Dante's Numbers (15 page)

“Chicken it is,” Falcone declared, after briefly flipping the coin and letting no one see the outcome. “I'll go.”

Teresa swore bitterly beneath her breath, then passed them a piece of paper with her scribbled handwriting visible on it.

“This is a list of real-life locations from the film. My prediction is that if something happens, it will happen close to one of these. We are being led down a merry little path, gentlemen. But not the one you think.”

She skipped through the chapter points she'd set on the DVD. A bouquet of pink roses, set with blue violets in a star-shaped lace bouquet, came on the screen. Then the camera panned up to the painting of a serious, intense Hispanic woman in Victorian dress, dark eyes staring directly out of the canvas. In her hands sat an identical bunch of flowers.

“Meet Carlotta Valdes. This scene was shot in an art gallery called the Legion of Honor in Lincoln Park, which you will find on my list. Also…”

She switched to a new scene, one of several hypnotic, dreamlike sequences in which Jimmy Stewart's Scottie followed the troubled Madeleine as she drove apparently aimlessly across the city, along narrow urban streets, quieter neighbourhoods, and then through endless, dark, unidentified woodland.

The two men became quiet. Falcone reached for the remote control and paused the playback. He pointed to the dark metallic green car frozen as it wound its way downhill, somewhere, it seemed, near the Golden Gate Bridge.

“I saw one just like that this morning. Maggie Flavier was getting into it.”

He scratched his narrow jutting chin.

“Where's Nic gone?” he asked.

T
HEY PULLED UP OUTSIDE A BUILDING THAT seemed like a mirage emerging from the faint Bay mist. Flat grey lines of weathered stone, perfectly placed columns, an American version of a distorted Palladian dream transplanted from some country estate in the Veneto to a green Californian hilltop running down towards the Bay and the great red bridge below. The two of them got out of the Jaguar. Costa stopped and stared and smiled.

“I know this place…”

“You've been to Paris. I was a child there. I knew it, too. The home of the French Legion of Honour opposite the Quai d'Orsay. This is a copy. San Francisco always did look to Europe, you know. Why do you think Tonti is so at home here? The pace of life. Buildings like the Palace of Fine Arts…”

“Piranesi should have drawn that.”

Her sharp, incisive eyes peered at him. “Why are you a police officer? Not an artist or something?”

Costa shrugged. “I can't paint.”

“Does that bother you?”

It seemed an odd question. “No.”

“It would annoy the hell out of me. I'd
try.”

“I did. That's why I know I can't do it. What else should I be? Why are you an actress?”

“Because it lets me be other people, silly.”

She took his arm and dragged him past a large, familiar statue, towards the entrance.

“And because I get paid a lot for it. That really is Rodin's
Thinker
, by the way. One of the early casts.”

It was almost empty inside. The gallery had such space, such light, such apparent modernity. It was nothing like Rome. All his favourite places there—the Doria Pamphilj, the Borghese— had more the feeling of palatial homes decorated with pictures. The Legion of Honor was cold and clean, organised and… dead. A memorial, Maggie told him, to the fallen American soldiers of the First World War.

Faces lined the walls, portraits of men and women, some in the flush of youth, others in failing old age. Maggie seemed to know every last work in the place, every feature, every per sonality.

“The cruelty of man,” she declared as she guided him to a fifteenth-century tapestry that depicted peasants trapping and killing rabbits with ferrets and dogs.

“Presumably they were hungry.”

“You're a vegetarian! You're supposed to disapprove.”

“When someone's hungry…”

She harrumphed and took him to another canvas. It showed a young girl in poor country dress, seated by a grubby stone well. He looked at the notice next to it: Bouguereau,
The Broken Pitcher.
Late nineteenth century.

“Had you seen my movie debut, the Disney epic
The Fairy Circle
,” Maggie announced with mock pomposity, “you might have recognised this.”

“I didn't.”

“I know that. Well, this was me.”

It was impossible for him to imagine her as this lost, sullen creature. “How?”

Her strong hands beat the front of her sweater.

“Because I stole her!” Then, more thoughtfully, “Or she stole me. The hair. The surly, sad look. The determination. Which won the day in the end, naturally, since this was Disney.”

He looked at this sophisticated blonde woman by his side and laughed.

“Ridiculous, am I?” she demanded. “Watch.”

She snatched the extensions out of her hair and thrust them into her bag. Then she did something with her hands, put her head down, shook it, as if getting rid of something bad.

When she looked up at him, Nic felt briefly giddy, just as he had the day they first met.

Costa switched his attention between her and the painting. There was the same life, the same identity in the fierce, hard stare, the set features, the reproach to the viewer as if to say:
Can you see now?

“Point taken. You're a good actress.”

A mild curse escaped her lips. She was back. Herself again in an instant. “No. I'm a good vampire of paintings. Or an easy vessel for some ghost. This is what I do. It's what I learned, when my mother was down in L.A., doing whatever it took to get me auditions.” Her face turned stony for a moment. “So I came here. I studied these women on the walls. I imagined them into me. It's not hard, not when you try. Whenever I needed them, they showed up. Look…”

She led him to another pastoral canvas, this one more lyrical: a young shepherdess next to a brook, gazing wistfully out of the frame as her flock wandered in the background. French again, of the same period.

“This was two years later.
The Bride of Lammermoor.
Walter Scott. Classic stuff. Here…”

Another portrait. French again, but clearly earlier, from the romantic style and of a rather vapid-seeming aristocrat. He examined the notice:
Hyacinthe Gabrielle Roland, later Marchioness Wellesley.
It wasn't easy to imagine the woman's round, naive face, with its flush of curls and gullible stare, succumbing to Maggie's talents.

“I had to put on weight for that. You need puppy fat for Jane Austen. That took me, oh…” She placed a finger against her cheek. “… three weeks to hit the mark. You can't hurry gorging. First time I got to take my clothes off.” She cleared her throat. “But at least it was art. Ha-ha.”

The discomfort inside her was distant but discernible.

“Why do you do this?”

“Because I like it. Do you need another reason? Being someone else. It's… distracting.”

She was taking him to another canvas, one he knew he would dislike the moment he saw the familiar, neurotic swirls beginning to take shape as they approached.

“This is me when I'm older,” she went on. “Maybe not a movie at all. Maybe
me.
Whoever that happens to be.”

It was a woman in her late thirties, posed like a siren on a dreamy sea, her face tilted at an awkward angle towards a Mediterranean sky, her full body half clothed in a revealing, swirling dress that flowed over her flesh with the liquid sinuous-ness of the waves beneath. In the background nymphs and mythical creatures revelled in some impenetrable diversion. It was reminiscent, vaguely, of Raphael's
Galatea
in the Farnesina.

“I never much liked Dalí,” Costa admitted. “He doesn't seem to like the people he paints.”

“Agreed. She looks like a bad actress being forced to smile for the audience. If I'm still getting paid for that when I turn forty, I'll be happy.”

“So this is where you come for inspiration?”

“No. I told you. I come here to possess, or to be possessed. By a dead girl in a French painting. Or a forgotten English aristocrat. Anyone, as long as it works.”

She leaned towards him, as if he were a child. “You don't honestly think they go to the movies to see
me
, do you?”

“Where's Beatrice?” he asked, avoiding the question.

Without a word she took him to another canvas. He stood in front of the work and felt, finally, at home.

“Dante came before Raphael, remember,” Maggie whispered. “So what do you expect?”

It took him back to Italy in an instant. The simple beauty, the placid tempera colours, the classical, relaxed posture of the figures: a winged Cupid with his bow, a young woman, in long medieval robes, reclining opposite him, staring at his tender face, in anticipation, perhaps in fear. They were in the kind of garden that might have been found in many a canvas adorning the walls of the museums of Florence: thick with trees, dark in places, shot through with light in others. In the distance three muses turned around each other, dancing.

The centuries passed, some ideas stayed the same. Costa leaned down and looked to see its origins. Maggie was right: Pre-Raphaelite, John Roddam Spencer Stanhope, from 1877 but fired directly by the Renaissance, and Botticelli in particular.

He turned to Maggie Flavier, now blonde, looking much, as she had first said, like an attractive young waitress from a 1950s TV show. When she wore the guise of Beatrice on the screen, under the directorial control of Roberto Tonti, she was someone different entirely: this woman from another time, a different now pretending to be a different then.

“I knew you'd ask,” she said as she retrieved some ribbons out of her bag. Costa watched as she wound the coloured strands through her hair, loosely styling them, after a fashion, in the manner of the braids on the figure in the painting. He could see her Beatrice still, beneath the dyed blonde tresses, beneath the tan she'd acquired somewhere along the way.

“You were perfect,” he whispered.

“I
am
perfect,” she corrected him. “When I want to be.”

He looked at the nameplate:
Love and the Maiden, 1877.

“I have nothing else to show you here,” she said. “But there's a view. If we wait long enough, we could see the best sunset in the world. Well, in San Francisco anyway. I used to love it when I caught the bus, waiting for my mother to get back from the studios, wondering what she'd say.”

“Where?”

“Through the woods,” she murmured, her green eyes never leaving his face for a moment. “Where else?”

I
T WAS A SHORT DRIVE. THEY STOPPED IN A deserted car park next to a stand of eucalyptus. Nearby there was a group of picnic tables and a site for tents alongside a campfire pit. He'd almost forgotten about the yellow car he'd seen on the way to the Legion of Honor. No one seemed to have followed them, though it was impossible to be certain in the narrow, winding pathways they drove along, the old green Jaguar swaying on its ancient suspension as if it were some ageing vessel navigating a rolling hilltop sea.

They got out and the smell of the trees—strong and medicinal—was everywhere. The grey trunks, shedding bark like bad skin, ranged around them, disappearing into the hazy blue distance. He'd read the signs on the Presidio when he'd walked in the lower reaches. The forest was the creation of man, not nature, planted by the military who had once occupied this narrow stretch of territory to the north of the city. He liked this idea, the notion of a land that was made, not simply inherited. To him it seemed novel.

“Down there,” Maggie said, pointing, “lie Baker Beach and the Pacific Ocean. Call this a city? Four miles behind us there's Union Square and Market and all that crap. Here.” She made a circle around herself, eyes closed, smiling, face pointed to the sky. “Here is peace and paradise. I used to spend the night here sometimes when my mother didn't come back from L.A. It's a
world.”

“Isn't that dangerous?”

“Do you know something worthwhile that isn't?”

“Quite a lot of things, to be honest.”

“Did your wife feel the same way?” she asked nervously. “She was an FBI agent once. She must have…”

He stayed silent, wondering.

“It was in the papers,” Maggie said. “Sorry. I looked. I had to. None of us has secrets anymore, you know.”

“You could have asked.”

She shook her head. The blonde locks, exactly Emily's colour, fluttered in the wind.

“No. You don't want to talk about it. I don't want to make you. All the same, I had to let you understand I know. Otherwise it would hang over us both. Me wondering whether to ask. You wondering whether to tell.”

He gazed past the trees, trying to guess how far it was to the beach and what they might find there.

“She wasn't afraid of danger,” Maggie said simply. “That was what killed her. Didn't it?”

“No. A man killed her. A deranged man I should have stopped. But I didn't. I was too slow. Too…indecisive. I thought…” This knowledge would never go away. “I thought I could negotiate some solution in which no one got hurt.”

That failure almost nagged him more than anything. It was a curiously indeterminate kind of guilt.

“So you want everything to be safe from now on. You want everyone close to you to wear some kind of armour that stops them from being touched by what's bad.”

“If I could find it…”

She stood closer to him. “If you found that, Nic, they'd be someone else. Not who they really are.” She sighed. “Unless of course you're in my business, in which case you have to be other people. God, I wish I could still use the word
actress.
Katharine Hepburn. Kim Novak. Bette Davis. It was good enough for them. I can't stand in their shadow. But maybe one day.”

“I promise to see one of your movies. Soon.”

“I didn't mean that.”

The wind quickened. It ruffled her hair. For a moment she looked like the urchin, a very elegant and well-kempt one, he'd first seen in Rome. She took a deep breath of the clean, sweet air.

“I love this place. The ocean. These trees. When I was a girl, I used to imagine I was a bird, a gull or something. That I could fly off this headland, over that beach, head west, on and on, free forever. Where do you think I'd wind up?”

“Hawaii?”

“Shame on you. Are all Italians bad at geography?”

“This one is. I've never been out of Europe before. What do you expect?”

“Better. Head that way, my boy…” Her long, strong, purposeful arm stretched out into the wind. “…and you will, after a very long journey, end up in Japan.”

She bowed like a geisha and said,
“Konbanwa
,” then paused to enjoy his bafflement. “It means ‘good evening.' I can do small talk in a million languages. Helps when you're on tour.” The forest of slender, upright eucalyptus made a whispering sound, leaves rustling in the breeze. The scent seemed stronger. Night was on the way.

“What did you do?” he asked. “When you camped here. As a girl.”

A different expression on her face now, amused, mock angry. “On a warm San Francisco night…” she sang. He dimly recognised the song. “What do you think? I smoked pot. Fell into the sleeping bag of any passing stranger. The usual.”

“I didn't mean that.” It was true and had to be said. “I didn't think it. For a moment.”

“Why? You might be right.”

“It's none of my business.”

“Oh.” She raised her finger in front of his face, in a way that Teresa Lupo might have done. “So you do believe in intuition. When it suits you. But you're not far wrong.” The shadow he was coming to recognise flickered across her face. “That all came later. Do you really want to know what I did?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“I ran.”

This was California, he reminded himself. “You jogged?”

Her green eyes lit up with indignation.
“Jogged?
I ran. Like the wind. Not your kind of running. Peroni told me about
that.
Long-distance stuff. Marathons. I sprinted. Pushed myself until I could feel my heart ready to burst. And then…” She raised her shoulders in a gesture of self-deprecation. “…I curled up alone in my sleeping bag with a bunch of Twinkies, feeling alive, watching the moon until I fell asleep. All alone. I liked it that way. I still do.”

A part of him wanted to touch her. A part of him wanted to resist.

“I'll count to five. Give you a start.” She nodded across the campsite. “There's an information sign with a map a hundred yards over there. I'll still beat you to it.”

“Too old… too tired…”

“Get running, damn you!”

He turned, not quite thinking right, and happy with that idea, the release of sanity, the embrace of something less rational. He could see the sign she spoke of in the shade where the trees became denser.

Costa didn't move as quickly as he could. He felt a little giddy. He wanted her to win, wanted her to overtake him, laughing, childlike, racing in front of him. And then…

He didn't know. San Francisco was a million miles from home. None of the old rules—the old cares, the old burdens-existed here. He was free of them, for a while anyway.

When he got to the sign, he wasn't even out of breath.

“Maggie…” he said as he turned.

There was no one there. Just a forest of grey trees standing like petrified soldiers, unmoving except for the dark fluttering diamonds of leaves, rippling their aroma into the land breeze that was running through the forest, down to the ocean.

He stood and thought, realising, with the old head he used in Rome, that he'd acted like a fool. Then, in the distance, where the light was failing, he saw a figure flit through the grey trunks.

It was a man, heavily built, carrying something low in his right hand. Something black and made of metal.

“Maggie!” Costa yelled again.

There was the faint echo of her laughter from somewhere. A shape in a white sweater slipped through the glade ahead to the right, not far from the man he'd seen. Not far at all.

Costa raced towards her, at full speed this time, half tripping over the rotting branches and the carpet of crisp dry leaves at his feet, bellowing into the thin night air, summoning up all the threat and the force he could muster.

A voice wasn't much against a weapon but it was something. In the distance, a little down the hill, just off the road, stood the yellow car he'd seen earlier. Trying to stifle the fury he felt with himself, he ploughed on, half stumbling into a crater full of ferns and moss and trash, fighting to keep his balance, yelling all the time.

He didn't catch sight of the man anywhere. But the third time he called he heard her laugh again, a calm, musical sound, followed by a mild French curse directed at his masculinity.

“This is not a game!” he roared.

A flock of birds rose unseen in a noisy, squawking gaggle. The suddenness and the sheer physical noise of their presence made him jump.

“Not a game…” he whispered to himself, trying to still his thoughts.

Something white emerged briefly from behind a silvery trunk ten steps or so to his right.

He didn't say anything. He walked straight there. When he was close, she stuck out a foot to make sure he saw.

Costa rounded the tree and found her. She was smiling, looking like a guilty schoolgirl. The apple she'd gotten from the catering van in the car park at the Palace of Fine Arts was in her hand.

“We're going,” he said, and took her arm, more roughly than he'd intended.

“Why? What's the rush? Oh, come on, Nic. Loosen up. Help me. Just a little. This is new to me, too, you know. I'm starting to feel like I'm fourteen again. Only this time, I'm happy.”

“There's someone here,” he warned, glancing around, seeing nothing.

“What? A Peeping Tom? Who cares? I don't. I've had those since forever.”

“Well, I haven't.” He reached for her arm. She stepped back, away from him. “I'm taking you home. You're supposed to have security.”

“Not from you, mister! You know, I could lose patience with all this. I don't usually have to beg.”

“I'm sorry.” He was still scanning the grey trees for the lone individual who was surely stalking them. “Let's go back to the city. We can find a restaurant. Have dinner.”

“I don't need dinner, thank you very much.” She waved the apple in his face. “I have this. Got it myself.” She took a huge, greedy bite of the fruit and screwed up her face as if it wasn't so good. “I don't need anything from anyone. Ever.”

“Fine. So can we go? Please?”

She didn't say another word. But she moved, striding in front of him, long steps, trying to make a point. In other circumstances he might have laughed. There was a theatrical quality to her petulance. It was a performance, one that was deliberately comic.

They were just a couple of steps from the car when she fell. Costa rushed to her side. The ground was treacherous: leaves covered potholes, snarled roots of the stiff military trees lurked hidden, waiting to trip the unwary.

“Let me help you up,” he said, and offered her his hand.

Maggie Flavier rolled over on the earth in front of him. Her face seemed strange. Taut, a little swollen. Her mouth flapped open as if out of control. Her lips were a vivid shade of red, and her green eyes stared up at him in terror.

“Ow,
ow
, OW…” she screamed, and gripped her stomach in agony.

The apple tumbled from her hand, half eaten. Costa bent down. Stupidly, automatically, he picked up the piece of fruit and sniffed it. A strange, unexpected aroma rose from the flesh.
Almonds
, he thought, and the word caused alarm, for reasons he couldn't place.

A physical tremor gripped her thin body. She stiffened. Her head jerked back, golden hair thrusting into the dank leaves and earth, then rolled sideways. A cry of pain and astonishment and anger emerged from her lips. Then a thin stream of bile began to trickle from her mouth onto the ground, her breathing became short and laboured, her body started to arch in harsh involuntary spasms.

Someone was approaching, fast and deliberate.

His hands held hers until the last moment. Then Costa rose, turning, saw the powerful, muscular shape of a man in a red-checked lumberjack shirt, with something black and threatening in his hand, closing on them.

There wasn't time to think anything through. He took one step forward and lashed out with his right fist, caught the intruder on the chin, punched hard again, was satisfied to see the corpulent frame start to fall backwards, the object in his hand tumbling into the dead leaves.

It was a camera, a big black SLR.

Costa blinked, felt hopeless, uncertain where his attention ought to lie.

The man on the ground started swearing at him. Costa didn't listen. He turned and looked at the stricken woman, crouched next to her again. Her eyes were starting to roll back under the lids. She seemed barely conscious. Her breathing appeared dreadfully fast and shallow. The convulsions had fallen into a terrifying regime, one that was slowing with each diminishing lungful of air.

They trained a police officer for this kind of event. But that was on a different continent, in a different language.

Whoever the man was, he wasn't a threat. Not an obvious one at that moment.

All the same, as the hulking figure in the red shirt retrieved his camera and began to scuttle away, firing off shots all the time, Costa took one quick step towards him, kicked hard at his arm as it held the camera, heard the snap of fracturing bone.

There was a scream. The figure was on the ground again, still trying to scramble crab-like through the desiccated leaves covering the forest floor. Costa turned, stepped forward, and stood quite deliberately on his shattered limb for a moment, then waited for the cries of agony to subside a little.