White Shotgun ag-4

by April Smith

  Nor would they notice the nondescript questura, whose worn steps seem to lead to another of those tired postwar European buildings smelling of fresh paint and cooked cereal that have been converted to tiny condominiums at huge prices — which at one time it was. I park alongside a row of cruisers in the shade of a neighboring art museum. Sophisticated older couples with shorn silver hair and Swedish walking shoes are calmly buying tickets. Every day another gallery. Pastries in the afternoon.

  Inside the vestibule of the questura, we are stopped by an officer who is embarrassingly deferential to Dennis, shaking hands with a flattering smile. Without a weapons check or even asking for ID, he leads us through an ordinary wooden door into the cop shop. Dennis and I exchange a look at the astonishing lack of security.

  Palio is over, but the bullpen is still chaotic. It has the crammed-full industrial look of a carpeting wholesaler who expanded too quickly. Messy partitions and hulking old computers. There is a locked cage for stolen property and a vault for guns; good-looking male inspectors in natty shirts and ties, and polizia who carry 9mm Berettas and wear navy shirts with epaulets and military berets. The universal accessory, I notice, is the rubber stamp. There must be three dozen old-fashioned wood-handled rubber stamps in revolving holders on every desk, testament to a bureaucracy in which the right mark by the right hand still has more power than all the computers in the world.

  Sitting in a row on a bench are the Bunyons. Mom, dad, brother, sister, and grandma.

  “Who are they?” Dennis asks without moving his lips.

  “That’s the family. The Americans in the dustup yesterday.”

  The moment they see us, all five Bunyons get to their feet.

  “Hello, Ana,” says the somber dad. He’s all showered up in a clean white polo shirt and travel shorts.

  The mother stares at my bandage. “That looks awful. Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Was anybody else hurt?”

  The children shake their heads.

  “Then why are you here?” I wonder.

  “My mother was pushed to the ground,” the dad says indignantly. “She’s eighty-three years old! She could have broken her hip!”

  The grandma, thin and muscular, with rakish white hair and sharp blue eyes, looks more resilient than any of them.

  “We’re gonna sue ’em!” she croaks.

  “We’re filing a complaint,” says the dad. “We’ve never had such a terrible experience. Nobody told us they had riots in Italy.”

  “Those young men were crazy. Out-and-out dangerous,” exclaims the wife.

  The dad introduces himself to Dennis, taking in the suit and the briefcase.

  “You must be Ana’s lawyer. I gotta say, she saved my mother’s life.”

  “I believe it.” Dennis hands over his card. “Dennis Rizzio. I’m with the FBI.”

  Mr. Bunyon stares at the golden seal with the eagle and his eyes pop. Then they fill with tears.

  “God bless America,” he tells his wife with reverence. “They sent the FBI!”

  Inspector Martini is coming. I make a break for it. She is in uniform, clutching her talismanic packs of cigarettes. I introduce Dennis and explain the plight of the Bunyons.

  “Civilians,” I whisper, and she gets it immediately, handing them off to the obsequious officer, who leads them to a faraway corner, and, I’m sure, a morning of complete confusion on both sides.

  We take off the opposite way, following Martini through the wooden door, across the vestibule, down a flight of steps, and through another door to a smaller secretarial office, which seems to have once been a barn. The old wooden gate, secured against a wall, has been replaced by a massive steel door that seals the entrance. There are remnants of a hayloft. Not exactly the boss’s office. Two or three female civilians sit at computers, working-class divas with dyed hair, wearing silky bosom-revealing blouses, tight slacks, and heels. Why not? Through that door there are a hundred horny men. Martini drags over some chairs and we squeeze around a desk.

  “The Commissario sends his apologies. He cannot see you today.”

  I am about to blow my stack, but Dennis handles it.

  “We have an appointment. Ten o’clock.”

  “I apologize for the Commissario. He is in a meeting.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  “The meeting is in Florence.”

  “When will the Commissario be back?”

  “He won’t be back today.”

  Dennis is steamed now, too, and showing it. “He’s there now? And I just got off a train? You couldn’t call? You don’t have phones in the police department?”

  The Commissario is not in Florence, and we both know it.

  But Martini is a professional who has to answer for her boss. She sits up and tightens her shiny black ponytail. Crosses her legs and settles a legal pad on her blue lap. The skirt is taut as a drum.

  “I am here to help you. I will do my best. Agent Grey, what goes on with your hand?”

  “After the race, a man armed with a knife came running through the crowd. He tried to push past the Americans you met outside. I intervened, he took a swipe at me and ran. In the process, the grandmother took a pretty bad fall.”

  “Can you describe this man?”

  “Twenties, Italian, dark curly hair, Levi’s, running shoes, clean shaven, silver bracelets. And he was wearing a Torre scarf.”

  Martini stops writing.

  “Like the men who alledgedly attacked your nephew?”

  Dennis nods. “Exactly right. We’re looking for a connection. This could have been your ordinary crazed Torre guy out to get Oca — Ana had on Oca colors — or a mob assailant with a deliberate target.”

  Martini raises large, black-rimmed eyes. “Who is this target?”

  “Probably not Grandma Bunyon,” Dennis suggests.

  Martini waits, not understanding.

  “We think it might be Agent Grey.”

  “Ma, why Ana?”

  “She must have something they want. Isn’t that the way it goes?”

  Martini looks doubtful. “That makes no sense to me. He could find you out of so many people?”

  “He could if he were following me.”

  “No, no,” Martini says, shaking her head. “If we are to have an incident at Palio — and it’s very, very rare — it is a result of high emotion and too much wine and no sleeping. No one stops to think, to plan this out. You were unlucky and got in front of the train.”

  Dennis sits forward in the plastic seat, elbows on knees, his face in hers.

  “I am here to represent the United States government in an official capacity. We understand the FBI is in this country at the invitation of the Italian government, and we can’t do anything without your permission. That is why we must ask for the Commissario’s help. One of our federal agents has been attacked in your town. Maybe it was random. But her nephew was stabbed, and three days ago her sister was abducted right out of a church. That’s bold, don’t you think, Inspector Martini?”

  “I agree, and I am sorry that it happened in the beautiful city of Siena.”

  Dennis shrugs. “It happens in Milan, it happens in Calabria … We are disturbed about what happened to our agent, Inspector, just as you would be if a police officer from Siena was attacked in New York City. Listen, I myself am Italian American.”

  He smacks himself in the chest and says something in their language that makes Martini relax a bit and nod.

  “Family doesn’t stop at the ocean. Agent Grey, an American citizen, is worried about her family living in Italy, and rightfully so.” He inches closer to make a point: “Our concern is that Agent Grey could be the intended victim of a multiple kidnap scheme, in which her sister was the first to be taken.”

  Martini considers this and makes a decision. “You should know the Commissario considers the abduction a priority. I am authorized to tell you that we have started an investigation to find Cecilia Nicosa.”

  “Brava!” Dennis l
eans back. I can see that he’s sweating. “That’s great.”

  She reads from the pad, translating unevenly from her notes: “ ‘The following effects will take place in the disappearance of Cecilia Nicosa. One. To check all video cameras in Siena, most important, near the church of Santa Maria di Provenzano especially. Two. To interview any people who see her in the church or afterward, especially the church officials and the police officers.’ ”

  “What have you gotten so far?”

  She folds her hands. “We start this afternoon.”

  “You haven’t even begun? She’s been gone three days.”

  “During Palio, we have no police to spare. But now we will put our full strength behind this.”

  “Va bène,” says Dennis, suddenly cheerful. “I expect you’ll make good progress.” He looks at his watch. “I believe I can still catch the eleven-fifteen train back to Rome. Do I have your word you will tell the Commissario what I said, about our fears for our agent?”

  “Yes, you have my word,” Inspector Martini answers solemnly, and they shake hands.

  We are down the worn front steps and striding past the museum to the car. It is heading toward noon, and the heat is scorching. Disappointment sweeps over us like a hot wind off a garbage dump.

  “Explain that to me,” I say.

  We stand on opposite sides of the car. The roof is so low even I can look over it.

  “They blew us off!” I go on. “First of all, the Commissario is not in Florence, he’s ducking us, and second, why did you run out of there?”

  “The meeting was over,” Dennis says. “Do you want me to drive?”

  “No!”

  I have unlocked the car, but you can’t touch anything inside. We leave the doors open to let it air out. I have a pounding headache, and the wound in my hand is on fire. The pills are in my bag, but I don’t want to take one in front of Dennis. Three thousand miles away from Bureau headquarters, the rules are the same: Never show weakness.

  “It’s how it works,” he says, as we each remove our suit jackets. “You’ve worked undercover; you’ve dealt with intrigue and deception. Well, in Italy you’ll get your master’s degree. Nothing is what you think it is, or are trained to perceive from an American analog. You think you have the point of view, but you end up a hundred and eighty degrees wrong. What people are saying is decided by a person behind them. Martini was the eyes and ears for the chief. When she opened up about the investigation, that was the give.” He snaps his fingers. “They’re on it.”

  “A six-year-old could come up with a better plan.”

  We get in the car.

  “This morning’s exercise had nothing to do with finding Cecilia. We propose a meeting. The purpose is to get their cooperation. They agree. But it’s not the Commissario telling us what he thinks about finding Cecilia. It’s to see if he wants to sit down for a meeting. It’s high school politics.”

  “We don’t have time for this. Seventy-two hours, Dennis. That’s the cutoff point, when the trail goes cold.”

  “You can’t apply your normal experience over here. We just have to let it unwind. Are we going to make the train?”

  “Yes, we will make the train.”

  We are cruising downhill. It’s a lot easier, with all the traffic heading the other way. I want to unload the headache and everything else I’ve been keeping inside.

  “Dennis, I have to tell you something. Cecilia and the Commissario had an affair. Apparently in retaliation for Nicosa’s fucking around.”

  “Did she tell you this?”

  “Town gossip.”

  Dennis squints through the Ray-Bans. “What’s the source?”

  “An expat British bartender. Does that change the picture?”

  “The picture is the picture. She’s still gone.”

  We pull up at the station with two minutes to spare. Dennis gets out of the car and lifts his briefcase.

  “I believe the threat to you is real. Two to one the bad guys know you’re Bureau, which makes you valuable. You’d be a major chip.”

  “Nicosa knows I’m Bureau.”

  “He made you?” Dennis asks.

  “He didn’t make me.”

  “Then how did he find out?”

  “Cecilia told him. They were having a fight about Giovanni, and she let it drop.”

  Dennis stares at me through the aviator glasses. His entire face is red.

  “Do you think the man who attacked you in the Campo might have been hired by your brother-in-law because you are FBI, and he would rather you didn’t find out what he’s up to?” Dennis says.

  “I don’t know! How could I know?”

  “Do you think you can continue in your present role?”

  “Yes, I do. We play it openly, that’s all. I’m inside the house. I can still be valuable.”

  “Turn around and drive to the abbey. Take all precautions with Nicosa. Do not leave again until I call you. Got it?”

  He slams the door. The train is coming.

  As soon as Dennis is gone I swallow two pain pills with water from a bottle that has been in the car an hour and is therefore hot enough to brew tea, and call Mike Donnato in Los Angeles. After one ring I remember it is three in the morning in Los Angeles, but he has already picked up.

  “I’m sorry, Mike. Go back to sleep.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Are you awake?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “My sister disappeared. Vanished out of a church when she was standing right behind me. No leads, no witnesses, and I don’t believe she left of her own volition.”

  “What’s her psychological state?”

  “Not depressed, suicidal, or crazy. Busy. Coping, like anybody else. She’s been having problems with her husband, but her son just got out of the hospital and she adores him — she’d never just take off.”

  “Why was your nephew in the hospital?”

  “He was knifed and beaten over a drug deal. He denies he’s been using, but we know he’s in possession of cocaine.”

  “Could Cecilia’s disappearance be related?”

  “Here everything seems to be related. Scorpions in a bottle. The north is fighting an incursion from ’Ndrangheta — the Calabrian mafia — from the south. The Bureau believes my brother-in-law is lined up with the bad guys. The question is whether he would do harm to his own wife.”

  “Sounds more like a kidnap for ransom.”

  “But there’s been no demand for ransom. And there’s a complication: I recently learned from the legat, Dennis Rizzio, that my sister’s been paying protection money to keep her clinics open. If she somehow messed up with the clans, forget it.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I’m just so frustrated, Mike! The Italian police are responding, but slowly, and Rizzio goes along with their game.”

  “He’s got a larger agenda.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Screw these people,” Mike Donnato says. “You and I can find her faster than they can, even from Los Angeles. Let’s do what we do. Start from square one. Make a timeline of her activities, find out who her enemies are — you know the drill. Anything you need, call me, and I’ll throw the resources of the Bureau behind it, officially or otherwise.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep you posted. Tell Rochelle I’m sorry to wake up the boys.”

  He snorts. “Not a problem. They’re teenagers. It’s three in the morning, they’re not home, and we don’t have a clue where they are. Situation normal.”

  •••

  I follow Muriel’s truck route back to the abbey. At first there is nobody on the country road. It is lunchtime in the clusters of working-class apartments, and everyone is behind the beaded curtains of their open doors, eating nonna’s rice soup with bitter greens.

  The turnoff is ahead when the white van shows up in the rearview mirror. Without hesitation he gets right on my tail. It could be the asshole with the dirty neck and wild hair I backed into, who has recognized th
e mailbox car or — and now alarms go off — it could be Chuck, the sleazoid photographer from Ohio, miffed because I didn’t respond to his come-on. For an FBI agent, it is not considered paranoid to assume, at any hour of the day or night, that someone is stalking you. The guy knows where the abbey is, having photographed it for a wedding. The last thing he hurled at me in the Campo was a string of curses. The van pulls up alongside and hangs in the opposite lane, playing chicken until another car appears coming toward us, then swerves in front of me at the last minute and takes off, middle finger wagging out the window. No good view of the driver and no license plate.

  Nicosa and Giovanni are in the kitchen at either end of the counter, the air between them palpably roiling. Giovanni is in a wheelchair, leg elevated with an ice pack. His hair is unwashed, his sallow face turned toward his cell phone with an expression of deep concentration, as if he’s texting the Rosetta stone. Nicosa’s sleeves are rolled, and his shirt is half opened.

  “What’s up?” I say, going for the refrigerator.

  “He won’t talk.” Nicosa gestures toward his son with a glass of vodka. There’s a bottle on the counter and an attractive white dish of lemon wedges and olives. Style is the best revenge. “He sits there and doesn’t answer.”

  I pour some cold wine. The pills are kicking in, and I’m feeling kindly toward my fellow man.

  “Why are you giving your dad a hard time?”

  “He’s giving me a hard time,” answers Giovanni.

  “What about?”

  Giovanni’s eyes rise toward his father. “Ask him.”

  “He’s up all night on the computer,” Nicosa says. “And now he decides he’s not going back to school. All he wants is to play video games all day. He’s depressed, which is understandable—”

  “He thinks I should be doing homework!” Giovanni cries incredulously.

  “You’ll fall behind,” warns Nicosa.

  “My father thinks everything is a race. Be first or die.”

  I pour more wine. “I might have been followed here.”

  Nicosa’s eyes widen. “When?”