Read Online The Disappearance of Grace by Vincent Zandri - Free Book Online Page B

Piazza San Marco. She spotted a man staring at us. A middle-aged man with a dark complexion who wore sunglasses. He had a trim beard and he had on a long brown overcoat. It’s possible he’s been following us.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œBecause we spotted him staring at us at a different café not far from here.”
    â€œYou’ve spotted the man before.”
    â€œYes, that’s what I just said.”
    â€œWhat color are his eyes?”
    â€œBlack,” I said. “Or dark brown anyway.”
    â€œBut the man you saw today was wearing sunglasses?”
    â€œThat’s correct. But it was raining yesterday.”
    Yes,” he says, writing something down. “It was raining. And you think it is possible this man might have taken your fiancée? Kidnapped her right before your eyes? The eyes of one thousand other people who occupied that area of the café and the square?”
    â€œIf you haven’t already noticed, I am blind myself.”
    â€œThat contradicts what you stated in the written police report.”
    â€œCorrection,” I say. “I am undergoing a temporary blindness due to…”
    My statement trails off as soon as I picture the little boy who was killed in the bombing raid.
    â€œDue to what, Mr. Angel?”
    â€œDue to the war. The one in Afghanistan. I’m a solider. Or was a solider. I’m a writer too.”
    I feel him nodding, writing something else down.
    â€œI too was a solider, Mr. Angel. I served in the Persian Gulf with the Italian Lancers and NATO.”
    â€œI served too, Detective. But I’m not here to trade war stories. I’m here to find my fiancée.”
    He goes silent for a moment while he smokes. Then, “You should know that thus far, no one has reported seeing your fiancée being abducted from the café. This would have been a couple of hours ago in the plain daylight of midday, you understand.”
    â€œI understand. I was there.”
    â€œBut you couldn’t see anything.”
    I exhale.
    â€œYes, I couldn’t see.”
    â€œDo you ever experience eyesight anymore?”
    For split second I consider revealing my recent 20/20 sleepwalking incident, but just as quickly think better of opening up my mouth about it. I don’t want to give him the impression that I’m nuts or emotionally disturbed.
    â€œOn occasion. When I least expect it, my vision returns to me.”
    â€œI’ve heard of this kind of thing before. Not an uncommon malady for soldiers suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. But I must assume you already know that.”
    At this point, I want to reach across the desk, grab him by the necktie, and scream at him to leave this place and go find Grace. But I know I would get nowhere, other than a jail cell or worse, a hospital bed in the Venice nuthouse.
    â€œI’m aware of it,” I answer.
    The sound of a door opening interrupts our dialogue. I listen to the sound of footsteps. Boot heels on the stone floor, followed by the scent of woman. A pleasing fragrance. She says something to the detective in Italian and immediately leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
    I hear the dick quickly shuffle through the paperwork she’s apparently dropped onto his desk. When he’s finished reading he stamps out his cigarette and exhales the last of the smoke. I listen to him sitting back in his swivel chair. Maybe he’s resting the back of his head in the palms of his hands which would be locked at the fingers.
    â€œYour story checks out, Captain Angel. You are a writer. Are you published in Italy?”
    â€œNot at present,” I tell him. “The war sort of stalled my career.”
    â€œAs war tends to do.”
    â€œWhat about Grace? I understand that it’s possible so many people were gathered in that part of the square that no one actually noticed her being taken away by a strange man in a long brown