Good Blood

necessity. The simplest theory that fits the facts is the best one upon which to proceed.”

And Gideon believed in that. Absolutely.

On the other hand, there was Alfred North Whitehead’s take on the subject: “Seek simplicity and distrust it.” That was the nice thing about theories. If you looked hard enough, you could always find one to fit what you were thinking.

SEVENTEEN

“GIDEON?” Caravale said on the drive back to Stresa. “Do you remember yesterday, at the ‘consiglio’”—he put a sour-mouthed set of quotation marks around the word— “that Luzzatto said something about Domenico de Grazia’s having something to ponder on the day he died?”

“Yes.”

“Can you remember exactly what he said?”

“Everybody was speaking Italian, Tullio. I didn’t pick up every word. But didn’t he say he knew—knew for a fact—that Domenico had some kind of decision to on his mind?”

“But not what? No specifics?”

“If he did, I didn’t hear it.”

“Nor did I. Then that will be an interesting question to ask him, don’t you think?”

“What important decision Domenico had on his mind just before somebody killed him?Yeah, I’d say it would be.”

“I would too,” said Caravale.

As Caravale slid the car into a parking space at the Hotel Primavera, the question of Gideon’s safety was raised and quickly disposed of. The colonel needed to go out to the island that afternoon to interview the family and get statements. While there, he would make sure that everyone was informed that Gideon’s examination of the remains was done and his report to Caravale had already been made. He’d do the same with the local press, which was naturally showing interest. That would, or should, remove any new danger to him. Unless, of course, Gideon wished protection, in which case it would be provided.

“Thanks, no.” Gideon had been through the well-meaning intrusiveness and inconvenience of police protection before. He got out of the car, closed the door, and leaned in the open window. “I’ll be fine, Tullio. I appreciate the offer, but I’d be happier not seeing a cop every time I turn around.”

Caravale looked up at him and mournfully nodded. “So would I.”

IT took a while for Gideon’s parasympathetic nervous system’s post-stress reaction to fully kick in, but when it did, it was a lulu. Saying “ciao” to Caravale, he’d felt all right, but by the time he’d climbed the three flights to his room, his leg muscles were twitching and the strength was running out of him like water. Fumbling weakly at the door with his key, he could practically feel the adrenaline overdose draining out of his system. He made straight for the bed and flopped on his face. Before he could take his shoes off, he was asleep.

When the telephone rang two hours later, he was still on his face, his feet over the edge of the bed. He lifted his head and cocked one eye open to see the time and to gauge how he felt. Better than he’d expected: no shakiness, no palpitations. Homeostasis pretty much restored. But the short, deep sleep had made him dopey. It took four chirps of the phone before he was sitting up and groping for it. Caravale was on the line.

“Listen, are you up to coming over to my office? If not, I can come there.”

“No, I’m fine. I could use the fresh air. What’s up?”

“I have a picture I want to show you.”

THERE were six color photos, not one, arranged along the edge of the desk for his inspection. Four of them were dual, full-face–profile mug shots, the other two candid photographs. The men in them all looked superficially similar.

“Do you recognize any of them?” Caravale asked, tilting back in his chair and crossing one stocky thigh over the other.

Gideon glanced along the row. “Is one of these the one who tried to strangle me?”

“Ah? What makes you think so?”

Gideon shrugged. “Because they look strong, and they look dumb. And why else would you be showing me photographs? Anyway, no, I don’t recognize any of them. Which one did you think it was?”

“This one.” Caravale leaned forward and put his finger on the set of mug shots that was second from the left.

Gideon scrutinized them more carefully, thinking that perhaps he had caught a glimpse of the man’s face without realizing it, and that it might come back to him. The man had oily, receding black hair, eyebrows like caterpillars, a jowly lantern jaw, and a glowering aura of bullheaded obstinacy.

“Sorry, not familiar at all. Doesn’t look like anybody I know,” Gideon said, which wasn’t entirely true. What the guy looked like was a muscle-bound version of Tullio Caravale. “Sorry.”

“Too bad. It would have been better if you could verify it. But he’s the one, all right. We have someone else who picked him out.”

“You found a witness? I thought it was too dark, I thought they were too far away.”

“Not a witness to the attack, no... not exactly. But we have someone who can verify his breakfast.”

“Verify his...Tullio, you’re losing me again.”

Caravale smiled. “Ham and cheese, remember? Coffee with grappa. You’re the one who told us.”