All He Saw Was the Girl (26 page)

    "I
knew something was up," Teegarden said. "Your sudden interest in the
Palermo family. You obviously haven't gone to the police, have you?"

    Ray
said, "Would you?"

    "Probably
not." Teeg paused. "They'll think you had something to do with
it."

    "I
came to the same conclusion," Ray said.

    "Let
me see what I can find out," Teeg said.

    Ray
pulled up in front of the McNamara Building and Teegarden got out and stood in
the open door. "I'll call you."

    And
he did about an hour later, Teeg saying he'd scanned the shot of Mrs P. and the
mysterious stranger.

    "Know
who he is? Joey's uncle, his mom's brother from Italy. But wait, it gets
better. He's Carlo Gennaro. That name mean anything to you?"

    "No,"
Ray said.

    "He's
Don Gennaro, head of the Roman Mafia."

    Maybe
that's where Joey was, staying with his uncle the don. Sharon too. The more he
thought about it the more plausible it seemed. Ray glanced at Teegarden.
"You don't happen to have his address, do you?"

    "What're
you going to do? Every time I give you an address somebody dies."

    Ray
got online and booked a Northwest flight, Detroit to Rome. He booked a room at
the Hotel del Senato on Piazza della Rotondo near the Pantheon. He'd stayed at
the Grand Hotel on Via Del Corso one time, protective detail for the vice
president. The Grand was big and opulent and expensive and had excellent
accommodations for an advance detail, and twelve agents on three shifts, but he
didn't need that on this trip. The del Senato was described as having small
clean rooms with great views of the Pantheon, and they served breakfast. It
sounded perfect.

    He
drove to Borders and bought a Berlitz Italian phrasebook and dictionary, and a
Michelin map that detailed Rome and its outskirts. Joey's uncle lived near
Mentana. Ray Googled it and found out Mentana was a small town northeast of
Rome about twelve kilometers. Had a population of 16,288, and the mayor's name
was Guido Tabanella.

    He
stared at a framed photograph of Sharon on the desk next to the computer,
Sharon with dark hair, smiling at the camera. The picture really capturing her:
sexy and good-looking. He thought about their wedding at St Regis Church and
the reception at Pine Lake Country Club, Sharon's parents showing him off as
their celebrity son-in-law, caught up in the Secret Service mystique.

    Ray
and Sharon didn't want a big wedding but her parents insisted on it — 350
people, half of whom Ray had never met, mostly Sharon's dad's Chrysler buddies
and the entire Vanelli family, which had the population of a Sicilian village.
Sharon had picked a band, the Howling Diablos, she knew, and after all the
formality: speeches, dinner, cutting the cake and throwing the bouquet, they
drank and danced, first Ray taking off his rented tux jacket, and then his
cummerbund, then his ten- pleat, wing-collared Egyptian cotton tuxedo shirt,
swinging Sharon around in his sweat-soaked undershirt to the raised eyebrows of
her dad's friends and fellow club members. Ray and Sharon didn't care, it was
their wedding.

    They
honeymooned in Hawaii, the first stop, followed by a week in New Zealand,
cruising the South Island, stopping in pubs and meeting the locals who seemed
to genuinely like Americans. Someone would buy them each a pint and they'd buy
one back, and two hours later they would stagger out and go to their hotel and
make love.

    When
they got back from the trip Sharon's parents gave them enough for a down
payment on the house in Beverly Hills. The future looked bright. They were in
love and it looked like only good things were ahead for them.

    He thought
back, trying to pinpoint when things started to go wrong, when they’d started
drifting apart. Clearly, his being away from home for extended periods of time
put a strain on their relationship. Even so, they’d been able to keep it
together for ten years, at least. Over the past twelve months he’d been
drinking more and paying less attention to her. He could see she didn't know
what to do, either, baffled by his surly belligerence. They couldn't have a
conversation without getting into an argument. The job had stressed him out of
his mind and he didn't realize it at the time. He'd felt that way for so long
it was just normal. Looking back, now he understood, he got it, and wanted to
tell Sharon he was messed up, and wanted to apologize.

    Ray
left the next evening at 7:05, flew coach, a seat on the aisle. He drank
Cabernet, watched part of
Slumdog Millionaire,
fell asleep and woke up
when the plane landed in Amsterdam. He had an hour-and-forty-five-minute
layover and then a two- hour flight to Rome, arriving at Leonardo da Vinci
airport at 1:05 pm. The last time he'd flown to Rome was on Air Force One, and
he hadn't had two Dewar's on the rocks and three mini bottles of red wine. He
was hung over and jet-lagged.

    Ray
took a taxi to the del Senato, a good-looking, six-story pink building with
white accents on the southwest side of the Pantheon. It had a small elegant
lobby with a chandelier, and a smaller bar that didn't appear to be open. It
was a lot nicer than the write-up in the guidebook. He checked in, went to his
room and dropped his bag on the floor and went to the window. He could see the
east side of the Pantheon, and the muted white building on the opposite side of
Piazza della Rotonda, and the obelisk in the center of the square.

    He
went to the bed and pulled down the gold-striped spread and stretched out on
the mattress, his body heavy and tired, and looked at the clock on the bedside
table. It was 3:30 in the afternoon.

    When
he woke up four hours later it was dark. He looked out the window, saw the
Pantheon in the piazza below, the square crowded with cars and street vendors
and tourists, the sounds coming through the open window. He showered and
dressed and took the elevator down to the lobby and handed his key to a dapper
old guy in a blue suit behind the desk, and went outside.

    He
stood in front of the Pantheon studying its pillared facade built in ad 125,
looking as sturdy as a New York skyscraper. He studied the columns, wondering
if they were Doric or Corinthian. Thinking about the last time he’d been here.
He was on detail with the vice president and his wife, the two of them, and a
priest from Rome, a papal attache named Father Grimaldi, their guide, plus
three other members of the detail. They’d gotten a private tour of the
Pantheon, and what had really impressed him was the opening in the ceiling, a
circle called the Oculus, the Great Eye; it was the only source of light in the
whole place.

    It had
rained earlier the day they were there and the marble floor was wet, the area
roped off. Father Grimaldi told them the Pantheon had been designed with a
drainage system below the floor, diverting the water that came in through the
opening. Amazing.

    Ray
walked toward Piazza Navona, saw a taxi and got in and took it over the Tiber
River to Trastevere and wound through the narrow streets to Piazza Sant’Egidio.
He told the driver he was going to Museo di Roma. The man looked at him like he
was crazy and said,
museo non aperto,
telling Ray what he already knew.
It wasn't open. He paid the driver ten euros for the eight-euro fare, got out
of the taxi and walked down a narrow cobblestone street that had huge stone
urns sprouting green plants. He could see laundry hanging on a rope strung
between the buildings that were a shade of magenta.

    He
approached the cafe, Ombre Rosse, and stood across the street, scanning the
people sitting outside under canvas umbrellas, under tall leafy trees that
seemed to grow out of the cobblestones. Ray didn't know who was meeting him. He
went inside and moved past the small wood-topped bar where customers stood
drinking espresso out of little white cups, and beer out of stemmed glasses. He
walked into the main room that was small and crowded and loud. There was an
open table in the corner. He sat and ordered a glass of red wine. He looked
around but no one seemed to notice him. Looked at a framed sepia-tone
photograph on the wall next to his table. Six men from another time, sitting in
chairs, four of them looking at the camera and two more grinning and glancing
to the their right.

    The
waiter brought his wine in a short-stemmed glass. He watched the door, studying
everyone who came in. He sipped the wine that tasted bitter, watching a
dark-haired girl, mid-twenties, get up from the bar and come into the room. She
was petite, five two, shoulder-length dark hair, attractive, bag on a strap
over her shoulder. She didn't look at him but walked to his table.

    She
said, "Signor Pope, my name is Paola. May I join you?"

    Ray
got up and pulled the chair next to him out and she sat down. She was
better-looking up close, dark eyes and high cheekbones and flawless skin.

    "Would
you like a drink," Ray said, "glass of wine?"

    
"No,
grazie
," she said. "I have this for you."

    She
had a heavy accent. She slipped the bag off her shoulder and rested it in her
lap. She unzipped it and took out a manila-colored package and handed it to
him. It was padded, a few inches thick and must've weighed four pounds.

    "What
you order.
Buona notte,
Signor Pope."

    She
got up and moved to the door. Ray looked around to see if anyone was watching
him. No one seemed to be. He signaled his waiter, asked for the check and paid
for the wine. Now he tucked the manila envelope under his arm and walked out of
the cafe and went around the corner down Via della Paglia to Santa Maria in
Trastevere, the square quiet and deserted at 10:30 at night.

    He
took a cab back to his hotel and went up to his room. There was a lamp on the
bedside table. He turned it on and sat on the side of the bed and pulled the
tape off the envelope, opened it and slid a shrink-wrapped SIG Sauer SP 2022 on
the bedspread, along with three twelve-shot magazines. Thirty-six rounds.

    Ray
unwrapped the SIG. It was 7.4 inches long and weighed 30.2 ounces fully loaded.
He picked up a magazine and slid it in the grip. In his opinion it was the best
handgun you could buy, balanced, accurate and dependable. He cradled the weapon
with two hands and aimed across the room at a bust, the likeness of Julius
Caesar.

    His
BlackBerry started buzzing in his pocket. He took it out and looked. It was a
text message from Teegarden confirming that Sharon had arrived in Italy on
October 12th. She had flown New York-Rome on KLM. Now finally, he had a line on
her. He couldn't believe it. There were a lot of times in the past week he
doubted he'd ever see her again, doubted she was alive, but had held out hope.
A friend of Teeg's at the FBI had done him a favor, contacted Italian
immigration. Nothing about Joey yet. He'd stay on it and follow up when he had
something concrete.

    They
went inside and she stood next to him and watched him cut slices of bread and
cheese on the tile countertop in the kitchen. "McCabe, you don't say much about
yourself. Are you really from Detroit?"

    "Nobody
says they're from Detroit unless they are."

    "After
visiting, I can understand. You have brothers or sisters?"

    "A
sister," McCabe said. "Two years older. Married, two daughters, works
for an ad agency."

    Angela
said, "What is her name?"

    "Jane,"
McCabe said.

    "What
about your parents?"