The Lion's Den(107)

I could lie down and take a nap right here, but I know that’s a bad idea.

I toss my trash and fish Amythest’s phone from my purse. It’s completely dead. Damn it. Can’t I catch a break?

I head back into the café and show the man behind the counter the phone. “Charger?” I ask.

He shakes his head and says something in Italian that I don’t understand.

“Telefono?” I beg. I dig a five-euro note from my purse, show it to him, and point to his phone. “Un minuto.” I make prayer hands.

“Tutto bene, signorina?” he asks, eyeing my disheveled appearance.

I nod and smile, having no idea what he said. He shrugs and slides his phone across the counter.

“Grazie mille.”

I scoop up the phone, google the number for the American embassy, and hit dial. Immediately a recording clicks on, informing me that walk-in embassy hours for emergencies are Monday through Friday, 8:30 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. Appointments for nonemergencies may also be made within those same hours.

It’s 1:46.

The shop owner raises his eyebrows at me, and I give him my most winning smile. “Un momento,” I promise again as I keep googling, finally coming up with an emergency number for American victims of crime abroad.

I key through the automated menu until the line finally rings on the other end. “American Consulate Emergency Line, what’s your emergency?” a woman answers.

“Thank God.” I exhale. I urgently outline the events surrounding Amythest’s death while she listens quietly. When I’ve finished, I ask if there’s someone who can help me.

“I’m sorry, Miss Carter, I can’t help you with investigation of a crime. It’s out of our jurisdiction,” she says politely. “But I can make a passport appointment for you on Monday if you like?”

My brain shorts. “But an American citizen was murdered,” I object.

“And it will be investigated by the Italian or maritime authorities, depending on the exact location. We can’t interfere in the justice system of foreign entities. We provide support for victims of crime. Have you been the victim of a crime?”

“I witnessed a murder,” I say. “My passport, phone, and computer were stolen. I’m afraid for my life. What am I supposed to do?”

“If you’re afraid for your life, you should report to the nearest police station. I can give you the address for the closest branch if you give me your location?”

Oh my God.

“Is this how you help victims of crime? You tell them to go to the police?”

“We provide options for resolution, and your best option is—”

“Is there nowhere else I can go? Somewhere American?” I interrupt.

“Walk-ins are accepted at the embassy Monday through—”

“I know,” I cut in. “Anywhere else? I really need help.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “The embassy has closed for the day. I advise you to go to the local police. Do you want that passport appointment for Monday?”

“Sure,” I say.

Once the woman’s taken my personal details for the passport appointment I’ll never make it to, I hand the man his phone and return to the sidewalk to count my cash.

I have thirty-seven euros left of the fifty that I pulled out of an ATM in Saint-Tropez yesterday, plus the eighty Vince gave me. Not enough to make it to Monday unless I want to sleep on a park bench for three nights. I assume a wire transfer would take at least that long as well. I know I have another hundred or so in my bank account, but I don’t want to use my debit card if I can avoid it. I haven’t forgotten Vinny’s warning that accusations can go both ways. For all I know, Summer may have told the authorities that I killed Amythest; if I show up at a station, they could consider me a murder suspect. Or John could be using his nefarious connections to keep tabs on me for his own purposes. I need to get back to the relative safety of the States as quickly as I can.

At least I still have the evidence on Amythest’s phone. I desperately wish the damn thing had power—but truthfully, I have no useful phone numbers memorized anyway, and I’m afraid to communicate by email because I stupidly didn’t have a password on my computer, so my emails are completely accessible to John and Bernard. I have to pin my hopes on Vinny’s help and find the address he gave me by tonight. If La Quessine is near Saint-Tropez, I’m guessing it’s about four or five hours by train, which means I can make it, if the train schedule is favorable.

I march back into the café for what I hope will be the last time. “Treno?” I ask.

The man points east. “Nel prossimo paese.”

I can gather that prossimo means “close,” or “next.” I don’t know paese, but I hope one of the water taxi operators will be able to clarify. I trek down to the water, where a dock stretches into the waves, a handwritten sign in Italian and English advertising boat rides for ten euros. A swarthy, round man in his fifties sees me eyeing the sign and approaches with a grin.

“Boat ride. Bellissimo. You like, I take you.”

I look over at the boats, little blue and green motorized dinghies, half the size of our tender. Getting in a boat that small with a man this large is counterintuitive, but he must do it every day, and he seems friendly enough.