He stared at a framed photograph of Sharon on the desk next to the computer, Sharon with dark hair, smiling at the camera. The picture really capturing her: sexy and good-looking. He thought about their wedding at St Regis Church and the reception at Pine Lake Country Club, Sharon's parents showing him off as their celebrity son-in-law, caught up in the Secret Service mystique.
Ray and Sharon didn't want a big wedding but her parents insisted on it — 350 people, half of whom Ray had never met, mostly Sharon's dad's Chrysler buddies and the entire Vanelli family, which had the population of a Sicilian village. Sharon had picked a band, the Howling Diablos, she knew, and after all the formality: speeches, dinner, cutting the cake and throwing the bouquet, they drank and danced, first Ray taking off his rented tux jacket, and then his cummerbund, then his ten- pleat, wing-collared Egyptian cotton tuxedo shirt, swinging Sharon around in his sweat-soaked undershirt to the raised eyebrows of her dad's friends and fellow club members. Ray and Sharon didn't care, it was their wedding.
They honeymooned in Hawaii, the first stop, followed by a week in New Zealand, cruising the South Island, stopping in pubs and meeting the locals who seemed to genuinely like Americans. Someone would buy them each a pint and they'd buy one back, and two hours later they would stagger out and go to their hotel and make love.
When they got back from the trip Sharon's parents gave them enough for a down payment on the house in Beverly Hills. The future looked bright. They were in love and it looked like only good things were ahead for them.
He thought back, trying to pinpoint when things started to go wrong, when they’d started drifting apart. Clearly, his being away from home for extended periods of time put a strain on their relationship. Even so, they’d been able to keep it together for ten years, at least. Over the past twelve months he’d been drinking more and paying less attention to her. He could see she didn't know what to do, either, baffled by his surly belligerence. They couldn't have a conversation without getting into an argument. The job had stressed him out of his mind and he didn't realize it at the time. He'd felt that way for so long it was just normal. Looking back, now he understood, he got it, and wanted to tell Sharon he was messed up, and wanted to apologize.
Ray left the next evening at 7:05, flew coach, a seat on the aisle. He drank Cabernet, watched part of Slumdog Millionaire, fell asleep and woke up when the plane landed in Amsterdam. He had an hour-and-forty-five-minute layover and then a two- hour flight to Rome, arriving at Leonardo da Vinci airport at 1:05 pm. The last time he'd flown to Rome was on Air Force One, and he hadn't had two Dewar's on the rocks and three mini bottles of red wine. He was hung over and jet-lagged.
Ray took a taxi to the del Senato, a good-looking, six-story pink building with white accents on the southwest side of the Pantheon. It had a small elegant lobby with a chandelier, and a smaller bar that didn't appear to be open. It was a lot nicer than the write-up in the guidebook. He checked in, went to his room and dropped his bag on the floor and went to the window. He could see the east side of the Pantheon, and the muted white building on the opposite side of Piazza della Rotonda, and the obelisk in the center of the square.
He went to the bed and pulled down the gold-striped spread and stretched out on the mattress, his body heavy and tired, and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was 3:30 in the afternoon.
When he woke up four hours later it was dark. He looked out the window, saw the Pantheon in the piazza below, the square crowded with cars and street vendors and tourists, the sounds coming through the open window. He showered and dressed and took the elevator down to the lobby and handed his key to a dapper old guy in a blue suit behind the desk, and went outside.
He stood in front of the Pantheon studying its pillared facade built in ad 125, looking as sturdy as a New York skyscraper. He studied the columns, wondering if they were Doric or Corinthian. Thinking about the last time he’d been here. He was on detail with the vice president and his wife, the two of them, and a priest from Rome, a papal attache named Father Grimaldi, their guide, plus three other members of the detail. They’d gotten a private tour of the Pantheon, and what had really impressed him was the opening in the ceiling, a circle called the Oculus, the Great Eye; it was the only source of light in the whole place.
It had rained earlier the day they were there and the marble floor was wet, the area roped off. Father Grimaldi told them the Pantheon had been designed with a drainage system below the floor, diverting the water that came in through the opening. Amazing.
Ray walked toward Piazza Navona, saw a taxi and got in and took it over the Tiber River to Trastevere and wound through the narrow streets to Piazza Sant’Egidio. He told the driver he was going to Museo di Roma. The man looked at him like he was crazy and said, museo non aperto, telling Ray what he already knew. It wasn't open. He paid the driver ten euros for the eight-euro fare, got out of the taxi and walked down a narrow cobblestone street that had huge stone urns sprouting green plants. He could see laundry hanging on a rope strung between the buildings that were a shade of magenta.
He approached the cafe, Ombre Rosse, and stood across the street, scanning the people sitting outside under canvas umbrellas, under tall leafy trees that seemed to grow out of the cobblestones. Ray didn't know who was meeting him. He went inside and moved past the small wood-topped bar where customers stood drinking espresso out of little white cups, and beer out of stemmed glasses. He walked into the main room that was small and crowded and loud. There was an open table in the corner. He sat and ordered a glass of red wine. He looked around but no one seemed to notice him. Looked at a framed sepia-tone photograph on the wall next to his table. Six men from another time, sitting in chairs, four of them looking at the camera and two more grinning and glancing to the their right.
The waiter brought his wine in a short-stemmed glass. He watched the door, studying everyone who came in. He sipped the wine that tasted bitter, watching a dark-haired girl, mid-twenties, get up from the bar and come into the room. She was petite, five two, shoulder-length dark hair, attractive, bag on a strap over her shoulder. She didn't look at him but walked to his table.
She said, "Signor Pope, my name is Paola. May I join you?"
Ray got up and pulled the chair next to him out and she sat down. She was better-looking up close, dark eyes and high cheekbones and flawless skin.
"Would you like a drink," Ray said, "glass of wine?"
"No, grazie," she said. "I have this for you."
She had a heavy accent. She slipped the bag off her shoulder and rested it in her lap. She unzipped it and took out a manila-colored package and handed it to him. It was padded, a few inches thick and must've weighed four pounds.
"What you order. Buona notte, Signor Pope."
She got up and moved to the door. Ray looked around to see if anyone was watching him. No one seemed to be. He signaled his waiter, asked for the check and paid for the wine. Now he tucked the manila envelope under his arm and walked out of the cafe and went around the corner down Via della Paglia to Santa Maria in Trastevere, the square quiet and deserted at 10:30 at night.
He took a cab back to his hotel and went up to his room. There was a lamp on the bedside table. He turned it on and sat on the side of the bed and pulled the tape off the envelope, opened it and slid a shrink-wrapped SIG Sauer SP 2022 on the bedspread, along with three twelve-shot magazines. Thirty-six rounds.
Ray unwrapped the SIG. It was 7.4 inches long and weighed 30.2 ounces fully loaded. He picked up a magazine and slid it in the grip. In his opinion it was the best handgun you could buy, balanced, accurate and dependable. He cradled the weapon with two hands and aimed across the room at a bust, the likeness of Julius Caesar.
His BlackBerry started buzzing in his pocket. He took it out and looked. It was a text message from Teegarden confirming that Sharon had arrived in Italy on October 12th. She had flown New York-Rome on KLM. Now finally, he had a line on her. He couldn't believe it. There were a lot of times in the pa
st week he doubted he'd ever see her again, doubted she was alive, but had held out hope. A friend of Teeg's at the FBI had done him a favor, contacted Italian immigration. Nothing about Joey yet. He'd stay on it and follow up when he had something concrete.
Chapter Twenty-seven
They went inside and she stood next to him and watched him cut slices of bread and cheese on the tile countertop in the kitchen. "McCabe, you don't say much about yourself. Are you really from Detroit?"
"Nobody says they're from Detroit unless they are."
"After visiting, I can understand. You have brothers or sisters?"
"A sister," McCabe said. "Two years older. Married, two daughters, works for an ad agency."
Angela said, "What is her name?"
"Jane," McCabe said.
"What about your parents?"
"My mother died when I was a freshman in high school, lymphoma, cancer of the lymph nodes."
"So you know what it feels like," Angela said.
"I thought it was unfair, but I didn't feel sorry for myself. I didn't think poor me. What can you do? You force yourself to stop thinking about it, move on."
"What about your father?"
"He's a retired ironworker. A few years ago he was on a job, trying to maneuver a thirty-foot I-beam into position. It had been drizzling that day and the steel was wet and he fell forty feet and landed on top of a plywood pedestrian walkway. Broke his hip and shoulder on the left side and his pelvis. He was supposed to be wearing a safety harness, but wasn't. He was in critical condition for a week and eventually got better and came home but he couldn't go back up on the high steel, and retired at forty-five on a modest pension."
She touched his hand that was flat on the countertop, sliding her fingers over his. He lifted his hand and turned it around and lightly gripped her palm, gliding his fingers over hers now.
She said, "What is it about holding hands."
"I know what you mean," he said.
She put her wine glass down on the counter and put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He brought his hands up under her tee-shirt, and reached behind and unfastened her bra. She raised her arms and he pulled the tee-shirt up over her head. He glided his fingers over her breasts, bent down and kissed her nipples, hand sliding down her flat tan stomach, reaching into her capris, fingers probing and sliding into her.
Then they were pulling at each other's clothes, trying to take them off, like they couldn't do it fast enough, and went down on the rug on the kitchen floor, Angela on top now, breasts pressing against his chest, feeling the heat from his body. Angela kissed him and reached between his legs, holding him and guiding him inside her.
She traced the scar over his left eye. They were upstairs in bed, McCabe on his back, sheet angled across his chest, Angela next to him on her stomach. He could feel her body against his, and the light touch of her fingertip on his face.
Angela said, "How did this happen?"
"I got hit with a puck," McCabe said.
She made a face, looked concerned like it had just happened and he was in pain. "How many stitches do you have?"
"Fifteen."
"Fifteen? That is a lot."
She kissed the scar. He had another one on his right cheekbone, a white ridge of tissue that snaked down under his jaw. She touched it, moved the tip of her index finger over it. "What about this one?"
"High sticking," McCabe said. "I played for the Muskegon Fury in the United Hockey League. Also called the U-Haul League because we were hauled around in a bus. It's a couple steps below the NHL. We played the Rockford Ice Hogs and the Fort Wayne Komets and the Bloomington Prairie Thunder." He could see she had no clue what he was talking about. "Instead of hockey, it should've been called boxing on ice. "
"Is this where you learned to fight?" Angela said.
"No," McCabe said, "but I got a lot of practice. There were four or five fights every game. Ever thrown a punch on skates?"
"Let me think," Angela said, rubbing her jaw for effect. "No, I don't think so."
He liked her smartass attitude, and the way she looked at him. "We beat Fort Wayne in the finals, won the Colonial Cup my first year. That's like the Stanley Cup of the UHL, if that makes any sense."
"I'm impressed," Angela said.
"You should be. I was making four hundred dollars a week as a rookie, living the good life." He grinned to show her he was kidding. "We had a salary cap, a limit of $250,000 for the whole team. That's all the league allows. To put it in perspective, the lowest paid player on the Detroit Red Wings makes $475,000."
"If you didn't play for the money," Angela said, "why did your
"I loved the game, and it's a pretty good life for six months a year. I lived in Muskegon, the beer tent capital of the world, a rundown blue-collar town on Lake Michigan. We traveled by bus and stayed in cheap motels — what a surprise, huh? We played at Walker Arena in front of five thousand fans. There isn't a lot to do in Muskegon in the winter, so people came to see us."
"The United Hockey League does not sound so good."
"It was a blast and it was a legitimate way into the NHL." He paused. "My goal since I was a little kid was to play for the Red Wings."
Angela said, "How old were you?"
"Nineteen, one of the youngest guys on the team. I played defense."
"Were you good?" She rubbed her hand through the hair on his chest.
"I was rookie of the year," McCabe said. "But the beginning of my second year I got checked on the boards and tore my AC joint." He pointed to his shoulder. There was a long ropelike scar that started at his collarbone and angled over his left shoulder where he'd had the operation — ligaments and tendons damaged. "That was it, the end of my hockey career."
She touched his shoulder gently with her fingertips. "I'll try not to hurt you."
He couldn't lock her in the bathroom and he couldn't trust her, so sleeping with her seemed like a good compromise. They made love again, slower this time. There was no hurry. McCabe liked her dark eyes and hair and olive skin that looked like she had a natural suntan. He liked the way she smelled, and liked her body, the way they fit together, like they were made for each other.
McCabe opened his eyes and saw the sheet folded back He got up and put on his jeans and went downstairs, walked barefoot through the main room into the kitchen. She wasn't there, either. He went outside, stood on the pebble drive. The car was gone, and now he felt like a fool.
He went in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, picked up a bottle of Pellegrino water and took a swig. She could've been back in Rome. He could hear her saying, "I turned on the charm and he fell for it." Without her the show was over. What had happened between them seemed real. If she was acting, she was a pro. He thought back about what he did and what he might've done differently, and decided there was no reason to second-guess himself now.
Viterbo was four or five kilometers away, La Quercia maybe half that distance. He could walk and catch a bus back to Rome, and figure out what to do from there. He was upstairs getting his things when he heard the car, looked out the bedroom window and saw his rented Fiat coming up the driveway, pulling in next to the house. He walked in the kitchen as Angela Entered with a basket of groceries, singing a song he'd never heard, or maybe it was because her voice was so bad.
"It's market day," she said, studying him. "What's the matter?"
McCabe just stared at her, trying not to give anything away, but she saw something, sensed his concern.
"You looked so peaceful I did not want to wake you," Angela said. "You thought I went away?" She studied his face.
"You did. I can see it in your eyes. If I was going to do that I would have done it before."
He went over and took the basket from her. It was heavy. He looked inside and counted four bottles of wine, cheese, fruit, meat and bread. "How long you think we're going to be here?"
"You never know," she said.
"I called Joey after you fell asleep, told him we'd be read
y tomorrow. I said you have the money? He said, 'Wait and see.
Angela said, "What did you say?"
She took the wine bottles out of the basket and lined them up on the counter, two reds and two whites.
"I said, you want Angela back? He said,' Succhiami ilcazzo!"
Angela said, "You know what that means?"
McCabe said, "Uh-huh. I didn't think he spoke Italian."
"He doesn't."
She took the cheese and meat out of the basket and put the packages in the refrigerator, closed it and looked at him.
"How well do you know him?" McCabe said.
"He's my cousin. I met him when I was thirteen. My father sent me to visit my aunt Angela, Joey's mother. I flew to Detroit with Carmella, my nanny. Uncle Joe and Aunt Angela picked us up at the Metro Airport and drove us to their home in Bloomfield Hills. Joey came over the first night and had dinner with us. I could see he was interested in Carmella, but that was all. Nothing happened.
"The next day we visited the famous places of Detroit: Greenfield Village and Motown, where the music was recorded. We saw the factory where the Model T was built and the General Motors Building. There is not so much to see. We went to a baseball game. I had my first hotdog."
"What did you think?"
"I loved it."
McCabe said, "How do you think Detroit compares with Rome? I mean architecturally, culturally."
"You are funny," Angela said. "We drove with my aunt and uncle to Harbor Springs on Lake Michigan."
McCabe said, "Where the rich people go."
"They have a big house on the water with a sand beach and a motor boat. Joey came to see us and was there for a couple of days, staying because of Carmella. Thinking back, he was insecure, you know, because she was so beautiful. He reminded me of a schoolboy. He liked her but didn't know what to say to her or how to act. He would make fun of the way she spoke English, and the way she dressed. Joey is not a good person."
All He Saw Was the Girl Page 16
