Cries of the Lost (26 page)

W
HAT
HAD
seemed an attractive, yet relatively common dwelling in the stark daylight, Laudomia’s home had become a romantic fantasy at night. Giant candles lined the driveway and the stone walk up to the door. A classical concerto seeped out in low volume from speakers hidden in the darkness. Aromas—mostly from flowers, furniture oil and cooking smells—clung heavily to the soft evening air. Laudomia strutted like a runway model out the front door, long lush hair flowing over her shoulders, and breasts swinging freely under a floral silk blouse. She greeted us, kissing both cheeks and enveloping our senses in clouds of perfume.

“It is so lovely to have you here,” she said, holding and swinging our right hands. “Come, come and meet my friends.”

They were primarily Italians, most of whom had a ready command of English, a Frenchman who didn’t, an American couple from Rhode Island, a pair of gay German men, and miraculously, no Brits.

Relief filled my heart. Natsumi must have had a similar reaction, because she lit up the rooms with effervescent conversation and feminine charm.

I wondered what was going on inside my mind. This was an ongoing preoccupation, understandably, given that a bullet had gone through it. The brain is the only object in the universe capable of examining itself. In my case, a researcher’s brain, one that could experience the world while simultaneously recording the experience.

I concluded that as I healed, I also evolved. Not necessarily yielding an improved version, though interesting new sensations were emerging, mostly emotional. The original me was a very steady lad. Essentially cheerful, but reserved, contained in easy contentment. I’d heard of mood swings, but never experienced them myself. Now, it seemed as if a protean emotional palette was growing in me, aspects of which would spring up with little notice or warning.

I watched Natsumi navigate Laudomia’s plush home, wineglass in hand, her back straight and her face lit with calm amusement. I was on the verge of approaching her to say something sentimental, when Laudomia took me by the arm.

“I have emailed the Señor, Jonathan,” she said, “and copied you, asking him to contact you directly if he wants to have a conversation.”

“Very good of you. Thank you.”

“In the meantime, Roger and Dottie Hardgill, the Newport people, would love to speak with you about their place, the one with the big pergola.”

Roger was a tidy little guy of about seventy, with dyed-black hair and a squint. Dottie’s plastic surgeon had managed to give her face a permanent cast of startled alarm. It occurred to me that nothing is more damaging to your appearance than excess money in the absence of good sense.

It only took a few minutes to learn that selling the place was Roger’s idea, leaving Dottie either bewildered or bereft, it was hard to tell by looking. For Roger, it was simply a smart financial bet, sell high in Italy, buy low in Cape Coral, Florida.

“A house is a house,” he said. “You know what I’m saying?”

“Como is drenched in thousands of years of culture and history,” said Dottie. “Cape Coral was a swamp until the 1960s.”

“Dottie’s got a degree in anthropology from the University of Michigan,” said Roger, with some pride. “I got to drop out of high school to keep my family full of losers from starving to death.”

“More the victims of structural, societal disadvantage,” said Dottie, “anthropologically speaking.”

“See what I mean?” said Roger.

Natsumi demonstrated more of her social skills by extracting us from the conversation with no loss of good will on the part of the Hardgills. I promised to keep their property in mind, and he slapped my shoulder as we deftly slipped away.

“A face is a face,” Natsumi whispered. “You know what I’m saying?”

The rest of the evening coasted effortlessly through a few rounds of limoncello, from which we both demurred, a spontaneous late-night
passeggiata
around the neighborhood, and lots of
abbracci e baci
before we all embarked for home.

“Do you think I’m behaving normally?” I asked Natsumi, as we drove over the curvy, up-and-down Lombardy roads.

“I don’t know what normal is anymore,” she said.

“You’ll tell me if you observe anything odd. I mean, odder than the standard odd.”

“Yes.”

“I did suffer a traumatic brain injury. We don’t know what that could ultimately mean.”

“Laudomia’s given up on stealing you away,” she said.

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re probably too odd.”

I
CHECKED
all my email addresses when we got back to the villa and found a lot of interesting stuff. Including a message from Shelly Gross, which had come in only minutes before.

Mr. Rimes:

I have no reason to trust anything you say, since you have proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, to be a dishonest person. Consequently, no information offered by you could possibly be of any use to me or my former organization.

I do not wish you the best. Quite the contrary.

S. Gross

I wrote him back.

Shelly:

You’re up early. I think all that rancor is giving you insomnia. Let it go. Not worth it. Email this woman and tell her you have a line into David Reinhart:

[email protected]
,

The other interesting message wasn’t interesting in what was written, rather in who wrote it.

Mr. Fortnoy:

The villa is not for sale.

Rodrigo Mariñelarena

I called to Natsumi and she read over my shoulder.

“You think?” she asked.

“As Nicho Santillian said, they got a lot of Rodrigos.”

“Still.”

“Still, it’s intriguing. And I’ve got his email address.”

I wrote back:

Rodrigo:

The villa is compromised. Selling it makes more sense than blowing it up.

Felingham

I’d signed it with the name I’d given Nicho Santillian in Madrid, presumably one he’d passed along to Rodrigo.

“Wow,” said Natsumi, before I pushed the send button. “A little risky?”

I turned around and looked at her. “We have to shake the tree. It means some exposure, but we may not get a better chance to crack this thing.”

“We know something he doesn’t,” she said.

“Correct. But I won’t send it if you think it’s too dangerous.”

She looked at me sympathetically. “You’re right. Nothing else we’ve done is terribly dangerous.”

“So I’m sending?”

“You’re sending.”

I hit the button.

T
HE
NEXT
day I called Little Boy, the Bosniak criminal boss in South Hartford.

“Mr. G, I was getting ready to call you. We learn a bit about Joselito Gorrotxategi. First thing, very hard to spell his name.”

“He’s Basque. A lot of them have names like that.”

“Slick dude. Got a nice place in the City, drive 7 Series Beemer, likes the ladies. At least we know he like the lady we sic on him. Mirsada is getting snuggly, but not yet put in the hook. She say he’s big deal forensic accountant, according to him, which could be crap. Tells corporations how to protect assets jumping from country to country. Growth industry for sure. And you’re right about the Basque thing. He tell her, don’t you call me Spanish, we all descended from Atlantis, or some such bullshit.”

“What are the chances of stealing his computer?”

“Chances good, but can take some time. Don’t want to rush things and lose Mirsada. I like that girl, even though the wife threaten my balls whenever I look at her.”

My sense was Little Boy’s wife was more than capable of following through on that threat.

“One other thing,” I said. “Somebody hit Damien Brandt, Florencia’s former comptroller. It was messy.”

“Wasn’t me,” he said. “Twerp wasn’t worth the cost of a bullet.”

“I might need some protection. Maybe on fairly short notice. I’m in Northern Italy on Lake Como. Do you have some local boys who could zip up here in a hurry?”

“You bet, Mr. G. Very fierce customers. From the war.”

“Good to hear. Stay tuned on that.”

We traded well-meant, but pro forma inquiries into the health and welfare of our respective loved ones; he shared his predictions regarding the World Cup, something I knew nothing about, and I repeated my gratitude for his assistance.

“No worries, Mr. G. We like you. And your money, to be honest.”

“Honesty is hard to come by these days.”

I hung up and shared the half of the conversation Natsumi couldn’t hear. She repeated her pleasure at having Little Boy on board, whose troops she’d once spent a fair amount of time feeding, watering and distracting with wide-screen TVs.

“I have to admit, I miss the big Balkan nut-bag,” she said.

“I bet he misses you, too. Just don’t let him tell Mrs. Boyanov.”

“The jealous type?”

“Think sharp knives.”

I
DIDN
’
T
hear back from Rodrigo, but Laudomia called that afternoon and told me her Spanish client was planning on arriving sometime after six that night. She was surprised.

“As I told you,” she said. “It’s very unusual for them to return so soon. But who knows about people’s lives.”

“His name is Rodrigo Mariñelarena, am I right?”

“You are. He must have emailed you.”

“He did. Said the villa wasn’t for sale. That’s it.”

“I’ll let you know if anything changes,” she said, “but I think he means what he says.”

“That’s fine. We’ll be returning to London shortly. Let’s stay in touch.”

“Absolutely, Signor Fortnoy. I hope to be neighbors soon.”

“Ciao,” I said, and after hanging up, briefed Natsumi.

“Should we move?” she asked.

“Laudomia doesn’t know where we live. She has a phone number and email address, both untraceable. No advantage to leaving yet.”

“What else can we do?”

“Stare at the computer.”

Which is what I did until about eight that night, when a mic in the rear of the villa picked up sounds, unidentifiable, but not native to an empty house. I set the volume at the highest level and strained to hear. The sounds were moving away from the mic. I turned them all up to the highest volume. The one in a hallway picked up the sounds, now clearly made by a person moving slowly through the house.

For nearly a half hour, I followed him, or her, with my ears, though seeing a form with my mind’s eye.

In the dark, the nanny cam was automatically set to infrared, painting the front foyer a ghostly green. As the form moved down the stairs, which landed in the foyer, I put the image on full screen.

The first thing that came into view was the barrel of an automatic weapon, identical or similar to the ones carried by the prior occupants. Then the rest of the man appeared, in profile. He was in civilian clothes, wearing a loose jacket and blue jeans. And a pair of night-vision goggles. He put a phone to his ear.

“All clear,” he said in Spanish. “The villa is empty.” It was quiet for a moment as the other party spoke. “Yes, I checked everything. You can come in. I’m turning on the lights.”

In the sudden glare, the automatic setting on the nanny cam switched to artificial light. I clicked off full screen and went to split screen, so I could view the man while monitoring the camera at the villa’s entrance. Moments later, I saw a Range Rover, a Toyota van and a battered Mercedes sedan pull into the driveway.