Leoni was already moving forward, stepping in front of the approaching gentleman.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said in Italian.
The man lowered his groceries a bit so he could peer over the top of the loaf of bread. He seemed only just now to have noticed the two agents standing outside his building. “Hello,” the man said.
This was the extent of Adele’s Italian, though. She waited, patiently, as Leoni rattled off a question.
The man replied.
Adele tapped her fingers against her upper thigh, waiting.
Leoni glanced at her. “This is Mr. Ager.”
“Can you ask him if he has a moment to talk?”
More Italian. The round, double-chinned man still maintained his cheerful disposition, though he looked speculative now. He said something in Italian which elicited a ratcheted brow from Leoni.
The Italian agent translated for Adele. “He says he expected us to come. Wants to know if this is about the murders.”
Adele blinked. She looked at Mr. Ager and decided not to beat around the bush. The man had an intelligent gaze and clearly wasn’t disturbed by the appearance of federal agents. By the look of him, and, judging by his words, he was smart enough to put two and two together. Likely, he knew why they were here. “Yes,” she said, carefully. “We wanted to talk to you. We know you used to work at the cathedral and recently have been employed at the chapel. Both locations of the murders, which I’m sure you’ve heard about on the news.”
Leoni related her question, and the man’s expression didn’t change. He just nodded knowingly and then replied.
Leoni cleared his throat. “He says he has an alibi for the night of the most recent murder.”
“He doesn’t happen to have proof of this alibi, does he?”
Before Leoni could even relay the question, the round tour guide lowered his groceries to the sidewalk and fished out a phone. He held up a finger for a moment, clicked through his phone, and then turned it toward Leoni and Adele.
Adele leaned forward; a second later, she glimpsed a video. The video flashed, displaying what looked to be a small celebration at a local bar. She spotted grainy footage of a birthday cake with the number forty-two on top. She spotted a few other adults with small party hats on and generous drinks in front of them. The camera turned, and it showed Mr. Ager, drinking a beer, laughing and chattering away with one of his friends. A few seconds later, he leaned in and blew out the birthday candles.
Adele looked up again, peering toward the man framed against the two parked vehicles on the low-lying curb. But Mr. Ager tapped at the screen insistently, and she glanced back down, realizing he was pointing out the small, faded gray numbers beneath the video displaying the time and date.
“The night before the murder,” Leoni supplied as Adele reached the conclusion herself.
“Is there a way for him to verify how long he was at this party?”
A moment later, before Leoni could ask, as if anticipating this question as well, the round tour guide cycled down, clicking on another video clip. This one showed it from someone else’s angle. Mr. Ager smiled sheepishly, as the video showed him passed out, likely drunk, with someone drawing with a sharpie on his upper lip, a small curly mustache. Adele glanced at the man, standing over his groceries, and realized now, that beneath some stubble, there were still the gray remnants of the marker.
Mr. Ager regarded Leoni and said something Adele couldn’t understand.
Leoni translated. “He says he was there until two in the morning. Stayed the night with a friend in Casacanditella. He didn’t return until early this morning, well after the murder was reported.”
Adele glanced from the phone to Mr. Ager, then breathed a long breath.
Of course, it wasn’t an airtight alibi. There were still ways he could have worked around the apparent video evidence. And the killer was clever, that much was clear. But more importantly, she knew Mr. Ager couldn’t have done it. To be able to string someone up, hanging them from the Sistine Chapel or Notre Dame, it would require a strength, and a physique, that Mr. Ager didn’t possess. He was jovial, round, and was already sweating a bit, breathing heavily from hefting groceries three steps. This was not someone who could lug a body by rope. Perhaps he had a partner. But this knowledge, coupled with the alibi, left Adele with a cold sensation in her stomach.
“Can you ask for numbers of his friends who might be able to confirm how long he was with them?”
Leoni nodded and rattled off the question.
Adele didn’t wait for a response though, and was already turning, moving back to the waiting car in front of where Mr. Ager had parked his van. High places. Something about the riddle mattered. Eiffel Tower, maybe? The Leaning Tower of Pisa?
She needed to brush up on her geography and history if she wanted to catch this killer—or at least find someone who could help. For a moment, Adele paused by the car, waiting for Leoni to gather the needed phone numbers and then join her. Vaguely, she wondered at the killer. What sort of man would do this? What sort of man would string up tourists and hang them from these locations? How would he have access to these buildings to begin with? Did he break in? Did he hide overnight, waiting for the opportune moment? Did he know something about the locations she didn’t?
It was never comfortable thinking like a killer, but if she wanted to catch this man before he murdered again, she would have to.
CHAPTER EIGHT
How decrepit their imaginations…
Rot.
Dross.
They called him the Monument Killer, of all things…. So gaudy, so weak. He was no killer—he was a prophet. Nothing more, nothing less. A messenger, and an omen.
He stepped off the boat, beneath the smokestack, moving in line with the rest of the travelers coming to these shores.
A short trip across the channel. The air smelled of salt, and stale ash from the many cargo ships and passenger vessels that moved through the still waters. And though he walked with them, leaving the boats and meandering toward customs, he didn’t consider himself one of the crowd.
His eyes scanned the shore, flicking along the many businesses and shops set up along the wharf. He carried no luggage. Anything he needed he could buy. Just one of the many benefits of a long, successful career as a façade developer.
In more ways than one, perhaps.
He tipped his head, smiling genially as he moved through the spinning kiosk, and headed out onto the street. He flagged down a taxi and stowed into the backseat, rattling off the destination he had in mind.
The driver glanced into the mirror. “Here to see the sights?”
The messenger tried not to let his disgust display across his face. “The sights?” he asked, softly. “I do hope to see. And I hope others see too.”
“Well, most tourists choose the Acropolis as their first destination. They tip well too,” the driver added.
The prophet smiled again, nodding slowly.
At least the driver knew how to pronounce the Acropolis correctly. So many people failed to honor the greats. Pericles himself had constructed the Acropolis of Athens, the Parthenon itself. Pericles was a prophet too, in his day. A sacrificial leader. The sort sorely lacking in the heart of culture now.
Most people didn’t understand. They didn’t know the things they were meddling with.