BELLA MAFIA (45 page)

She dressed and crept down the stairs. The clock on the landing chimed ten-thirty. All she could think of were the long hours stretching ahead. She went into the study, drummed her fingers on the desk, wondering if it was too late to call. Then she picked up the phone and asked the operator to find the number of Don Roberto's physician; she was sure he would see her.

Sophia drove out of the villa without putting her lights on until she was clear of the gates. Teresa was the only one who heard the car, but by the time she had run down to the front door there was no hope of stopping Sophia. Panic-stricken, she went into the study, deciding to work until she returned, if she returned. She poured herself a stiff brandy. Sophia wouldn't go to the police, would she?

The doctor himself answered the door wearing a smoking jacket. His face registered such concern that Sophia said immediately, "I am sorry I called you so late. I should have left it until tomorrow. . . ."

"Are you ill?"

"No, no,
grazie.
It is my mother-in-law. She has great trouble sleeping, and tonight she seems more restless than ever.

I wonder if you could give me something to help her sleep, a prescription I can take to an all-night pharmacy, Seconal? I think you prescribed some before. ..."

He began to write out the prescription, then paused and looked at Sophia. "How have you been?"

"Oh, I'm fine . . . and could you also give me some Valium, for my sister-in-law? She is very tense, you heard about the court incident? I think she said ten milligrams is her usual. . . . She meant to bring some from New York, but she forgot."

He nodded, about to say something, then continued writing. It seemed to take forever, but eventually he tore the slip of paper off the pad and handed it to her. "Tell her not to make this a regular practice; they can be addictive. But I can understand the strain you all must be under, especially after—"

Sophia couldn't wait to get out. "Yes, it has been ... a difficult time for us all, and I thank you again for your care and understanding that night. Graziella sends you her best wishes."

Sophia took two Valium and replaced the cap. She leaned back in the driver's seat and closed her eyes; just knowing she had the Valium calmed her. A tap on the window made her heart feel as if it would explode.

"Signora? It's me. I'm sorry to make you jump. I was sitting in the bar across the road."

Sophia pushed a button, and the window slid down. "Commissario Pirelli, how are you? I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. ... I have just been to the drugstore for my mother-in- law."

"Would you join me for a drink?"

"Thank you, no, I must take her medicine back."

"Please, just one small drink, or a coffee? There have been a few developments, and I'd like to keep you informed. I was going to come by tomorrow."

Sophia hesitated. She knew she would be in Rome the following day and didn't want Pirelli to find Graziella alone in the house with Moreno.

Pirelli smiled. "It'll take no more than a few minutes, and I hate drinking alone."

The bar was seedy, so Pirelli suggested they walk a block to another. About halfway, Sophia paused at a cafe with tables still outside.

"Why don't we sit outside? I would prefer a cappuccino."

"Won't you be cold?"

Sophia shook her head; she was wearing her mink coat. He drew out a chair for her and signaled for the waiter.

"A pastry?"

She smiled and shook her head, and the waiter took the order for two coffees plus a brandy for Pirelli. He was feeling the chill in the night air.

Sophia opened her cigarette case, and Pirelli smiled. "You have replenished your stock, I see." She didn't seem to understand. "The Turkish cigarettes?"

She remembered and tilted her head back as he struck a match for her. Keeping it alight while he took out a Marlboro, he burned his fingers. She flicked open her lighter with a soft, low laugh, and he gave her a boyish grin, putting his elbow in a dark, congealed mess of spilled coffee. He wiped it off with a paper napkin.

"I'm afraid this is probably not what you are used to. My apologies."

Again that delightful laugh.

"The bar is nicer, if you would prefer ..."

"This is fine, Commissario, really."

The waiter brought their coffee, shivering as the night was getting really cold. Sophia snuggled into her fur coat. She was beginning to feel lightheaded. . . . She raised a hand and called the waiter back.

"I've changed my mind. I would like a brandy."

Pirelli promptly handed her his, and she sipped it, feeling it warm inside her. He offered sugar, and she shook her head. He put two spoonfuls into his own coffee and stirred it.

"You said there were some new developments, Commissario?"

He tilted his head. "Joe, please . . ." He coughed and fingered his tie. "Yes . . . They are connected to your case, specifically to your children." He wanted to reach for her hand when he saw the way the sadness swept over her face. She turned away, her perfect profile motionless.

"I think we found the gun today."

"Do you know who it belongs to?"

"Not as yet, but it won't take long. It was a forty-four magnum, and we have a strong lead on the killer. We think the same man also killed Paul Carolla." He had said more than he had intended, but he went on. "We believe it is Luka Carolla, Paul Carolla's son, signora, and any day now we will arrest him."

Sophia turned to face him. What he was saying was that the American boy hiding in the villa could not have killed Carolla. Moreno had, after all, been telling them the truth. . . . She relaxed slightly and sipped the brandy.

"So you have been able to trace him? When you came to the house, you were trying to find him."

Pirelli pursed his lips, careful now. "We can trace anyone, find anyone, especially now with all the computer equipment. Data are easier to pass from country to country, town to town; fingerprints can be faxed in seconds."

He had changed the subject purposely, wondering if she would still ask after Luka Carolla, but she had a frown on her face. "You mean, you can trace, for example, a child who has been missing for years? Does all this computerization help with that?"

Pirelli thought for a moment, then nodded. "I guess so. . . . What it actually does is give more people access to information. The computers themselves cannot do the tracing; they provide the shortcuts. You pump in data, everything you know, about your lost child, for example, send it to Rome, and it can be dispersed all over Italy, over the world if necessary. That would have taken years in the old days, but now ... a few hours."

"And does everyone have access to these computers?"

"No, no . . . But if, say, we take this lost child again, if it becomes an investigation, then, of course, we can use all the facilities open to us. . . ."

Sophia nodded, then looked at him. "You have coffee on your top lip."

He raised his eyebrows and wiped his mouth. "Clear?"

She nodded, stubbing out her cigarette, deep in thought. Pirelli tried to lift her mood. He laughed. "It's not as bad as spinach caught between the teeth. You know that feeling when you get home and find one tooth black with spinach? What always amazes me is why nobody ever tells you. ... I mean, everyone must have noticed but said nothing. ..."

Sophia giggled, and he leaned over toward her. "You have the most infectious, wonderful laugh. . . . Will you have another brandy?"

She agreed, saying that afterward she really must go.

The waiter was just bringing their bill, and they sent him back for more brandy. Pirelli was racking his brains for something witty and original to say. Sophia was feeling the effects of the Valium and the brandy, enjoying the sensation of not caring.

She realized he had asked her a question and looked at him. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

"Nothing that is worth repeating; you were miles away."

She tilted her head—it was a habit she had—and her eyes were sparkling. She leaned forward on her elbow. "You know, when I was about fifteen, I used to work in a cafe like this one, cleaning the tables and washing dishes."

"You did?"

She laughed, letting her coat fall open as if she didn't feel the night air. Her cheeks were flushed; he didn't think anyone could be so beautiful. . . . She crooked her finger for him to come closer, and he could smell her perfume, a light scent of fresh flowers.

"One of my earliest memories is of my mother. . . . Have you ever heard of a Toni perm? They used to call them that after the war, Toni?"

He nodded, though he had no idea what she was talking about; he just loved the sound of her husky voice, loved the fact that she had beckoned him closer. With both elbows on the table he was close enough to see her flawless skin, her perfect white teeth. His mind was working overtime, wondering how he could make the move to kiss her. He had never wanted to hold a woman so much in his entire life.

She was saying, "My mama was so desperate to have her hair permed; she had long, dark, straight hair, like mine."

"How long is your hair?"

"Oh . . ." She gestured with her hand almost to her hip and continued talking, but he was seeing her naked, with her long hair splayed across a pillow. . . . She wore it in such a severe style, drawn back from her face, but he liked that. He sighed; he liked everything about this woman. He realized she was still talking.

"So they agreed, and she was in there for hours and hours. I was only about six or seven. She came out with all these curls, and she looked so pretty, so happy, but then she strapped this board around her, you know, a sandwich board? She was advertising the hair salon. I had to give out the leaflets to the passersby while she strode up and down the street, up and down. . . ."

He smiled. "She must have wanted that permanent very badly."

His heart was thudding in his chest as two tears, two absolutely perfect pear-shaped tears, rolled down her cheeks. "Yes, she did. I don't think she felt any humiliation. I did. As young as I was, I felt it so deeply. I was so ashamed for her, you understand?"

Pirelli nodded, and she continued. "Well, I stuffed these terrible little pamphlets into every refuse bin I could see. All the time men were jeering at her, women pointing and snickering. 'Mama,' I said, 'Take it off, please, people are laughing, look,' and she answered, 'Yes, I know, but I have got the best perm in Sicily for nothing.' But it wasn't. I paid for it; she paid for it."

She sat back, turning her face away. "I have no idea why I told you that. Maybe so you would understand that I have not always had wealth, not always eaten in the finest restaurants. We were very poor. My mama had nothing, not even a husband. ..."

"And you used to wait on tables?"

"Yes ... it was a roadside cafe." She breathed in deeply, staring ahead for a moment before she looked back to him. "I must be very boring, and I must go."

Pirelli jumped to his feet and went into the cafe to pay the bill. She waited for him outside; he could see her with her back to the brightly lit window. On a sudden frivolous impulse, he pointed to the vase of flowers on the counter and delved into his pocket. "How much?"

Highly embarrassed, Pirelli presented the flowers to Sophia, realizing only as he did so that they were plastic. "Well, I have managed to make an utter fool of myself."

She held them in her arms, smiling. "No, I am touched. They will keep forever. . . . Thank you."

He walked her to her car and remonstrated with her for not locking it, but she pointed out that he had been with her and so was partly to blame. He opened the door for her.

"Would you have dinner with me, Sophia? May I call you Sophia?"

"I'm going to Rome. ..."

"Forever?"

"No, but I don't know how long I will be gone."

"Will you be there for Christmas?"

She was very close to him, bending to get into the car, and she straightened. "Christmas?" Her large, dark eyes lowered, and he could see her thick, dark lashes.

She uses no makeup,
he thought. Then he heard her whisper, "Oh, God, it will be Christmastime soon. . . ."

Her eyes were like a frightened child's as the grief engulfed her. At first he couldn't see what had distressed her to such an extent.

Her voice was a soft, pleading moan. "My babies . . . my babies ..."

Suddenly he understood. Christmas would be a nightmare for her, with all the tinsel and bustle. It was for children, and Sophia's were gone. He hardly realized he had taken her in his arms. He was holding her tightly, saying over and over that it would be all right, it would be all right, he was there. . . . She clung to him, the soft fur feeling like silk against his cheek.

He never knew how it happened, but suddenly he was kissing her, to comfort her. His lips had found hers. . . . She turned her face away, pressing her cheek into his coat. His body was on fire; he had never experienced such passion or tenderness. She remained in his arms for an eternity; then he gradually felt her draw away.

He helped her into the car and tucked her coat in. "Will you have dinner with me?"