Spider - Michael Morley [19]
‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ she said. ‘Italian traffic is always bad, and then I had some trouble booking in downstairs.’
‘Too many guests and not enough staff,’ said Jack. ‘You want a drink?’
‘Is that cold?’ she asked, pointing towards an unopened bottle of Orvieto that Jack had taken out of the mini-bar in order to reach the vodka.
‘Sort of.’ Jack checked the temperature of the bottle. ‘You want to risk it?’
‘Yes, please,’ she answered, settling into a chair beside the bed and weighing up the room.
He uncorked the wine and poured two glasses.
‘Salute,’ she said, clinking her glass against his.
‘Salute,’ replied Jack, thinking how different Italian policewomen looked in comparison to some of the gun-slinging, 200-pound dames he’d worked with back in the States.
As Orsetta sipped her drink she looked across the top of the glass at the man she’d heard and read so much about. In profiling circles Jack King’s published theories, lectures and criminal case studies were as legendary as his burnout. His specialism had been serial sexual offences and she’d read that during his career he’d been directly involved in the investigation and conviction of fifteen serial rapists and five serial child molesters. His hit rate on serial murder cases was even more impressive: twenty-nine successful clear-ups out of thirty cases that he’d worked. Only one had defeated him, and it was in connection with that single case that she now sat opposite him.
‘We have a murder,’ she began, gently placing the wine glass down on a nearby coffee table stacked with magazines about Florence, ‘which has some disturbing similarities to the Black River case.’
Nothing registered on Jack’s face but he felt his heart jump. He swirled the wine in his glass and asked, ‘How similar?’
‘Very,’ said Orsetta. ‘I have a case outline here.’ She tapped the document bag at her side. There is also a confidential briefing that Massimo Albonetti has prepared for you.’ She went to draw out the file but he held up his hand.
‘No, please, not tonight. I’ve had a long day, and to be honest, I’m really in no state to dive into that kind of stuff right now.’
His hesitancy made Orsetta wonder if it really was just the lateness of the hour, or whether Jack simply wasn’t yet over the burnout and all the emotional baggage that no doubt came with it. ‘Breakfast in the morning?’ she suggested, shooting a smile while studying his face for signs of stress. ‘We could do it then.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Jack topping their glasses up. ‘You want some olives? I’ve got a jar in the fridge.’
The smile vanished. ‘Really, Mr King, you should know better than to offer an Italian lady olives from some hotel-room jar.’
If looks could kill, Jack was already having earth dropped on his coffin. He tossed a room service menu on to the bed next to her. ‘You want to choose some food, and help me finish off this wine? I’m going to grab a steak sandwich and some salad, then crash out. We could eat and talk for a while.’
One half of Orsetta just wanted to go to her own room, fall in a bath, and then catch an earlyish night. But her less responsible half always won. ‘That sounds fine to me,’ she said, handing back the menu. ‘I need my steak medium-rare, please.’
Orsetta watched him dial in the order. His hair was jet black and cut fashionably short, but not so short that she couldn’t run her fingers through it and hang on to a good handful if the need arose. He had strong cheekbones but looked as though he could do with a shave to banish an end-of-day shadow that some women would find rugged but she regarded as scruffy. He was plainly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. The white showed off a healthy, light tan, the type picked up naturally, rather than one baked on through lounging around on some blanket on a beach. From the outline of his shoulders she could tell he was muscular, and she also liked that he wasn’t showing off his physique. His shirt was a loose fit and was fastened all the way up, except for the collar button.
‘Twenty minutes,’ said