Dante's Numbers (21 page)

T
HEY HAD SPENT MORE THAN AN HOUR WANdering around Mission Dolores. She couldn't have hoped for better guides. Hank and Frank were in love with their city. They seemed to know every last corner. For Teresa Lupo, who had no fondness for religion, the mission was a revelation. In Rome, the Church was omnipresent, and seemed to have been that way forever. Seated in the small adobe chapel of Mission Dolores, she was, for the first time in her life, conscious of a world that existed before God, at least the one she'd grown up with. This had been a different, virgin environment, one conquered by a foreign host bringing what it saw as enlightenment and civilisation, just two hundred and fifty years before, at a time when Rome regarded itself as the modern capital of a civilised, fixed universe in which everything was labelled, recognised, and known. In Italy, history seemed either distant or a part of the living present. Here the past existed just out of reach, tantalisingly near yet untouchable, alive yet gone, too.

The place fascinated her so much that she forgot, for a while, why they'd gone there. Then Frank asked, “So you really want to see Carlotta's grave?”

Oh. Of course.”

They walked outside. It was getting cold and late. She wondered how much longer they could stay here. How much she could put off going back to Greenwich Street and admitting she had nothing to report, or suggest. A green car, some locations, a few possible coincidences…it added up to nothing and she knew it.

The cemetery was beautiful, hushed and peaceful, filled with roses, bold spikes of yellow cannas, and flowers she couldn't identify.

The statues of dead monks ranged across the graveyard, pensive heads bowed over their own tombs, the long foreign grass rising up to their frozen grey waists. Misshapen conifers rose among the forest of headstones against the white adobe walls where two unequal towers, like decorations on a wedding cake, pointed to a fading blue sky above floods of purple and red bougainvillea tumbling down from the roofline.

The names on the graves seemed to come from everywhere: Spain and Ireland, England and the east coast of America. Some tombs were grand, most modest. Death and the relentless maritime climate were slowly reducing them all to crumbling stone.

She wandered through a grove of roses and came upon a small dome-shaped reed hut, recently erected. A sign said it was designed to show the original kind of dwelling place used by the Ohlone, the indigenous people of the area before colonisation. She closed her eyes, thought of the scene in the movie: Scottie, in a brown suit and a 1950s gentleman's hat, skulking by the overhang of the mission walls, watching from the shadow of a sprawling tomb, furtively spying on Madeleine as she gazed down at a grave, a curious bouquet of roses in her hand.

“She knew you were there all along, Scottie,” Teresa murmured.

“That she did,” Frank agreed.

“You like the movie, too?” she asked.

His eyes clouded over with doubt. “It's not easy to forget and I don't know why. Or what it means, if it means anything, or needs to. There's something…” He chose his words carefully. She noticed how Hank watched him, a quiet look of admiration in his near-identical face. “… there's something not quite right about it. Something… obsessive. The way everyone seems to be watching that woman. Not just Scottie. The camera, too. Us. The audience. It's unnatural and it's supposed to be that way. The thing draws you in, and if you think about it, that makes you uncomfortable.”

“It's voyeuristic,” she suggested.

He grinned. “The very word! You know, for a foreigner, you're very good with English.”

She shrugged. “I've got the time. I'm off the case. Just another tourist. Words are all I have.”

Teresa put out her hand and touched the dry reeds of the Ohlone structure. “It was here, wasn't it? Carlotta's gravestone? Before they moved it to that little cinema in the Marina?”

“If they
moved it to that little cinema in the Marina,” Frank cautioned. “You heard that guy. His uncle was a rogue. Movie crews always are. Do you know
no one
has any idea where the painting went? The one of Carlotta? It'd be worth a fortune now. They think it just got scrapped. Thrown out with the junk. One more prop. That was Hitch. Finish one movie, get on with the next. Never look back. Only the present matters. Do you think people like Roberto Tonti treat the job that way?”

“Not for a moment. They've got egos the size of a whale. They're interested in their legacy.”

“Which is nothing more and nothing less than the movies they leave behind,” Frank insisted. “I think Hitch got it right.”

His brother intervened. “It was actually a little to the left.” Hank pointed to a rough patch where a few low flowers were struggling to flourish in the dry earth. “They couldn't use somewhere there was a real grave, for sure.”

“You saw it?” she asked them. “When it was here?”

“We were kids,” Hank replied. “It was fun to go somewhere movie stars had been. To stand on the same spot. Like touching the hem of God. Not that we would have put it that way back then.” He nodded at the mission. “Much more fun than that place, anyway.”

“The funny thing is,” Frank went on, “they left that fake gravestone there for a while. It was a tourist attraction. The mission needed the money. You can't blame them. Then…” He glanced back at the little chapel again. “… someone said it was
disrespectful.
An insult to the real dead people here.”

“As if they're going to complain,” Hank added. “No one's been buried here in years.”

“Does that matter?” she wondered.

Frank shuffled, uncomfortable. “When you're dead you're dead. Only fools and children believe in ghosts.”

She felt the same way, usually. “That's what Scottie thought. Was he right?”

Frank nodded earnestly. “Yes. He was bang on the money, even if it did cost him. Is there anything else you need to see? Churches give me the creeps, to be honest with you. Also, if we're in time, we can hit the happy hour at a little bar we know…”

“No. I don't think so…” she began, and then her eye caught the tree.

What was it Catherine Bianchi said? In California, almonds flowered at the end of February. That would mean they would bear fruit during the summer.

Next to the place where the grave of the fictional Carlotta Valdes had once stood was an old, crooked almond tree, little more than the height of a man. Its leaves fluttered weakly in the early evening breeze; its feeble, arthritic branches were black with age and dead fungi. On each, visible, still a little green from their newness, stood lines of nuts in their velvet, furry shells.

She took two steps towards the tree, reached up, and tugged one from the nearest branch.

“You're going to get us in trouble,” Hank warned.

“Perish the thought…”

Teresa crouched down and found a stone. Then she placed the nut on its surface and cracked the shell open with a rock. There was a loud bang that ricocheted around the walls of the tiny graveyard. She studied the shards of the inner fruit, white and mashed against the stone.

There was no lab in San Francisco she could use. So she picked up the largest piece and put it in her mouth.

Even before she got to her feet, she was coughing. It was painful. Someone—she couldn't see who—was thumping her on the back. There was a new voice, a woman's voice.

With no grace whatsoever, she spat out every last piece of the almond she could. Even so, the taste lingered.

It was the most bitter thing she'd ever known.

“What are you doing?
What are you doing?”
The face of a severe, dark-skinned Mexican-looking woman hove into view and began castigating her.

“It was…” She started coughing, gagging for breath.

Another woman, a nun, with a blue headdress, arrived, carrying a plastic cup with water in it. Teresa drank greedily and found herself spitting out more pieces of almond.

“I'm sorry,” she said, and found herself coughing again.

“Why did you do that?” the nun asked. “This is a cemetery. Not an orchard.”

“I was curious. The fruit was very…harsh.”

The two women were silent.

“It's a bitter almond,” Teresa asked, “isn't it?”

The nun crossed her arms in anger. “They say the first priests planted it. Two hundred and fifty years ago. Do we need to put up a sign saying ‘Don't steal the almonds'?”

The Mexican woman touched the branches. “It's dying. We feed it. We try to care for it. Nothing helps.” She shook her head. Her eyes were sad. “Perhaps it's for the best. If people keep coming here and taking away what's not theirs…”

Teresa felt her heart skip a beat and prayed it wasn't a side effect of the bitter nut she'd just eaten. “Someone else ate the almonds?”

“A man,” the Mexican woman said. “And he had a bag! He took many, and wouldn't give them back when we caught him.”

Hank and Frank were looking at her and licking their lips in anticipation.

“This man,” Teresa asked, “do you know who he is? I really need to know.”

The nun took the plastic cup and gave her a withering look. “We don't know his name. We told the police, of course. This is a nice neighbourhood. We don't want people coming in and stealing things. The police said we were wasting their time. There are worse crimes in this city than stealing almonds from a graveyard.”

The Mexican woman waved her fist in the air. “But we had a photograph!
A photograph!”

Teresa wanted to laugh. She still felt giddy. The nasty taste wouldn't go away. “Can I see it?”

The two women stared at her and said nothing.

“Please. It may be important.”

“The
parroco
has it,” the Mexican woman said. “The pastor. He is out for a little while.”

“Then I'll wait.”

“Not here,” the nun ordered. “In the basilica, please.” She patted the trunk of the withering almond tree. “Out of the way of temptation.”

M
ARTIN VOGEL'S APARTMENT WAS PAST UNION Square, the department stores and gift shops, the cable cars and the constant presence of street people pestering for money. It lay in a nondescript commercial building down a dark, dank lane. SoMa, Nic learned from the guidebooks, was a trendy part of the city, up and coming, aspiring to be cultural, in much the same way as Testaccio in Rome. In parts it had the same tough, rough, urban aspect, too.

He found a discreet, half-hidden set of nameplates by a set of side doors. One, number 213, which he took to mean the second floor, had the scrawled name
Vogel
by it.

His finger lurked over the bell push for a moment. Then Costa chose another name, a few doors along, pressed the button, and waited.

A woman's voice, taut, angry, and hurried, barked out of the speaker.

“Pizz—” he began to say.

“Jesus Christ!” the woman screeched.

The buzzer on the lock bleated. He pushed the door open and found himself inside a spare, cool atrium that smelled of bleach.

Without thinking, he patted his jacket. There was no gun there. He was just another civilian.

He walked upstairs, trying to think of what he'd say. He hadn't just broken the photographer's arm. He'd stood on it. This didn't worry him any more now than when it had happened. Vogel had been stalking them for reward and the paparazzo had been determined to get out of there without helping once he had his pictures. Costa had needed to know where they were, to extract from him the exact location so that an ambulance could find them. Costa felt he'd had little alternative.

There was a sound from the floor above. A dog barking. A woman's cry. Music. From somewhere the shriek of a baby. There was the smell of stale food and rotten trash. Down the stairwell fell the noise of people arguing several floors up.

When he got to the top of the staircase, he found himself in near darkness. Two of the strip lights in the corridor ceiling had failed. A third flickered sickly, on and off.

The baby wailed again, its cries echoing off the walls so much he had no idea from which direction the sound came.

Each door had a little light behind the bell push. The nearest read 256. He walked along. The next read 257.

The wrong side, and the wrong direction. It was turning out to be one of those days.

He wondered whether this was a good idea at all. Then he thought about what Falcone would say if he came back and admitted he'd pulled out at the last moment. The good mood that the presence of Catherine Bianchi instilled in the inspector was, like most things surrounding Falcone, transient. The inspector's private life consisted of a series of short, intense relationships followed by periods of mute, surly celibacy. The pattern was well established now. Costa didn't want to bounce it out of phase prematurely.

He recrossed the stairwell and strode down the opposite corridor. Only one light was out here. As he walked, the sounds of the apartment block receded. There were no crying babies in this part of the building, no angry voices.

Costa reached the door of apartment 213. It was ajar, just a finger's width, enough to let a shaft of orange artificial light stumble through and fall on the tiled floor of the apartment in an eccentric shape.

Decisions, he thought.

He edged his foot forward until it reached the cheap painted wood that was supposed to keep Martin Vogel safe from the world beyond. The door moved steadily inwards at his touch, on hinges that needed a touch of oil.