The Faces of Angels (58 page)

‘You have to arrest Rinaldo! You have to!' Little Paolo had an epic temper tantrum earlier, and it looks as if I am having one now.

‘I told you, he came here. He was looking for me, but he met Billy. He was in the Boboli when I was attacked, and he has a connection to Sophie!'

‘Get in the car, signora.' Pallioti is holding the door.

‘But—'

‘Now!' Pallioti snaps. ‘I don't have time for this!'

I crawl into the back seat, feeling like a child. Pallioti gets in beside me and taps on the screen that separates us from the driver. The city streams by. Beyond the tinted glass, everything looks as though it's in a movie. We pass the grocery store, where the signora stands on the front step, her hands on her hips, looking up and down the street while Marcello unloads some sort of crate from a delivery van. At the head of the Ponte Vecchio, tourists are already flocking. The chic policewoman, the one with the long blonde hair who is always there, waves us out onto Lungarno Torrigiani, and as we fly along the river, we pass people walking dogs, and bicycling, and taking pictures of the bridge.

‘Opus Dei,' I say, without looking at Pallioti. ‘Rinaldo's involved with them, I told you. Isabella Lucchese was too. She says they own a bunch of villas. You should talk to her. Please. She says they're trying to get hold of that big derelict villa down by the Art Institute. It's not far from where Benedetta was found. Or Billy. How did he get her in?' I ask suddenly. ‘How did he get Billy up to the fort, after he killed her?'

Oddly enough, I have never asked this before, and I don't think Pallioti is going to answer me now. He's completely distracted, and sick of me. We drive over the Ponte alle Grazie, and he sighs.

‘He has a car,' he says. ‘One of the villas on Costa San Giorgio reported hearing a car in the early hours of Easter morning. Shortly after two a.m.' He runs his hands across his eyes. ‘They didn't bother calling the police. It was the holidays and there are often kids up there.' He shakes his head, then he makes a sound like a snarl, half laugh, half snort. ‘They thought it was normal. And why shouldn't they? The owner told me he didn't want to bother the
carabinieri
. They thought the police had more important things to do.'

I think of the hole, of Billy's body being dragged through the ripped chicken wire. Did he have her in a bag? Did he roll her down the bank? Is that what he'll do to Sophie? I start to cry. It's a beautiful spring day, but the kaleidoscope's turned and all I can see are ugly, shattered pieces of light.

Pallioti may be sick of me, but he does call Pierangelo's apartment at about four o'clock in the afternoon to tell us that Rinaldo is ‘cooperating' with the investigation, and that the family who own it have agreed to give the police access to the derelict villa by the Art Institute. Piero talks with him for a few minutes, and when he gets off he says they've made the decision to go public with Sophie's disappearance. A reward is being offered. Pallioti will be on the news tonight.

We tune in to watch him. They don't say anything about the other women—Piero says they don't want to start a wholesale panic in the city—so all they talk about is the abduction of a young mother. Pictures of Sophie fill the screen. In one she is holding Paolo and laughing. Just like Caterina Fusarno must have held Carlo. I can't watch this. Finally I have to get up and go into the bedroom. Pierangelo comes in later and sits beside me. He strokes my hair and tells me that Big Paolo was on too, appealing directly to whoever was holding his wife to release her. He looked awful, Pierangelo says. I tell him everything about my conversations with Sophie, and he adds that it's strange how often people don't realize who they really love until they lose them.

After that, I can't sit still. While Piero cooks dinner, which he knows perfectly well I won't eat, I wander around the apartment, going back and forth and back again through the rooms, until I know I must be driving him crazy. I take the file from his study and bring it into the living room, but Pierangelo takes it away from me.

‘They're good,
cara
,' he says. ‘The police will find her. Really, they will.'

I don't know if he believes it, but at least he's making an effort. I take the glass of wine he gives me, not really tasting it as I thumb through Monika's calendar. Some martyrs get more details than others, but nothing says Sophie the virgin and martyr was tortured. Just that she was beheaded. It's a strange thing to take comfort in.

Finally I fall asleep on the couch, drifting down into shallow dreams that toss and rock. Sophie's in a dark place and I want to bring her tea, but I can't find a teabag. I look and look, getting more and more frantic. Then the bell rings and Sophie laughs. ‘Time's up!' she says, ‘Mary! Mary!' And I wake with a start to see Pierangelo standing above me holding the phone.

‘Pallioti just called.' He sits down on the edge of the couch. ‘They have a lead.'

‘From the news?' I sit up and Pierangelo nods.

‘They're sending over a picture they want you to look at, of the Sassinellis' driver. His ex-girlfriend saw the broadcast and called in. Apparently he had a prior conviction, in Rome. For stalking.'

I remember the basement door propped open because of the electricity van parked in front of the apartment. But he'd have a key anyways. And of course, Sophie would get in a car with him.

‘They need to know if you recognize him,' Pierangelo is saying, ‘if you ever saw him hanging around, or if Billy knew him.'

I nod and get up. My head feels fuggy. I need to splash cold water on my face. Maybe it wasn't me, I think suddenly. Maybe I wasn't the connection after all. Maybe it was Sophie all along, and he noticed Billy because of her.

When a policeman arrives fifteen minutes later, I stare at the eight-by-ten he shows me of a thickset man with bulldog jowls and a shadow of beard.

‘This is a mugshot. He probably looks a little better now. Cleaned up. His name is Fabio Locci,' the cop tells me. But I shake my head. I even go and get the envelope of Billy's pictures and spread them out on the dining-room table to see if Fabio Locci might appear in any of them. But he's not there. I've never seen him before.

‘OK,' the policeman says finally. ‘Well,' he shrugs. ‘Thank you, anyways.'

‘But you can just bring him in, and at least Sophie will be safe.' The cop hesitates by the door. ‘You have him, right? You know where he is?'

He shakes his head. ‘No, signora,' he says. ‘I'm afraid not. We have the car, of course. But Signor Locci has disappeared.'

‘Locci's from the Abruzzi,' Pierangelo tells me the next morning when he brings coffee up to the roof terrace. ‘Did his time in the army, and a stint in the
carabinieri
. Three years ago, his ex-wife brought charges against him for stalking. He did six months and community service, and left Rome. He's been working for Paolo Sassinelli for two years.'

For a change, Pallioti actually wants Pierangelo to run a piece on this. They can't risk giving away what they know by mentioning the timing or the martyrs, so the paper's been on the phone almost all night, working on stories about Sophie and Locci, figuring out what they can say and what they can't. The police are scouring the city, even as we speak, but the public are still their best eyes and ears. A story's coming out this morning, 29 April, and anything Pierangelo's going to run for this evening has to be ready by noon.

‘Oh, and I thought you'd want to know,' he adds, glancing at me, ‘you were right. We did some digging around, and Batman has a nasty past.'

‘Kirk?' I put my cup down and look at him. I don't remember ever actually suggesting this, but maybe the bruise on my jaw was enough. Or maybe he spoke to Pallioti. I told them Kirk had gone to Venice.

‘Our guy in New York did some ferreting,' Piero says. ‘Your friend's left a bad smell behind in a couple of offices. Nothing that's stuck yet, but allegations of sexual harassment, that kind of stuff. There was an incident at some conference. The word “rape” was never actually used, and the woman, a junior associate, got a pretty nice vacation package.' He shrugs. ‘You know how it goes.'

I guess I do. I think of Kirk's fist flying towards me, and of Billy, telling me he was ‘too intense'. Of the phone calls. The temper. The cocaine. Of her asking me about the stuff I got from the
farmacia
. Did he hit her? Or worse? Would she have told me if he did? Pierangelo is watching the expression on my face.

‘He's apparently a very good prosecutor,
cara
. Puts a lot of bad guys behind bars.'

Oh yes, the ‘greater good' argument. Pierangelo pours more coffee into my cup and says, ‘Paolo Sassinelli is a big donor to Opus Dei.'

‘You're kidding?' I exclaim. Then I think,
why should this surprise me?
They're Catholic and they're rich. Or rather, they're Catholic, and she's rich. I bet she doesn't even know about it.

‘How did you find out?' Opus is notoriously secretive about its financial dealings.

Pierangelo raises his eyebrows. ‘Ve have our methods, Seegnora.' It's a silly effort to make me smile, but I try.

‘Go.' I say suddenly.

‘What?'

‘Go. Go to the paper.' I have been so selfish. This is a potentially huge story breaking, and Pierangelo has been sitting here holding my hand.

He shrugs. ‘They're fine. It's time I started handing over more to the sub-editors anyways.'

‘Oh crap! This is important, Pierangelo. He could kill her any time after midnight. Go on, get outta here. Go! Go talk to the cardinal. If Opus is mixed up in this, he can find out. The Vatican's meant to have the best intelligence system in the world.'

He looks at me, and I can see how desperate he is to be there, running this story in person, not from the end of a telephone. I've been so mired in my own self-pity I didn't even notice.

‘Go,' I say. ‘Please. It's where you belong. Please, Piero,' I add. ‘I want you to. Honestly. What goes in the paper could make a difference.' It could make
the
difference, and we both know it. The evening editions are the most widely read papers in the city.

‘Well—' He's seriously wavering, and I stand up and push him towards the door.

‘I'll be fine,' I say. We both look at the bright-red panic button mounted on the garden wall. There's another in the living room. ‘Believe me.' I even manage a smile. ‘There is no date any time soon with my name on it, and the one thing I am not, is alone.'

A few seconds later I watch from the window as his big BMW shoots out of the garage and into the street, and realize I'm actually jealous. At least he can make a contribution. All I can do is wait.