“Poor Juliette! He was my best friend! He reached out to me when I was just a campaign volunteer. I can’t believe he’s gone! Murdered!”
Uncomfortable in the midst of such private sorrow, Gina shuffled along the table, spooned her oatmeal into her mouth, parked her empty bowl on a bus tray, and inched toward the door. Passing the pope and Vincenzo, she heard the Holy See speaking in a low voice.
“You may be wrong. We’ve been in their temple. We know the Alithiníans exist. I will go to the archives and revisit everything we have on Marcion of Sinope.”
“Then I’m afraid for them. Could Salvio have been right? Is our Alithinían Inquisition still underway?”
Her ears pricked up at the killer’s name, but she didn’t want to spy and left the room. Hovering around the marble hall as people came and went, she was looking up at the blue domed ceiling, soaking up the feeling of being in the Vatican, when she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She turned her head and saw someone had come up behind her.
“You’re with the House of Verona.” The look he gave her made her feel like a moth on the head of a pin.
She backed away from the man. He was wearing a no-nonsense suit in deepest charcoal, on his lapel was a small pin of a bird crushing arrows in its talons, his greying hair was cut en brosse, and he had cold eyes that raked her over with something more than intelligence. Cunning was the word that came to mind as another man in a dark suit came striding toward them. When her inquisitor folded his hands in front of his chest, the man took note and veered off in another direction. She felt certain he’d given a signal.
Unable to hold his penetrating gaze, she dropped her eyes to his hands where thick hairs sprouted from his clasped fingers. “Sì, I’m here with Juliette.” She realized she should have used her title, but too late now.
“And what is your name?”
“Gina.”
“In what capacity are you attached to the Verona household, Gina?”
“Gina, can you come with me?” Ippy’s voice cut in, and she appeared at Gina’s elbow. Juliette’s personal assistant was always there when needed.
He turned on her. “Why, Ipanema, I didn’t see you there. So, Gina’s a ward of la contessa?”
Ippy pooched out her lip in casual rejection of his assumption. “Not a ward. Nothing formal, just part of la contessa’s charity outreach.” And without another word she put her hand on the small of Gina’s back and steered her toward the reception room.
Once again at the breakfast buffet, Gina whispered, “Who was that?”
Ippy made a face and said soto voce, “Hierotymis Karno, head of secret Vatican security. He scares the shit out of me. I hope you don’t mind my fib about charity. I didn’t want him to know how close you are to the Veronas. Better he thinks you’re not worth his attention. I keep away from him, which usually isn’t difficult because I stick to Juliette, and he avoids the Veronas like the plague.”
“Then I’ll stay close to the family, too.”
“Be sure you do. When I spotted you in the hall, he was right behind you, and I swear he was sniffing you.” Ippy gave her an expression of mock terror. “Like he might eat you. With the Vatican being above international law, I don’t know if anyone could prosecute him if he did. You know people have disappeared from within these walls.”
“Recently?”
“Oh, well, popes have been getting bumped off for ages. You know about John Paul the Second getting shot and stabbed, right? Pope Urban and Pope Celestine were murdered before they were even consecrated onto the throne. No one’s safe here.”
The King of Sweden approached the buffet with his family, and Ippy changed the subject. “How did you like your vitamin treatments yesterday?”
“Fine. They don’t seem to be doing for me what they do for Juliette.”
“I can’t get over how she’s turning back the clock with those vitamins. But then, she also does her exercise regimen every day.”
“Is it safe for me to use the restroom?”
“Oh, certainly.”
Gina went in the direction Ippy indicated and discovered there was a line for the restroom. She didn’t have to go that badly, so she paced around the area, being sure to keep Ippy in sight across the long hall. Behind a pillar, she found a statue of an angel wielding a sword like a superhero. She overheard two men speaking in hushed tones on the other side of the wide pillar.
“There’s nothing to be anxious about, Marconi. I’m days away from controlling the Scortini estate.”
“When you have it, you’ll have my vote.”
“Grazie.”
“And when you’re Pope, I want Germany.”
“You’ll have it. I’m making big plans.”
“Oh?”
“First thing I’ll do is move Peter’s throne here and rule from it.”
“His throne? But you can’t…”
“There’s nothing I can’t do.”
As they moved off, Gina peeked from behind the pillar and got a good look at the men. Both cardinals. When the coast was clear, she used the restroom and then went back to where she’d last seen Vincenzo. He and the pope were speaking to someone, so Gina went and stood near them. Not wanting to intrude, she maneuvered herself next to an enormous antique chest of drawers and waited. When the man moved on, the pope turned to Vincenzo.
“I am shocked he would bring up such a subject on a morning…of mourning.”
“He couldn’t help himself. The emergency is mounting in his country.”
“So many emergencies. The Arguelles-Klerk travesty, the natal plague in his country and all its neighbors have millions of faithful threatening birth control, conservative bishops going rogue…”
“My father should be here to calm the waters.”
“That was your father’s gift. Through their hearts he changed their minds. If he were here, he would meet with these men, and they would not only see reason, they would repent and mend their ways. The Veronas are the Holy Spirit of God.”
“He never explained it to me like that. I don’t have the same gift. Well, maybe to a slight degree.”
“You have it. You have never fully opened your heart. You must love everyone as God loves them.”
“Maybe being in the closet my whole life dampened my fully loving…”
“I regret the Church got that part wrong. We should not decree who someone can love. Wherever there is true love, we should celebrate. We need more love, not less. It would be the ultimate irony if Papal law rendered my Verona persona non grata.”
Vincenzo said, “I’ve studied Genesis where everyone points to saying homosexuality is a sin, but that story was about the rape—brutal dominance—of outsiders, and most of the rules set forth in Leviticus don’t make any sense to me…”
The Pope interjected, “Which brings to mind what we saw inside the Scortini temple. The only thing Paul’s followers were, er, are following, are the words of Jesus.”
“But Jesus says nothing against homosexuality. In fact, there are six references to John being the one that Jesus loved. And, then to the point of our South American Catholics, Jesus said nothing against birth control.”
“You must have spent more time with Markus than I thought,” the Pope said. “His analytical style has rubbed off on you.”
“You may be right. Both Markus and Ivar urged me to press you about reform. I thought they were…”
“Heretics,” Leonardo finished. He’d walked over to claim them. “We should be getting to the chapel. Where’s Gina? Your mother needs her.”
She was about to step out of hiding, but hesitated, not wanting to be caught eves-dropping.
“And speaking of Gina,” the pope said. “I believe that she is the dream Gabrieli saw right before he died. It is your child with her that will change the world.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s your job,” Vincenzo said in a self-effacing tone.
Gina slid out from behind the bureau as if she’d been passing by,
and as Leonardo led her away, she heard the pope say, “I have discovered who put the bank numbers into my papal pouch.”
“The ones that exposed Marconi’s theft of the property and villas?”
“It was myrrh.”
Gina wondered what incense had to do with the cardinal who she’d just overheard demanding control over Germany.
Alone on the flight from Venice to Rome, Raphielli had time to think. She was grateful for her invitation to sit with Juliette and her family at Gabrieli’s funeral. Publicly embracing the wife of your husband’s murderer, Juliette was literally going to save her from becoming a social pariah. She was Salvio’s victim, too, but the whole world would take their cues for how to act toward her from Juliette. This was the second time the contessa’s goodness and generosity had changed the course of Raphielli’s life. And, it was the effort to emulate the contessa that had inspired her to open her women’s shelter.
Just yesterday, the head of the Venetian Brotherhood of Iron Workers, Genero Tosca, had come to Raphielli’s home for a meeting. She thought it went well. He’d recognized Alphonso when she introduced them.
“You’re the private investigator who brings down the dirty politicians,” he said, offering his hand.
“Sì, that’s me.”
Then both men had settled into chairs and given her their full attention.
“I’m ready to turn part of my palazzo into a shelter for women,” she said. “It’ll be the second location of Porto delle Donne.”
Tosca looked pleased. “I’d hoped that was why you called me. On behalf of the Venetian Builders Society, I accept the job.”
“When are you going to start?” Alphonso looked from her to Tosca.
She answered, “I want to begin right away. I’m happiest when I’m working on a big project, and I can’t wait to help more women. I mean, ten is something, but I’m capable of helping so many more.”
“I’ll look into upgrade options,” Tosca said. “Any chance you have blueprints of this property? From what I’ve seen, there’s nothing like it in the world.”
“No, but we’ve been able to map out much of the building. We can give you our hand-drawn diagrams and measurements.” She thought about the temple and said, “There are only a few areas that’ll be off limits to your crew and the eventual residents. My new suite of rooms, and the wing behind the dining room.”
Tosca gave her a big smile. “My dear, you have far more space than you’ll need for a new shelter. I’ll get back to you soon.
“Perfetto.”
The flight steward came to offer Raphielli another blanket, which she accepted and then pushed herself deeper into the chartered jet’s seat. Now the sunrise was a sliver of yellow far out in the night sky. It felt good to start another big project, but she was kidding herself. She was nothing like Juliette. Juliette would never have taken Gio’s call yesterday, or agreed to go to his room, or let him…
The Devil makes work for idle hands, but her hands couldn’t be busier. Yesterday she’d had three consultations with Tosca, completed Salvio’s death paperwork at city hall, and met with Vincenzo and Leonardo so they could process payments to the relatives of her murdered staff. She was incredibly busy—even before sneaking off to see Gio—unfortunately, too busy to spend time with Paloma yesterday. She’d need to make more of an effort.
Late last night when Carolette and Fauve called, she’d only mentioned the first three innocent efforts. Although it was no effort being with Gio, it was sheer luxurious pleasure, sort of like being worshipped…thoroughly…in ways that didn’t occur to Alphonso.
She snapped back to the present when the attendant asked if she’d like anything to drink before landing.
“Cappuccino, grazie.”
She thought about the cappuccino she’d shared with Alphonso just a couple of hours ago in the private air hanger’s café. Famous people were coming and going with their families and assistants—some with more fuss than others—and Alphonso had asked again to accompany her. She wanted time alone and had reassured him, “You’re putting me on a jet, and Vatican security is taking me off the jet. I’m perfectly safe.”
She could read the hurt in his eyes, but he’d made a face that was somewhere between disappointment and worry. “Okay, then I’ll be back here to meet your plane this afternoon, and we’ll go to Salvio’s funeral together.”
She didn’t know why sometimes she felt the immediacy of that free-floating danger, and other times she felt she could take care of herself. She wasn’t a fearful or flighty person, and mostly she was only scared when she saw one of those strange men watching her. The rest of the time she felt secure, and Alphonso’s giant presence was becoming a bit oppressive.
Raphielli looked out the window. Rome was a shimmering masterpiece, twinkling white in a blanket of snow, the first streaks of dawn turning the plane’s wing peach as they dropped low on the airport approach. She knew the Veronas hopped back and forth between Rome and Venice like they were just taking a boat over to Murano. Perhaps she should start getting out more.
When the plane came to a stop, she stood up, smoothed the black and cinnamon dress that Ava had overnighted to her, and let the attendant help her on with her coat. It was another Ava design, and as she stepped off the plane and hurried beside security, she was thankful for the dramatic plush collar that rose up to her cheekbones.
By the time she was sitting in the back of the car Juliette had sent for her, all the beauty of Rome left her mind. She sat in the ugly reality that her husband had killed the finest man imaginable, Count Gabrieli Verona. She’d tried so hard to prevent Salvio from accomplishing it in the fall, and somehow everything had gone wrong. He’d done it anyway—or maybe it was one of his hired hit men.
What was it that Luigi Lampani had told her? Mad men have a knack for getting through defenses and killing their prey.
It had still been dark outside when Luigi walked down the Venice Termini platform passing posters bearing Benedetta’s face. She was all over the local news, and it was a relief knowing she was safe with Kate at the shelter. Today was going to be another long one. To Rome for Gabrieli’s funeral in the Sistine Chapel, then back to Venice for Salvio’s funeral at the Little Church this evening.
He’d climbed aboard the train to Rome feeling a twitchy restlessness, like an athlete seconds before a competition. He’d still been unable to find Pocket Coffee anywhere in Venice, so he had a light breakfast and packed a small satchel with three good pens, his notebook, and a phone charger. Funerals provided invaluable opportunities for detectives who kept their wits sharp and their eyes open.
He looked around the train car and saw a number of familiar faces, people that he’d interviewed during this investigation. The heads of Venice’s building associations were sitting in groups, and Genero Tosca beckoned him to the empty seat across from him.
“Detective Lampani, join us.”
“Grazie. Such a sad occasion,” Luigi said to the group in general.
“I don’t like having to travel all the way to Rome to say goodbye to the patriarch of Venice,” Genero Tosca said.
“Then we come back for Salvio’s funeral.”
“What’s the world come to?” Marco Falconetti said. “We all know Salvio killed Gabrieli. Like he killed my son.”
“We’re not going out of respect for Salvio, we’re going out of respect for his great family—the House of Scortini that gave each of us and our fathers, and our grandfathers, our start,” Genero said. “And to show our support for Raphielli. We owe her a great debt.”
“Salvio’s father and grandfather were like parents to each of us,” a man Luigi didn’t know added.
“But Salvio was no brother to us,” someone behind him said.
“Piece of shit,” Marco said, his face red. “I’m not attending his funeral.”
“We owe Salvio’s wife. That girl got us our patents back…” the man fell silent when two of his associates gave him overt looks to shut up. Then he finish
ed firmly, “Raphielli has us behind her one thousand percent. We’ll show up to let her know she’s not ostracized because of what her husband did.”
Luigi looked over at Marco and he knew he was thinking of his son, a talented marble sculptor whose skull Salvio crushed for no reason at all.
At Roma Termini station they all filed off the train, and Tosca and the Venetian builders moved off to find their drivers at the curbside limousine queue. Luigi was supposed to wait for the Vatican-attached monsignor Inspector Laszlo had arranged to be his guide. He saw a stocky Asian man hurrying toward him across the frigid platform. He was dressed all in black, his crisp long coat encased him like a shell, and he had the face of a shogun warrior.
“Detective Lampani?” he asked.
“Monsignor Nuur,” Luigi said in greeting. Offering a hand, he discovered the cleric’s hands were encased in heavy black gloves. “Shoveling snow?”
“Ah, no, I will leave it on the ground,” he said in perfect Italian, but with a heavy accent.
“I wouldn’t have recognized you as my Vatican liaison. I was looking for a priest’s collar.”
Nuur unzipped the top of his coat to reveal the rigid white collar. “And I thought I was looking for a police uniform.”
“Yeh, well, I’m a detective, so no uniform.” Then Luigi laughed and nodded. “But you pegged me anyway. Looks like you’d make a good detective.”
“You flatter me. Are you ready? I have a helmet for you, but did you not bring gloves?”
“Helmet? Are you kidding?”
“No. Heads of state have reserved every car available to the Vatican, so my only option for traveling outside the Holy City is my motorcycle. You will thank me. For a few minutes of cold, we can bypass the traffic nightmare and be inside to watch people arrive.”
Luigi followed Nuur to where his motorcycle was parked, turned his collar up, fastened the helmet, and climbed on behind the big man. Luigi clung to the monsignor’s solid frame as they shot through the stopped traffic on the exit rotunda and through the predawn Roman roads like a pinball hurtling the landscape of a machine. Icy wind bit at his face, and his hands ached for a few moments before numbness took hold. They came to a grinding stop where several car bumpers had come within a centimeter of one another, and the drivers were honking in a cacophony of horns. Luigi figured Nuur would hop the sidewalk, but he took a quick peek over the monsignor’s broad shoulder and saw cars parked across the sidewalk all along this stretch of Via Isacco Newton.
Surviving Venice Page 9
