The Medici Dagger

“Well, do you want to take a run with me or not?”

“Sure, sure,” I said, throwing off the covers. “I’ll be ready in a couple-of minutes. I’ll come knocking for you.” I hung up and plodded into the bathroom, brushed the stench out of my mouth, and took a look in the mirror. Whoa, a Tony Roma’s onion loaf on my head. I splashed some water on my hair, ran my fingers through it until it was passable, and toweled it dry.

I threw on yesterday’s T-shirt and my new running stuff, and did some stretches on the floor. I folded four five-hundred-thousand-lire notes into the top of each sock and doubled them over. Then I slungon the Miami Classic with the Sigs, and tucked the Mini into its holder. With roughly two thousand dollars and a small arsenal, I figured I was ready for a run.

Opening my window, I placed the key to the deposit box out on the granite ledge, and closed the window tight. Unless a tidal wave or a hurricane hit, the key wasn’t going to move. It’s one of those things about flat metal keys. Mass versus surface area, or something like that. Throwing on my new sweatshirt, I stepped into the hall.

A janitor with a small, pinkish ski-jump nose and a John Travolta chin lingered by the window across the hall, holding a spray bottle and a cloth. I said,“Buon giorno.”In a series of seamless moves, he took two steps toward me, pointed the spritzer bottle in my face, covered his mouth with the cloth, and sprayed me with a sweet-smelling mist. I blinked once, gave my head half a shake, and disappeared into a velvety black hole. In the distance I heard the janitor reply,“Buon giorno.”

My eyes were sightless, my mind gooey, stretchy gum. I heard the unmistakable sound of metal being tapped against metal. A coin? A voice followed—that of a cultured Englishman. It said, “I believe Mr. Barnett is just now reentering our atmosphere.”

I breathed in deeply through my nostrils, whiffing a hint of Old Spice, feeling my rib cage expand as if on spring-loaded hinges. The English voice called out again, with a musical lilt, “Oh, Mr. Bar- ne-ett. We eagerly await your arr-i-val.”

My nose itched, and I pawed it, but my hand felt like a catcher’s mitt.

“That’s it,” Old Spice said. “Open those eyes, Dorothy. You’re back in Kansas.”

Someone shook my shoulder and another voice, also English, though younger and more regional, added, “And we want to talk aboutyour ruby slippers.” Liverpool? Blackpool? One of the pools. Ringo wants to talk to me about ruby slippers. Slowly, neurons began firing again.

“The janitor,” I mumbled, somewhat surprised by the deep, anesthetized sound of my voice. I opened my eyes, seeing only a blur at first.

“That would be me,” he said, wiggling his brows once with pride. “That Windex’ll get ya.” He scrunched up his nose.

“Where’s my friend?” I managed.

“Friend!” the janitor snorted.

“That’s quite sufficient, Mobright,” Old Spice said. I turned toward the source of the voice, surprised to find I wasn’t restrained.

Sitting in a wingback chair, one thin leg draped casually over the other, dressed in an immaculate blue, double-breasted suit, was the short, slender man I’d klunked heads with outside of Francesca’s office at the Accademia.

The fog in my mind began to lift as I looked him over. He was only about fifty, but had thin silver hair that he’d combed up over the dome of his head from an inch above his left ear, and shellacked. His nose was long and straight, his face gaunt. His eyes were intense and matched the slate gray raincoat and Borsalino hat he’d been wearing when we collided. I speculated that the coat and hat were hanging neatly in a nearby closet.

The man absently tapped a coin against an engraved silver money clip that held a wad of bills.

“The Accademia,” I said, my voice still thick.

“Excellent,” he replied.

“Where is she?” I demanded.

“In the next room. She’s perfectly fine, other than being under anesthesia. So rest easy.”

I cleared my throat. “You have good taste in hats.”

“I agree,” he replied, an amused smile on his lips.

“If not cologne,” I added. His smile remained.

The one called Mobright poked me hard in the chest. “Shut it or I’ll shut it for you.”

I turned to him and did my best to scrunch up my nose like he’d done. He leaned in toward me with a look of menace. Actually, a little more Dennis than menace. The collar of his white shirt was too big for his pencil neck, and although it was buttoned behind his black-and-red-striped tie, there was enough room for me to reach my hand right in and rip out his chest hair, if he had any.

I returned my gaze to the man in the chair, who withdrew a monogrammed hanky from his breast pocket.AB, it read. He dabbed his thin lips and tucked it back into his pocket. On his third finger, he wore a gold ring with an emerald in the shape of a parallelogram. “Mobright,” he said, “I believe some tea would do nicely.”

“Yes, sir,” Mobright said with deference. He did the nose thing again and stepped over behind AB.

“Do you take tea, Mr. Barnett?” AB asked delicately.

I wiggled my fingers. They tingled, normal sensation returning. I ran my tongue across my teeth and sat up slowly. “I want to see her now.”

“That will be one Earl Grey,” AB said to Mobright, shooing him away. “Two sugars.” Mobright left the room through a side door.

I regarded the settee I was lying on. Red and tufted, it matched the decor of the room, which could have been