Authors: The Sacred Cut
He
grabbed Emily's arm firmly again, pushed her down the stairs, over to the
office, and kicked the door open.
The
gear was on the floor. What lay in front of them was all he had left now, proof
of his diminishing options.
"Did
you listen to what I said to you last night?" he barked. "Or was
that dope I gave you still messing with your head?"
"I
listened," she answered quietly. "Did you listen to me?"
"Every
last word." He hesitated. "So, Agent Deacon, do you want to stay
alive or not?"
She
laughed right in his face. "They won't play, Kaspar. Joel Leapman
doesn't give a damn about me. Any more than he gave a damn about Laura
Lee and the others. All he wants is you. He isn't going to hand over
anything in return for my hide."
"You're
wrong." He looked at her. She seemed very young all of a sudden. And a
part of her was really scared, he was certain of it.
He
took one of the parkas out of the bag and threw it at her. "This is as
warm as I could find. You're going to need it. And those..."
He
pointed to the two waistcoats, green military vests bought the week before when
the idea first came to him, now all prepared, a couple of lines of little
yellow canisters running up and down the front.
"I
made them myself, Little Em. And I am, as always, a master of these dark
arts."
The Lizard King, the Holy Owl, Grand Master of the Universe
... All the names came back to
mock him.
He
smiled. She was the right about the voices. That insidious WASP intuition of
hers made it easier. He didn't give a fuck how she felt now.
"You
think they're gonna fit?" he asked.
COSTA
LOOKED EVERYWHERE. The block in the Via Veneto. The places they'd visited
when they were searching for Laila. He even managed to track down the Deacon
family's old address, a spacious apartment in Aventino now occupied by a
polite Egyptian surgeon who'd no idea what had happened to his
predecessors and had seen nothing at all of a young, blonde American woman.
Traffic
found the car. The vehicle had been parked illegally on the Lungotevere near
the Castel Sant" Angelo, something that rang alarm bells straightaway. Emily
wouldn't have left it there willingly: it was partly blocking one of the
busiest thoroughfares in Rome. The towaway squad had pounced on it at seven
that morning and it was still unclaimed. They'd also found a stolen
yellow Punto in the Via Punto in the Via Appia Antica. It was beginning to look
like Emily had been abducted.
Costa
wanted to talk this through with someone. Peroni preferably. Or even Falcone. Perhaps
he would later that morning, but he wanted to talk to someone
now
. And
it was obvious who. So he swung the jeep back to the Questura, parked awkwardly
in the last slushy place outside the morgue building and walked inside.
The
police headquarters was never still, never without activity, Costa thought. This
was a kind of temple to death, a constantly manned staging post on the final
journey for hundreds of unfortunates each year. His own late partner, Luca Rossi,
had once lain on a slab here, tended to by Teresa Lupo. Someone else could have
done the job. Luca was shot. Nothing special. No autopsy needed. They knew all
along who'd killed him. They got him too. Costa had made sure of that
himself, in his own way.
Luca's
death hadn't deterred Teresa for a moment. That was what she did.
Nic
glanced around the room. Silvio Di Capua was supervising one of the morgue
monkeys cleaning up a dissection table. Teresa was nowhere to be seen.
Costa
walked over to her assistant. "Silvio?"
They
got on pretty well, considering Di Capua was scared witless of most cops he
met. Costa made a point of treating him with respect and, in particular, never
using the nickname "Monkboy." In return Di Capua could, on
occasion, be almost helpful.
"No,"
Di Capua countered instantly.
"No
what?"
"No
to whatever it is you want me to do. I'm not breaking the rules again. I'm
not doing this instead of doing that. There's an order to the way we work
here, Nic, and I'm determined we stick to it."
Costa
couldn't stop himself from laughing. Silvio Di Capua really did sound as
if he felt in charge.
"I
was just looking for Teresa."
"What
do you want? Ask me."
"It's
personal."
The
little man scowled. "Personal? Don't you think we have rather too
much of the
personal
around here? We've got work to do. We
always have."
Costa
gave him the look he'd been learning from Gianni Peroni. He'd
perfected it just enough for it to work on a minor pathologist with ideas above
his station.
"She's
off duty actually," Di Capua said, blushing. "Which means
she's in here, of course, getting through some paperwork. Try the
clerk's office. She's kicked him out for the day."
This
was something new. Teresa was famous for her aversion to paperwork. Costa
walked round to the tiny cubicle and found her tapping away at the computer. He
got a wary glance the moment he walked in.
"Don't
tell me there's more on the way, Nic. I have to catch up on a few things
once in a while."
He
opened out his hands, slapped the pockets of his coat. "Search me. No new
customers. Honest."
"Is
it important? I've got people screaming for budget figures. Now
I've summoned the courage to try to put some together I'd really
like to get this done."
"It's
important."
She
pointed to the chair and said, "In that case, sit."
"Thanks.
So what do you think about Emily Deacon?"
The
sudden question surprised her. "In what way?"
"What's
driving her?"
She
pulled a face that said:
Isn't it obvious
? "Family. The
fact that it was her dad that died. What else? Does she look like an FBI agent
to you?"
"Looks
can be deceptive. Lots of people think I don't look like a cop."
She
pushed the keyboard away from her. "That's easy.
You're... a little shorter than most. You like art, don't eat
meat and rarely lose your temper. You could pass for a sane, intelligent human
being most of the time. Is it any wonder you stick out like a sore thumb around
this zoo?"
"You're
too kind."
"I
know. So why the questions about Emily Deacon?"
"She's
missing. Or, to put it another way, I don't know where she is."
"Are
you supposed to?" she asked. "I mean, she's a grown woman. What
about that pig of a colleague of hers? Does he know?"
"No.
It's just..." He didn't want to go into the details about
the previous night. He wasn't sure what to make of them himself.
"She was at my place yesterday. This morning she was gone. No note.
Nothing. Then her car's found double-parked in town, which I don't
think is like her."
"Ooh.
"Yesterday. This morning." Interesting." Teresa Lupo was
rubbing her hands with glee.
"I
could be wrong," he said, ignoring the invitation to go further. "After
all, she went off on her own yesterday and had a pretty interesting
time."
"Sightseeing?"
"Digging
up a few facts we weren't supposed to know."
A
rueful thought said:
Perhaps more than she told you
.
"She's
a smart woman, Nic. Maybe she's just out there looking for some
more."
"So
why doesn't she answer her phone? Why did she leave her computer at my
place?"
"Ah.
The arrogance of men. Could it be because she doesn't want to hear from
you? After all, the Leapman guy isn't interested. And if you're
being honest, do you really want some rookie FBI agent hanging around all day
long?"
He
didn't answer that.
"Oh,"
Teresa said with a heavy sigh which indicated, Costa thought, that she perceived
some personal interest on his part. "In that case let me simply say this:
Emily Deacon strikes me as a very intelligent, very honest woman. Which, given
the situation she's in, may be part of her problem." She paused,
surprised, perhaps, by the thought that followed, and what prompted it. "Honesty's
a risky trait in this business, don't you think?"
That
was about Gianni Peroni. He couldn't miss it.
"No,"
he said with some conviction. "Honesty's all we've got. And
Gianni's OK, if that's what you mean. He saved that kid's
life last night."
"I
know. He was brave as hell. What else do you expect? But is that what saved
them? I'm not so sure. Gianni said something about a message.
Busy,
busy, busy
. Not one he understood, though."
"All
the same--"
She
interrupted him. "All the same he's doing fine because he's
kind of adopted that Kurdish kid. I know what's in his head. He thinks
some cousin of his will take her on full-time or something. Then she can get
regular visits from Uncle Gianni. But he needs to break that habit, Nic. This
is a tough world. You can't hope to cure it with just love and honesty
and putting away bad guys from time to time."
"Why
the hell not?" This was the kind of sentiment he got too often from
Falcone.
"Because
it breaks you in the end. It weakens you. I can see that happening with Gianni
already. He's guilty over his family. He's... vulnerable. More
than you think. He's got to learn to bury some of this deep down inside,
otherwise it's just going to mess him up. I know. I love the man."
From
the sudden blush on her face it was obvious this had just slipped out. "By
which I mean," she corrected herself, "I think he's a
wonderful human being. All that caring. All that compassion. I wonder what the
hell he's doing in a job like this. Whether he can keep it up."
She
frowned. "I used to wonder that about you once upon a time. Now...
You'll make it. That's good."
"And
Emily Deacon?" Costa asked. "What about her?"
"A
part of me says she'd love to walk straight out of that job and sit in
the corner of an old building somewhere, sketching away. Have you talked
painting with her yet?"
"No,"
he replied, a little offended.
"You
will. A part of me says Emily is deeply, deeply pissed off about what happened
to her father. So hung up over what happened, maybe, that she'd do
anything to put it straight. Regardless of the consequences. Regardless of the
pain it might cause her or anyone who gets in the way. Do you understand what I
mean?"
Costa
did. He'd known it all along. He just needed her to confirm it.
"What
are you going to do?" she asked.
"Get
a coffee. Wait for Falcone to call."
She
looked at her watch. "To hell with budgets. I
hate
numbers. Also
I'm supposed to be off duty. Let's make that two coffees."
They
walked out of the gloomy morgue building, then round the corner to the little
cafe Teresa Lupo used. It wasn't popular with cops. That was one reason
why she liked the place. The ponytailed teenager behind the counter looked a
little scared when she walked in. He usually did. That meant the coffee came
quickly and was, as usual, wonderful.
As
good as the Tazza d'Oro. Nic recalled Emily Deacon talking about her
favourite cafe, then glanced at his cup and wondered whether he wouldn't
be better off going round there and checking it out.
Teresa
Lupo's hand fell on his arm. "Relax for a moment, Nic. You and
Gianni aren't the only cops in Rome."
But
it felt that way just then. Falcone had pulled them aside for some reason of
his own, one he had yet to explain.
"Talk
to me about Christmas," Teresa said. "Tell me what it was like in a
pagan household."
Was
that really what the house on the Appian Way was? Nic Costa knew he suffered
from the same misapprehension as every kid. The childhood you got was the
normal one. It was everyone else's that was weird.
And
a few memories did come back. Of food and laughter and singing. Of his father
drinking too much wine and behaving, for once, as if there was no tomorrow, no
great battle to be fought, nothing to do in the world except enjoy the company
of the people around you, people who loved you and were loved in return.
"It
was happy," he answered.
She
was already ordering her second macchiato. Teresa drank coffee as if it were
water. "What more can anyone ask?" she wondered.
"Nothing,"
he muttered.
His
phone was ringing. Falcone had promised to call.
"Nic,"
Emily Deacon said. She sounded distant, tired and scared.
"Emily.
I've been looking--"
She
interrupted him briskly. "Not now. I don't have the time. You must
listen really carefully. It's important. You have to trust me.
Please."