sure what happened next." An expression of cunning crossed his face.

  “We need more confirmation than that,” she insisted.

  “I have no more information for you,” he shot back at her. “Take me to the cells!”

  Juliette exchanged a glance with Wyatt. She knew that he’d need to be held, and re-interviewed later. They could try, in the meantime, to see if he really had been inside that nightclub. Sierra might be able to find something on his device. If he wasn’t the killer, she was sure he’d been up to something else illegal, and that was why he wasn’t talking.

  He was seeming, to her, as if he was too unstable to have carried out these well-planned murders. She didn’t know if he was capable of it.

  This had been an unproductive interview. She still didn’t know if he really was the killer or if his alibi could be confirmed, but the one thing that this encounter had told Juliette was that in Naples, recently, there had been far higher demand than usual for helium. She was sure he hadn't been the only supplier who'd been running and racing to replenish empty stores and warehouses.

  Someone had been buying up extra.

  And that person might be the killer himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The moment he saw this man, the wingman had known he would be next. All the qualities about him were the ones he was now aware of, the same qualities of the man who had destroyed him, brutally beaten him, and almost killed him in the past.

  The dark hair and that thin, lean face brought back memories so vivid they were frightening. Those narrow hands had injured him, punched him, forced him into punishment, long ago, way longer than a decade, but the memory flared as if it was recent.

  At the moment, he was simply watching him. Watching and waiting. He couldn't do more than that because the time was wrong and he was battling to find the window to do what he needed. The streets were too busy and this man followed a set routine where he went from home - a tiny apartment on the fourth floor of a ramshackle but fully occupied building - to work.

  That was where the wingman was waiting now. This man worked in a tiny coffee shop on a street that was closer to the business area than to the historic area. Although it had been difficult, because he'd been busy in the past few days, the wingman had tried to get a clear picture of his routine, his schedule. He'd learned his name along the way. Guiseppe Alfredo.

  He had to blend in with the crowds, be invisible while he watched and learned, because he knew he could not afford to be noticed. That meant working slowly, with the utmost discretion, but there was no alternative because once he was seen, it was the point of no return.

  Luckily, he was very aware and could always feel people's gazes and glances. It was most probably a defense mechanism from years ago, from a time when he'd been constantly watched. He'd never forgotten how that gaze felt. It had been wicked, as if it burned straight through him.

  That was it, he thought, with a decisive nod, suddenly figuring things out. That was why there were the holes within him. They'd been burned there by the person that, even now, he was trying his best to heal from.

  Of course, it hadn't just been gazes. The angry glances had been what started the punishment. Then, other things had followed. Things he didn't want to think about and in fact couldn't, because they brought a rush of terror.

  He wasn't supposed to hate the man but he did. There, he'd said it.

  He let out a sigh, aware that he'd had all these thoughts and emotions flash through his mind without showing so much as a flicker of feeling. And that, too, was a protection.

  Today, he was dressed in plain clothes with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He sat at a small table outside the coffee shop, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his eyes were trained on the door, waiting for Guiseppe to appear.

  It was his routine that was proving so difficult. He was sure the man must go elsewhere on a regular basis, but the problem was, he didn’t seem to.

  He was very busy in his shop. It was a tiny place, with a small but good quality espresso machine on the counter, stacks of coffee bags on the shelves, as well as a few espresso machines for sale - the basic ones that you could brew on the stovetop at home.

  There were a few stools along the counter but they were seldom used. Normally, people stood, and although drinking espresso was quick, the conversation afterward, the respite from the day as they read a book or checked their phone, sometimes meant they stood for ten or fifteen minutes before striding on, usually to work. Most of his customers were definitely office workers.

  Then there were the outside tables, tiny and far from comfortable, just two of them, squashed up against the building's wall so that people could get past on the street. That was where he was sitting now, with an espresso that he wasn't touching because he knew that it would make his nerves too jumpy.

  But he desperately needed to observe and plan, to find a way to get to Guiseppe, who seemed to go only between home and work and who arrived when there was already activity on the streets outside, and left when the streets were busy with nightlife.

  He didn't know if this man was the owner of the store or the manager, but he seemed to spend every waking hour in the shop, except for one or two intervals when he disappeared through the back door, presumably to visit a tiny bathroom. The shop was always busy and it seemed he wasn't willing to let even one customer go unattended.

  Even now, someone was walking into the shop, pushing past his table.

  "Mi scusi," the wingman muttered, making sure to keep his head down and his hat pulled low. Another customer, another reason for his target to stay inside. Wasn't he even going to come out to clear the other table?

  The wingman watched as the slight, lean man finally emerged from the doorway, a black apron tied around his waist, his hair slicked back with gel. He looked tired, his eyes heavy with fatigue, but purposeful. Watching that determination in his face, he felt a flare of rage once more, because he knew what it was like to have that turned against him and to suffer for it.

  Sending this man to fly would heal a huge, burning hole inside him, but frustratingly there just wasn't an opportunity. He hadn't seen one. Did the man ever go shopping? Did he have no social life?

  Well, why should a man like that have a social life, he remembered, with a flare of anger. He was not that kind of person. The wingman knew who he was. He knew the evil that lurked within him that had to be stopped, to be sent to soar and then to crash, if he was going to heal.

  He had considered briefly whether he should choose another target and abandon his plans for this one, but then he decided that was like giving up.

  No, he couldn't give up. He had to find a way to make it work. He watched as the man walked out to clear the table next to his, his eyes following every movement, assessing every angle he could use. He knew he had to be patient and wait for his moment to strike. He couldn't be reckless and risk everything he had worked for up until now. But patience could only take you so far.

  He could not be patient forever, and since that was the case, there was only one answer. That was to find another way to get to him. Watching and waiting wouldn’t work in this case. So perhaps he needed to expand his repertoire. There were other ways to connect with people, not just sneaking and stalking and grabbing.

  He thought about that while the man was pulling out his phone, which was ringing. The wingman listened carefully as the man said, "Salve," which the wingman knew was the everyday greeting between friends or even business associates.

  Who was he saying salve to? He was talking in the street, which at this point was probably quieter than the shop, with its clinking of cups and the hiss of steam from the machine. Was he greeting a girlfriend, a friend, someone he might actually make plans with? That could give him a chance.

  Listening carefully, tuning his ears to the Italian which he was able to understand better than speak, he picked up on the conversation.

  "Yes, I would be interested. I am keen to offer customers an organic option, if the price is right," he said, and the wingman listened carefully. This sounded like a work related call, but at this point, anything could help.

  "I would like to see some samples. Yes, I can meet you at your offices."

  The wingman's eyes widened. He was actually going out? To meet someone? Then he paused. "Oh, okay. Yes, it will work better if you come here then."

  The man walked back inside his shop.

  The wingman let out a disappointed breath because this arrangement was fizzling out as quickly as it had been made. No business trip for this man. Even so, the wingman's mind raced as he analyzed what he'd heard and what it meant. Perhaps there was a way he could use this information to his advantage. He knew he had to be careful, but he also knew that he could not wait here, near this shop indefinitely, or people would start to notice. He needed to act soon if he was going to stop this man from causing any more harm.

  Suddenly, an idea came to him, so audacious that it took his breath away. This was risky. But it was the only plan he had, and he thought it might just work.

  It would certainly make things easier if it did, he thought, with a flash of sour humor. If the genius plan that had just been born in his mind proved to be workable, then this could in fact take away a lot of the problems this time around.

  It was worth a try. All he needed was a plausible story, a bait on his hook to lure him into the trap, and then this man, too, would fly.

  His mind worked quickly.

  Then, pushing his cap back so that his face could be seen, and summoning all his courage, because this was a departure from the norm, he walked inside the shop.

  "Signor Alfredo? I would like to talk some business with you," he said calmly, as the man, his target, turned toward him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  "How are we going to find him?"

  Wyatt buried his head in his hands as their suspect was escorted out of the interview room by the local police, to go and spend some time in the holding cells. He felt like this was a low point in the case, and in his life. He had been so sure that they had finally caught the man responsible for the recent string of murders, but the evidence just wasn't pointing that way, and he also had a gut feeling that their killer would behave differently.

 

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