wife? They want an American?”
I tell him about the attack in London. That I witnessed a mob reprisal shooting outside a restaurant in South Kensington, that the killers got away with my picture on their cell phone, and that the word went out to the terrorist networks. Someone in Siena thought he saw me, so they sent in their crack team of knuckleheads. Being knuckleheads from the south, they didn’t recognize the biggest socialite in the north, Cecilia Nicosa, but the woman in church looked enough like the blurry image on the cell phone that they snatched her instead.
Nicosa isn’t laughing now. He already sees the end of it. Or maybe my bleak expression worries him, because he folds back onto the leather chair and stares with mouth slack.
“But once they realize they have the wrong person — her instead of you — they’ll still want ransom,” he says weakly. “Why not? These people aren’t stupid.”
“Nicoli,” I say gently, “are you aware that your wife has been paying
“Why would she do that?”
“To keep her clinics open.”
“It doesn’t make sense. If she’s paying bribes, they would leave her alone.”
I wait. “But you know she’s been paying, don’t you?”
“It’s one of those things,” he says finally. “Like a love affair. You wonder. You suspect. Words do not need to be said because they won’t change the outcome.”
“She takes a terrible risk by dealing with a criminal network.”
“She is an independent woman. I can’t speak for her.”
“What about you? What is your involvement?”
“I pay
“Is that all?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Anything you can tell me will be in confidence. I’m only interested in getting Cecilia back.”
“I have nothing to tell you. The question is, will they still ask for ransom money?”
“It depends on their motivation. If they are out for money, yes. If it was their intention to kidnap an FBI agent, and they wound up with a do-gooding socialite … If they haven’t already, they may just kill her.”
My head is splitting. Vertigo from the sweeping view is getting to me, yet I can’t help glancing out the tower openings, the way you’re compelled to look at exactly what you do not want to see. The highway accident. The dead mouse in the shower.
He sees me looking unhappily out the window. “What is it?”
“The police.”
Far away in the storybook countryside a white car with official markings can be seen gathering steam as it navigates the curving road leading up to the abbey.
“Why are they coming here?”
“They must have already been to the crime scene. I told the FBI legat in Rome about the remains. It was his obligation to inform the Italian police.”
Nicosa stares wordlessly at the approaching unit.
“Do you want me to bring them up here?”
He snaps out of it. “Absolutely not!”
We take the elevator down.
When the police car slips into the courtyard of the abbey, Nicosa and I are already waiting on the front steps, side by side. I am dry-eyed but can’t help fearing we are now into a murder investigation. Cecilia’s skirt flutters around my knees. If Nicosa finds it at all painful to discover his wife’s sister in her place beside him, he gives no sign. He has his game face on.
The driver gets out and opens the back door. The Commissario emerges. I had not expected he would show up himself, and from the curses streaming under Nicosa’s breath, neither had he.
The chief of police draws his elongated body out of the car and squares off against the opposition. He is wearing a funereal black suit and tie, putting Nicosa at a disadvantage, unshaven and in jeans. On the other hand, this is Nicosa’s territory; his castle. The Commissario slips on sunglasses with a self-conscious flourish, peering around at the ruins of the thirteenth-century church and the stone facade of the family quarters. I find myself on Nicosa’s side, hoping the grandeur of the abbey reminds the Commissario that he is nothing but a public servant; a commoner.
He comes toward us with that uneven stride. The two shake hands and greet each other formally. The meeting takes place at the wooden table beneath the loggia where I first saw Nicosa the day I arrived. I remember my nerves being on edge in anticipation of meeting Cecilia, and her husband’s cool, impeccable sexuality. Now she has vanished, and he looks like a guilty man on the run; sleepless and defensive. The two men take wicker chairs. The accompanying officer waits by the car. I am dispatched to fetch water.
When I return with a bottle and glasses, the conversation is about Il Palio — polite enough, since both Torre and Oca were among the losers. By now I have picked up enough Italian to understand they agree that the judges were suckers of dicks. But when they turn to the business at hand, I request that they continue in English.
The Commissario looks at me with flat brown eyes.
“Your representative from the FBI, Signore Rizzio, was kind enough to call my office and share information about the discovery of remains near Monte San Stefano. We appreciate the cooperation of the Americans.”
“Have you recovered the evidence?” I ask.
“Our team has just arrived.”
“Are they human remains?”
“It’s possible, but we won’t know for certain until the lab report.”
“Do we know how many bodies might have been dumped?”
“We will inform your office in Rome as soon as we have results.”
“Thank you. As Inspector Martini explained, I am extremely concerned about my sister.”
“I gave you my word that her case has the highest priority, which is one of the reasons I am here.”
The Commissario turns to Nicosa. His moves are unhurried, forcing us to wait for his consideration. I can’t believe Nicosa knows about Cecilia’s affair with this charming operator. If so, there is no way he could remain civil.
“I am sorry that we need to discuss this,” the Commissario says.
“Why? It is a gruesome thing, but it does not concern me.”
“We believe otherwise.”
“Really?”
“Perhaps. Would Signorina Grey mind describing the man who attacked her and her companion in the woods?”
“His name is Marcello Falassi, and he drives a van for the Spectra Chemical Company.”
“A physical description, please?”
“Mid-forties, overweight, black hair, sloppy—”
The Commissario looks puzzled.
“Low intelligence, probably psychopathic, lives with his wife and mother but his only attachment seems to be to a dog. A loyal soldier.”
The Commissario nods. “We have been looking for this man. He is known as the Chef, Il Capocuoco, a notorious criminal hired by the mafias to dispose of their victims. Congratulations, Signorina Grey. You have made an important discovery that will lead to many convictions.” He addresses Nicosa. “Is this someone you know?”
“No, I don’t know him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Why? Are you saying this thug took Cecilia?”
“I am curious, because Falassi is also the local distributor for Spectra, the manufacturer of fertilizer and industrial chemicals, which services most customers in the province, including you.”
“For what?”
The Commissario swallows water and takes his time.
“Landscaping? Gardening? Processing coffee? Do you or your company buy chemicals from Spectra?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to ask my production manager.”
