The Marshal's Pursuit Read Free Page A

guard standing beside the room’s door with a hand resting on the scabbard that held his redwood nightstick. He then looked to Mr. Sirica, who immediately stopped chewing on his unlit cigar, stood and wandered over to the guard.
    “Sergeant Peterson,” Mr. Sirica called in a too-loud voice.
    Giovanni tugged on her hands. His amber eyes met hers, steady and unashamed, as if his conscience—his soul—was as pristine and pure as her white lace dress. Giovanni leaned forward, the chest of his white-and-black bee-striped uniform against the tabletop.
    “The police are waiting for the judge to grant a search warrant.” He spoke in Italian and barely loud enough for her to hear. He switched midsentence to Dutch. “With your gloves on,” he whispered, “open Papà’s safe. 29. 5. 18. 76.”
    Her birthday was a combination? And why use the Italian arrangement of putting the day before the month? A pounding began between her ears, and her straw hat felt as if it bore a stuffed ostrich instead of a dove.
    “Papà has no—” when he squeezed her hands, she switched to Dutch “—safe in the apartment.”
    “I insist,” yelled Mr. Sirica, “that my client is released!”
    “Sir, that’s not possible,” Sergeant Peterson answered.
    “You have no evidence directly tying him to this crime. Or any crime. This is injustice!”
    Malia glanced over her shoulder at the red-faced guard and Mr. Sirica practically nose to nose as the lawyer waved his stovepipe hat in one hand, cigar in the other, and continued to make demands the guard refused.
    Giovanni tugged on her hands again, drawing her attention. “Papà’s last gift to Mamma covers it.”
    Behind the Hackert painting?
    “Take what’s inside to Papà and Nonno’s lawyers.” The enunciation of his Dutch took on a sharp edge. His, her or maybe both their hands were sweating, yet they held firm to each other.
    She nodded toward Mr. Sirica. “Why doesn’t he come with me?”
    “Because I need him here.”
    “But—”
    “Papà’s lawyers have a list I made, an insurance policy that will keep us both alive in the event something like this happened. They will know how to protect you until I’m released. But if the coppers find what is in the safe—” Giovanni’s voice broke, and he no longer looked like a suave, polished real estate investor unjustly dressed in a horizontal-striped jail suit. No, he was that boy in the photo next to her bed—a frilly, laced-covered four-year-old holding his equally frilly, lace-covered baby sister and looking terrified that he’d drop her as their parents took their picture. “Can you do this for me, Malia?”
    For family she would do anything. She nodded, although the abrupt movement added to the growing pressure in her head.
    “Pray for us,” he ordered. In English.
    Malia stared at him. She’d given up believing his faith extended beyond Sunday attendance and dutiful giving. Even in the direst of times, he insisted she pray. True, his action annoyed her, but more so, it stoked the fear she felt for his soul.
    She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Words she’d uttered every morning and night asking for her brother’s protection and for his salvation fell effortlessly from her lips. Jesus was their rock and refuge. Jesus would see that the truth prevailed. Jesus desired none should perish. Her pulse steadied and the rolling in her stomach abated with each spoken praise and request. They would be all right. Everything would work out all right.
    She whispered, “In Jesus’s name—”
    “Amen.” Giovanni raised her right hand to his face, resting her knuckles against his sculpted cheek. “Even when it doesn’t look like it, remember everything I am doing is to protect you. It is the duty and privilege given to me by Papà and Nonno. I will not fail. I never fail.”
    Malia lifted the corners of her lips, yet the smile did not reach her heart or spirit. “I love you, Giovanni. I cannot lose you too.”
    “Then