been here. He was on detail with the vice president and his wife, the two of them, and a priest from Rome, a papal attache named Father Grimaldi, their guide, plus three other members of the detail. They’d gotten a private tour of the Pantheon, and what had really impressed him was the opening in the ceiling, a circle called the Oculus, the Great Eye; it was the only source of light in the whole place.
It had rained earlier the day they were there and the marble floor was wet, the area roped off. Father Grimaldi told them the Pantheon had been designed with a drainage system below the floor, diverting the water that came in through the opening. Amazing.
Ray walked toward Piazza Navona, saw a taxi and got in and took it over the Tiber River to Trastevere and wound through the narrow streets to Piazza Sant’Egidio. He told the driver he was going to Museo di Roma. The man looked at him like he was crazy and said, museo non aperto, telling Ray what he already knew. It wasn't open. He paid the driver ten euros for the eight-euro fare, got out of the taxi and walked down a narrow cobblestone street that had huge stone urns sprouting green plants. He could see laundry hanging on a rope strung between the buildings that were a shade of magenta.
He approached the cafe, Ombre Rosse, and stood across the street, scanning the people sitting outside under canvas umbrellas, under tall leafy trees that seemed to grow out of the cobblestones. Ray didn't know who was meeting him. He went inside and moved past the small wood-topped bar where customers stood drinking espresso out of little white cups, and beer out of stemmed glasses. He walked into the main room that was small and crowded and loud. There was an open table in the corner. He sat and ordered a glass of red wine. He looked around but no one seemed to notice him. Looked at a framed sepia-tone photograph on the wall next to his table. Six men from another time, sitting in chairs, four of them looking at the camera and two more grinning and glancing to the their right.
The waiter brought his wine in a short-stemmed glass. He watched the door, studying everyone who came in. He sipped the wine that tasted bitter, watching a dark-haired girl, mid-twenties, get up from the bar and come into the room. She was petite, five two, shoulder-length dark hair, attractive, bag on a strap over her shoulder. She didn't look at him but walked to his table.
She said, 'Signor Pope, my name is Paola. May I join you?'
Ray got up and pulled the chair next to him out and she sat down. She was better-looking up close, dark eyes and high cheekbones and flawless skin.
'Would you like a drink,' Ray said, 'glass of wine?'
'No, grazie,' she said. 'I have this for you.'
She had a heavy accent. She slipped the bag off her shoulder and rested it in her lap. She unzipped it and took out a manila-colored package and handed it to him. It was padded, a few inches thick and must've weighed four pounds.
'What you order. Buona notte, Signor Pope.'
She got up and moved to the door. Ray looked around to see if anyone was watching him. No one seemed to be. He signaled his waiter, asked for the check and paid for the wine. Now he tucked the manila envelope under his arm and walked out of the cafe and went around the corner down Via della Paglia to Santa Maria in Trastevere, the square quiet and deserted at 10:30 at night.
He took a cab back to his hotel and went up to his room. There was a lamp on the bedside table. He turned it on and sat on the side of the bed and pulled the tape off the envelope, opened it and slid a shrink-wrapped SIG Sauer SP 2022 on the bedspread, along with three twelve-shot magazines. Thirty-six rounds.
Ray unwrapped the SIG. It was 7.4 inches long and weighed 30.2 ounces fully loaded. He picked up a magazine and slid it in the grip. In his opinion it was the best handgun you could buy, balanced, accurate and dependable. He cradled the weapon with two hands and aimed across the room at a bust, the likeness of Julius Caesar.
His BlackBerry started buzzing in his pocket. He took it out and looked. It was a text message from Teegarden confirming that Sharon had arrived in Italy on October 12th. She had flown New York-Rome on KLM. Now finally, he had a line on her. He couldn't believe it. There were a lot of times in the past week he doubted he'd ever see her again, doubted she was alive, but had held out hope. A friend of Teeg's at the FBI had done him a favor, contacted Italian immigration. Nothing about Joey yet. He'd stay on it and follow up when he had something concrete.
Chapter Twenty-seven
They went inside and she stood next to him and watched him cut slices of bread and cheese on the tile countertop in the kitchen. 'McCabe, you don't say much about yourself. Are you really from Detroit?'
'Nobody says they're from Detroit unless they are.'
'After visiting, I can understand. You have brothers or sisters?'
'A sister,' McCabe said. 'Two years older. Married, two daughters, works for an ad agency.'
Angela said, 'What is her name?'
'Jane,' McCabe said.
'What about your parents?'
'My mother died when I was a freshman in high school, lymphoma, cancer of the lymph nodes.'
'So you know what it feels like,' Angela said.
'I thought it was unfair, but I didn't feel sorry for myself. I didn't think poor me. What can you do? You force yourself to stop thinking about it, move on.'
'What about your father?'
'He's a retired ironworker. A few years ago he was on a job, trying to maneuver a thirty-foot I-beam into position. It had been drizzling that day and the steel was wet and he fell forty feet and landed on top of a plywood pedestrian walkway. Broke his hip and shoulder on the left side and his pelvis. He was supposed to be wearing a safety harness, but wasn't. He was in critical condition for a week and eventually got better and came home but he couldn't go back up on the high steel, and retired at forty-five on a modest pension.'
She touched his hand that was flat on the countertop, sliding her fingers over his. He lifted his hand and turned it around and lightly gripped her palm, gliding his fingers over hers now.
She said, 'What is it about holding hands.'
'I know what you mean,' he said.
She put her wine glass down on the counter and put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He brought his hands up under her tee-shirt, and reached behind and unfastened her bra. She raised her arms and he pulled the tee-shirt up over her head. He glided his fingers over her breasts, bent down and kissed her nipples, hand sliding down her flat tan stomach, reaching into her capris, fingers probing and sliding into her.
Then they were pulling at each other's clothes, trying to take them off, like they couldn't do it fast enough, and went down on the rug on the kitchen floor, Angela on top now, breasts pressing against his chest, feeling the heat from his body. Angela kissed him and reached between his legs, holding him and guiding him inside her.
She traced the scar over his left eye. They were upstairs in bed, McCabe on his back, sheet angled across his chest, Angela next to him on her stomach. He could feel her body against his, and the light touch of her fingertip on his face.
Angela said, 'How did this happen?'
'I got hit with a puck,' McCabe said.
She made a face, looked concerned like it had just happened and he was in pain. 'How many stitches do you have?'
'Fifteen.'
'Fifteen? That is a lot.'
She kissed the scar. He had another one on his right cheekbone, a white ridge of tissue that snaked down under his jaw. She touched it, moved the tip of her index finger over it. 'What about this one?'
'High sticking,' McCabe said. 'I played for the Muskegon Fury in the United Hockey League. Also called the U-Haul League because we were hauled around in a bus. It's a couple steps below the NHL. We played the Rockford
