Good Blood

“It would be 1966, and there isn’t any. He began keeping them in 1973, on his fiftieth birthday.”

“Well, then, how about his medical records for 1966? Have you looked at those to see if there’s something?”

Caravale nodded. “And 1965 and 1967 as well, just to be sure.”

“You’ve looked specifically at the de Grazia files?”

“Of course,” Caravale said crossly. “Do I look stupid to you? There was nothing, nothing. Oh, Cosimo developed bronchitis, Vincenzo broke his finger, Bella complained of recurring gastric pains, that sort of thing. Nothing. But we’ll take them all back with us and go through them word

by word.”

“Do you mind if I have a look first?”

“Help yourself,” Caravale said. He stood up and with his heel ground out the nubbin of tobacco that was left. “But you’re not going to find anything.”

TWENTY-FOUR

THE marble-floored, stucco-ceilinged, gilt-encrusted Villa de Grazia wowed Julie, but the party itself was a dud. The family members were listless and apathetic, seemingly lacking the energy needed for their customary jibes, and the guests were taking their cues from their hosts. Aside from Julie and Gideon, there were only about a dozen guests altogether, most whom seemed to be local dignitaries who had come to celebrate Achille’s safe return (or more likely, Phil suggested, his imminent departure).

The predinner reception was being held in the aptly named salone grande, the largest, grandest chamber in the house, and no doubt the immensity of the room—it must have once been the ballroom, Gideon thought—had something to do with the weight that seemed to hang over the small group of people, almost all of whom were bunched together at one end of the room, near the bar, as if for mutual protection. Only Cosimo and Achille sat apart, side by side and stiffly erect in two of the French Regency chairs lined up along one mirrored wall, occasionally greeting well-wishers. Bacco lay between them, snoring and snuffling in his sleep, with his head under Cosimo’s chair and his rear end under Achille’s.

There had been some laughter and a little applause earlier, when the family had presented Achille with his going-away presents—a hand-illustrated set of Dante’s works from Cosimo, a laptop computer from Bella and Basilio, a membership in Bern’s toniest country club (so he wouldn’t forget his riding and his golf) from Francesca and Dante— but things had gone downhill after that, and now people had fallen into small groups with those they knew best, where they milled awkwardly about, balancing their drinks and hors d’oeuvres and surreptitiously checking their watches and waiting for the call to dinner.

Gideon, Julie, and Phil had moved off to one side, where they were talking about the ramifications of Phil’s new family tree, or rather the lack thereof.

“But how do you feel about it?” Julie asked.

“Happy as a pig in clover. Wouldn’t you be?”

Julie eyes lingered on the princely surroundings. “Well...”

“Have you told Lea?” Gideon asked.

“No, I’ve got a call in to her. She’s down in Naples on one of her consulting gigs. She actually left me all alone with these people. I’ll tell her when she gets back.”

“How’s she going to feel about it?”

“Are you kidding? She’ll love it, same as me. I feel like a new man!” He sipped jubilantly from a glass of red wine. “I just wish I knew who,” he said, and grinned happily.

Clemente, in white dinner jacket and black tie, entered the room and made his stately way toward Vincenzo, who was talking to Francesca and a couple of the dignitaries’ wives, a few feet behind Julie. Despite a bowed spine, he was a tall man and had to bend to speak into his master’s ear.

Vincenzo pulled back his head and looked incredulously at him. “He’s here now? Caravale?”

Gideon had earlier told Julie and Phil about Caravale’s “closing of the net,” and now the three of them exchanged eloquent glances. “Uh-oh,” Phil said.

“With two men,” Clemente informed Vincenzo.

“What?” Vincenzo exclaimed. “Tell Cesare—”

“Too late,” Clemente said with a shake of his head. “They’re on their way.”

“On their way? What the hell do they—” He interrupted himself. “Very well, Clemente, you can show them in. Offer them something to drink. Thank you, Clemente.”

What do you suppose this is about?” Julie whispered. “You don’t think—”

“Signore?” It was Clemente, back again, but this time for Gideon. “A telephone call for you. In the Medallion Room. If you’ll follow me...”

“Hey, you might miss the big scene,” Phil called after Gideon.

Gideon stopped and turned. “I don’t think so.”

MY father would be proud of me.

Of all the things to be thinking at a time like this. But there it was, right at the front of his mind as Caravale strode purposefully across the pebbled courtyard and toward the great villa with Fasoli and Lombardo on either side of him. Ordinarily, when he had reached this stage of an investigation, about to make a well-conceived arrest, there would be a tingling mixture of satisfaction and anticipation, and of pride in himself and his staff. Those familiar reactions were there, all right, but they were all taking a backseat to this one unexpected, overwhelming feeling of childish self-justification.