White Shotgun (31 page)

“For what?”

The Commissario swallows water and takes his time.

“Landscaping? Gardening? Processing coffee? Do you or your company buy chemicals from Spectra?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to ask my production manager.”

“Let me save you the trouble. We have already checked. The Nicosa Family company has an account with Spectra on average of two to three hundred euros per month.”

“All right, then I guess we do.”

“But you don’t
know
? That is a significant amount of money.”

“Not for us. I don’t keep track of every supplier.”

“And you’ve never met this man, Falassi?”

Nicosa rubs his temples. The darkness beneath his eyes grows deeper.

“What are you telling me? This driver comes here and sees my wife? Is he some maniac who is obsessed with women?”

The Commissario folds his hands. He wears a gold ring made from a Roman coin.

“How has your marriage been recently?”

“Fine.”

“Have you and your wife been fighting?”

“Why is that your business?”

The Commissario answers Nicosa with blank button eyes:

“Did you kill her?”

Nicosa returns the look with equanimity. “You are crazy.”

“Did you get Falassi to dispose of the body? In the acid bath in the woods?”

Inch by inch, Nicosa’s face goes scarlet.

I touch his wrist. “He’s trying to provoke you.”

He’s trying to bury you
.

Like any good cop, the Commissario waits patiently. For a moment, they stare each other down.

Nicosa breaks free of my touch and waves the chief off.

“Talk to my lawyers.”

The Commissario gets up from the table. Ignoring his host, he turns to me.

“It is a pleasure,
signorina.
” He shakes my hand with cold, bony fingers. “Call my office anytime.”

Taking long halting steps, he walks toward the car. The driver comes to attention and opens the door.

Donnato asks if there is a common denominator.

I am speaking to him in Los Angeles from my hideout in the far corner of the pool. Pine boughs sway above me, while he’s looking out at a view of the bland cityscape that might as well be a painted backdrop; it never moves, never changes, only smolders.

“Common denominator between what?”

“Just doodling,” he says. “Staring at the old yellow pad.”

“What does the yellow pad say?”

“It says
coffee—vat—sister
. I’ve been thinking about what you’re telling me. The vat of lye. Human remains. We’re looking for your sister. She could be in there. She could not. It could be someone else they murdered. The Commissario makes a visit. Lays down the gauntlet to the coffee king. Nicosa is behaving—how?”

“Angry. Evasive.”

“Evasive,” echoes Donnato. I imagine him nodding, tasseled loafers up on the desk, toes ticking back and forth. “We ask, what is Nicosa hiding? Where is the mafia drug connection Rizzio keeps talking about?”

“I don’t know, but the Commissario is trying to connect him to the chemical company that makes sodium hydroxide. It’s called Spectra.”

“Is lye used in manufacturing coffee?”

“Nicosa says no. But he does buy other stuff from Spectra.”

“Is this Mr. Commissario actually trying to make the case that Nicosa adds sodium hydroxide to his regular order, and keeps it in the middle of a forest, on the off chance he might need it to get rid of his wife?”

“They’re blood enemies. The Commissario is looking to destroy him. But Nicosa did know about the crime scene. He knows more than he’s letting on,” I say, feeling a flicker of excitement. “He knew it was the site of an ancient Etruscan mill.”

“Twenty-five years in the FBI tells me your sister’s disappearance has nothing to do with some ancient-ass old mill,” Donnato says. “We have to take this in another direction.”

“Where?”

“Follow the trail of the lye.”

I can’t bring myself to admit to him that’s what Sterling said from the beginning.

THE SOUTH–LA FAMIGLIA

TWENTY-EIGHT

Zabrina Tursi did the math. They had to get to Calabria before dark. The word was out; people would already be showing up. They had to leave right now.

Her current boyfriend, Yuri Kosta, was in the shower. There was no tub in the bathroom, just a showerhead and a drain. The tiny curtain was useless. The tile floor would flood, but nobody used the sponge mop Zabrina had stolen from the janitor to push the dirty water into the drain. She had obsessed about confronting her two roommates, but in the end she just gave up. The place smelled like a sewer. The toilet and sink were always damp with mildew. If you left something in there, like a towel, it would never dry. That’s why they had clothes racks on the balcony, next to the rosemary plants, which were a gift from someone’s deluded parents.

It was a nice building in a calm neighborhood outside the walls, as Sterling and I had discovered that blazing day when we attempted to find her, so nice that you had to be buzzed in. It rented monthly, mostly to students at the Università di Siena, but also to musicians who came for the jazz festival and even a few professors. It was a middle-class paradise. They had two bedrooms and only one other roommate, a thirty-two-year-old American named Simon Lawrence, who came from a wealthy family in Chicago and claimed to be studying to become the conductor of a symphony orchestra. He would walk around singing scores. Instead of a newspaper, he read music, and he was good on the guitar. They were all addicts. The place was dirty and the furniture dilapidated, but you would not have guessed it was a shooting gallery, where partygoers and white-collar professionals showed up for ten-euro hits, unless you caught sight, in the one-couch living room, of the odd metal cap containing remnants of blood, cocaine, and heroin.

The kitchen, though, was always tidy. If they got it together to prepare a meal, it would be the traditional pasta,
secondi
, and dessert, even though someone had to wash their meager collection of melamine dishes between each course, and they’d be crawling over each other in the hot, narrow space. The pale green tile wall was decorated with a calendar of naked women. Simon would tune the television on top of the refrigerator to the BBC. The sliding door to the balcony was an invitation to step outside and enjoy a smoke. The kitchen was the only sane room in the house.

Zabrina wiped the oilcloth on the kitchen table and checked the clock again. It was three minutes later. The shower was still going—just like their money, down the drain. They were two months behind on the rent and mooching off Simon’s personal food cabinet. He was a nice guy, but he had a habit to support, and living in paradise isn’t free. They were going to get kicked out, she knew it, but she couldn’t deal with that right now. Right now they were broke and crashing.

Zabrina went into their bedroom, sat on the mattress on the floor, and fished a lipstick mirror from her bag. She was twenty, from Calabria—the child of an upholsterer and a seamstress—with a pug nose, light freckles, and dynamic black eyebrows. She’d come to Siena to get as far away as possible from the crime-ridden slums, but there was a weak place inside her that couldn’t support the weight of freedom. She was a part-time student and waited tables at the Tuscan wine bar inside the fifteenth-century Medici fortress on the edge of town. She had chopped two-inch bangs across her forehead and put red streaks in her hair because, she said, her alter ego was the devil.

The girl lay on her stomach on the mattress and found her face in the tiny mirror, angling it to look at the good parts: the full lips and great eyebrows. With a little makeup, she could pass. The symptoms didn’t show. Her skin wasn’t even yellow. A couple of Valium would take care of the headache and the fiery abdominal pain until they got there.

Her cousin, Fat Pasquale, who ran things back home in Calabria, didn’t like unhealthy
pòrci
—pigs. Human guinea pigs, that’s what they called the addicts who showed up for free hits when raw powder came in and they were testing the cut. Not everybody was desperate enough to spring for the Russian roulette of trying out a new mix. Only the most extreme cases showed up, often from far distances. By the time they got there, they’d be so strung out all they could do was lie on the floor. Then the guy with the hands would make Fat Pasquale find a vein in their feet and do it, which could be dangerous. Even the big shot mafiosi were afraid of AIDS. You could accidently prick your finger and be dead. Also,
pòrci
didn’t make great subjects if they were sick to begin with. The cut had to be good enough to beat the competition, but not so strong that it killed the buyer.

Yuri came into the bedroom—dark-skinned, emaciated, with dreadlocks caught up in a rubber band. He slipped on jeans and sat on the mattress beside Zabrina and lit a cigarette. They spoke in Italian although Yuri was half African, half Albanian, and had only been in Italy a year.

“I received a text from Fat Pasquale,” Zabrina said. “He’ll hook us up if we can get to Calabria tonight.”

“Sto da favola!”
said Yuri. “How? We don’t have money.”

Zabrina, lying prone, took a hit off the cigarette and demurely crossed her ankles in the air.

“Simon will lend us some for gas.”

“He will want to go, too.”

“Is he here?”

“No.”

“Then too bad for him.”

“If we take his money, he should get some.”

“He’s not here!” Zabrina yelled. “I’m not waiting for that bitch.”

Yuri nodded, said, “Yeah, okay,” and left the room.

Now that she had convinced him to go, Zabrina felt dragged-down and tired. She always came up with ideas—like the sponge mop in the bathroom—but as soon as she thought of something good, it seemed to disappear and ceased to matter. She felt scooped out and empty. That feeling that nobody cared. Calabria was far away. She blinked at her cell phone. It was eight minutes later than when she had checked the kitchen clock. Yuri came back with the keys and all the cash he could find in Simon’s stash in the back of a drawer.

Zabrina hauled herself up and by sheer force of will against an unfathomable weight of sadness, buckled on the sandals with the silver death heads. You could only think six hours ahead.

TWENTY-NINE

Later that afternoon, after the Commissario has left the abbey, Chris’s black Fiat pulls up outside the gates, covered with dust from the surveillance of Marcello Falassi, aka Il Capocuòco, the Chef. Sterling, looking even thinner and scruffier with a day’s growth of beard, gets out and crosses the courtyard, boot heels chipping at the gravel. I am still wearing my sister’s linen skirt. The sensuous feel of it against my bare legs as I walk toward him makes me hope this unexpected shot of femininity will strike up the old spark in his eyes. He gives me an appreciative hug.

“How’d it go? What happened to Falassi?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?”

“The Italian police got ahold of him. We were in position in the hide site, back up in the woods off the turnoff. At first light an unmarked car shows up, two plainclothes detectives get out. They busted through the iron fence and went on down the road that leads to the campsite. We figured our job was done. They were onto our man.”

“They got there fast. I’m impressed. It was one in the morning by the time I spoke to the FBI legat in Rome. He must have gotten right to the Commissario. How did they get through the fence?”

“Bolt cutters.”

I nod approvingly. “They came prepared. Did they take Falassi into custody?”

“Must have, because there’s only one way in and one way out.”

“You didn’t stay to make sure? You didn’t wait until you saw them bring him out in handcuffs and put him in the car?”

“Why risk getting made? By then it was full daylight.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. No, ma’am.” He takes my hand and kneads my knuckles, an overly bright expression in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“You were supposed to stake out the witness.”

“Babe, we did. We were there all night. You said we’d have to turn the evidence over to the Italian cops eventually. They were on it, so we took the opportunity to jack it out of there.”

I relent. “Okay.” My fingers yield in his. “Well, we had a hell of a morning.” I detail the confrontation between Nicosa and the Commissario. “He was about to arrest Nicosa for murder right there.”

“On what evidence?”

“Blood rivalry?”

“That ain’t gonna fly.”

“I guess the police are counting on what they find,” I say. “In the vat.”

My voice falters at the memory, and then it is as if I am right back on the platform, staring down at the unbearable pink human stew. Sterling feels it and his grip tightens. He pulls me toward his chest, a disquieting tremble in his arms. We cling together, my silent tears staining his shirt, but somehow it isn’t me he’s holding on to; his face is turned away, as if he’s listening to something I can’t hear.