with the aftereffects of certain pathological—”
“Yes, yes, the aftereffects of Perthes disease. When did you get so damned verbose? I don’t remember you talking so much.”
“Well, um, anyway, I don’t have your book here with me to compare your photographs—”
“What are you saying? You travel without a copy of
He laughed politely. “—so what I’d like to do is fax you a few photos—of the femoral head and surrounding area— from a case I’m working on, and ask you which you think it is, Perthes disease or a fracture. Would that be all right? And if it looks like Perthes to you, I’d appreciate a summary of the disease’s incidence, heritability, demographics, that kind of thing. Today, if you can manage.”
“Oh, is that all you want? Well, of course, what else could I possibly have to do today?”
“I know it’s an imposition—”
“I’m glad you know it,” he said, then abruptly decided he’d terrorized Gideon enough this time around. “Well, look, I don’t have a fax machine here at home, but I’ll be at the university from one o’clock on.” O’Malley was an emeritus professor at Columbia and went to his office most days. “You can fax it to me there: 212-854-1111. I’ll look at it first thing and see what I can do.”
Gideon scrambled for a pen and wrote it down. “Great, thanks a million.” One p.m., New York time, would be seven in the evening in Stresa. He’d be on the Isola de Grazia at Achille’s farewell party. “And if you come up with anything definitive, I’d really appreciate it if you’d call me right away.” He read him the villa’s phone number from a note he’d made earlier.
“You don’t expect very much, do you?” O’Malley grumbled, but Gideon heard the scratching of a pen.
“Thank you, professor.”
He was wincing even before the shouted reply: “Oliver, for crying out—”
“Bill!” Gideon quickly amended. “Bill, Bill. Thank you very much, Bill. Good-bye, Bill.”
He hung up and with his finger wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead.
Sheesh. It was as bad as being back in Paleopathology
502.
TWENTY-THREE
DR.Luzzatto’s home and office were on the ground floor of one of the better-kept apartment buildings in Gignese, a few blocks from the village center. The mustard-colored paint on the outside was relatively new, the balconies had hardly any rust, and last night’s bedding had already been taken in from the upstairs windowsills. A satellite dish, not a frequent sight in Gignese, was bolted to one of the third-floor balconies. When Gideon arrived, he found Caravale sitting on the low stone wall bordering the driveway, leafing through a pocket-sized, leather- bound notebook and having his afternoon half-cigar.
“Okay if I go in?” Gideon said.
“Hm?” Barely looking up, Caravale waved his cigar in the direction of the door. “Mm.”
But Gideon stopped, caught by Caravale’s preoccupation. “Got something interesting there?”
“Perhaps, if I could figure out what it means.” With a sigh, he snapped the notebook shut and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I need to walk around a little, stretch my legs, maybe find a cup of coffee. Do you want to come, or are you in a hurry to get in there?”
“No, I’m not in a hurry. I could use some coffee myself.”
They walked half a block without speaking. Caravale was in a sport coat and blue jeans, so the curious stares they drew from the locals were no more than any strangers in this part of the village would have gotten.
“Your theory of Interconnected Monkey Business?” Caravale finally said pensively. “It looks as if it’s panning out.”
“Oh?” Gideon prompted when it appeared Caravale was going back to smoking and ruminating in silence.
Caravale tapped ash from his cigar. “The chauffeur, the bodyguard, that was killed in the kidnapping? He was a replacement. Praga, the one that was scheduled to drive the boy that day, called in just before he was due and begged off with an upset stomach, then never showed up again. You see what that means, don’t you?”
“Well... that the original guy—Praga—was part of the plan and got cold feet at the last minute?”
“That’s right. And here’s guy number two, Dellochio, who knows nothing about it—”
“—and the kidnappers haven’t heard that guy number one won’t be driving—”
“—so instead of putting up a fake resistance and letting them get away with it, the way they expected him to, the poor bastard defends Achille with his life and ends up shot to death.”
“An inside job at Aurora,” Gideon murmured. “Huh. What does that do to the theory that it has to be one of the de Grazias?”
“Nothing. The company drivers occasionally chauffeured family members around in their off-hours. They all knew Praga. Any of them could have approached him with this. Of course, it’s worth noting that several of them work at Aurora, so they’d have the easiest access to him and would probably know him best—it’s not exactly the sort of thing you ask a stranger to do.”
Gideon nodded. “Francesca is the CFO and Basilio is something in payroll.”
“And last but not least”—Caravale ran his tongue over his lips— “let’s not forget the boss man...Vincenzo.”
