The Villa of Mysteries (12 page)

Neri looked into the stranger’s face, wondering why he’d been stupid enough to refuse Bucci’s offer of a cab and climb on board this thing in the first place. Because you’re an old fool, he thought to himself. And maybe they’re starting to know it.

The man couldn’t stop smiling. It was beyond Neri why anyone would smile on a stinking, overcrowded bus. He couldn’t wait for the thing to lurch across the bridge and into the Via Arenula so he could waddle home along the Via Giulia.

“Use the seat yourself,” Neri growled. “I don’t need it. What makes you think I do?”

“Nothing,” the man said, still smiling. He looked like a confidence trickster or some two-bit actor in the Fellini films “I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Neri snarled.

And so he clung to the strap, wishing all the way that he’d fallen into the seat and taken the weight off his sweating feet. There was some black teenager in it now, headphones clamped to his skull, a hissing noise emerging from them.

He got off at the Via Arenula, in a big jostling crowd. He had to wait almost five minutes to cross the busy road. When he got home he was out of breath and stank of sweat, Mickey and Adele’s fighting still in his head, jostling for attention with the call from inside the Questura.

The house was empty. He wanted them there. When the phone rang he knew an ancient corpse really was rising, in a way he’d have to anticipate, couldn’t hope to avoid.

TWENTY MINUTES AFTER LEAVING the Teatro di Marcello Nic Costa and Gianni Peroni followed Falcone’s car into a narrow private lane off the Janiculum Hill, the sprawling piece of parkland that rose up from behind Trastevere and overlooked the river.

Peroni downed the remains of his second
porchetta
panino of the day, brushed the crumbs off his jacket into the floorpan of the Fiat and said, “You know, I like the way you drive, Nic. It’s careful without being over-cautious, sensitive to circumstances and a little rash if required. When I’m restored to my true position I will offer you a job, my boy. You can drive me anywhere. Most of the guys I have spend their time bouncing off other vehicles which is a little unsettling for a sensitive man like me.”

Then he unwrapped a chocolate bar and took a single bite before sticking it in his pocket, half-eaten.

“You’re going to put on weight eating like that,” Costa observed. “It’s not natural.”

“Been the same weight for fifteen years. I burn it up inside, what with my nervous tension and all. You just see the exterior me. Calm, unflustered, ever-vigilant, ugly as a horse’s ass, just what I want you to see. But inside I’m a tortured cauldron of torn emotions. I’ve got traumas that can burn off any amount of carbohydrate and cholesterol I throw at it. You watch. You seen so much as an extra gram on me since we started this relationship?”

“No.”

“Also, you should be aware that meat — even the shit they sell under that name in Rome — and bread, they’re the best antidote there is against this flu thing. Forget all that crap about fruit and vegetables. You ever seen a chimpanzee? Fucking things never stop sneezing. Or doing the other thing. Sometimes simultaneously.”

Costa thought about this. “I’ve never seen a chimpanzee sneeze.”

“You need to develop your powers of observation. Now do you want me to come in and hold hands with you for this or can I just stay in the car and nap awhile? What with mummified bodies and Roman history lessons this has been a tiring day for a nocturnal animal like me.”

Peroni took the cigarette packet out, saw Costa’s face and thought better of it. “OK. OK. One concession a day is all you get. About the English kid, Nic. Falcone’s doing all he can in the circumstances. Putting the picture around. Getting the CCTV. I mean, I’m no detective but what this mother says seems so
vague
.”

“Things often are. Isn’t it that way in vice?”

He shook his head. “Not really. We’re law enforcement, not detection. We just try to keep a lid on everything, make sure no one truly innocent gets hurt and the dope stays out of the equation as much as possible. I’m not like you. I’m a kind of social worker if you want the honest truth. You got to remember. If it comes down to violence and worse it all falls out of our hands anyway. We’re just licensed informers who hand on some gossip you people can use. A popular job, you’ll agree.”

“And when you want some information?”

“I ask,” Peroni replied. “Straight out front. I’m a good asker. No messing. It’s the only way. So let me say this again: What’s the problem? You want to spend a little more time around the mother? A man should always consider his sex life, but I told you. Ask Barbara out. She’s a nice girl.”

“Meaning?” Peroni could be too direct for his own good. Too observant too.

“Meaning I saw the way you looked at the English woman. Don’t get me wrong. She’s great-looking in a kind of second-hand way. Older than you, though that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Not my type. Too much of something — booze maybe, and bad dreams — been through her head.”

“I just think there’s more to it,” Costa replied. Peroni hadn’t heard as much as he had. Or maybe he was uncharacteristically slow off the mark.

The older man put his hand on Costa’s arm. “Nic. You heard Falcone. He said you could be right. But think this through. You just got back on the job. There are people in the Questura who happen to believe Falcone’s crazy to give you a second chance at all. You’re
on probation
. Just like me.”

“And you think that if I push this I can ruin your chances along with my own?”

“If you want to look at it that way, yeah,” Peroni conceded. “That’s a part of it. But mainly I’m thinking about you. Honest. I got to know you a little these last couple of weeks. Sometimes you take things on yourself. Someone else’s problem becomes yours.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“It’s a backhanded one. The flip side is that’s a great way to get screwed. Or screw yourself.”

“I won’t screw up, Gianni. Forget about me. What about the missing girl? What if these two are connected? All that stuff about the rituals—”

Peroni sighed and shook his head. “A piece of vegetable and some seeds? Look, they don’t call her Crazy Teresa for nothing. I love her as much as anyone, but you got to admit this is stretching things. Even if she has it half right about the corpse, there’s no way it can have anything to do with the Julius girl. They’re sixteen years apart. They have absolutely nothing in common except the looks. What are you saying? Someone’s still doing all this mumbo-jumbo? How come we heard nothing all this time? You think Rome hasn’t seen a pretty teenage blonde since the girl in the peat?”

It was a good question. He’d thought about it too. “Maybe it went all right before. Maybe someone only gets killed if there’s a foul-up. If the girl suddenly doesn’t want to play ball. I don’t know.”

Peroni nodded. “So all the Julius girl has to do is let this creep have his way with her? Then she gets free?”

More than that, Costa thought. He recalled what Teresa had said about the book. The girl gets
rewarded
. She gets a taste of paradise. She becomes an initiate, part of the club. And the next time round she sees the ritual from the inside. She watches someone else
become
.

“Maybe,” he said.

“Doesn’t seem a big deal. Women have been getting on that way since we all crawled out of the slime.”

Gianni Peroni came from a different generation. Costa reminded himself to keep that in mind. “In this century it’s a big deal.”

Peroni gave him a sharp look. “Sorry. Just the dinosaur in me talking. Let’s forget it, huh? My advice is: we just keep our heads down and do as we’re told. That is the way of progress in the modern police force.”

There was the rumble of a sports car. A black Alfa Romeo coupe drove up and parked close to Falcone’s vehicle. Costa watched as an elegant woman in a serious dark jacket and tight skirt, cut to just above the knee, climbed out and, very gingerly, embraced Falcone, kissing him lightly on the cheek.

Peroni closed his eyes. “Oh shit. There goes my nap. There really is no God after all. Or if there is he’s a bastard. Behold, one more reason to listen to what the dinosaur’s saying. Know who that is?”

Costa shook his head.

“The ice maiden from the DIA. Rachele D’Amato. Big number there these days too. Does things like setting up stings in brothels and you wouldn’t tell anyone in vice first if you did that, would you? Listen. Never, ever do you mess with her, understand? Not until you make inspector class and even then I’d wear gloves. She’s the woman Falcone was porking way back until his wife found out. What the hell is she doing here? Come to that, what the hell are
we
doing here? I am living in darkness with you people.”

Falcone and the woman were talking animatedly outside the gates. It was a professional conversation, from the woman’s side anyway.

“Anything else I need to know about her?”

“Oh yes,” Peroni added. “She hates cops. At least . . . let me be more precise. She has a thing about us. Maybe it comes from her experience with Falcone. We’re all assholes. Crooked assholes too in all probability. Before stiffing me she took down two men from narcotics last year for receiving backhanders.”

“More fool them,” Costa scowled. He hated bent cops. He couldn’t work out why anyone had any sympathy for them in the Questura.

“Oh, I forgot,” Peroni groaned. “You’re the one with a conscience. Let me tell you something, kid. These were good guys. They put a lot of people in jail who deserved to be there. Until you’ve worked that beat yourself I suggest you don’t prejudge people. In that line of work it’s sometimes hard to be black and white, because if you are, no one talks to you at all.”

Costa stared at his partner. He wished he could understand Peroni better. Sometimes the man said things that disturbed him.

“Whatever,” Peroni continued. “The bitch has balls, I’ll say that for her. Word was someone put out a contract on her a year back. When she found out she drove round to his house, walked in on him and his old woman over breakfast and . . . reached an understanding.”

The DIA people did walk a dangerous line. Costa knew one who’d been badly injured in a bomb blast in Sicily. There weren’t just cops in the force either. Some lawyers were in there too. Somehow that seemed to make them easier targets in the eyes of the mob.

“Is she still on the list?”

“She’s alive, isn’t she?”

Peroni climbed out of the car and walked to the gates, Costa dogging his footsteps. Rachele D’Amato was slim, in her thirties, a type Costa recognized: businesslike, serious, but not above turning on the attraction to get her way. She had plenty to work with. She was just a touch taller than Nic Costa, with the kind of figure other women hated to see. The suit emphasized her slender waist. Her jacket hung open to reveal a tight, cream silk shirt, cut revealingly low. She had a hard, beautiful face, with a phoney smile accented by deep-red lipstick, and immaculate, long brown hair, pulled back from her forehead and tied behind. Costa could imagine Falcone with her. They’d make a convincing couple. He just wondered how much mutual trust they’d ever manage to share.

“Not that I’m complaining but why’s a civilian here?” Peroni wondered.

Rachele D’Amato turned and smiled. “Oh. Let me remember the name. It’s
Detective
Peroni. Right?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “And there was me thinking you wouldn’t recognize me with my clothes on. You know, I don’t recall you looking at my face for one moment that memorable evening. Ah well. Meet the DIA lady, Nic. Rachele D’Amato. She’s just so cute, isn’t she? Why don’t we get them that pretty in the police?”

Costa smiled and said nothing.

“So,” Peroni continued. “You just passing or something? No need to answer. Nice that you should stop by and say hello. This, by the way, is what we call police work. You’re currently looking at the only three cops in Rome with clear nasal passages, though I cannot guarantee how long that will stay true for my veggie-eating partner here. Best you run along in case something nasty happens.”

Falcone gave him a filthy look then pressed the button on the videophone. “Miss D’Amato is here because I asked for her help.”

Peroni wasn’t about to give up. “You mean this is a brothel too? Jeez. They show up in the strangest places these days. Oh, oh. Icy stare time. I got it wrong. This guy’s some kind of hood? No! Don’t recall any of them living in this part of town. Place looks like it ought to belong to some playboy or something.”

It was a shrewd observation. The main house lay a good hundred metres beyond the big secure gates. It resembled a reproduction imperial villa, a single-storey palace built around an open patio. An avenue of classical statues lined the pathway up to the house. At the end there was what looked like a fishpond and a fountain.

Rachele D’Amato looked Costa up and down while Peroni stood there, grinning. “I don’t know you. Leo made you his partner. You must have done something very bad.”

“Nic Costa,” he replied, and held out his hand. “I like challenges.”

“Me too, kid,” Peroni growled.

“Well, that’s the formalities done,” she said. “I’m here because you can’t do this without me. Sorry, but that’s the way it is these days. Wallis has antecedents. He doesn’t worry me now, but he’s got a past. And he knows people who do worry me. Is that enough?”

Costa watched as a face filled the videophone screen: a middle-aged black man, handsome, speaking perfect Italian.

“Police,” Falcone said, holding up his card. “We need to talk.”

“What do you want?” the man asked.

“It’s about your stepdaughter, Mr. Wallis. We’ve found a body. We need identification. Now please.”

Costa watched the head on the screen. Falcone’s words gave the man pain.

“Come in,” Vergil Wallis murmured, and the lock on the gates began to buzz.

SILVIO DI CAPUA HAD LEARNED A LOT in the three years since he became Teresa Lupo’s deputy pathologist in the morgue. She’d taught him tricks of the autopsy trade they never told you in medical school. She’d shown him any number of smart-ass quips to make when cops fainted or threw up. She’d ingratiated him into the Questura too, introduced him to people so that he became her eyes and ears, the source of most of the hot gossip running through the station. Above all, though, Teresa had revealed to Di Capua — a good Catholic boy brought up by monks, a man who, at the age of twenty-seven, had still never been out with a member of the opposite sex — the unbridled joys of language when freed from the restraints of custom, taste and dignity.