Free The Angel of Milan by R. J. Grant Page B

Opening the door, I was surprised to find a man in my room again, but this time it was Father Dinard. He was sitting at my desk chair, arms folded and resting on his enormous belly, with his hands inside his sleeves in his usual pose. He remained silent for a long moment, and finally, when he couldn’t resist any longer, he asked the question.
                  “Father Adama, did you have anything to do with that man’s death?”                
                  “Father, how can you ask such a question?”
                  “You are not answering the question, Father. The kitchen is directly below your quarters, and I heard a scuffle moments before I heard a thud in the court yard.”
                  It would not do to try to bullshit Dinard. Despite appearances, he was an astute little man with an acute sense of awareness. There was nothing to do but confess.
                  “Yes, Father, I threw him out the window.”
                  “Good! ...God forgive me… He was a known thug and murderer—a blight on Milano. Here, I removed this just before the police arrived, just in case they searched your room.”
                  Taking his hands out of his sleeves, he offered me my holstered HK. I casually took it from him and hooked the conceal holster inside my waste band.
                  “Thank you Father. That would have been difficult to explain, now wouldn’t it?
                  “Yes, I supposed it would.”
                  To my surprise, he didn’t ask any more questions, but rose from the chair to leave me. At the door, he paused and turned with a frown on his face.
                  “Adama, I am very good at judging character. If I had thought for one moment that your actions were unrighteous, I would have revealed to the police what I suspected. Please do not prove my judgment wrong. I would be most disappointed.” With that, he was gone.
     
                                I freshened up and decided it was time to lose the collar and black suit for a time. I was going out this evening to find Giovanni. Even though it was evident to me that he was the cause of my little run-ins with some of Milan’s undesirables, it didn’t make sense. The man was certainly connected to Burtuchi. But then why was he trying to mislead and outright eliminate me? Obviously, he was not aware of my true vocation, or he would not have been so foolish to send common thugs to perpetrate my demise.  However, by now I was sure he realized that he wasn’t dealing with Mother Teresa.
                  As I recalled, Giovanni worked for World Wide Models, and I was pretty sure he had not given up his day job. The Vatican does not over pay. A quick check of the phone directory gave me the address I needed—1278 Corso Sempione, right in the heart of the city, within sight of the Piazza Duomo. I was sure I would find him and his black SUV in short order. I found myself thinking, because of this bastard I am going to miss one of Dinard’s delicious suppers . I would pay him back for that, too!
                  I walked to the piazza and got a taxi to bring me within a city street of the address. Corso Sepion was one of the many wide, multi-lane boulevards that divided the city into sectors. I crossed to the far side of the street, and planned to watch the place for a few moments before going directly to it. In the front of the building were downstairs offices with the floors above sporting sun terraces on each floor. There were  seats and small umbrellas for the occupants. Watching the comings and goings from the terraces, it was obvious that these were model flats provided by the modeling agency downstairs. Typically, each flat housed a dozen girls at a time, with new girls coming, and those who did not find adequate work leaving—sort of a