Settling in front of my computer, I take a deep breath. The photograph in the local newspaper is all I have to go on right now, so I’ll start there.
The first thing I do is log on to an online marketplace for people with translation skills. Within ten minutes, I’ve hired a man—I guess it could be a woman…the screen name offers no indication one way or the other—to translate the entire paper into English. I don’t want to take a chance on Google Translate and have the entire thing be unreadable. He—she?—promises to have it back to me within two hours.
In the meantime, I do an extensive search of the keywords I can claw out of the non-translated paper. All that comes up are more copies of the picture and the paper on a few obscure mirroring websites, mostly the kind that claim to “index the web” and don’t do anything else.
The notification that the job has been completed pops up forty-five minutes early, and I abandon the fruitless search and double-click to open the file. The translator has written the English copy in a Word document with labelled sections that correspond to red boxes he’s highlighted on each section in the newspaper.
The damn thing turns out to be a kind of travel newsletter that tourists can pick up for free at a kiosk for a travel company, which means it’s hardly newsworthy, and the picture could be from any point during his travels.
Shit.
I’m at a loss until I find one last line of text at the bottom of the document corresponding to a narrow box just below the picture caption. It reads: “The couple travelled to Rome from Bari.”
I read through all of the text again, but the sentence seems to be tacked on near the end of an article about Famous Sights in Rome. Maybe it was meant to be part of the caption, and some slipshod designer—probably whoever runs the kiosk, or the travel company—didn’t proofread it.
They might know something.
They might also speak Italian.
But a travel agent should know English….
I check the clock on my computer. It’s just after eleven a.m., so it’ll be…what…four o’clock in Italy?
The newsletter, in fine print at the bottom, lists an address and an international phone number, which, conveniently, I can call from my cell phone.
The voice that picks up on the other end of the line is crisp, British-sounding. “Good afternoon. You’ve reached International Adventurers. Are you calling to inquire about booking future travel, or about a previously booked adventure?”
“Oh, I’m—I’m so glad you speak English,” I blurt out with a nervous laugh. Where the hell has all my professional demeanor gone?
“Of course, miss. My name is Phillip. Is there anything I can help you with?”
I clear my throat. “I’m actually calling to ask about a newsletter I found online that I think your company created.”
“Ah, yes. We put them out monthly for about six months, then stopped and archived them for our website. Did you find an egregious error?”
“Well, in the—” I flip the newsletter to the front page, “—March issue of this year, you ran a photograph of a man named Ace King—Ace K. I wondered if you had any more information about him.”
“I don’t believe so, miss.”
“Could you check your files? My name is…Christy Kingsley, and I’m a relative of Ace’s.” I leave it hanging in the air, and I’m met with the sound of muffled clicking.
“It appears that one of our on-street photographers snapped the photo in front of the Colosseum, and he and his wife gave verbal permission at that time for us to run it in the newsletter. Is there an issue with the publication?”
“No, not at all,” I answer quickly. “And the line below—does that pertain to that photograph? That he was traveling from Bari?”
“From what I can tell, yes, it does. There’s no other information in our system, however.” There’s a shuffling on the other end of the line. “Is there anything else I can assist you with today?”
“No. Thank you very much,” I say, ending the call as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
Not much new information there, and it doesn’t seem like he was a client of the agency, which means….
Which means nothing.
Bari is my next clue.
At least it’s not a dead end…yet.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ace
I can’t fucking stand being away from Carolyn like this.
All day Saturday, my body aches to be next to her, so when the afternoon rolls around, I decide to at least make it worth the pain. Three hours in the gym makes my muscles sore, but it doesn’t mask the aching and pounding of my heart in my chest.