Darren Priest Mysteries Collection: The Complete Series

Excerpt from Darren Priest Mysteries Collection

It could have been better. It should have been better.

Not the food. The food was terrific. A label-less carafe of local red wine, a basket of fresh bread still hot from the oven, and a plate of steaming frutti di mare—fried catch of the day—literally “set the table.” The string of twinkling lights laced through the trellis overhead brought the stars in the heavens down to our table.

We were at Kasai, a restaurant perched on a ribbon of road in Praiano, a romantic and iconic little village on the Amalfi Coast. We sat at sidewalk tables overlooking the sea, but Kasai’s small dining room inside the establishment was across this narrow roadway and pressed into the rocky rise of the mountain above. The tables there were snuggled close together between vases of lavender and an unkempt display of ceramics on the walls in a dimly lit scene that could have been a paragraph or two from a long-lost Hemingway novel.

But the sidewalk tables were infinitely better, lined up at the railing overlooking the Mediterranean Sea in the cool evening air under a canopy of the sparkling night sky.

Waiters from the kitchen across the road showed no hesitation in dodging Vespas and tour buses careening around the curve to get to our table. The scent of fresh lemons—a staple of the Amalfi Coast—was in the air, and even the occasional squeal of tires as vehicles of all sizes rolled past in careless haste added to the operatic essence of the evening.

It was glorious.

But the call I got from Aggie earlier that afternoon could have been better.

“I need your help,” was all he said.

Normally, I would have hoped for more detail than that. Even a “hello” or a simple, “How are you, Darren?” But Aggie didn’t spin long sentences, for me or anyone else. Just “I need your help.”

Seated across from me at Kasai, Alana paused with her fork held over the plate of steaming seafood and looked up at me. Even in the dim glow of the party lights overhead, her brown eyes sparkled and brought a pleasant thump to my heart.

“Everything alright?” she asked.

“Yeah. It’s okay,” I lied. Alana and I were celebrating our final evening in Praiano before returning home—she to Vienna, Austria, and me to Washington, D.C. The blissfully limpid night, the fragrance of summer flowers, and the aromas of seafood and fresh bread on the table made parting even harder. We never seemed to have enough time together, which is why I planned this week for us at the Villa Poesia just down the road.

We worked through our plate of seafood and shared glasses of wine and humorous recollections of our week together. The fried calamari had a hint of red spice, and the red wine was a welcome chaser for the oil-scented dressing that dappled the plate of tiny fish and mussels.

But I was a little distracted, and Alana could tell.

The waiter swung in our direction once again—mere seconds before a minibus sped down the road—and settled a plate of truffled pasta between us. The broad tagliatelle noodles glistened with a coating of melted butter and olive oil, and the shaved, paper-thin discs of black truffle gave off a savory aroma that trailed behind the waiter and turned heads from other tables. I lifted my fork to load some of it onto my plate as Alana watched.

“Is your friend okay?” she asked, pressing her point.

Alana knew of Aggie but had not met him. Not during our time in Vienna and not since then. But she knew that he was a part of my complicated history. Officer Alana Weber was an Austrian police investigator, and she was quick to pick up on telltale signals in my behavior.

Aggie Darwin was an old friend. We met at a rural commune just hours from Washington, D.C., after our tours of duty in Afghanistan. Tall Cedars was a way station for battered souls. Returning from the war zone where I served as a military intelligence interrogator, I needed the uncomplicated, undulating rhythms of the Tall Cedars lifestyle, a veritable wind chime for a settled life. There, I encountered Aggie, who was there in search of the same therapy.

“He said he needs help,” I told Alana, turning the tagliatelle on my fork as I turned the conversation back to the phone call I got that afternoon. She and I had just risen from a pleasurable midday nap and moved lazily to the late-afternoon sunlight on the terrace when my cell phone had buzzed on the table beside me.

The terrace of the Villa Poesia—and the villa itself—offered numerous delights. Relaxing and sunburst in the afternoon, cooled with gentle Mediterranean breezes in the evening. The white-washed walls of the villa were brilliantly accented with ocean blue and green flourishes, a gorgeous palace on the edge of the coast. The vast terrazza provided privacy as well as views that seemed to stretch forever. Through long, languorous days and quiet evening hours, we sat there on the reclining lounges and gazed out at the endless sea.

“What kind of help?” she asked, bringing my attention back to Kasai, to Alana, and to the evening meal.

“He said a friend of his, a guy named Dielman or something, died in an archeological dig.”

“Where?”

“In Tarquinia,” I replied. “Don’t know where that is, except Aggie said it’s just north of Rome.”

“How did he, this guy Dielman, die?”

“Not sure. Aggie didn’t want to give too many details over the phone, but he was clearly in a bit of shock.”

“And you can help with this?” Alana pursued.

“Aggie thinks it wasn’t an accident.”

Alana lifted some of the tagliatelle and truffles with a combination of fork and serving spoon and lowered the bundle onto her plate.

“You’re not a bank examiner,” she said with a wry smile. I, too, had to smile at her obvious jab.

When Alana and I had first met in Vienna, I was posing as a bank examiner, reluctant to give away my true identity, while I sorted out a strange series of coincidences for the American president.

Well, sorta true identity. After claiming to be a bank examiner to justify my interest in the DFR-Wien bank that was central to the President’s concerns, I had to reset my bio to explain to her that I was actually a wine and food writer. True enough, since I had published articles for The Wine Review and was in Vienna at the time to attend a formal tasting of Italian wines. But when she doubted even that ruse, I realized that I wasn’t far from admitting my even truer background. Her piercing gaze convinced me that her natural abilities or police training made Alana adept at divining the truth in a forest of lies. She saw through my layers of deception. Fortunately, our evolving personal relationship made her reluctant to force me to reveal more.

So, at dinner, I didn’t have to reply to her comment. But I knew the time would come when I would have to tell her who I really was.

Darren Priest, my current name, served nicely as an adopted identity. As a writer, I could pass it off simply as a nom de plume. But I kept it for grander purposes, with a Social Security card in that name, tax records, and abundant other references—thanks to an assist from the U.S. government. I didn’t have to return to my birth name, Armando Listrani, unless I wanted to. And with Alana—at least for now—I didn’t want to.