David Hewson (33 page)

Everyone
did from time to time, Peroni reminded himself. You just had to stop it
slipping into self-pity.

"Gimme
an ice cream, then," he said.

Her
lively eyes opened wide in amusement. "What?"

"You
heard. A tub. Those cones are too damn difficult for an old guy like me. Coffee.
Pistachio. And another flavor, too. You choose."

She
looked at him as if he were crazy. "In this weather?"

"Yeah.
In this weather. Me customer, you waitress. Work on the relationship,
kid."

The
girl disappeared out back for quite a while. When she returned she'd
taken off the white uniform and was now wearing a short red skirt and a black
sweater.

She
sat down next to him. There were two dishes in her hand, each with a selection
of multicoloured blobs of ice cream.

"It's
on the house," she said. "I'm calling it a day."

"Wise
move," he answered and tried the chocolate. It was exquisite, though the
cold made his teeth hurt. "What is it? Boyfriend trouble?"

She
eyed him suspiciously. "Oh,
per-lease
. Is that really the best
you can do?"

"It's
a start," he objected. "You see a pretty young girl. She looks
miserable. Nine times out of ten it's boyfriend trouble. Old men like me
understand that. We were young men once. We used to cause these
problems."

She
licked the pistachio. It gave her a creamy green tongue.

"Well?"
he persisted. "Am I wrong?"

"No..."
Her voice had that pouty, caustic edge he recognized growing in his own
daughter.

"Well?"

"He
never calls!" she cried. "Never! It's always me. I'm
always the one who has to phone him. What is it with men? Do they hate phone
bills that much?"

He
shrugged. "It's not just men. That happens in relationships.
It's how it is. Like old-fashioned dancing. One person leads, the other
one follows."

"It's
not like dancing. So why do they do it?"

Her
face had that frank, questioning intensity you got from teenagers.

"Because."

"Because
why?"

"Because..."
He couldn't go on. There was no answer. It was a stupid question. He
couldn't think of a single good reason to support what he'd just
said.

"Do
you call your wife?" she asked. "Or does she call you?"

"My
wife calls me. Only rarely and with gleeful updates on how well the divorce is
going and what new bills dropped through her mama's door."

She
didn't know whether to believe that or not. "Really?"

"Really.
No need to feel sorry. Crap like this happens."

"You've
got a girlfriend, then?"

Peroni
was beginning to wish she'd put the uniform back on. It made her easier
to handle somehow. "What is this? I'm the grown-up around here. I
ask the questions."

"So
you
have
got a girlfriend?"

He
shifted awkwardly on the tiny metal stool. "Yeah. Sort of. Now.
It's not what you think. I didn't have then."

"Sounds
a deep relationship," she commented. "This "sort of
girlfriend." Does she call you? Or do you call her?"

Peroni
swallowed a huge chunk of gorgeous lemon sorbet, which stuck at the back of his
throat and made him gag for a moment. Once the coughing stopped he was dismayed
to find some of the
gelato
was dribbling down his chin. He never would
get the hang of eating this stuff.

The
girl handed him a napkin. He dabbed at his face, then said, "Bit of both.
What's it to you?"

It
was a lie. Teresa always called. He had just never faced the fact till then.

"You're
eating my ice cream for free, mister. I can ask any damn thing I like." She
poked the front of his coat with a long fingernail. "Men who don't
call piss me off."

"I
am getting that message."

The
green eyes narrowed. "Are you? Are you really?"

He
thought about it and wondered how he'd come to develop this habit of
having weird, half-jocular arguments with strangers in cafes. Nothing like this
ever happened in Tuscany. People were too polite there. The Romans just spoke a
thought the moment it entered their heads.

"I
am hearing what you say, my girl. It doesn't mean I intend to act on
it."

"We'll
see about that."

She
took his ice-cream dish, even though it was only half-eaten.

"Hey!"
Peroni objected. "That's mine."

"No
it isn't. I gave it to you."

"OK."
He threw some notes on the counter. "How much?"

She
threw the money back at him. "I told you. It's free. I just
don't think you phone her. You're a man. Why would you?"

"That's
my ice cream," he repeated. "I want it back."

She
waved at the door. "Go outside and call your girlfriend. Now. You can
have some more when you come back and say you've done it. And no lying.
I'm not as dumb as I look."

"Jesus
Christ..." Peroni cursed, and added a few more epithets under his
breath that it was best the girl didn't hear. "What is this?"

"Christmas,"
she hissed. "Almost. Hadn't you noticed?"

Damn
teenagers, he thought. You never got an ounce of respect from them. Though
maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. Not that he would tell her so.

"I
was going to do it anyway," he objected, heading for the door, trying not
to listen to her muttering, "Yeah, right," straight into his big
back.

It
was crazy. Now that he thought about it he
never
called Teresa. He had
to look up her mobile number in his address book because he hadn't even
programmed it into the phone.

Teresa
answered on the third ring and was quiet for a moment when she heard his voice.

"Gianni?"
she asked eventually. "Are you OK?"

"Of
course I'm OK! Nothing wrong with me phoning you, is there?"

The
pause on the line said otherwise. "Not exactly. Though I have to tell you
I am in a very strange apartment right now dealing with a stray head. That lady
you met earlier, if you remember. I think we have all the pieces at
last."

"Jesus,"
he swore quietly. "Listen, Teresa. There's something I need to
know. About Laila. What happened this morning? Why'd she leave like that?
Have you any idea?"

She
sighed and said something about taking the call outside. The line was quiet for
a short while, then Peroni heard the unmistakable sound of the night wind
roaring behind her.

"I
told her you were going to get fired unless she gave you something about what
happened in the Pantheon," Teresa said over the noise. "I'm
sorry. I thought it might help."

"I
wish I'd thought of that," he said. He made absolutely sure that
there was no edge to his words. "It was really clever. Classic stuff too,
Teresa. Good cop, bad cop, huh? Maybe they should pin a badge on you and let me
drive the corpse wagon."

He
could almost feel the tension on the other end. "Don't be so
ridiculous, you big goof. Falcone would be lost without you. Gianni?"

"Yeah?"

"You
mean that? I did the right thing?"

"Of
course I mean that! It should have worked too. If she had anything to tell
us..."

She
sounded so relieved he felt like going back into the cafe and hugging that
mouthy girl.

"Gianni,
she knows something. That's what I don't understand."

"Me
neither." If Laila did have more to tell, that ought to have dragged it
out of her. "I just don't get it."

"Unless..."

Teresa
Lupo would have made a good cop. "Unless what?"

"She
keeps stealing things. What if she stole something from this guy? What if he
took his jacket off when he was doing what he did? Do you think Laila could
resist a peek? Or something more?"

"I
don't know. But if she stole something why doesn't she just give it
to us? I mean, it's not as if we don't know about her habits. I
must have emptied her pockets ten times this morning."

She
didn't say anything. He was glad of that. She was thinking.

"I'm
improvising here so don't treat it as any more than that," she said
after a long moment. "What if she hid it somewhere? What if that's
why she ran away? To get what she stole, recover it from somewhere? Then give
it to you?"

It
just fell into a place in his head, the little compartment that said:
right
.

"God,
I wish I could kiss you now," Gianni Peroni sighed.

The
sound of short, tinny laughter flew through the cold night air. "I'm
wearing surgical gloves covered in blood. And I'm standing on the roof of
some dead woman's apartment freezing my ass off."

"All
the same..."

He
was an idiot, moping over his kids. They were safe and comfortable and warm. He'd
drive up to Tuscany when the weather cleared, take them to one of those little
country restaurants they loved, maybe introduce them to Teresa Lupo, too. They
were just a couple of young people learning to live with damaged parents. It
wasn't ideal, but there were a lot worse things the world could throw at
you.

"I'm
sorry if I've not exactly been normal lately," he said, his voice
choking a touch, doubtless from the aftermath of the lemon gelato.

"If
I wanted "normal," Gianni, do you think I'd be dating
you?"

"No,
I mean..."

The
words dried up. He was terrible at this. He just hoped she got the message.

"Can
I go back to my head now?" she asked. "This isn't the right
way to have a conversation like this."

"OK."

"And
by the way--thanks for phoning."

He
heard her cut the call, looked at the empty Piazza Trilussa, and said,
"You're welcome."

Then
Gianni Peroni went back into the cafe, smiled at the girl, said thanks, and sat
over a newly replenished bowl of ice cream thinking about what Teresa Lupo had
said.

Laila
stole something.
Where
? In the Pantheon, surely. Laila hid that
something.
Where
? In the Pantheon.
Where else
?

He
looked at his watch and thought about that miserable, florid-faced caretaker
and the hours he kept. The place closed at seven-thirty. Maybe she'd been
there already. But if that was the case why hadn't she tried to get in
touch? Wouldn't she wait till the very last moment when there were hardly
any people around? Or--and this thought appalled him--had she left
the thing somewhere that meant she had to spend another night there to recover
it?

The
waitress was reading a magazine. He placed a ten-euro note on the counter and
got up.

"Hey,
kid," he said. "You want to know why that boyfriend never calls
you?"

The
green eyes looked at him with steady, intrigued intent. "Possibly..."

"Because
he's a jerk. That's why."

WILLIAM
F. KASPAR SAT in the yellow Fiat Punto he'd ripped off from the cavernous
underground car park by Porta Pinciana, waiting, thinking, watching the steady,
light fall of snow descend on the deserted Via Veneto, listening to nothing but
static from the tiny device clipped into his ear. This could go on forever. Not
that he was worried about being caught. The weather meant the car park was dark
and dead and deserted. He'd been able to swap the Fiat's plates
with those of a dusty Lancia that hadn't moved in days. Even when the
theft got reported they'd be looking for the wrong car.

That
was the kind of thing the old Bill Kaspar would have done. This recent
carelessness wasn't like him. He'd tested his luck in the Net cafe
and, for once, got away with it. Still, this was bad. This was unlike him. He
knew who he was: William F. Kaspar. He knew where he came from: Kentucky, a big
old stud farm outside Lexington, where the horses flew like the wind across
green fields that stretched forever, where family meant family, a tight,
unbreakable bond of love, and you could get good whiskey straight from an
illicit still if you knew where to ask.

Kentucky
was where he'd grown up, where he'd loved his first woman. After
college in Alabama (and the memory alone sent a Dan song, with its refrain
about the Crimson Tide, spinning through his head), a Kentucky military academy
had started him on the long, hard road to becoming a soldier, filled him with a
love of the classical world through studying the campaigns of Hadrian and
Caesar and Hannibal. A Kentucky congressman, no stranger to the covert world
himself, had first marked him out as someone whose talents could be used
outside a conventional military career.

Memories.
Fading ghosts, blurring the line between reality and illusion.

It
was a lost world now, a distant sea of faded, two-dimensional mental pictures. He
couldn't return there even if he wanted to. He'd assembled his
team, the best team, the Babylon Sisters (
shake it
, his head said
immediately, right on cue) and he'd screwed up, been betrayed, whatever. There'd
been blood on the ground, the holy ground, on the floor of the ziggurat, gore
tracing the outlines of the patterns there, a red stain on the filigreed stone
tattoo Hadrian himself had once touched. He'd wrapped the corpses of his
own men and women in that same pattern, trapped in something as mundane as camouflage
webbing. Then, before he'd had the chance to go down with them, bad luck
got in the way. Thirteen wasted years that changed forever what he was and what
he could be.