The Bone Chamber

“Testing, one, two, three,” came Griffin’s voice.

“Perfect,” she said.

Tex stopped at the tall wrought-iron gates, adorned with the Orsini coat of arms, and showed his invitation to one of the uniformed guards, who took it, leaned down, looked into the car, eyed Sydney, then returned the invitation to Tex. “Enjoy your evening, signore e signorina,” he said, waving them through.

The gates slid open, and Tex drove up the long winding drive, lit on either side by torches set into shallow pans. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows across grotesque moss-covered statues of satyrs chasing nymphs. The drive ended in a broad ellipse before the great Renaissance mansion, and Tex pulled up to wait their turn behind a Ferrari that had stopped behind a Mercedes. Angry clouds threatened rain, but the stylishly dressed guests seemed not to notice. Not one umbrella or raincoat marred the perfection of the Fendis, Versaces, and Armanis worn by the men and women emerging from the various luxury vehicles. A few moments later, two of several crimson-liveried valets walked up to the Lancia, one opening the door for Sydney, another for Tex. The keys were left in the vehicle.

“You be careful with that there car, son,” he said, in a thick drawl. He didn’t wait for a response, just took Sydney’s arm possessively, playing his part of the rich Texan. Sydney, keeping up her role as arm candy, laid her hand over his, and gave her best ingenue smile, having to look up at him. At six-three, with shoulders that looked like a linebacker’s, and thick wavy blond hair shimmering in the torchlight, he was an impressive sight in his tux. He led her up the steps to mingle with the guests, as they waited for their introductions to the count.

A white-gloved waiter bearing a tray of spumante approached. “Prosecco, signorina? Signore?”

“Grazie,” Sydney said, taking a glass.

Tex took one as well, leading her through the gilded columns of the cavernous salon, whose baroque mirrors reflected light onto the fanciful parrots that darted in an impossible flight across the frescoed ceiling. Sydney, in her black velvet and crepe Ferragamo gown and simple diamond earrings, blended in with the other women, who, according to Tex, included contessas and principessas among the guests. A discreet servant informed them that an al fresco supper, as well as their host, Carlo Adami, awaited them in the Raphael Loggia, which she discovered was the name of the great veranda that overlooked the gardens and Lake Nemi. There were propane heaters set up to keep the guests warm. A long table, draped with the finest damask, had been covered with plates of canapes, bowls of iced caviar, and other delicacies of antipasto. Mingling among the guests was another waiter, this one holding a tray of frosted vodka glasses, which Sydney declined. Tex immediately went for the vodka, leaving his wineglass on the tray. At one end of the spacious loggia, a tall, dark- haired man, perhaps in his late forties, broke away from a cluster of guests and approached them.

“Ah! Signore Jamison,” he said to Tex, who was using the name Roger Jamison instead of James Dalton. “I am so happy that you and your charming friend could attend my small gathering.” He turned his attention to Sydney, saying, “I do not believe that I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“This here little lady is Cindy Kirkpatrick,” Tex said, putting his arm around Sydney. “And this, honey pie, is our host, Carlo Adami.” Sydney eyed the man who was allegedly behind the killings. He didn’t fit any stereotypes, unless one was trying to pigeonhole the suave, debonair multimillionaire murderer. His dark eyes swept over Sydney, and she imagined that if one didn’t know his background, one might easily be charmed by his easy smile and the slightest of dimples on his chin.

But she did know his background, which made it all the harder to appear pleasant, neutral.

“Your home is magnificent,” she said, falling on the only truthful statement she could think of at the moment, and she held out her hand. “Thank you so much for inviting us.”

Adami took her hand in his, bowing over it, before turning his attention back to Tex. “I cannot wait to show you my Tiziano. I am certain that once you see the painting, you will not regret your journey. Perhaps after I see to my guests?”

“Looking forward to it,” Tex said, lifting his vodka glass, then downing it.

Adami excused himself, and continued welcoming new guests as they arrived. After about a half hour of Tex making a show of drinking more alcohol than was good for him, with much of it discreetly poured into the potted persimmon trees that were conveniently located at the corners of the loggia, he made a loud declaration of going off to find the “little boys’ room.” And since his words made little impression on the guests, who were unfamiliar with the term, he announced in stentorian Texas Italian, “Dough-vay eel gaaby-netto?” The principessas and politicians politely pretended not to hear, and one of the waiters immediately ushered Tex out of the salon and presumably to the room in question. Sydney was thus left to wander and to gather bits and pieces of conversation that could be recorded by Griffin and the others monitoring her and Tex from the van.

A number of fine paintings had been hung between the mirrors of the salon, and Sydney decided she’d use them for her cover. She stopped to view a portrait over the marble fireplace of a girl in red velvet, wondering if it was really by Leonardo da Vinci. If it was merely an exquisite copy, she’d have no way of knowing. She’d never seen a real Leonardo outside a museum. Moving on, she strolled the perimeter of the salon, admiring each work of art, pausing by first one group of guests, then another. Tex’s pretended ignorance of Italian had the desired effect. The guests continued their conversations, paying her little attention. Unfortunately, Sydney’s limited understanding of the language made it difficult to know if she was picking up anything useful. She figured Griffin would notify her via the receiver if something came up, so she continued on, perusing a painting or statuette, attempting to stand close enough for the transmitter to pick up what the guests were saying, before moving on to the next piece of art. Finally she spied Carlo Adami with several men near the winding double staircase, and wandered in that direction, hoping to capture something there as well.

Adami held court among a group of distinguished-looking men, and no one glanced her way. As she stopped to admire a marble bust of the Emperor Nero set on the left balustrade of the double staircase, the conversation seemed to change course, more of a hushed whisper, urgent, and one word caught her attention. Massonico. Considering that part of Tex’s cover was that he was a Mason, and Adami was suspected in dealings in the P2 Masonic lodge, that made this particular conversation something she wanted to overhear. The men had other ideas, however, and moved beneath the giant arch that spanned from one side of the staircase to the other. Probably just as well, and so she crossed the room to the other staircase beneath the great parabolic arch, which allowed her a visual on the men, but was far enough away to appear as though she had no interest in anything they were discussing, even if she could understand it.

And it might have been left at that, had she not noticed a rare bust of the Emperor Gaius Caligula in the far corner beneath the arch, something she might not have known had her history of art professor not been almost fanatical about teaching them Roman art. She wandered over to get a better look, discovering that though she was thirty feet away and on the opposite corner from where Adami stood, the acoustics now worked in her favor. Like the arch in New York’s Grand Central Terminal, even though she stood well away from the men, and far enough away to seem uninterested in anything but the marble statuary, their whispered conversation sounded as though she was standing right behind them.

Keeping her back to the men, she pretended great interest in the bust of Caligula, all while listening. She understood little of it, hoping it was loud enough for the transmitter to pick up, especially when she caught the phrase la pir-amide grande. Immediately she thought of the ambassador’s daughter and the crime scene photo, the gruesome triangular shape carved from the young woman’s face. Attempting to put the image from her mind, Sydney tried to concentrate on what they were saying, noting that one phrase seemed to pop up again and again, something that sounded like “cheetray.”

Suddenly the conversation stopped, but she didn’t move in case it resumed.

“Mi piacerebbe mangiucchiare i tuoi capezzolini squisitissimi…” This was no echoing whisper. Carlo Adami had moved up behind her, spoken into her ear, his hot, wine-soaked breath caressing her neck. Her instincts told her that he wanted to know whether she’d been eavesdropping, and if she understood any of it.

She turned, smiled. “Signore Adami. You startled me.”

“My apologies, signorina. And please, call me Carlo.”

“Carlo,” she repeated. “I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t speak Italian, so whatever you said…”

“It is I who should be embarrassed, cara mia. For taking advantage of the