Unidentified Person In Italy

Unidentified Person in Italy

Barbara Loos

Copyright © 2013 Barbara Loos

The Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Smashwords License Notes

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Yellow Star Publishing Co., except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you want to share this book, please return to Smashwords and purchase an additional copy as a gift. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

First Edition

First Printing, 2013

Book cover designed by Scarlett Rugers Design

www.scarlettrugers.com

Formatted by Debora Lewis

arenapublishing.org

This book is based on a true story. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

* * * * *

Yellow Star Publishing Company, LLC

Tucson, AZ 85741

E-mail: yellowstarpublichingcompany@gmail.com

* * * * *

Table of Contents

Introduction

Dedication

Acknowledgments

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

About Barbara Loos

* * * * *

Introduction

People go through their entire lives never understanding how life in a dysfunctional family has affected them. Unaware of the coping skills they learned, they blame their family for their problems. Leslie Lotton’s story tells how an intelligent woman made many mistakes and used what she had learned during her childhood to save her life.

I based this book on her true experiences and events, describing how our protagonist used the lessons learned growing up in a dysfunctional family to escape from what might have been her death. Along her journey, you will meet many families and associates who are all in the same situation.

Many women and men have faced unusual, dangerous situations. Could they have relied on lessons learned throughout childhood to prevent them from experiencing the agony and possibly torture they had to endure?

Our protagonist discovers the courage to face a traumatic experience she lived through many years ago. She returns to Italy where she was a student to confront her suspected kidnapper and ask that question, that all-important question, Why? Wouldn’t you like to know why things happen to you, so that you can never repeat them?

The intrigue of this story is something that you—never in your wildest dreams—could expect.

* * * * *

Dedication

To young and old who live in, or have left, what our society has called dysfunctional families.

To those who believe their past defines their lives, but who seek to change their lives for the better.

I hope Leslie’s experiences shared through this book will help each of you to find that better life you seek.

* * * * *

Acknowledgments

To Renata Larentis, who assisted me with the correct usage of the local Italian language and provided me with encouragement to continue writing.

To the Italian police, who assisted me with information about their procedures.

To Fabiano Zorzetto, of Gli Ori di Venezia, whose assistance and persistence in my obtaining communications with the Italian police is greatly appreciated.

To my many, many friends, dysfunctional or not, who share my life with me and make living worthwhile every day of the year.

* * * * *

One

The elevator doors slide open on the ground floor of the Shutter Towers building at the corner of Twenty-Third Street and Seventh Avenue in New York City. It’s Monday, April 5, two minutes before noon. Leslie Lotton steps out into a packed lobby. Some of the people are waiting for the elevator, but many more are standing in the hallway that leads to the lobby exit. Nobody seems to be trying to get into or out of the building. They’re just standing there, as if waiting for some event to begin.

That’s odd, Leslie thinks as she gingerly presses into the crowd. Why are they just standing around?

The heat and odor generated from the large group of people envelop her. Odd how just moments earlier she had been enjoying a spectacular skyline view of the city while sipping coffee in the spacious office of her perky, energetic publisher, Paula Dumont. Paula had laid out a clever plan regarding Leslie’s next book. The woman always has something up her sleeve.

Leslie stands in the hallway, a look of confusion on her face at the scene in the lobby. They look like mannequins, she thinks as she presses into the still, quiet throng. Why in the world are they just…standing around?

Excuse me, she asks the back of a woman in front of her. May I get by, please?

The woman throws the barest glance at Leslie behind her, but doesn’t even try to budge. Nobody budges. It’s as if time has stopped everything and everyone except Leslie Lotton. All she hears are the sounds of rustling fabric, nylon raincoats rubbing against each other, the movement of boots shifting from one foot to the other. Sounds of people waiting.

What, has an alien spaceship landed on the roof? she mutters to herself impatiently.

She momentarily considers getting huffy and pushing through to the doors—after all, she has a plane to catch—but decides not to make a scene. That’s a constant struggle inside her, when to stand up for herself and when to be quiet and not cause a fuss. Growing up, she was never taught she could express her own opinion or put her foot down in the face of wrong. She had done quite well in overcoming most of the dysfunction within her family during her oppressive childhood. Still…at times she just went to that zone and did what she was told.

Her breathing quickens at the vaguely maddening scene. She closes her eyes. Steadies her breathing. At least they’re not zombies, she thinks with a chuckle. She opens her eyes, takes another steady breath. Dampness hangs in the air, almost like a sauna. It had been raining earlier in the morning, but now the sun is shining through the glass façade of the building’s entrance, heating up damp overcoats, scarves, jackets, winter clothing, and the bodies stuffed into them.

Even at five feet six inches tall and wearing three-inch-high heels, Leslie is still unable to see over the heads of the people pressed around her. She stands on her tiptoes to try to get a better view of what is causing everyone to stop dead in their tracks. She sees nothing but a sea of the backs of heads.

This is ridiculous, she mutters, this time a little louder. It’s not like the president is trotting down the boulevard in his birthday suit.

She glances at her diamond-encrusted Cartier watch: twelve-thirty five in the afternoon exactly. She adjusts the face of the pretty watch to sit more centered on her wrist. She’d worked hard for that watch—one of the perks of success in a business not easy to succeed in. She feels confident as she recalls her meeting with Paula.

Four hours earlier, Leslie Lotton had stepped off a flight from Columbus, Ohio, for a quick meeting she had requested with her publisher in New York City, and then a fast turnaround flight back home. On the way to New York, she had rehearsed a little speech for her talk with Paula to explain why several years had gone by since the publication of her first book. She had written the book as a type of therapy, hoping that would help her forget all that had happened to her in the period that the book’s story covered. The therapy aspect of the writing didn’t work. In fact, reliving everything in detail on the page had caused her to fall into a dark place within her, and it had taken some time to grope and fight her way back out, into the sunshine of life, and get back to writing.

The book had been a best seller. On the New York Times list for ninety consecutive days, third on the Barnes & Noble list, second on Publishers Weekly—not bad for a first-time author.

Her hands had been shaking nervously as she’d entered Paula’s office barely an hour earlier, expecting a lecture from her clever, hard-charging publisher. Paula had expected great things from Leslie after that first book, but four frustrating years followed for Leslie with virtually nothing completed. That’s why Leslie had been pleasantly surprised when Paula welcomed her with a friendly warm hug. Paula was pleased that Leslie had finally managed to deliver a draft of her new manuscript. Paula was so pleased that she promised it would be fast-tracked for publication as soon as Leslie addressed Paula’s notes and suggestions on the draft.

The elevator ride from the fourteenth floor to the lobby had been one of triumph. Leslie had delivered her manuscript, Paula was pleased to get it at last, and things were finally moving forward once again. Her new book would make up for her past—a life of unhappiness and dismal memories, some of which were created by choices she had made, others by people in her life.

It had taken a lot out of her to write this follow-up book, yet people were still asking questions about her first book. The new manuscript was an opportunity to present a different side of her life, one with an improved and happier ending to the story, a sequel. That is, if she can make her way through this zombie land and get to the airport on time.

Leslie glances impatiently at her watch again and frowns. I need to get to the airport! She presses her way through the virtual museum of planted bodies one firm step at a time in the direction of the exit. Their attention is focused outside on Twenty-Third Street. The glass front of the building allows an unobstructed view; something has entirely choked off access to the Shutter Towers building.

Probably a car crash, she mutters. Excuse me. Pardon me, she says as she presses forward. She turns to a man who looks as bewildered as she does. Terrorist? She grins.

Don’t say that word around here, lady! he growls at her. You want to start a stampede?

Oops, sorry, she says as heads turn and eyes bore into her as if she’d shouted fire.

Beads of perspiration drip down her auburn hairline toward her green eyes. Gasping for air, she realizes she doesn’t dare try to press in front of anyone. New Yorkers don’t take kindly to line jumpers in crowded situations. Reminds them too much of September 11.

Finally, the information desk looms only a few yards ahead, staffed by faithful old Charlie, a reassuring sight in his familiar black hat with gold trim, bright red coat and gold buttons. A tall man, Charlie carries himself with an air of confidence. Leslie has seen Charlie working the front desk for the past five years that she has walked through the doors of the Shutter Towers building.

Hi, Charlie, she says, waving a hand toward the crowd. What’s all this about?

I don’t know, Ms. Lotton, he says, his usual friendly demeanor gone. About ten minutes ago, a camera crew tried to barge into my lobby. Management doesn’t allow our tenants to be harassed with that type of nonsense. But they wouldn’t tell me what they wanted, so I booted them out into the street.

He glances outside, where the crowd is far bigger than the one in the lobby.

Now they’re blocking the sidewalk, he adds. Twenty-Third is backed up as far as I can see. He shakes his head in puzzlement. What a mess. Had to call the NYPD. They should be here any minute to clear them out. Why don’t you wait inside here with the others until this blows over?

Uggg, she groans. Thanks, Charlie, but I have a plane to catch. I’ll slip past these nice people and be on my way.

Suit yourself, he says, tipping his hat toward her. Good day, Ms. Lotton.

She presses toward the exit and abruptly encounters the broad back of a very large woman in a heavy wool coat, knit hat, and scarf, seemingly rooted, unmoving, to the floor.

Excuse me, Leslie says. May I get around you, please?

The woman ignores her. Leslie turns to try to go in a different direction, and she steps on a big shoe worn by a big man.

His face jerks down toward her. Hey! he bellows. That’s my foot you’re walking on, lady.

I am so sorry, she says, forcing a smile.

From her angle, his face appears to droop and his thick brows hang menacingly over dark eyes.

Sorry. Just trying to get out of here.

He grunts, and she tries to slide around in front of him. He steps back to avoid being spiked again by her stiletto-heeled boots—which she starts subtly using as weapons to clear a path, determined not to miss her plane back to Columbus.

Oops—sorry, didn’t mean to step on you. ‘Scuse me. Thank you.

She spies an opening in the crowd and quickens her pace, looking only at the feet in front of her. At last, the bottom of the large glass double doors appears just beyond the multitude of feet. She dashes toward freedom and pushes on outside, where the crowd isn’t as dense as in the lobby. As the heavy doors close behind her, she exhales a sigh of relief, thankful for the brisk spring air. She struggles to button her full-length leather coat against the gusting wind.

Ms. Lotton! someone calls out urgently.

She pauses and looks up, but she doesn’t see anyone she recognizes.

Leslie! Leslie Lotton!

She turns around, scanning the crowd.

A different voice calls out. Leslie Andrews Lotton!

She stops fidgeting with the buttons on her coat and looks up, thinking it might be Paula, calling to her from a window above. Darn it! she thinks, shielding her eyes from the early afternoon sun as she searches the windows for Paula’s face. Who else would know my maiden name? Did I leave something in her office?

As she slips her phone from her pocket to call Paula, she feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns and a woman next to her says, Ma’am, I think someone over there wants to speak to you. The woman nods over Leslie’s shoulder.

Ms. Lotton! May I speak with you? a man calls to her.

Several people are pressing through the crowd, making their way toward Leslie with outstretched microphones that have the names of news stations on them. NBC. CNN. ABC News. Reporters and camera operators are fanned out around her. Bright lights snap on. Red lights turn on. Questions are peppered at her.

Leslie Lotton! Just a couple of questions, please!

It hits her: They’re talking to me! Why am I on TV? The phrase a deer in headlights races through her mind. She’s surprised, frightened, confused. What the…Why me?!

She hears a phrase repeated. The unidentified person in Italy.

How can this be? It’s been six years since all that happened—it’s ancient history!

Her breathing increases, her mouth drops open, and her heart begins to pound in her chest. They can’t be referring to my book Unidentified Person in Italy…can they?

You have the wrong person, she announces nervously. Please, let me through.

She pushes away, turning back into the anonymity and safety of the crowd.

Another reporter appears in front of her, microphone jammed at her face. "Ms. Lotton, we would like to talk to you about your book, Unidentified Person in Italy."

What? What do you mean? I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Ms. Lotton, another reporter calls out, your kidnapper has been identified. The Italian police want your assistance in obtaining a conviction.

A bewildered look comes over her face. She turns away, says nothing, tries to move steadily in another direction. I’ve got to get out of here! She tries to make her way through the sea of reporters and cameras.

"Please," she pleads. Believe me, you have the wrong person.

"But you are the author of Unidentified Person in Italy, aren’t you?"

Pushing past the crowd of onlookers, news reporters, and camera crews, she speaks over the noise while avoiding looking into the cameras.

I…I know nothing about this! Please let me through. I need to find a cab.

There’s no way this uproar can have anything to do with my book, she thinks frantically as she anxiously tries to hail a cab in the congested street. My God, that was six years ago—I was just a student in Italy. And I never spoke to the Italian police about what happened to me!

She glances at her watch. It’s nearly a quarter past one. She steps up her pace, fearing she will miss her flight. Then—hope, as a police siren burps and a blue-and-black squad car inches through the crowd. The attention is taken off her long enough for her to dash around a parked van blocking traffic. She runs across the street, slips the crowd, and quickly threads her way to Eighth Avenue.

Thank God! Traffic on Eighth is moving. I may make my flight yet.

She hails a taxi, jumps in.

La Guardia please.

Yes, Miss.

She fishes her mobile phone out of her purse as she glances at the street behind them; her escape is clean. Just as she starts to dial a number, the phone chirps.

Leslie, Ronnie’s voice announces with uncharacteristic terseness, what is going on? I’ve been hounded by calls from the press for nearly an hour.

Me too, Ronnie. I don’t know what’s happening or how they found me.

What’s it about? Why are they—

Reporters said that the Italian police found the unidentified person in Italy in connection with my book, but—

What? There haven’t been any calls here from police or from Italy.

Good. I barely got away from the reporters. I’m on my way to the airport now.

Look, when you get to La Guardia, go straight to the gate. If there are camera crews or reporters, then ask for airport security to escort you. We’ll sort all this out when you get home.

What if news crews show up there too?

I’ll take care of avoiding the press until we can find out what this is all about.

Thank you, Ronnie. See you soon.

Now hurry. Don’t miss that plane.

She clicks off, thinking, Don’t miss the plane?! Ha! I missed the boat a long time ago.

* * *

Her eleven-year marriage to Ronnie hasn’t been easy for Leslie, although sometimes he can be reliable. Tall, not bad looking, short, light-brown hair, same old military-issue, dark-framed glasses (they do set off his blue eyes).

Leslie met Ronnie when he was in the Marine Corps at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. His family lived in South Carolina, not far from Leslie’s home. Officer Candidates School had taught him how to dress, but it didn’t carry over to civilian life. His marine fatigues, shirt and pants, had a starched, pressed crease, front and back. Ronnie had a striking physique in his uniform. He was fastidious about his appearance. He would change fatigues at lunch to keep the creases in them and kept his wallet in his boots to keep the impression of a wallet from showing through his tight clothing. But all of that changed when he became a civilian. At work, there was a dress code (suit, shirt and tie, polished shoes, and black dress socks), so he had to keep up appearances. But his casual clothing never matched in color or style; his everyday shoes were worn, and he wore white socks that showed brightly under his high-water pants.

Within their first year of marriage, Leslie got the message: Ronnie wasn’t the knight in shining armor that girls coming from a dysfunctional family dream about. In fact, one evening she was standing behind Ronnie in line at the movie theater, waiting for the ticket office to open, when a man approached her. She stepped out of the way to allow the stranger to pass though the long line. As he passed by her, he grabbed her in the crotch. Not a brush by, not a light touch—not a little oops, sorry!—but a full-on strong grip. Leslie yelled out, but Ronnie didn’t so much as even turn toward her to see what was happening. Leslie grabbed Ronnie’s shoulder, frightened and upset, and she told him what had happened.

His reply was loud and harsh. What do you want me to do about it?

Leslie stood there in shock, but because she had been conditioned in a family with an alcoholic father, she just shut up and swallowed it. Growing up, if she had snapped back at a remark her cruel father had made, she would have found herself lying on the floor. So she let Ronnie’s remark go. It was a coping method that seemed to work; she hung on to the technique right into adulthood.

* * *

Leslie’s cab arrives at the Delta terminal. She slides quickly out of the taxi, pays and tips the driver, and rushes into the massive, bustling terminal. She glances at the clock—it’s 3:20 p.m.—then at her boarding pass. Delta flight 6025 to Columbus, Ohio. Departs 4:20 p.m.

One hour to get through security and make it to my gate. Please, God, no press.

By 4:20 p.m., she’s buckled into her seat as the jet begins its roll down the tarmac. She closes her eyes, lets out a breath of relief.

Thoughts of that summer six years ago in Italy flood her mind. She had tried to suppress the memories for many years, to dismiss those last few days at school. She even gave the incident a different slant regarding what really happened. Now these reports are forcing her to relive that day. She tries to focus on how to avoid the press until she knows what has brought their attention to the book she wrote so long ago.

She counts down every second of the nearly two hours in the air before the Port Columbus International Airport appears in the window. As the wheels touch down, she turns her phone on and dials Ronnie.

Ronnie, we’ve landed. Are you here?

Yes. Meet you at the upstairs entrance. Concourse C.

Right. Be there as quickly as I can.

When she disembarks, she is relieved that there are no reporters or news crews waiting at the gate. She nimbly threads her way through arriving and departing passengers and makes her way down the concourse to the main entrance hall. The exits are in sight. She hesitates, wondering which one would be best to go through, when Ronnie appears.

This way, he calls to her, motioning with his hand. The coast is clear.

She grabs his arm to keep her knees from buckling.

Thank God. Does it look OK to go outside?

He nods and leads her outside.

Hopefully this is the end of this madness, he says with a sigh. Columbus is much smaller than New York City. Surely the press here isn’t as interested in all this fuss.

I can only hope.

My plan has worked so far.

Leslie recalls that Ronnie’s actions are mostly impulsive, and she hesitates to rely on his judgment.

Don’t hold your breath, she replies, instinctively glancing over her shoulder at the terminal behind them. It’s not over yet.

Well, I managed to get down the block and out of the neighborhood the back way, so I don’t think anyone followed me here. Packed a bag for a couple of nights for us both. Made a reservation at the Columbus Crowne Plaza for the night and stopped there on the way to the airport, got the key and… he glances over at her, sees she’s grinning at him. What?

You’re brilliant, Ronnie! Thank you.

He nods. He has difficulty smiling. Not for the cameras, not for anyone, not for any reason. This works fine when dealing with his foreign clients, not giving them a clue as to what he is thinking. But Leslie never knows if he’s happy or sad, if she has done anything he likes or doesn’t like. He lives up to his nickname in the marines: Stone Face Lotton.

Outside, a taxi is waiting for them. The driver opens the door. They jump in.

Back to the Crowne Plaza, Ronnie instructs the driver.

The car eases into traffic.

Leslie looks at Ronnie, says in a low voice, Where did you leave our car?

Oh—forgot to tell you that part. It’s at home, in the garage. Larry drove, dropped me off at the hotel. I took this taxi from there.

They arrive at the hotel a few minutes before seven and go directly to their room. Ronnie’s plan was indeed brilliant. No need for Leslie to stop at the check-in desk, no bags to have taken up to the room. He even brought her computer, a few sweets she likes, and a couple of other items she considers necessities.

With a sigh of relief, she steps to the window, looks outside. Ronnie, she says as the last rays of the sun begin to dip toward the horizon, did you find out what this is all about?

Yes, he replies hesitantly. They—the Italian police—say they have a suspect in custody. A kidnapper and murderer.

She spins and faces him. "A what? she asks incredulously. What are you talking about?"

They’re hoping you can help identify him…as your kidnapper.

"But that was years ago, Ronnie. And a murderer? I don’t know anything about a murderer. I doubt the man who kidnapped me is a murderer."

She sits on the edge of the bed, focused in thought. No, no, no, she announces, "I don’t think this man could be a murderer. And why do they need me to identify him? That was ages ago—and I never even reported the incident to the police. How in the world did I get involved with their investigation?"

If I had ever thought him to be a dangerous kidnapper, Leslie thinks as she recalls how difficult it was to try to erase the incident from her memory, I would never have been able to go through the charades I did during that time. A murderer!—I would have tried to run away.

Ronnie shakes his head slowly, puzzled. All I know is that this has something to do with your book. They somehow linked a suspect in an investigation to the plot in your book.

He sits next to her, looks at her, asks quietly, "Leslie…were you really kidnapped? I thought the book was fiction."

She stands abruptly, avoiding his gaze, not responding to his question. She goes into the bathroom, turns on the water in the basin. Ronnie follows her.

Leslie, he says in a matter-of-fact tone, "I never believed you were kidnapped—even when you called me insisting