“More than a little.”
“Look, Marcus, I understand your contempt, but we live here. This is our community; this is our Church. If it became known that we refused an audience with Taricco, my law practice would suffer even more than it has. There are many other lawyers in Palmi for people to choose.”
“Why is your business down?” Marcus asked.
“Surely you must understand the answer to that. It’s well known that the police investigated me and my clients after the disappearance. To the best of my knowledge, I have represented only a single ’Ndrangheta in all my years, and it was for a civil banking matter. I do not do criminal work. In any event, the theory of the police was weak—what if Cutrì got in trouble with a mob client who exacted some sort of revenge? As it happened, this client of mine was cleared of any involvement to the kidnapping. However, it doesn’t take much to get people talking and to stain a reputation I have spent decades establishing.”
Leonora sobbed. “It’s been a nightmare. At first people were supportive, but then they turned on us and became suspicious. I don’t even like to leave the house anymore. I can’t paint. I can’t do anything. I just want my daughter back.”
“Yes, yes,” Armando said, “and our granddaughters healthy.”
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I feel for what you folks are going through.”
“Will you find our Elena and Jesper?” Leonora asked.
“I’ll try my hardest.”
“We’re happy Mickey brought you back,” Armando said. “If you thought the archbishop was a waste of time, what about this French psychic?”
“I’ll tell you what I told Mickey. I think she’s a bullshitter with an asterisk.”
Armando furrowed his brow and said, “By which you mean that you think she’s lying, but you can’t understand how she knows certain things.”
Mickey smiled. This lawyer had gone up a few pegs in his estimation. “Armando, you’re a smart fellow. You should be chasing away new clients with a stick.”
*
Major Lumaga invited Marcus for dinner that night to a small, family-owned restaurant off the beaten trail, not far from the hotel. He was out of uniform, but the owner and waiters treated him with the full respect of his office. Marcus had two glasses going, one whiskey, one wine. Even though the food was delicious, he picked at it. The case was killing his appetite.
Lumaga asked, “So, what are your theories about Celeste Bobier?”
“I’ve been telling everyone she’s full of shit.”
“But is that what you truly believe?”
“Belief is a funny thing, Roberto. I believe in verifiable facts. I only believe in things I can understand.”
“What about religion? What about God? What about Heaven and Hell?”
“I don’t understand them and I don’t believe in them.”
“We differ here,” Lumaga said, spearing some of the restaurant’s specialty, maccheroni col ferretto, with his fork. “I can be a pragmatic policeman, dealing in verifiable facts, but also a person of faith who is able to trust in that which I cannot fully comprehend.”
“More power to you. I’m not putting you down.”
“Look, the fact of the matter is that Victoria and Elizabeth, despite their youth, give credible accounts of their time in detention. They are sober girls. They are intelligent. And then we have this Bobier woman who offers, in a way, a collaborating story, committed to writing years ago.”
Marcus tried to get the waiter’s attention to bring him another Scotch. Failing, Lumaga stepped in and accomplished the task with a subtle gesture.
“Do you want me to start believing in alien abduction?” Marcus asked.
“I think this case forces us to maintain an open mind to every possibility until facts arise that cause them to be excluded. The girls do not seem to have aged. That is a fact. Once someone has provided a plausible explanation that does not involve alien abduction, then I will happily exclude the possibility. Until then, everything is on the table. I presume you analyzed data at your CIA job. I’m sure you utilized the same methodology.”
“There were times I got caught in a web of lies,” he said, christening his new glass. “These days, it takes a lot to convince me of anything.”
Lumaga’s phone played a tune. He excused himself and stepped outside then returned a minute later, looking sour.
“Fabiana Odorico—you remember her, my sub-lieutenant—she’s on her way over here with something to show me.”
“What?”
“I didn’t ask because, from her voice, it’s definitely not good news. I wanted to finish my pasta before my stomach begins to churn. My revenge for her spoiling my dinner will be spoiling her night when she sees that I’m with you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“No one in my department is happy about my cooperation with you. She was undoubtedly the source of the leak about you to the journalist from Naples.”
“It was her? Why didn’t you take her down a few notches?”
“Two reasons. First, she’s good at her job. Excellent, actually. Before the girls returned and sucked all of our resources back into the case, she was making some big ’Ndrangheta arrests up in the mountains. Second, she’s not wrong about you. It’s bad for morale for me to include an outsider in the investigation. Frankly, I don’t have a choice. The shit rolls downhill from the US ambassador to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and from there to the Interior Ministry and the Ministry of Defense and from there to my poor Carabinieri station. Besides, I like you, so Fabiana has to deal with it.”
She arrived during dessert. Lumaga was halfway through a huge portion of pitta di San Martino and Marcus was on his fourth Scotch. As soon as Odorico saw him, Marcus knew that Lumaga was right about her being the leaker. She looked like she was an inch away from tipping him backward out of his chair.
“Have a seat, Fabiana,” Lumaga said. “You want a bite, a coffee?”
“No, thank you. I just need to
