table.
“Hi, Dennis. What’s up?”
“I received a call from Inspector Reilly of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command, Metropolitan Police. He spoke to you on the scene.” “I remember.” The dinosaur with the head cold.
“They recovered the Ford used in the attack.” “Where?”
“Aberdeen, Scotland. Pretty much burned to a crisp. Forensics has determined that the fire was deliberately set. Point of origin was the engine. Accelerant used was gasoline. They were trying to destroy the vehicle identification number on the engine block, but the team was able to recover another copy of it on the axel that the knuckle-brains didn’t know existed. They’re using it to trace the original owner.” “Witnesses?”
“If there are any, they’re under a rock. We’re talking a poor section, infested with gangs. The Brits are canvassing the scene.” “You don’t sound optimistic.”
“Why Aberdeen?” Dennis wonders. “It bothers me.” “Scots nationalists?” I suggest. “They did hit a diplomat neighborhood.” Dennis mulls it over. “I dunno, but they drove way the hell to Scotland for a reason. It’s likely they went there because they knew someone who would take them in after they dumped the car.” Nicosa is walking out the kitchen door with a corkscrew and two wineglasses.
“He’s coming back. Tell me quickly, anything more on the London attack?” “They used an Ingram MAC-10,” Dennis reports. “A crap gun used by your basic street thug. I’m guessing the shooters were hired hands.” “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise Dennis as my host sits down.
“Everything okay?” Nicosa asks.
“Fine.”
He flicks open a waiter’s corkscrew, effortlessly withdraws the cork, and pours wine into two squat glasses, not of cut crystal as I might have imagined, but everyday tableware.
“You ask about knowing the right people,” he muses. “I assume you mean the mafias? Italy, you will find, has always been a fairly lawless place. We have laws, of course, but nobody pays attention. We will always be a collection of dysfunctional tribal families ruled by old men who want to settle scores. But foreigners have the wrong impression. We are moving toward democratic capitalism; the old dons can’t fix everything.
“It’s not just Italy, Nicoli. Criminal networks rule the world — and that’s no exaggeration.” I am about to add that they have become a main focus of intelligence efforts by the Bureau when he points to a red Ferrari parked near the gate.
“You see that car? I had another, just like that one. It was stolen in Rome in the morning, and they found it in Croatia the following afternoon. The collapse of communism has blessed us with a new breed of jailbeaks.” “Jailbirds?”
“Yes.
I am about to explain that FBI agents do everything from bank robberies to counterterrorism when we are interrupted by the sound of tires on gravel, and a sporty green Alfa Romeo hatchback driven by Cecilia Maria Nicosa surfs through the gates to a space between two palm trees. There’s a whirl of exhaust, and then the smell of leather settles briefly.
The door opens fast and she calls, “Hello!” an exuberant hand waving even before the car stops. Then she emerges — mountains of auburn hair, large sunglasses with jeweled frames. She’s wearing a white lab coat over a tight-fitting silk sheath in vibrant shades of plum. She makes a diminutive figure in the solemn space of the sanctuary, but from her self-assured stride it is clear that she, like Nicosa, owns it.
We kiss back and forth in a fragrant blur, and next thing I know, her arms are around my neck. We hug wordlessly, tightly, for a long moment. Her body is heavier than mine, soft and voluptuous. The intensity seems a bit overwrought, considering we have never met.
Although Cecilia dresses like an Italian, she looks entirely Central American, like the Latinas I know in Los Angeles. The flat cheekbones, full lips, and broad nose show the African, Spanish, and Indian mix of our El Salvadoran background — the difference being that I received a dominant helping of Scots/Irish. She removes the sunglasses, revealing strong eyebrows and warm brown eyes, empathetic and searching, taking me in. We gaze into each other’s souls and my thoughts come to a flat-out stop — I’m face-to-face with a brown-skinned woman from another part of the globe with whom I have nothing in common.
“Do I say
“You say—
This is not a pampered social climber. This is a person in the real world, a doctor with a mind full of equations; a mother preoccupied with a teenage son; the wife of a man in the social spotlight, always under pressure to be fabulous.
As we walk, she murmurs, “I have a favor to ask. Please don’t tell my husband you are FBI.” “Why not?” I whisper. “I thought he knew.” She shakes her head.
“God!” I gasp. “I almost spilled the beans!” “But you didn’t tell him?”
“No. What’s the problem?” I ask. “Why can’t your husband know?” “Some people are upset by these things,” she says evasively.
“He asked what kind of work I do. What should I say?” “I don’t know!”
“I’ll think of something,” I reply, pleased that she is reaching out to me, and wondering what she’s hiding.
Nicosa comes toward us and takes both our hands.
“This is beautiful!” he cries. “Beautiful!” “Do you think we resemble each other?” Cecilia asks innocently.
“Definitely,” her husband affirms. “The same bone structure. The same wavy hair.” “My hair used to be Ana’s color, but now I have to dye it. Too much gray.” Cecilia shrugs. “Look. Our skin color is so different.” She holds her arm up to mine. “Coffee and cream.” “Still, the family resemblance is unmistakable,” Nicosa assures her. “Anyone could tell you two are related.” We grab the bottle in the ice bucket, and our wineglasses, and continue toward the southern wing, arms around one another’s shoulders, an ungainly trio, not quite matching steps. Cecilia heads through the open door first. It is double-thick aged wood reinforced with square-head nails that could probably stop a battering ram, but the antique iron lock could be popped with a hairpin.
“I notice you don’t have security.” Nicosa reacts as if he’d never considered it. “No security?” “Do you have an alarm system? I don’t see one.” I gesture toward the cloistered yard, apparently unchanged since 1132. “You’re isolated, with access from every direction. Forgive me.” I smile. “You asked what I do in Los Angeles? I sell home security systems.” When making up a false identity on the spot, it is best to stick to something you know.
“We’ll have to talk about that,” he promises.
I exchange a look with Cecilia, expecting a conspiratorial smile in return for keeping my ties to the Bureau a secret, but she lowers her eyes, unwilling to connect.
Inside the family quarters is the layered smell of old fires. The floorboards creak as we enter what used to be a small chapel, with pale stone walls curving toward the ceiling like hands steepled in prayer. The room has been modernized with milk-white couches and a flat-screen TV. In a niche that must have once held a statue, someone has placed a miniature wine cask. High in the vaulted ceiling is a tiny six-paned window, the only source of natural light. I imagine that if the chrome lamps weren’t shining, throwing a warm glow into the corners, it would be black as a closet in here.
We pass through a huge dining hall where naked plywood tables and folding chairs are stacked — before or after a party, or maybe always at the ready. The windows have been jazzed up with embroidered curtains, and one whole wall is a cupboard for china. The kitchen is cavernous, but it is the kitchen of a working family. A funnel- shaped brick fireplace dominates, with well-used iron grills. Do they actually cook over an open fire? There is also, of course, a gourmet range in stainless steel, and a pair of fancy refrigerators. Track lighting looks down on a ten- foot granite island with built-in sinks for preparing the baskets of tomatoes and baby zucchini, great bunches of sage and basil and loaves of bread that are making me faint with hunger.
