David Hewson (20 page)

"Jesus,"
Leapman groaned. He pulled out a black revolver, checked it, then, under
Falcone's fierce gaze, slid the weapon back in its leather shoulder
holster.

"No
guns," Falcone ordered. "Not unless I say so."

One
of the detectives was grilling a woman who'd come out of the first
ground-floor apartment.

"Third
floor, Number Nine," he said. "Foreigner, rented apartment. Been
here two weeks or so. She hasn't seen him since the night before last.
She's got a key."

Falcone
sent the entry team ahead. Leapman stayed with him downstairs. The American
seemed bored. Falcone took a look at his own pistol, just in case, then quickly
put it away.

"You
ever used that?" Leapman asked.

"Lots
of times," Falcone answered. "Just never had to fire it,
that's all."

Leapman
was laughing again. "This is the European thing, isn't it?"
he asked.

"You've
lost me."

"The
idea that there's some kind of middle way we could take if only we were
civilized enough to see it. The idea you can just walk down the centre of the
road and then everything will be just fine, all the crap will never come and
touch you."

"Perhaps
it's best not to judge situations too quickly. I don't believe
that's a European thing or any other kind of thing either. It's
just how some of us work."

Leapman
grimaced. "Until you wise up. That's what separates us. See, we
don't wait for the nasty surprises to prove what we know already. This
guy's a lunatic, right? You treat him like one or you get hurt."

"Possibly."
Falcone wondered how many men Leapman had in Rome, where they were, what they
were doing. "I thought you might have asked Agent Deacon along," he
said. "Or someone."

"Why?
Is she supposed to give an art lesson here, too?"

"She
got us this far. With my men, of course."

Peroni
had called in at one a.m. with a brief report after the incident in the Campo. It
had been shared with Leapman, at Moretti's insistence. Falcone had then
called Viale, partly because he liked the idea of getting him out of bed. The
SISDE man had listened, grunted, then put down the phone.

"She
did," Leapman murmured sourly. "She saw the guy too and look what
happened. He walks. She blacks out. It's a crying shame. That kid just
can't cut it."

Falcon
didn't argue. Emily Deacon looked all wrong in the job Leapman had given
her, though Leo had no intention of saying so. "In that case, why did you
bring her here?"

Leapman
resented the question. Falcone would have felt the same way in his position. These
were operational decisions. You left them to the officer in charge, until they
went wrong.

"It
seemed a good idea at the time," the American said after a while. "She
speaks Italian like one of you. She knows this place. And like I said
yesterday, she's got one hell of an incentive to see this guy go down. Is
that good enough? Can we get on with taking a look around now?"

Falcone
went up the stone steps and walked into the room, where his team were making a slow
and professional job of checking out what was there. It was a typical
short-term rented place: a large studio with an old sofa, a tiny table with
grubby chairs, a small, cheap colour TV. There was an uncomfortable-looking
single bed in the corner, unmade, with the sheets strewn on the floor. Falcone
walked into the cramped bathroom. At first glance there was nothing there he
could work with for DNA: no toothbrush, no used tissues. The main room looked
just as bare.

"The
guy came back and cleared everything," Leapman said. "Smart. He was
probably in and out of here before you people finished dealing with the
medics."

But
medics were important, Falcone thought. You had to work out your priorities.

"How'd
this kid know he was from here?" Leapman wondered. "Was she working
a trick for him or something?"

"No."
They'd got some background on the girl already. One of the charities had
worked with her for a few months with little success. It was a psychological
problem, one that wouldn't go away. A form of kleptomania, constant, even
when she knew she'd be caught. "She follows people she thinks are
interesting. Then she steals something from them. He just came out of this
place and she saw him in the street, followed him to the Pantheon. She
remembered a green door and the Gucci shop."

Leapman
looked interested. "The kid saw him meet up with the woman?"

"No.
She lost him for a little while. The couple were already inside the Pantheon
when she went in. Which is interesting in itself. Perhaps they already knew
each other."

"That's
ridiculous," Leapman stated. "I'd like to hear it from the
street brat myself."

"No,"
Falcone said firmly. "You can have the transcript of the interview but
I'm not putting a child up for interrogation. We wouldn't allow
that with one of our own. It's against the law. I'm sorry."

The
FBI agent sighed, but at least he didn't seem ready to argue. "The
law. I won't go to the wall over this one, Falcone. But don't you
try standing in my way when it comes to something important. I won't
tolerate it."

"I
imagine not." Falcone sighed, "What do you want of me, Agent
Leapman?"

"Some
action might be nice."

"Action?"
That was, it seemed to Falcone, the last thing they needed. The killer moved
carefully, thought ahead. He wasn't going to be caught by some random,
blanket operation. He'd disappear the moment he heard anyone coming down
the street.

"We
have almost fifty officers working on this case already. I think that counts as
action."

Leapman
picked up a sweater one of the detectives had found in a cupboard. It was the
only item the man hadn't taken. Maybe it didn't even belong to him.
Leapman didn't look as if he cared. Falcone had to remind himself about
the kind of officer he was dealing with here. Leapman wasn't a cop. He
was part of a rigid, bureaucratic apparatus that worked by the book. He was
accustomed to thinking that "action"--constant investigation,
the sledgehammer of detection that vast amounts of manpower
allowed--brought results. It was one way of looking at things, Falcone
thought, it made sense. But not always. You had to be flexible. You had to
think round problems. You couldn't just follow a set of procedures laid
out on the page of some textbook.

The
American's cell phone trilled. He walked over to the corner so that no
one could hear. Falcone turned to Ciccone, one of the team he'd brought
along, and asked, "Whose apartment is this? Who'd he rent
from?"

It
was, as Falcone hoped, the woman who had given them the keys.

Leapman
finished the call and announced, "I'm gone. I want an update when
you hear something, Falcone."

"I'll
do my very best," the inspector replied, smiling. "Let me see you
out."

They
walked back downstairs. Falcone held open the door. There was a flurry of snow
outside. Maybe it was that which made Leapman hesitate. He gave Falcone a sharp
glance.

"They
think you're something, you know. That SISDE guy told me. My, isn't
he a cryptic piece of work?"

"I
really don't know. I work for the police, not SISDE, though I'm
flattered all the same."

"Or
maybe I'm just getting some prime Italian bullshit. "We got our
best man on the case." Huh."

Falcone
had finally reached a decision on how to handle Leapman. Gently. Politely. From
a distance. Just the way the American least wanted.

"I'll
keep you posted," he replied.

He
walked to the door of the first apartment. It was ajar. The woman, middle-aged,
frumpy in a white blouse and black skirt, peered back at him from behind the
security chain. She had prematurely grey hair, too long for her. She looked
worried.

"Signora?"

He
waited for her to unhook the chain, then walked in. The room was overflowing
with expensive antique furniture. The contrast with the hovel above could
scarcely be more vivid.

"What's
he done?" she asked.

"Perhaps
nothing. Was he known to you personally?"

"He
answered the ad. He paid a month's rent and I never saw him again. He
went out at night mainly. Don't ask me why."

"And
his line of work was?"

She
lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. "He was a tourist. How should I
know?"

Falcone
nodded, thinking. "How much does an apartment like that cost these
days?"

"Four
thousand for the month," she answered.

"So
much money?"

She
wanted him out of there. He could feel there was something wrong.

"By
law all property owners must keep a note of a foreigner's
passport," he told her. "You did that, of course."

She
walked over to a small, highly polished bureau and took out a sheet of paper. "I
know the rules."

Falcone
studied the page. It was a photocopy of the main ID page of an EU passport.

"Thank
you," he said. "And the receipt? By law you have to give a receipt
and keep a copy. For the tax authorities."

The
woman stared at the carpet. Falcone knew: this was what she was hiding.

"You
don't have a receipt, do you? He paid in cash, I imagine."

"Stupid
paperwork," she hissed. "I'm a widow. Do you think I've
got nothing better to do than keep receipts?"

"It's
the law," he said sternly. "Without receipts who's to know
that you're declaring this income on your tax return? Who's to say
the money just doesn't go straight into a shoebox under your bed?"

Along
with a lot else besides, he guessed. She probably hadn't declared any
income from the apartment for years.

"I
have a suggestion," he said.

She
looked into his eyes, hoping. He folded the photocopy of the passport and
tucked it in his jacket pocket.

"You
don't tell anyone else about this if someone should come calling,"
he said. "And I won't call the tax people. Is that a deal?"

She
didn't even look grateful. She merely said, "And you wonder why
people hate the police."

Falcone
felt a small red flicker of anger begin to burn at the back of his head. "We're
just doing what we suppose you want. It's not easy, you know. If
something happened out there in the street you'd be the first to get on
the phone and start yelling at us. Yet in private you're a little
criminal, too, except you don't quite see it that way. So what are we
here for? Just to pick on the people you happen to hate?"

The
woman didn't answer that. She knew when she'd gone too far. Falcone
was damn close to changing his mind.

Then
something happened: the sound of a siren in the street, voices and, far off,
the soft
paff
of an explosion, a noise he now knew well, one that sent
a cold chill of dread straight through his mind.

Before
he consciously knew it, Leo Falcone was through the door and running, back
towards the Spanish Steps and a visible plume of black smoke rising above the
white, white street.

EMILY
DEACON SHOWERED, climbed back into the same clothes, then came downstairs into
the farmhouse living room and found herself almost blinded by the bright winter
light streaming through the windows.

Costa
was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. He looked sickeningly fresh and
awake. She envied him. Her head hurt and it felt wrong to be in this beautiful
isolated house, not knowing the aftermath of the previous evening's
encounter with the man called Kaspar.

"Where
the hell
am
I, Nic? I need to be back in Rome."

"Leapman
knows where you are. He's not screaming for you. This is my place. On a
day like this it's twenty minutes, thirty at the most, to the Via Veneto.
The Porta San Sebastiano is exactly one kilometre over there." He pointed
at the end wall with its blazing fire.

"Great.
I have time for breakfast. And you could tell me what the hell's going on
too, if that's OK with you?"

He
walked her through the large living room into the bright, square kitchen. Gianni
Peroni and the girl were busy around a huge hob, happily throwing food into a
couple of gigantic pans.

Peroni
gave her a mock-sinister leer. "Soon you eat. My new friend Laila and I
are cooking Kurdish. Which isn't that far from Tuscan, just a little less
fashionable."

"Good!"
the girl protested. "It's good."

Emily
walked over, as close as the sputtering fat from the pans allowed, and stared
at a banquet of frying food: eggs swimming in olive oil, chunks of bread
turning crisp and golden in a mess of whole cloves of garlic, sliced onions and
a tangle of half-burnt peppers.

"I
don't suppose you have toast?" she asked. "Or yogurt?"

Teresa
arrived with a cup of coffee and gave it to her. "This is a bachelor pad,
in case you hadn't noticed. That means the bread's all stale and
the yogurt... ooh. I have to warn you, Nic. Some of those things in your
fridge are so past their sell-by date they wouldn't count as vegetarian
anymore."