another carafe brimming with red wine.
“Why did you quit your job?”
“Ethical stuff. They do too many experiments with dogs. Cats, too-more cats than dogs, actually, but I had some real issues with the dog experiments. I made some ill-advised comments in an in-house magazine.”
“You like dogs?”
“Sure. Don’t most normal people? Apart from the experimenters, and even some of them feel pretty lousy sometimes.”
“I don’t like dogs in the slightest,” said Blume. “Filthy noisy stinking creatures.”
“You’re a cat person, then?”
“Isn’t that code for gay when applied to men? I don’t care-look, I never even think of cats. They live in my courtyard, piss on the motorbikes, that’s all I know about cats. Dogs, on the other hand, are creatures I actively dislike.”
Kristin seemed annoyed to hear this, and to distract her attention he asked the waiter what was on the dessert menu.
“Torta mimosa panna cotta frutta fresca creme caramel torta all’arancio cassata siciliana con ripieno di ricotta fresca-molta buona questa-la prenda,” replied the waiter, not wasting more than six seconds of his life in listing false alternatives before telling him what to order.
“Oh yes, the cassata, I’ll have that,” said Kristin.
Blume ordered the same.
The waiter ambled off toward another table, with the air of having decided not to give them anything, after all.
“Where are you from?”
“Vermont. I already told you that in the courtyard.”
“So that’s what your accent is,” said Blume.
“I lived where there are trees, big gardens. Cold, rich, middle class. Very comfortable. My closet at home is about the size of my apartment here. Dad is an anesthetist, or was. Retired. Now he just bores people to sleep.”
“I don’t get the connection between Merck and whatever and you wandering through the corridors of a police station in Rome,” said Blume.
“I don’t work for a pharmaceuticals company. I used to. But I quit. Now I work as a legat with the embassy on Via Veneto.”
“What’s a legat?”
“A legal attache.”
“You don’t say more than you have to, do you? Must be part of being a lawyer.”
“Must be.”
“What exactly are you legally attached to?”
“The FBI.”
Blume considered this. “The FBI works from the embassy? I thought they operated through Europol. I’ve heard of cooperation, but it’s always been very specific. I suppose I don’t know much.”
“Your rank doesn’t help there,” she said, and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. “I am an FBI legat to the Embassy of the United States in Italy. I report here to a regional security officer, and back home to the Office of International Operations.”
“And you draw bad pictures of fountains in courtyards in your spare time.”
“Bad pictures, huh? You didn’t like the reference to your rank. I’m sorry, Alec.”
“No. I don’t care about that. But seeing that this is more an interview than an evening out, it occurred to me your sketch might have been a prop, to allow you to sit there waiting for me.”
“I couldn’t think of anything better.”
“So you’re here talking to me, finding out things about me because
…?”
“I maintain contacts in the Polizia, the Carabinieri, the Finance Police, and even-would you believe it-the traffic police,” said Kristin. “These contacts are official, unofficial, diplomatic, confidential, open, private, public- whatever. They tell me whatever they feel like telling me. I don’t ask them to tell me more. It’s all very above-board and friendly.”
“What’s the point?”
“Helps us get a feel of the place. Keep an ear to the ground.”
Blume gave her his skeptical-cop look.
“I do work a little with people who may have special operational remits. We pool information and work together in what is called a country team.”
“You have contacts up high?”
“I’ve exchanged a few pleasantries with the prefect at embassy dos.”
“What were you doing at my station?”
“Handing out invitations to a conference on terrorism. Before you say it, almost everyone knows the conferences don’t resolve anything, but that’s not what they’re for. Attendance is always total. Know why?”
“Free food? Cops love free food.”
“Yes, they do. But it’s not just that. The top brass is there. That way, lowly commissioners get a chance to have a private word with questors and prefects. We provide a little private court where the vassals get a chance to ask favors of the barons. All played out in front of us. They know we’re watching, but they don’t care. After all, we’re all allies.”
The waiter came out of the tiny doorway with two plates and a winning smile.
“There we go,” he declared, placing desserts in front of them, then standing back as if planning to watch them, like a proud mother feeding her two children. Blume gave him a look that sent him off with a scowl to the next table.
The cassata was something special. Blume had not tasted a cassata so good since he had been posted to Palermo during the period in the early ’90s when the politicians were pretending to care about organized crime. The chef had not skimped on the sweetened ricotta, which was fresh and just the right blend of crumbly creamy and laced with a very generous amount of maraschino liquor. Blume now regretted sending the waiter away like that. Excellence and beauty should always be acknowledged and publicly praised. Italians were good at that, and he was not.
“Good, isn’t it?” mumbled Kristin, breaking the reverent silence that had descended as they allowed the candied fruits, chocolate, cheese, and sponge cake to quietly dissolve in the heat of their mouths.
“It’s more than good. People should come here just for this,” agreed Blume.
All too soon, it was gone. Blume rubbed his thumb in the sweet white trail left on his plate and stuck it in his mouth. Kristin was intently cleaning off all residues with her middle finger.
“We could order another,” suggested Blume.
Kristin giggled, which he found disconcertingly out of character.
“Marcello!” called Kristin.
The waiter responded like an eager cocker spaniel, and bounded over to the table, radiating smiles solely at Kristin.
“Il conto, per piacere.”
Annoyingly, very annoyingly, when Marcello came with the bill, he handed it to Kristin, and before Blume could protest, she had put a gold American Express on the platter.
“How much was it?” he demanded, trying to read her surname on the card. It was upside-down to him, and seemed to spell out Holmquist.
By way of response, she handed him the check: 126 euros. “The wine was particularly dear,” she said.
Kristin went up to the desk to key in her number and sign the stub.
Blume went to the bathroom. Kristin was waiting for him on the street outside.
His alcohol-fueled policeman’s swagger was slightly more pronounced as he walked down the laneway toward the brighter, noisier, and dirtier streets ahead. He’d make a move on Kristin before they reached the intersection.
