The Client Who Never Showed – Part 2: Eight O'Clock at the Duomo

The cathedral square was empty at eight in the morning, except for pigeons, a sleepy street sweeper and the cold grey stone of the Duomo rising above them like a fortress.

Marco was sitting on the steps, a paper cup of coffee in his hands. He stood up when he saw her and did not come closer. He waited, as if he understood that she needed to choose how near to stand.

"You're the investigator," Tessa said.

"And you're the one who was supposed to catch me," said Marco, with a rueful smile. "I'm sorry I made you wait."

"You didn't make me wait. You made me look for you on a website."

"That was the point." He held out the second coffee. "I needed you to look. I didn't need you to come find me in a stranger's flat."

She took the cup, though she didn't drink from it. "Explain."

He sat down on the bottom step. After a moment, she sat too, leaving a careful gap between them.

"My former partner, Lorenzo Vitale, has been laundering money through a chain of perfume shops," Marco said. "I found out two years ago. He threatened my sister. I went to the police and nothing happened. Then I hired a private investigator to get proof, and the investigator started disappearing."

Tessa's stomach turned. "The letter your sister mentioned."

"Was from me," said Marco. "Sent to every investigator in Milan. I thought one of you might be clean. You were the only one who didn't reply right away."

"So you came to the café."

"I came to watch you. To see if you were honest." He glanced up at her. "You haven't told anyone where I've been, have you?"

"No."

"Good. Then Lorenzo doesn't know you're part of this. Yet."

She looked at the photograph of herself again, which she had brought in her coat pocket. "And what do you want from me, now that you've decided I'm honest?"

Marco turned the paper cup in his hands. "Help. Evidence. Someone who can read a ledger without falling asleep. I'm told you're very good at getting people to talk."

"I am," said Tessa, dryly. "Usually with a notebook and a bad joke."

His laugh was low, quick and surprised. "Then try the bad joke on me."

She didn't. She looked at him, really looked, at the tired eyes, the dark curls damp from the early mist, the steady way he held himself, as though he was used to standing between other people and danger.

"You should have told me this yourself," she said quietly. "Not left a photograph under my door."

"I know," said Marco. "I'm sorry for that. I'm not good at asking for help. I've been doing this alone for too long."

"So have I."

He nodded slowly. "Then we might be good for each other, or very bad. Want to find out?"

Tessa stood. She looked down at him, and then, deliberately, she held out her hand.

"Green," she said. "Tell me the rest in my office, with the door locked and the recorder on."

Marco took her hand. His fingers were warm and careful. "Green," he agreed, and rose to walk beside her across the empty square.

Behind them, the great bells of the Duomo began to ring, and somewhere a phone buzzed in a pocket, and neither of them turned around to look.