by Stuart Woods
Carmine put an envelope on Dino’s desk. “Done. A one hundred percent match.”
“Great! Have you done all the paperwork to preserve the chain of evidence?”
“Done.” Carmine handed him another envelope.
“You done perfect, Carmine.”
“Ain’t that what I said?”
“Did you tell Scali he’s going to have to testify to this?”
“Not exactly. He’s not going to want to testify against Eduardo’s daughter, though.”
“Then you have to persuade him.”
“Thing is, he won’t have a problem with testifying against Pietro. We’ll get him in front of a grand jury for that, then the DA can throw in the questions about the girl.”
“We don’t have anything against Pietro, unless he confesses or Dolce testifies, and neither of those things is going to happen.”
“We know that, but Scali don’t.”
“What will the questions be?”
“We’ll lead him through his arrival at work that morning and ask him if he found anything amiss. He’ll say he found the stains and cleaned them up, then we’ll ask him if the girl was aware of that, and he’ll say he told her.”
“That’s not so good. I wish she had seen the stains and asked Scali to clean them up.”
“Wishing ain’t gonna make it happen, but we can put Donovan in her studio, bleeding. That ought to be good enough for a search warrant, then we can look at stains with luminol and at any knives in the place.”
“It only proves that Donovan did some bleeding there, not that Dolce made him do it. And anyway, we got a problem with getting a warrant, Carmine.”
“What problem?”
“The archdiocese. No ADA is going to want to go up against those guys, not unless we’ve got conclusive evidence.”
“In which case we wouldn’t need a warrant.”
“Right.”
“So, if we have the evidence, we don’t need a warrant, and if we don’t have the evidence, we need a warrant to get it. What’s that called?”
“A pain in the ass,” Dino said.
“Maybe if you called the cardinal and explained it to him he’d go along. After all, it’s one of his people who got murdered.”
“More than that, it’s one of the Vatican’s people.”
“Well, then?”
“Carmine, if we go into that we’re going to have to go into Dolce’s relationship with Donovan, and that is not going to sit well with the archdiocese or the Vatican.”
“I must be missing something here,” Carmine said. “What relationship?”
“This goes back a while. Dolce was certifiable, but instead of putting her into a loony bin, Eduardo shipped her to a convent in Sicily, where Donovan was her psychiatrist.”
“He was a priest and a psychiatrist?”
“Right: two men in one, and neither of them should have been fucking Dolce, but both of them were.”
“Sheesh!”
“If you’d ever seen Dolce, you’d understand why. Anyway, the mother superior figured it out and got Donovan pulled from Dolce’s case, but we don’t know exactly what she said to the higher-ups to make that happen. And can you imagine issuing a subpoena to a mother superior in Sicily to testify before a grand jury?”
“No,” Carmine said, shaking his head vigorously. “I cannot imagine that.”
“Neither can I.”
“So, Commish, you’re saying we’re fucked?”
“For the moment, yes. We need more, and I don’t know how we’re going to get it.”
“Well,” Carmine said, getting to his feet, “let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“I’d assign you to the case officially, if I thought there was some point,” Dino said.
“Then I’ll leave it in your hands, Commish.” Carmine shook the boss’s hand and excused himself, but he was not happy about the way this had gone. He was within an ace of going into retirement with the solving of a huge case on his record, maybe even a promotion, which would up his pension, which he could use.
This was not right.
Stone could see where Carla got her beauty. Her mother, Anna, who must be in her seventies, he reckoned, was a knockout: lots of nearly white hair, beautifully coiffed; nicely made up; manicured; wearing an Armani suit.
“Good afternoon,” Anna said, offering her hand.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fontana. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Please, call me Anna—even my daughter does.”
“And I’m Stone.”
“This is a nice legal nest you have here,” she said, looking around. “Are you a one-man practice?”
“No, I’m a partner in the firm of Woodman & Weld, but I prefer working here.”
“I don’t blame you,” she said. “Is that the journal?” she asked, nodding toward the stack of red leather volumes on Stone’s coffee table.”
“That’s it.”
“May I see the first volume?” she asked.
Stone went to the table, brought back the volume, and handed it to her.
She leafed through it. “I recognize Eduardo’s handwriting,” she said. “He wrote me many letters.”
“So you won’t have any trouble reading it?”
“Nor trouble translating it,” she said. “How many volumes are there?”
“Eight. How long do you think it would take you?”
“Let me explain how I work,” Anna said. “First, I read through the volume and make notes on particular passages, then I sit at my computer and type the manuscript in English as I read it in Italian.”
“What word processing software do you use?”
“WordPerfect. It’s not as popular as it used to be, but I’ve never used anything else.”
“Many law firms still use it, and we have it here.”
“You understand that I’d want to work at home, as I always do?”
“What do you usually charge for translating a book?” Stone asked.
“For a novel of three hundred and fifty to four hundred pages, twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars to translate the journal, but there are conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“First, you sign and keep a very strict confidentiality agreement. Second, you work in an office here—there’s an empty one next door with a computer. Third, you never remove so much as a page from this office, and you make only one backup copy and leave it here at all times.”
“May I see the office?”
Stone rose and took her down the hall to the office once used by an associate from Woodman & Weld. She looked around, sat in the chair, switched on the computer and typed a few sentences.
“Satisfactory?”
“Yes, and I like the chair so much I think I’ll get myself one.”
“How long do you think it will take you to make the translation?”
“If I work, say, six hours a day, perhaps three weeks.”
“That seems quite quick.”
“Remember, it’s a handwritten journal, not typed, so when it’s typed on the computer the number of pages will come down.”
“Are you translating anything else at the moment?”
“I just turned in a manuscript. I’ve been sent a couple of others, but I can turn them down to do this.”
“Do you accept my terms?”
“Yes, I believe they are fair. One thing, should the manuscript or any part of it ever be published, I want full credit as translator, my name on the cover, if it’s a book.”
“Agreed.”
“Then I can start tomorrow morning at ten.”
“That’s fine. I’ll have my driver run you back to Brooklyn Heights.”
“Thanks, but I�
��d rather take the subway—it’s faster.”
Joan came to the door and Stone introduced the two women. “Anna is going to be translating Eduardo’s journal,” Stone said. “She’ll be here every day at ten, until she’s done. Please write her a check for twenty-five thousand dollars, and when she’s done there’ll be another twenty-five thousand due. And print out a confidentiality agreement for Anna to sign.”
Joan went back to her office.
“Tell me,” Anna said, “are you and my daughter an item?”
“We first met in Paris last month, when she interviewed me. We’ve seen each other a couple of times when she has been in New York. In fact, she’ll be here this weekend.”
“What a lucky girl,” Anna said, making Stone laugh. “She’s probably going to get a Pulitzer, too. If so, it will be her second.”
“She deserves it.”
Joan came back with the check and the agreement; Anna put the check into her purse and signed the agreement. “See you tomorrow,” she said.
“We’ll look forward to having you here,” Stone replied.
He helped her on with her coat and she left.
Stone went back to his office and locked the volumes of Eduardo’s journal in his safe again.
Bruce Willard got home at midday, having completed his cataloging of Elton Hills’s furniture, silver, and art. He left his bag in his apartment, then went down to his shop. His assistant, Pamela West, was at her desk in the little office.
“Everything quiet?”
“A customer in the back. He’s been in a couple of times while you were gone.”
“What’s he looking for?”
“He always says he’s just browsing.”
“I’ll have a word with him.” Bruce walked to the rear of the store and found a man closely inspecting a Georgian silver gravy boat. He was tall, slim, and bald; he turned to look at Bruce and showed a face with narrow eyes and no eyebrows.
“Good morning,” Bruce said, offering his hand. “I’m Bruce Willard. Can I help you with anything?”
The man shook it. “I’m Creed Harker,” he said with a small smile. “I’m just browsing, really.”
“Do you have a particular interest in Georgian silver?”
“I have a particular interest in beautiful things,” Harker said.
“Well, we have a shop full of those. Anything you see interest you?”
“I like the portrait hanging over there by the door,” he said. “It looks vaguely like a Sargent.”
“That’s because it is a Sargent,” Bruce said. “Or, at least, a number of people with knowledge of his work think it is. Of course, a number of people think it isn’t. It’s not signed, and it appears to be an early work, before his style was fully formed. That’s why it’s a bargain.”
“How much of a bargain?”
“Six thousand dollars.”
“Not that much of a bargain.”
“If it’s a Sargent, it’s a screaming bargain.”
“What’s its provenance?”
“Unknown. I bought it in a mixed estate sale. There are times when you have to rely on your own eye.”
“You’re a friend of Evan Hills, aren’t you?”
“I was. Perhaps you haven’t heard that he died two weeks ago.”
“I believe I had heard that.”
“He was killed in New York by a coward in a car, who then fled the scene.”
Harker flushed slightly. “How tragic,” he said.
“More than you know. There’s a large-scale police investigation, though, and they’ve already found the car, a black SUV with a Virginia registration.”
“I see.”
“It was reported stolen, after the fact. What business are you in, Mr. Harker?”
“Private security.”
“Would that be Integral Security of McLean?”
“Oh, you know us?”
“I know that your company owned the SUV in question.”
“Yes, it was stolen out of our parking lot.”
“That doesn’t speak very well for your security, does it?”
Harker’s eyes were darting about now, as if he were looking for an escape route.
“What did you think of the story in last Sunday’s Times about Evan and the meeting he attended?”
“I didn’t read it,” Harker replied.
“Would you like some details? I believe a number of your acquaintances attended the meeting in question.”
“Everyone I know denies being there.”
“Evan took very good notes,” Bruce said, “and he knew all the attendees personally. He also made a recording.”
Harker’s eyes widened slightly. “How interesting.”
“It’s going to get a lot more interesting when all the voices have been identified.”
“Well, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Harker began to edge toward the door.
“No interest in the putative Sargent?”
“Not at this time,” he said.
“I’m going to see you in prison, Harker,” Bruce said conversationally.
“What?”
“You were driving the SUV, weren’t you?”
“That’s preposterous!”
“It’s highly likely,” Bruce said. “Better odds than the Sargent, even.”
“You’re mad,” Harker said, backing toward the door.
“I’m very mad,” Bruce said, “and don’t you forget it.”
Harker got the door open and walked quickly away.
“What was that all about?” Pamela asked.
“If he comes back in here, tell him to get out.”
“Why?”
“Because I think he’s mixed up in Evan’s death. If I see him again, I might kill him, and although I’d love to do it, I don’t think it’s a very good idea.”
“Oh, you had this message,” she said, handing him a slip of paper. “Elton Hills would like you to call him as soon as possible.”
Bruce went upstairs and called Elton Hills; the phone was picked up on the first ring. “Bruce?”
“Yes, Elton. You called?”
“I had a rather disturbing phone call after you left this morning.”
“From whom?”
“A man called Harker, who said he knew Evan. He said he thought I might need protection, and he runs a security company.”
“He was just in my shop,” Bruce said. “His company owns the vehicle that ran down Evan in New York, and I have a strong feeling that he may have been involved.”
“Good God!”
“Please don’t speak with him again, Elton. I think he’s up to no good.”
“What could he possibly want from me?”
“I don’t think we want to find out,” Bruce said.
Carmine Corretti got into his gum boots and a windproof jacket. It was a calm day, but chilly outside, so he had worn a thick, Irish fisherman’s sweater.
His wife came in from the grocery store. “What are you doing home so early?” she asked. “And what are you doing in those clothes?”
“I’m going fishing,” he replied. “And don’t ask.”
“Do I have to tell you what time of the year it is?”
“The fish don’t know that.”
“Carmine, this doesn’t make any sense.”
“I told you not to ask,” he said. “I’ll be home late this evening, probably around ten.” He slipped a spray can of something into a pocket, grabbed his tackle box and a rod, and headed out the door. She was still calling his name when it slammed.
An hour later, Carmine parked his car, went down to a dock owned by a friend, got into the friend’s Boston Whaler, and headed out into Jamaica Bay. The day was clear and calm, or he wouldn’t be doing this, he told himself. The sun was sinking
into the Atlantic; there wasn’t a lot of daylight left. In the dusk he checked the GPS unit and turned into the creek. Lights were on at the big house, and he could see a dock ahead. As he passed the dock he saw lights through some trees; that would be the old barn. He continued up the creek with the rising tide, which would turn soon, and kept looking back. As he turned the boat around he saw the lights go out in the barn.
He pulled the throttle back to idle, keeping just enough way on to steer toward the floating dock, where Eduardo’s mahogany runabout was tied up. He cut the engine, glided to the inside of the dock, and grabbed a cleat. He secured the Whaler and climbed out onto the float, then took the catwalk to the pier to which the float was attached. A flagstone path led into the dark woods. He took a small flashlight from his pocket but didn’t turn it on yet; he stuck to the path and let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. The light from a quarter moon helped a little.
He reached the barn and stepped behind some shrubs to look through a window. The wan moonlight through the skylights gave shape to some furniture and an easel. The place was deserted. He went back to the front door and played the thin beam of his flashlight on the lock. Nothing impenetrable. He took a small wallet from an inside pocket, unzipped it, and removed a set of lock picks that he had made from a hacksaw blade. It had been a while since he had used the tools, but the lock took only a couple of minutes. He let himself in and closed the door softly behind him.
He padded around the place for a few minutes, checking the kitchen, where he found a wooden block holding a set of sharp knives. She had the means, and he had no doubt about motive and opportunity. He went back to the studio and found, roughly, the spot Stefano Scali had marked on his drawing. It looked clean, but Carmine wasn’t finished. He removed a small can from his coat pocket and began spraying the contents evenly on the stone floor, then he stopped and turned off his flashlight. Nothing. He moved along a couple of feet and sprayed again. Still nothing. He backed up and went the other way, and this time he had results: a trail of luminescent blue ran for about fourteen inches.
Carmine took out his iPhone and took some pictures; they were remarkably good, he thought. He put the camera back into his pocket and straightened up. As he did, he felt something poke into his back, and a voice said, “Shhhhh.” Then, before he could react, someone grabbed his coat collar and held it, then drove the blade into his back. He jerked his body around, but between the grasp on his collar and the pressure on the blade, he was kebabed, so he couldn’t turn. Then he was tripped and forced to the floor.
