along the street, but there was also a side entrance with a covered entryway. The Bear eased the car to a stop along the curb. The only light was on the corner about fifty feet and another building down. We sat there for a moment, and I broached the subject of Dog. “If it’s going to be too big of a pain in the ass, just say so.”
“It is going to be too big of a pain in the ass.”
I nodded, and we got out and retrieved my bags from the trunk. I wheeled everything across the cobblestones to the door. “Breakfast?”
“How about lunch?” I nodded and shook my head as he climbed in and started the T-bird. Leave it to Henry to have already arranged a tryst.
“Dog.” The big brute had been waiting for the word and lithely slipped over the side of the car. He joined me on the sidewalk as we watched the twin-turbine’s brake lights disappear down the cobblestone street.
I scratched his bulky head, and he looked up at me. “Piss on the bunch of ’em, huh?” He wagged in response: two orphans in a town without pity.
The key didn’t work.
I tried it the way she said; I jiggled it and struggled to get it to turn in the other direction, but no go. I walked back to the carriage entrance and tried moving these doors, but they didn’t budge. I thought about abandoning my bags and heading for O’Neil’s, but I wasn’t sure how they’d receive Dog, and we were in it together. There was a narrow walkway of broken flagstone and weeds to my right, so I decided to see what the back of the building held in way of ingress. I stuffed my suitcases in the entryway in hopes that they would still be there when I got back, picked up the sidearm case, patted my leg for Dog to follow, and turned sideways for the two-step between the brick walls. The brim of my hat proved to be cumbersome, so I removed it and held it in the hand with the small locked case. The wall behind me was solid, but Cady’s building had windows set high, about six feet up, and I could see the suspended walkways that made up the mezzanine. Dog was looking as well and cocking his head at what might have been singing.
I was almost to the end of the path when I fully heard it. It was “La donna e mobile” from Verdi’s Rigoletto, sotto voce and melodic without trying, but there was no instrumental accompaniment. I couldn’t help but wonder where you would get such a recording.
I thought the sound might be coming from the building behind me but, when I got to the end and a chain-link fence, I realized it was coming from Cady’s overgrown terrace. If Verdi had been with me, he would have folded his arms across the top of the gate, placed his chin on his arms, and gazed at what I’m sure he would have perceived as the Gilda of his dreams.
At the center of the patio, in the perfect light of dusk, I could make out a fine-featured, dark-haired woman seated at a round bistro table, her legs stretched out before her and crossed at the ankles, with one elbow resting on the table’s pockmarked surface. She wore black Capri pants and a stylish white blouse open at the throat; one arm was relaxed over the iron chair and the other was holding a short-stemmed wine glass, to which she sang like a child.
Woman is fickle, indeed. It’s a tenor part for the Duke, but she sang it effortlessly with a husky soprano that would have had Verdi rethinking his libretto, if not his libido. She paused at one of the breaks in the music and, with perfect timing, raised the wine glass to her lips. Even from this distance, I could see the hint of ginger in her almond-shaped eyes.
I slipped my hat back on for identification purposes and softly applauded as her face turned toward me. “Brava! Bellissima, bella…bella!”
She saluted ever so slightly with her glass and downed the wine in one smooth swig like a longshoreman. “Howdy, Sheriff.”
She opened the door without any problem. I dropped my bags, and we reoccupied the small terrace. Lena Moretti had raided the pantries of a dozen specialty shops in the Italian Market, and we were currently munching on small slices of stiff bread, prosciutto, mozzarella, and basil, all of which had been smothered in olive oil, first- pressed. We were about to finish the bottle of Chianti Classico, and she still wouldn’t admit she could sing.
“I heard you.”
She pulled her fingers through a thick tress of almost-black hair, touched with just a bit of silver, and then allowed her hand to collapse against her shoulder, the arm crooked like a broken wing. “I think hunger has affected your hearing.”
“I’m tone-deaf; it gives me an advantage.”
She laughed a slow laugh and brought the broken wing down to caress Dog, fingering the bullet scar. “Victor is the real talent in the family.”
“Victor.”
There was only a momentary pause. “My husband.” She looked like Vic did whenever he was mentioned. “They’re doing Rigoletto at the Grand Opera House in Wilmington, and Victor is playing Monterone.”
I thought about it. “A considerable role.”
“Not as considerable as Rigoletto, the role he thought he should have received.”
“He’s that good?”
“Yes.”
I took a sip of my wine. “Wow, the Singing Detective.”
“Chief Inspector, Field Division North.” She said it as if she’d been corrected herself, numerous times.
The night didn’t seem dark on the little terrace, almost as if the sky was charcoal rather than black. I took a moment to study her as she looked up and revealed a beautiful throat, and I was glad we were discussing her husband.
“It’s still his first love.” There was a lot in that statement.
I waited a moment before responding. “I’d imagine it’s difficult to sing professionally.”
Her face turned to me, and it was unsettling to see the resemblance to Vic. “Victor came from a working- class family, one that didn’t see the arts as a respectable career choice.”
“First generation?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“I was born in Positano; my parents had a small hotel there after the war.” She took a sip of her Chianti and continued to study me. “You have to understand the chronology of the Moretti family, with Vic the father, Vic the son, and Vic the Holy Terror.”
I had to laugh. “That would be my Vic?”
She blinked a slow blink in response. “That would be your Vic.”
“Four boys?”
“Victor Jr., Alphonse, Tony, and Michael.”
“Alphonse?”
She shrugged. “He was named after Victor’s brother. Not my idea. We call him Al.”
“Michael’s the baby?”
“Yes.” She smiled with just the corners of her mouth. “You try to not have favorites, but…”
“They’re all police officers?”
“All but Al, who owns half a pizza parlor with the Alphonse who is Victor’s brother.” She nodded. “Also not my idea.”
I took a sip of my wine. “Hard, raising boys?”
“At first, but then it gets easier. Unlike with girls, you only have to worry about one prick.” She immediately blushed, and I got a clearer idea from whom Vic’s linguistic patterns had developed. “Oh my God…”
I laughed, and Dog looked at both of us.
She set her glass back on the table. “I’ve had too much wine.” She glanced around the terrace and desperately tried to find another subject. “Yours seems to have done well.”
I set my own glass down. “Yep, I just wish she was closer. I worry about her a lot.”
She grew quiet, and I waited. “When they’re little, you wonder what they’re going to be, and when they grow up you just want them to be happy.” She nudged her glass with her fingertips. “Only child?”
“Yep.”
