"No, she didn't poof past them like a ghost. She walked." Eve turned back to the bedroom computer, gestured as she ordered it to run the section of the disc she'd already viewed. "Right there."
The screen showed the guard, sitting sleepily in his chair outside the suite's doors. The time stamp read oh-four-fifty-six hours. A door opened from the next room and a woman wearing one of the hotel's white robes, a wide straw hat with trailing scarf, and carrying a large straw purse came out. Her face was shielded by the brim as she mumbled a quiet buon giorno to the guard and strolled toward the elevator.
"This is not her room," Giamanno pointed out. "There is no access to that suite from this one, Lieutenant, and as you can see, no adjoining doors."
She stared at him for a full ten seconds. Could he be that dim? she wondered, and riding on fury, stormed into the parlor and flung open the terrace doors.
As the others trailed after her, Eve rose up on her toes, bent to flex her knees once, twice, then sprinted across the terrace, sprang off the stone banister, and leaped to the neighboring terrace.
Her ankles sang on impact, but she ignored the pain, stepped to the doors. "I wonder if it'll come as a big surprise to you, Giamanno, that these doors are unlocked."
She opened them, peered inside, stepped back. Closed them again. "And that there are two people in bed inside here, still sawing wood."
"Sawing—"
"Sleeping, you—"
"Lieutenant." Roarke interrupted what would no doubt have been a tirade harsh enough to destroy all friendly relationships between Italy and the United States for the next decade. "I believe what Lieutenant Dallas has deduced is that, forewarned in some manner, the suspect fled the premises by the manner just demonstrated, and left the building, in all probability the country, before our arrival."
"You know what's saving your tiny, wrinkled balls, Giamanno?" Eve leaned on the banister. "She'd rabbitted before you could have gotten here to hold her, even if you'd moved your fat ass when requested to do so by a fellow officer. Now we find out how and why. Your office," she said, pointing at Signorina Vincenti. "Now."
And strode into the suite, past the sleeping couple, and out the door.
* * *
She refused the offer of coffee, which indicated to Roarke her temper was well beyond flash point. His reservations manager was showing some of her own. The two women butted wills while the Italian cop huffed and puffed and the security head continued to review the discs.
"She goes to the pool." His face was grim as he followed Julianna's movements from suite to elevator, from elevator to the Garden Room off the main lobby, and from there outside toward the swimming pool.
The outside cameras kept her in view as she increased her pace to a light jog, turned away from the pool onto a garden path. And disappeared out of range.
"My apologies, Lieutenant Dallas. I should have anticipated."
"Well, someone anticipated or she wouldn't have bolted, leaving most of her things behind."
"I spoke with you," Vincenti said again. "With Capitano Giamanno, with Signore Bartelli. And no one else."
As she folded her arms, as prepared for battle as Eve, the door opened. A young woman slipped in with a tray of coffee and small breakfast cakes.
"Hold it." Eve gripped her arm and had the tray rattling. "You took my initial transmission."
"This is my assistant, Elena, who referred you to me."
"Yeah, I remember." And one look at her face told Eve most of the story. "Do you know the penalty for obstructing justice, Elena?"
"Mi scusi? I don't understand."
"You speak English just fine. Sit."
"Lieutenant, I won't have you browbeating my staff. Elena would hardly have aided a criminal. She is ..." Vincenti trailed off. She, too, saw the story on her assistant's face.
"Maledizione!" From that one oath, she launched into a furious stream of Italian as Elena sank into a chair and began to cry.
The security head joined in, then the Italian cop, until Eve's ears were ringing. Hands were flying, tears were falling. She opened her mouth to shout them down, considered blasting a couple streams at the ceiling, when Roarke shut everyone down.
"Basta!" His voice rang with command, and had Eve gaping at him as he, too, launched into Italian.
"I beg your pardon." With obvious effort, Vincenti composed herself. "Please excuse my outburst, Lieutenant Dallas. Elena, you will tell the lieutenant, in English, what you have done."