'What are you, an expert on grieving widows?' Teegarden lowered his binoculars. 'I see the whole Detroit Mafia but I don't see Joey. Which is odd. His dad passes, he should be here don't you think?'
Ray said, 'Where's Joe P. from?'
'Sicily. Town called Ribera.'
'Maybe that's where Joey is,' Ray said. 'You see The Godfather? Michael Corleone shoots the New York cop, hides out in the village where his father was born.'
'Seems kind of obvious, don't you think?'
'Yeah, probably.' But Ray was thinking you never knew. 'Maybe he's somewhere they can't get in touch with him.'
'Where's that? I could call you from the summit of Mount Everest.'
Ray agreed, expected Joey to be there. He didn't show up at the funeral either, a high mass at St Hugo's Church celebrated by Monsignor Tocco, the good monsignor praising Joseph Palermo for his strong Catholic faith and his many contributions to the parish and the community.
Ray stood in back, every seat taken, and watched Mrs P. and the other family members in the first pew, but no sign of Joey. He wasn't at the gravesite, Holy Sepulchre on Ten Mile in South- field, black Caddy limos lined up on the road near the grave. Again, well attended by the top brass of the Detroit Mafia.
'Who's the old guy in the gray suit next to Mrs P.? Right there. He's got his arm around her.' Whoever he was, he obviously knew her well to be holding her like that.
'I don't know,' Teegarden said. 'Never seen him before but I'll find out.' He picked up his camera with the long lens, like the kind sports photographers used, and aimed it at the guy and Ray heard the speed-winder clicking.
'He's probably a visiting dignitary. Could be from a Chicago or New York family, paying homage to Vito Uno or Joe P. himself.'
'How about the skinny dark-skinned guy?' Ray said.
'No idea,' Teeg said. 'Not a clue.'
'Get him, too, will you?'
Teegarden aimed the big camera again and clicked a couple of shots, and looked over. 'Seen enough?'
Ray nodded. He started the Jeep and made a U-turn and drove through the cemetery. On the way downtown he told Teeg Sharon had disappeared.
'I knew something was up,' Teegarden said. 'Your sudden interest in the Palermo family. You obviously haven't gone to the police, have you?'
Ray said, 'Would you?'
'Probably not.' Teeg paused. 'They'll think you had something to do with it.'
'I came to the same conclusion,' Ray said.
'Let me see what I can find out,' Teeg said.
Ray pulled up in front of the McNamara Building and Teegarden got out and stood in the open door. 'I'll call you.'
And he did about an hour later, Teeg saying he'd scanned the shot of Mrs P. and the mysterious stranger.
'Know who he is? Joey's uncle, his mom's brother from Italy. But wait, it gets better. He's Carlo Gennaro. That name mean anything to you?'
'No,' Ray said.
'He's Don Gennaro, head of the Roman Mafia.'
Maybe that's where Joey was, staying with his uncle the don. Sharon too. The more he thought about it the more plausible it seemed. Ray glanced at Teegarden. 'You don't happen to have his address, do you?'
'What're you going to do? Every time I give you an address somebody dies.'
Ray got online and booked a Northwest flight, Detroit to Rome. He booked a room at the Hotel del Senato on Piazza della Rotondo near the Pantheon. He'd stayed at the Grand Hotel on Via Del Corso one time, protective detail for the vice president. The Grand was big and opulent and expensive and had excellent accommodations for an advance detail, and twelve agents on three shifts, but he didn't need that on this trip. The del Senato was described as having small clean rooms with great views of the Pantheon, and they served breakfast. It sounded perfect.
He drove to Borders and bought a Berlitz Italian phrasebook and dictionary, and a Michelin map that detailed Rome and its outskirts. Joey's uncle lived near Mentana. Ray Googled it and found out Mentana was a small town northeast of Rome about twelve kilometers. Had a population of 16,288, and the mayor's name was Guido Tabanella.
He stared at a framed photograph of Sharon on the desk next to the computer, Sharon with dark hair, smiling at the camera. The picture really capturing her: sexy and good-looking. He thought about their wedding at St Regis Church and the reception at Pine Lake Country Club, Sharon's parents showing him off as their celebrity son-in-law, caught up in the Secret Service mystique.
Ray and Sharon didn't want a big wedding but her parents insisted on it — 350 people, half of whom Ray had never met, mostly Sharon's dad's Chrysler buddies and the entire Vanelli family, which had the population of a Sicilian village. Sharon had picked a band, the Howling Diablos, she knew, and after all the formality: speeches, dinner, cutting the cake and throwing the bouquet, they drank and danced, first Ray taking off his rented tux jacket, and then his cummerbund, then his ten- pleat, wing-collared Egyptian cotton tuxedo shirt, swinging Sharon around in his sweat-soaked undershirt to the raised eyebrows of her dad's friends and fellow club members. Ray and Sharon didn't care, it was their wedding.
They honeymooned in Hawaii, the first stop, followed by a week in New Zealand, cruising the South Island, stopping in pubs and meeting the locals who seemed to genuinely like Americans. Someone would buy them each a pint and they'd buy one back, and two hours later they would stagger out and go to their hotel and make love.
When they got back from the trip Sharon's parents gave them enough for a down payment on the house in Beverly Hills. The future looked bright. They were in love and it looked like only good things were ahead for them.
He thought back, trying to pinpoint when things started to go wrong, when they’d started drifting apart. Clearly, his being away from home for extended periods of time put a strain on their relationship. Even so, they’d been able to keep it together for ten years, at least. Over the past twelve months he’d been drinking more and paying less attention to her. He could see she didn't know what to do, either, baffled by his surly belligerence. They couldn't have a conversation without getting into an argument. The job had stressed him out of his mind and he didn't realize it at the time. He'd felt that way for so long it was just normal. Looking back, now he understood, he got it, and wanted to tell Sharon he was messed up, and wanted to apologize.
Ray left the next evening at 7:05, flew coach, a seat on the aisle. He drank Cabernet, watched part of Slumdog Millionaire, fell asleep and woke up when the plane landed in Amsterdam. He had an hour-and-forty-five- minute layover and then a two- hour flight to Rome, arriving at Leonardo da Vinci airport at 1:05 pm. The last time he'd flown to Rome was on Air Force One, and he hadn't had two Dewar's on the rocks and three mini bottles of red wine. He was hung over and jet-lagged.
Ray took a taxi to the del Senato, a good-looking, six-story pink building with white accents on the southwest side of the Pantheon. It had a small elegant lobby with a chandelier, and a smaller bar that didn't appear to be open. It was a lot nicer than the write-up in the guidebook. He checked in, went to his room and dropped his bag on the floor and went to the window. He could see the east side of the Pantheon, and the muted white building on the opposite side of Piazza della Rotonda, and the obelisk in the center of the square.
He went to the bed and pulled down the gold-striped spread and stretched out on the mattress, his body heavy and tired, and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was 3:30 in the afternoon.
When he woke up four hours later it was dark. He looked out the window, saw the Pantheon in the piazza below, the square crowded with cars and street vendors and tourists, the sounds coming through the open window. He showered and dressed and took the elevator down to the lobby and handed his key to a dapper old guy in a blue suit behind the desk, and went outside.
He stood in front of the Pantheon studying its pillared facade built in ad 125, looking as sturdy as a New York skyscraper. He studied the columns, wondering if they were Doric or Corinthian. Thinking about the last time he’d
