All He Saw Was the Girl (34 page)

    Chip
said he'd pick them up at ten the next morning.

    Ray
had driven back to Mentana, and rented a room in a small hotel with a view of
the countryside and Mount San Lorenzo. He needed a place to hang out and wait.
He sat on the bed, thinking about Sharon, going over what he knew. According to
Teegarden, the FBI had tracked her to Rome, arriving October 12th.

    He
also knew that if you were a foreigner staying at an Italian hotel your
passport had to be recorded with the police, and there was no record of a
Sharon Pope checking in any hotel in Rome. And there was nothing at all about
Joey. His name had not appeared on any airline or cruise ship manifest,
arriving in Italy or any European country in the past ten days. But he could've
come here another way: by chartered yacht or jet. Or maybe he was traveling
under an alias.

    Ray's
gut told him Joey was in Italy and he was staying at his uncles estate. No
proof, not much to go on, but he was going to exhaust that possibility before
he did anything else.

    At
seven he went to a small cafe with white tablecloths, and had grilled coniglio
that tasted like chicken, roast potatoes, green salad, bread and a glass of
house red. He was the only customer at that early hour and finished his meal,
had his coffee and paid the bill before anyone else came in. It was 8:15 and
dark when he went outside. He walked back to the hotel to lie down for a couple
hours.

    He
yawned and closed his eyes, but couldn't sleep and laid there in the dark, mind
racing, thinking about Sharon. At midnight he got up, went in the bathroom and
splashed cold water on his face, and brushed his teeth. He put on a black
sweater and black jeans and a dark-blue jacket. He put the two extra magazines
in his jacket pockets and slid the SIG Sauer in his jeans behind his back.

    He
walked down two flights of stairs, went through the lobby, and handed his key
to the night clerk. He went outside and got in his car and drove back toward
Don Gennaro's villa, 3.7 kilometers from Mentana. He'd clocked it coming and
going the first time. When he'd gone 3.5 kilometers he slowed down and looked
for a place to pull in the woods and did, backing in so he had a clear view of
the road, and a fast way out. He heard a car approaching, and saw the flash of
headlights as it zoomed past him.

    He
looked at the clock on the dash. It was 12:27 a.m. He took off the jacket,
folded it on the passenger seat. Gripped the SIG Sauer, got out of the car and
waited for his eyes to adjust. It was difficult to see in dense woods under an
overcast sky, strangely quiet too, not a sound. He used a compass to guide him
through the woods and got to the villa fifteen minutes later, hanging back in
the tree line, watching the front of the place that was dark, all the lights
off. He was about to come out of the woods and cross the twenty-yard expanse of
grass to the villa, but saw something move, a shadow near the entrance, and a
man appeared, coming out of the darkness with a dog, looked like a German
shepherd, on a leash, lit a cigarette and blew smoke in his direction. He
didn't like the idea of a dog.

    That
changed everything. They'd obviously screwed things down. Security was a lot
tighter after his visit that afternoon.

    Ray
went around the side of the villa where woods met olive grove and moved through
the trees close to the veranda. Two more men with shotguns were standing on the
upper level, smoking. One was holding a dog on a leash. Ray moved back through
the grove to the far side of the villa and noticed two first-floor windows open
a couple inches. The bottom of the window was five feet off the ground. He
reached up, opened both sides and slipped the gun in his waist behind his back
and hoisted himself up and in. He stepped down onto the kitchen floor next to
an industrial stove, stood and listened, heard a clock ticking. He pulled the
windows closed, moved into the dining room with its tile floor and long wooden
table, moved through an archway into a room the size of a hotel lobby, with a
fireplace you could walk into and furniture groupings, with framed paintings on
the walls, with statuary and antiquity around the perimeter, moved through an
archway into an elegant smaller room with a grand piano, and moved through a
final archway into the foyer. There was a spiral staircase with an ornate
railing that curved up to the second level.

    Ray
climbed the stairs and walked down a long hallway with bedrooms on both sides.
He went all the way to the end and opened the door. There was a four-post
antique bed with a canopy over it, and Don Gennaro in the middle of it, snoring
away.

    The
model was in the next room on the right. He could see her left shoulder and
part of her back, sleeping naked in a bed similar to the don's. There was no
one in the next three rooms.

    The
beds were made and the closets were empty. There was no one in the sixth bedroom,
either, but there was a framed photograph of Joey on the desk, Joey in a tux,
grinning, a champagne glass in his hand.

    There
were clothes hanging in the closet, shirts, pants and a couple sport coats. He
found receipts in two of the shirt pockets, and slipped them in his jeans. He
didn't see any women's clothes, nothing of Sharon's, no sign of her. Maybe they
were traveling. He looked out the window, the clouds had scattered and he could
see a half moon now, illuminating the veranda, the guards still standing there
with the dog. He wasn't sure what to do. He walked out of the room, looked down
the hall and saw someone at the top of the stairs, coming toward him.

    Mauro
had not slept for twenty hours, and yet he was not tired. He had walked around
the villa every hour, checking with the guards. They had not seen or heard
anything suspicious, although one of the dogs was barking at a deer that
wandered out of the woods, but deer were common enough. He thought about what
happened earlier and admitted to himself that it was possible no one had been
in the grove.

    There
was also the business with Roberto Mazara. That too was on his mind. Mazara had
stood in front of Don Gennaro and said he would bring him the money he owed
within forty-eight hours, and then had disappeared. Only that morning Mauro had
visited the man's apartment in Trastevere. He was not there and no one in the
other apartments knew anything about him.

    He
had walked from the don's office into the foyer, listening to the silence and
thought he heard something upstairs — a door closing? He was not sure and went
up to check.

    There
were sconces on the walls on both sides of the hallway, lights set to dim, but
giving illumination. He saw the dark shape of a man come out of Joey's room and
reached for the knife.

    Ray
saw him take something out of his pocket and heard the metallic snap, and saw
the flash of the blade. Even in the subdued light Ray recognized him as the
skinny Sicilian that had chased him earlier that afternoon, and recognized the
knife as a stiletto. Ray could draw the SIG Sauer and blow him away, but that
would attract attention and things would get crazy. He wanted to get in, find
Sharon and get out without any trouble. That wasn't going to be possible now.

    The
Sicilian came at him, circling to the right, right arm extended, fist gripping
the handle, blade angled forward, pointing at him. Ray raised his arms in a
karate stance as the Sicilian moved toward him, faking right, going left, slashing
air.

    Ray
stepped back, watching his feet. He was quick, moving like a boxer. Punched
with the blade, like he was throwing a jab, connected and Ray felt the sting as
it went through his forearm, and knew he was in trouble. The Sicilian stepped right,
jabbed and missed, but kept coming. Jabbed again, and this time Ray timed it,
grabbed the wrist of his knife hand and threw him over his hip into the wall.
He bounced off and Ray chopped him on the back of the neck and he went down and
didn't move.

    Ray
ran for the stairs and retraced his steps back to the kitchen. His arm was
throbbing, sleeve soaked with blood. He pulled it up and looked. Enough light
from the moon now to see a deep puncture wound that looked like it went through
his left forearm, blood streaming out, rolling down his arm. He scanned the
kitchen and saw an apron and ripped off a strip of fabric, and wrapped it tight
around the wound, tied it and pulled the bloodstained sleeve down over it.

    Ray
pushed the window open and went through it, and dropped to the ground. He
crouched next to the wall of the villa, listening, but didn't hear anything and
took off, running through the grove to the woods. He'd gone a couple hundred
yards when he heard the dogs. The pain in his arm was getting sharper, more
severe. He switched the SIG Sauer from his left hand to his right. Figured he
was halfway to the car, and took off again. There was enough moonlight to see
where he was going, running, slipping between trees and moving around them.

    He
saw light ahead where the forest ended. Heard the dogs, saw the Fiat, dogs
closing in, got to it and opened the door, got in and closed it as they hit,
two German shepherds banging into the side of the car, jumping at the window,
jaws snapping, trying to get him through the glass.

    He
started the Fiat and floored it out of the woods, dogs chasing him down the
road for thirty, forty yards then giving up. He drove back to Mentana. Found a
first-aid kit in the armrest between the rear seats and took it with him in the
hotel, bloody arm covered by the jacket, stopping at the front desk to get his
key, and taking the elevator to his room.

    He
went in the bathroom, turned on the light and took off his jacket and sweater.
He cut off the blood-soaked cloth with a scissors in the first-aid kit, and
examined the wound. He was cut deep and needed stitches. But where was he going
to get stitches in the middle of the night in Mentana, Italy? He squeezed
disinfectant into the cut and wrapped his arm with gauze and surgical tape from
the first-aid kit, and took four Motrin for the pain.

    Ray
heard his BlackBerry beeping in the bedroom. It was a text message from
Teegarden saying Sharon had checked into the Hotel d'Inghilterra on Via Bocca
di Leone 14, two days ago. That might explain why she wasn't at Carlo Gennaro's
villa and why Joey wasn't there either. He was probably with her.

    Ray
looked at his watch. It was 2:40 a.m. His arm throbbed. He could see a spot of
blood blotting the bandage, getting bigger. He was tired but the news about
Sharon energized him. He'd drive back to Rome, get some sleep and surprise her
in the morning.

    9:00
a.m., Ray got out of bed, showered, dressed and re- bandaged his arm. It looked
bad, swollen and still oozing blood. He would have to go to a doctor, have it looked
at. He'd only slept a couple hours, if at all, his mind racing, thinking about
what he was going to say to Sharon. It had been almost two months since he had
seen her. He could understand why she had left him, but after thirteen years of
marriage, why didn't she call, tell him her plan, leave a note? It was way out
of character. That's why he'd come to Rome. That's why he was standing in front
of the Hotel d'Inghilterra forty-five minutes later, stomach queasy, hands
sweating, wiping his palms on his pants. He wanted to get it over with, hear
what she had to say, and get on with his life.

    He
walked in the tiny lobby with its black-and-white tile floor. There was a trim
middle-aged guy with salt-and-pepper hair behind the dark wood reception counter.
Ray told him who he was and showed the man his passport. He had just arrived in
Rome and wanted to surprise his wife. What room was she in?

    The
clerk said 410, but he was too late. Signora Pope had checked out last night.
Ray asked if he could see the room. Maybe he would find something, a clue about
where she had been or where she was going. The clerk handed him the key, said
it was okay but the room was scheduled for cleaning, and the maid might be
there already.

    He
took the small elevator up to the fourth floor and found room 410.The door was
open. The maid's cart was in the hall as predicted. He entered and looked
around. The maid was in the bathroom. She saw Ray, excused herself and walked
out. There was a queen-size bed with end tables and lamps. There was a desk and
chair against one wall, and two chairs and a table in front of the window that
looked out on Via Bocca de Leone.

    He
sat at the desk, glancing down at a brochure listing the hotel services. Next
to it was an empty Eclipse gum sleeve, a flavor called Polar Ice, and an empty
Marlboro Lights pack. Sharon didn't smoke, or maybe she did and he didn't know
it. He looked down and saw an empty shopping bag on the floor, heavy high-gloss
silver paper and the name DOMUS in black type, big on the front, and an
address: Via Belsiana 52.