Outside, the sun balanced on the western horizon, gilding the high walls of the Vatican and the magnificent dome of St. Peter’s. A light shower had fallen in the afternoon, and a cool wind blew remnants of rain from the plane trees lining the street. Eager to reach the warmth of home and family, my fellow pedestrians hunched beneath umbrellas and raincoats and scurried like rodents along the sidewalk. I had neither family nor friends waiting at my residenza, but as I negotiated the wet stairs leading to the street I consoled myself with the thought of calling Kurt. If I reached my apartment by six-thirty, Kurt would be in the middle of lunch in New York. His secretary could forward my call to his cell phone.
I shivered, chilled and wet and suddenly overcome by the need to hear a familiar voice. I had spent all day talking to people, but none of them were friends. Even now, as I prepared to enter the stream of pedestrians on the sidewalk, no one would welcome me. But I would be OK if I could just get back to my room and hear Kurt’s voice . . .
I lowered my head and set out in the direction of my residenza, lengthening my stride as the shadows stretched and the sun sank behind the Vatican. Though my apartment was located in a comparatively “safe” neighborhood, I didn’t relish the thought of being accosted by a beggar or Gypsy. In New York, I met the hard luck stories with a quiet “sorry” and moved on, but here I felt as helpless as an infant left out in a cold and unfamiliar world. How could I gracefully escape from an Italian beggar when I couldn’t speak the language? I made a mental note to ask Maura Casale how to say “sorry” in Italian.
“Excuse me, Miss Fischer?”
I glanced up, startled to be called by name. Asher Genzano stood beside me, darker and fuller in the lengthening shadows than he had been in my office. I stared at him, my gaze moving up and down his frame, as the muscles of my throat moved in a convulsive swallow.
What was he doing here? I suppressed a groan as my thoughts leaped from one assumption to another. He knew the interview hadn’t gone well, and he had waited here to confront me, perhaps even to threaten me into giving him a position. Maura Casale told me unemployment was high in Italy, and Asher Genzano might be a desperate man . . .
I injected a note of iron into my voice. “What are you doing here, Signor Genzano?”
I stepped back as he lifted his hand, then I saw that his hand was empty—no gun, no tire iron, no knife. “Please,” he said, his voice choked with sincerity. “Don’t be afraid.”
The gesture of openness eased my anxiety somewhat. I took a deep breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath my ribs, then met his gaze. “How can I help you, signore?”
A smile found its way through the mask of uncertainty on his face. “Excuse my forwardness, but I thought I might offer to walk you home. The streets in this part of town can be . . . intimidating after dark. As you see, the sun sets quickly here.”
I glanced behind him and saw that he was right. The sun had already dropped behind the dome of St. Peter’s, bathing the Vatican walls in a rosy glow. Soon there would be no light but that from the occasional street lamp.
But did I want this man to know where I lived? I did not understand him at all, and this encounter had done nothing but increase my concerns about his character. Professional liars are difficult to detect, and psychopaths blend effortlessly into society . . . until they decide to act upon their buried hatreds. Ted Bundy charmed people in Colorado, Washington, and Utah before he was ever identified as a cold-blooded serial killer.
“Thank you, signor, but I prefer to walk alone.” I forced my lips to part in a curved, still smile. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but it would not be appropriate for me to see you outside the offices of Global Union. It would not be fair to the other applicants.”
“And you wouldn’t feel safe.”
The words alone would have sent a chill up my spine, but when I searched his face I saw nothing but sympathy in his eyes. He gestured toward an espresso shop across the street. “I understand, of course, but the night is cold and damp. Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee before you return to your pensione?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what a pensione was, but the coffee shop did look inviting. At least a dozen people lounged at the tables both inside and outside the well-lit shop, and a tantalizing aroma wafted out from the place. I suddenly realized I could use a jolt of caffeine. The day had been a long one, and, aside from calling Kurt, I had no plans for the long, empty evening. Besides, I did need another interview with Asher Genzano. So why not have a cup of espresso with him?
“Now, that’s a good idea.” I had just stepped off the curb and taken a step toward the espresso shop when Genzano’s arm abruptly blocked my path. I opened my mouth, about to protest, as a whining motor scooter sans headlights buzzed up out of the thickening gloom and passed us in a blur.
“One must be careful in the streets of Rome,” Genzano said, lowering his arm. “The mopeds and scooters and motorcycles are not fond of obeying the traffic laws. The vespistas do not regard pedestrians. They have even been known to come up behind people on the sidewalks.”
Grateful for the warning, I nodded, but as we crossed the street I wondered if I’d made a wise decision. In New York I would have considered having coffee with a potential juror as a conflict of interest, but since the Italians did not mix business and pleasure, Asher Genzano would almost certainly refrain from discussing his pending position at Global Union. I, meanwhile, could use the time to study him. And perhaps in this relaxed environment he would share things I could not pick up in the more strained atmosphere of the office.
He pulled out a chair for me at an empty table in the courtyard outside the shop, then stepped away to the counter. The marble tabletop bore the circular stains from at least a dozen previous espresso drinkers, and I used a rumpled napkin from the dispenser to try to rub away the marks. The Romans seemed more relaxed about cleanliness than Americans, and while I didn’t expect the place to be as spotless as Disney World, I had hoped to find conditions a little cleaner.
Asher returned a moment later with two steaming cups of the rich, potent coffee Italians loved. I dropped two sugar cubes in mine, then poured in a stream of milk. When the smooth liquid lightened to the color of my favorite tan handbag, I felt it was safe to drink.
“Is the coffee to your liking?” Asher asked, his eyes coming up to study my face.
“Yes.” I gave him a brief glance, then looked away. The piazza where we sat teemed with life. Next to us, an African woman struggled to hold a rambunctious little boy on her lap. The child kept trying to wriggle out of her arms, but I knew she would not want to release him in the crowd.
“Signor Genzano,” I began turning my attention back to my host, “where do you live?”
He pointed vaguely down the street. “In a very old hotel.” He paused to sip from his coffee cup. “I have lived there many years.”
I nodded, thinking of the seedy Manhattan hotels that often rent rooms by the week or month. Asher Genzano didn’t look like the typical transient; on the other hand, he was looking for work. The expensive suit could be the only decent outfit he had. “And what work did you do before?”
He lifted a brow. “Before?”
I knew I was teetering on the wall separating business and pleasure, but I couldn’t help myself. “Before applying at Global Union.”
“Ah.” He pulled his coffee cup to him and wrapped both hands around it. “I have done many things in the past. I once worked in government. It was not an exalted position, but I served a Roman official, so I enjoyed a few advantages. Since that time I have held many jobs, but mostly I have worked as an interpreter. It seemed a natural choice, given my many travels.”
“Did you travel much in your government job?”
A secretive smile softened his mouth. “We were assigned to Jerusalem for ten years.”
I searched my memory for some recollection of news about Italian diplomats in Israel but found nothing. Then again, until now my work had never involved internati
onal politics.
At the table next to us, the wriggly little boy had managed to slip from his mother’s arms. He obediently stood by her table just long enough for her to relax and pick up a magazine, then he began trotting through the crowd on chubby legs. The panicked mother dropped her magazine and rose to follow him, but Asher was quicker. He stood and caught up with the boy in three long strides, then scooped the toddler up just as the little imp was about to step into the streaming traffic. Genzano settled the protesting child on his hip, then waved at the mother and made his way back to us.
As she accepted her child, the grateful mother babbled her thanks in a language I had never heard. I stared, dumbfounded, when Genzano answered in the same tongue. The woman’s eyes filled with wetness as he soothed her, then she took the toddler by the hand and moved away into the night.
Like Clark Kent back at the Daily Planet, Asher Genzano settled back in his chair and took another sip of his coffee. Superman’s work was done.
“That woman”—I pointed toward the retreating figure—“what language did she speak?”
“Somali.” His tone was utterly matter-of-fact.
“You’ve traveled in Somalia too?”
“I doubt you could name a country I’ve not visited.”
As I wondered whether this remark sprang from conceit or confidence, an Asian woman called out Asher’s name. She came to our table, warmly greeted him in another language I had never heard, then nodded and left us alone.
“A friend?” I asked.
“A housekeeper at the hotel,” Asher explained. “Many Filipinos work as domestics in Rome. They are well educated but can’t find jobs in the Philippines for which they are qualified. They are well paid here, however, and are able to send money to the families they have left behind.”
I struggled to remember the language of the Philippines but couldn’t recall it. “And she speaks—”
“A little Italian, but mostly Tagalog. Rome is a city of many nationalities.” He coughed out a short laugh. “I suppose I could have learned to speak many languages without ever leaving home.”
“I see.” I drank the last of my coffee, then sat quietly, clutching my empty cup. I had not learned much about Asher Genzano on a subliminal level, but I had observed many obvious things—he was gentle with children, attentive to women, and possessed a truly extraordinary command of language. Perhaps he did have a gift. Then again, perhaps he had staged this entire evening for my benefit. He could have had both women appear here, just to demonstrate his linguistic skill . . . if that’s really what it was. They could have been speaking pig Latin for all I knew.
My smile stiffened at the thought. “Thank you for the espresso,” I said.
“You really should learn to speak a bit of Italian, Miss Fischer.” His smile was easy, but his eyes were serious. “You will enjoy your stay in Rome much more if you do. You will find that people will be more eager to help if they feel you are making an effort to understand them.”
I shrugged, realizing this bit of pop psychology was probably right on target. Not being able to communicate was inconvenient at best and terrifying at worst.
“I’ll pick up an Italian phrase book tomorrow,” I promised. “And in the meantime, good night.”
“Buona notte,” he answered.
I turned to leave, then, on impulse, I looked back to him. “Buona notte,” I said, mimicking his accent as best I could. “And grazie . . . for the espresso.”
He did not rise to walk me out, and I’m certain he sensed my reluctance to have him follow me. But I felt the warmth of his answering smile for a long time after I left the crowded piazza.
FIFTEEN
ASHER FINISHED HIS ESPRESSO, THEN TURNED TO SURVEY THE SIDEWALK. When he was certain the American woman had vanished into the crowd, he stood, tossed both empty cups into a corner trash bin, then thrust his hands into his pockets and walked home.
Night had fallen, thick and dark, yet the street lamps pushed at the gloom and the laughter of pedestrians warmed the chilly air. Asher quickened his steps across the Piazza della Rotonda, passing the tall obelisk in the courtyard and feeling the hulking presence of the ancient Roman temple behind his back. Marcus Agrippa had named the building Pantheon, or “temple of all the gods,” but authorities in the Middle ages claimed the architectural marvel for a church. Today it functioned as a tourist magnet.
The Sole al Pantheon sat across the street from the famous landmark from which it had taken its name. Built in 1467, the building now served as a four-star hotel for the tourists that descended upon Rome during all seasons of the year. All thirty rooms were presently occupied, as they would be for months to come. The flood of tourists slowed only in the miserable month of August, when the temperature often soared to over 104 degrees and native Romans fled the city for cooler climes by the sea.
Asher entered the foyer, nodded at the desk clerk on duty, and moved toward the hallway that led to his private apartment at the side of the building. Before he could reach the hallway, however, Signor Portoghesi, the manager, came running from a far corner of the lobby.
“Signor Genzano.” The red-faced man inclined his head in a deep bow. “Excuse the interruption, signore, but there is a matter I must discuss with you.”
Asher bit his lip, in no mood for trifling issues. “Can it wait until morning?”
“Of course, signore, but it is only a small matter. It seems that one of our American guests has caught her hair in the drain of the Jacuzzi.”
Asher’s annoyance turned quickly to alarm. “Was she injured?”
“Thank God, no. Her husband drained the water and cut her free. But she is in a temper and is threatening to take the matter before the civil courts if we do not—”
Asher silenced the man with a scowl. How like Americans to make a mountain out of a mistake resulting from their own foolishness. Who would try to swim in a Jacuzzi? He ought to let the woman take the matter before the civil court; after a day or two of filling out paperwork that accomplished nothing, she would rethink her litigious attitude.
“Tell me, Portoghesi,” Asher said, scratching his chin, “have they been at the hotel long?”
“A full week, signore.”
“Ah.” A full week in one of the more luxurious rooms would result in a sizable balance due. Over the years, Asher had seen hundreds of people try to escape their debts—by slipping on the tiled lobby floor, claiming that valuables had been stolen in the dead of night, or feigning some other injury. One man even proclaimed that the aged painted and paneled ceilings had brought on a severe asthma attack, resulting in a huge physician’s bill.
“Tell me, friend—did you see this suffering American woman?”
“Yes, Signor Asher. She was wet and breathless—”
“And her hair—had it been shorn off?”
“Only this much.” The manager lifted his hand, indicating a space of two inches between his thumb and index finger. “It was not noticeable, but the wife was weeping about her beautiful hair . . .”
Rejecting the Americans’ absurd complaint, Asher smiled at his manager. “Allow them to eat tonight in one of the best restaurants, Portoghesi—allow them to choose their favorite. Tell them the meal is our attempt to atone for their difficulty.”
“And if a meal is not enough?”
Asher paused. He could dismiss their debt. He did not need their money. In truth, he did not want it. But he could not allow such people to continue a life of fraud and deceit.
“If it is not enough, let them go to the courts. Wish them Godspeed and send them to another hotel.”
“Si, signore.” Portoghesi smiled his approval. “I shall do as you wish.”
The manager left, and Asher continued down the narrow hallway that led to his own rooms. He pulled the ancient key from its niche in the plastered wall, then opened the door and slipped into the dark foyer. Without pausing, he strode through the front room and entered his bedchamber, which stood exactly as he had left it ex
cept for a pair of fresh towels on the rod by the bathroom door.
The computer, his personal concession to the twenty-first century, sat upon a desk in the corner, the keyboard still protected by the rigid plastic cover that came with the equipment. If not for the maid who tidied up every morning, it would have been covered with the fine, sandy dust that blew into Rome during the autumnal sirocco winds.
He stared at the dead, unblinking eye of the monitor as he unknotted his tie and removed his coat. He was usually content to rely upon his memory, the community grapevine, and the university library for information, but now he found himself in need of knowledge that could not be obtained from any of his usual sources. He needed to know about Claudia Fischer, for she alone stood between him and the goal he had spent his life pursuing.
He took a moment to hang the suit coat on a wooden hanger, then replaced it in the wardrobe and moved to the computer. Sighing in resignation, he bent to press the on switch on the power strip, then stood and crossed his arms as the monitor crackled and something in the steel box whirred and came to life.
As the machine went through its electronic paces, he considered his last meeting with the American woman. She had been frightened when he approached her on the street, but the offer of coffee in a public place obviously appealed to her practical nature. As they talked, Asher felt the sharp prick of her questions and the speculation in her gaze. She was still evaluating him, but that was what he wanted. Let her test and question and study. He would give her the entire truth . . . if she really wanted it.
The computer had finished its warm up, so Asher sat down and logged on to the Internet. In a few keystrokes he had accessed a search engine; in another moment he had typed in the name Claudia Fischer. He slapped at the enter key, then waited while a series of links appeared on the screen.
After an hour of Web surfing, Asher had learned that Claudia Fischer was president and owner of Fischer Consulting, Inc., operating out of an office in New York, New York. According to her firm’s Web page, Ms. Fischer’s experience as a jury consultant encompassed several areas of litigation, including general business, wrongful termination, professional malpractice, and criminal defense.
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