The Eighth Day (10 page)

Danny finished the second of the little crescent rolls and slid off the stool.
Just do it,
he told himself.
Get it over with. It’s no big deal. Just put the question to the priest, who will tell you either yes or no: you can have the computer, or you can’t. Either way, then you can fly home and get back to work—your real work.

It was almost seven-thirty when he got to the Inghilterra. The interpreter was waiting for him in the lobby and came up to him as he stood at the desk, asking for his key.

“Mr. Cray? It’s Paulina.”

He wasn’t sure what he thought she’d look like—a woman in her forties maybe, bookish, gracious, reading glasses. But the woman in front of him was something else entirely: a dark beauty, thirty at the outside, with the kind of high-gloss glamour that costs real money. She was wearing a low-cut lettuce-green linen suit with a very short skirt and brown alligator heels.

“Hi.” It was the best he could do.

Her smile was dazzling as she looked up at him through thick lashes, flirting. “I thought you’d be older,” she told him.

“I thought
you’d
be older.”

That musical slide of a laugh. “Well. Anyway, sorry to just . . .
materialize
. . . like this. Shall we get coffee?”

She didn’t wait for an answer but turned on her heel and headed for the hotel’s bar/café. Danny padded after her like a dog, wary and excited all at once, eyes locked on the seesaw of her hemline. The skirt was so short it was barely decent, and when she perched on a stool and crossed her legs Danny felt as if he’d lost the power of speech.

Happily, a waiter appeared out of nowhere, rescuing Danny from the need to make conversation. The interpreter lifted her eyes toward him. “Cappuccino?”

Danny nodded. With an effort, he added, “Sure.”

When the waiter left, she said, “I’m sorry to just
appear
like this. But you didn’t answer your telephone. And I hate voice mail, so . . .” She shrugged, a small gesture that called attention to the long swoop of her neck and the delicate lines of her clavicles. “I thought,
I’ll just leave him a note.
And then”—a truly dazzling smile—“there you were!”

“Hunh!” Danny replied, incredulous at how stupid he sounded, even to himself.
Get a grip.
“And, uhh . . . what would the note be about?”

That trill of a laugh. “Father
Inzaghi
, of course. I thought it best to call him first thing—before he wandered off for the day. . . .” She pushed her hands out and stirred the air. “I don’t know, praying or something. I realized I had no idea what priests
do
all day. I mean, where do they go? Well! Now I know.”

“So you got him!”

“Yes!”

“And what does Father Inzaghi do all day?”

“He is in the Vatican Library—slaving away.”

“On what?”

“He is . . . what do they say? He is
digitizing
the incunabula.”

“No kidding,” Danny said.

She nodded brightly.

“And the incunabula is . . . what?” Danny asked.

“Oh, good,” Paulina replied. “I was afraid you knew what they were, because I didn’t—I had to ask. And if you knew and I didn’t, that would have been bad, because—well, words are my business.” She leaned toward him, seemingly oblivious to the effect her cleavage had on him. He tried not to look, but it was about as easy as defying gravity. In a glance, his eyes flew past the tan line to the café au lait that lay beyond it. The shadow and press of her nipples . . .

“The incunabula,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I think it’s a little spooky, no? But no—they’re just books printed before 1500. This priest, Inzaghi, is an expert. In books or computers—one or the other. I think perhaps both. But he’s been working so long in the archives, they call him ‘Rex Topo.’ ”

Danny gave her a quizzical look. “Rex Topo?”

Her eyes flashed. “He is King of the Mice! That is what they call the priests who work with the books. Mice! And this one—he is their king.” She uncoiled from the stool and got to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute.” With a smile, she swayed out of sight, her body a magnet drawing looks from every corner of the room.

The waiter arrived a moment later. With the speed and panache of a blackjack dealer, he dealt out two porcelain cups half-full of coffee, a small white pitcher with foamed milk, and a pewter-and-glass setup that held four kinds of sugar.

Danny took a sip of the delicious coffee and listened to the rise and fall of the conversations around him. Another sip and then a pause in the noise—a sudden caesura that caused him to raise his eyes. And there she was, making her way toward him, her purse bouncing provocatively against her thigh. It was hard not to stare.

“Where was I?” she asked, setting her purse on the counter and raising herself onto a stool.

“You were talking about mice.”

“That’s right!” She took a sip of coffee, set the cup down, and turned serious. “As I said, I spoke to Inzaghi this morning. And I told him what you wanted to see him about—in a general way. I said it was a police matter, concerning Professor Terio.”

Danny nodded. “And he said . . . ?”

“You’re having lunch this afternoon. I made reservations at a super little trattoria in the Via dei Cartari. I think if you give him a good meal, a little wine—maybe a lot of wine—he might be helpful.”

“And what about
you
? Will you be there?”

She shook her head. “His English is excellent. Fluent, even. He studied in Scotland. You’ll do better without me.”

“Oh, I doubt
that
,” he told her, and instantly regretted it.
Why not just wink at her, while you’re at it?

Her eyes twinkled.

He felt like a pig. Even though he hadn’t done anything
(yet)
, even though he hadn’t so much as laid a hand on the woman, his betrayal of Caleigh was a fait accompli, a done deal, if only in his imagination.

“Well,” Paulina said, her dark eyes merry, “thank you. But I think it will be better if it’s just the two of you.”

Danny gave a regretful shrug. Reaching for the little pitcher of milk on the counter, he added a bit to his coffee and stirred. As he did, his eye was caught by her purse, which was lying on the counter. A silky pouch the color of new broccoli, it had a drawstring closure that gaped open. And inside he glimpsed the white papery cylinder of a Tampax and, next to it, the dark-blue cylinder of a gun barrel.

His eyes jerked away and then snapped back for another peek. He’d heard it said that guns don’t look real when you see them—they look like toys. This one was small enough to be a toy, but there was no confusing it with one. The gun in her purse was dense with reality and easily concealed. A belly gun.
Maybe it’s normal,
Danny thought.
Maybe, in Rome, a woman like Paulina needs some protection. Maybe, in Rome, all the good-looking women are packing.

“Well,” she was saying, “I’ll write down the name of the restaurant, shall I? I made the reservation for twelve-thirty.” And with that, she extracted a pen from her purse and scrawled an address on a scalloped paper coaster.

“How long will it take me to get there?” Danny asked, taking the coaster from her.

She wrinkled up her face in a charming way and rocked from side to side. “Twenty minutes, if you walk.” The high-wattage smile. “More if you take a taxi.” Then she glanced at her watch, raised her hand toward the waiter, and pantomimed writing on the air.

“I’ll get that,” Danny said.

“Good, because I really have to go,” she said, standing up and smoothing her skirt. “If you need anything, you’ll call me, yes?”

“Yes.” He got to his feet.

Then she leaned toward him, her hair brushing his face. He caught a heady rush of expensive perfume as she kissed him, first on one cheek, then the other. Unlike the air kisses he was used to at the gallery, she made actual contact—and lingered on the second kiss. Her lips relaxed, and he could feel her breath on his cheek. Then she pulled back, holding his shoulders in her outstretched hands. “Oh, no,” she giggled, “I got lipstick on you.” She dabbed at his cheek with a napkin until, satisfied, she dropped it on the counter.
“Buona fortuna!”

And then, before he could manage a word, she was gone.

The “little trattoria” wasn’t the homey place that Danny had imagined. It did not have checkered tablecloths or bottles of Chianti wrapped in raffia. It was, instead, an essay in sophisticated minimalism, with navy-blue walls and tables draped in white gauze. Danny identified himself to the maître d’, who showed him to a table near the window, where a round little man in his fifties was sitting. Seeing Danny approach, the man got to his feet.

“Investigatore!”
he said, with a deferential nod. “It’s a pleasure.” They shook hands.

The man was wearing a dark-blue suit that had seen better days. The cuffs had a sheen that spoke of long wear, as did the pinholes in one of the sleeves—evidence, Danny thought, of moths in the Vatican. The only indication of his companion’s ordination was a tiny gold cross, affixed to the lapel under his chin.

A waiter appeared with menus and asked about drinks. It wasn’t something Danny ever did—drink at lunch—but he nevertheless suggested a bottle of wine and proposed that Inzaghi choose it. The priest was only too happy to comply. Donning a pair of reading glasses, he studied the wine list with a skeptical air, then snapped it shut and handed it back to the waiter. A brief exchange ensued, and then the waiter turned on his heel to fetch the bottle in question.

Inzaghi sat back in his seat, polishing his reading glasses as he studied his luncheon companion. “You’re very young,” he decided.

Danny shrugged.

“For a detective, I mean.”

Danny nodded.

“Well, you must be very smart.”

Danny resisted a second shrug but didn’t know quite what to say. So he nodded, thinking,
This isn’t going well.

But the priest didn’t seem to notice. “I was shocked,” he said, “to hear that Christian died.” He shook his head. “I found out about it when I couldn’t reach him. I sent one e-mail after another. I telephoned, and . . . nothing. So I called the university. And they told me. A suicide!” He shook his head, as if to clear it.

“So you were surprised?” Danny asked.

“Surprised? Of course. I’m not saying he didn’t have problems, worries. But you must understand: This was a man in love with life! A man with a great sense of humor. Although . . .” The priest leaned closer and, in a confidential tone, added, “His jokes were terrible.”

Danny smiled. “How so?”

Inzaghi gave him an exasperated look. “Perhaps it’s the language problem. My English is—”

“Excellent!”

“No, no. It’s just adequate. And Chris, he was always making . . . puns. Terrible puns, I think, but then . . . maybe I don’t understand because of the language.”

Danny nodded politely.

“Example!” the priest declared. “I ask you: what is so funny about ‘heigh-ho the Terio’?”

Danny chuckled. “Not much.” It was some nursery rhyme, he thought, although he couldn’t remember which one.

“That’s what I think,” the priest remarked. “It’s just not funny. But every time he said it, he couldn’t help himself. ‘Heigh-ho the Terio!’ And he’d laugh!” The priest shook his head.

“You wouldn’t think it would come up that often.”

Inzaghi nodded with a rueful grin. “But it did, for Christian. It was his—how do you call it?—his ‘reminder question,’ in case he forgot a password,” he explained. Then the grin faded, and the priest looked morose. “I let him down.”

Danny looked puzzled. “Why do you say that?”

Father Inzaghi shrugged. “Because he was a friend!” The priest heaved an exasperated sigh. “I should have been more sensitive to his feelings. I should have noticed something! But . . . I had no idea.” He cast a hopeful glance at Danny, looking for commiseration.

“I think most people feel that way,” Danny told him, “whenever someone dies . . . like that. Even if it’s an accident, they think,
If only I’d been with him, he’d still be here
. But usually, there’s really nothing anyone can do about it. Nothing anyone
could have done
about it.”

The waiter arrived with a bottle of Barbaresco, uncorked it with a flourish, and waited for Inzaghi to pronounce it good. When the priest nodded his approval, the waiter filled their glasses and took their orders. After he’d left, Inzaghi leaned forward and with an embarrassed look said, “I wonder, Detective . . .”

“Yes?”

“I wonder if, perhaps . . . I could see your credentials?”

The question took Danny by surprise, though of course it shouldn’t have. A rush of adrenaline flashed through his chest, and a nervous smile lifted the corners of his mouth. A telephone pretext was one thing, but lying was something else—and this, whatever this was, was even worse. Impersonating a cop. What was he thinking? “No problem,” he said, and, reaching inside his coat, retrieved the ID that Belzer had made for him. Then he handed it to the priest, who gave him an apologetic look.

“It’s just that you’re so young,” he said. “I was expecting an older man.” Inzaghi barely glanced at the ID, then handed it back, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

Danny shook his head. “It’s good to be cautious—you never know.”

“Indeed,” the priest replied.

“So . . . did they tell you how it happened?”

“No.” Inzaghi gave him a curious look and shook his head. “What difference would it make?”

“Well, it’s one of the reasons I’m here. It was a very unusual ‘suicide.’ ”

The priest frowned. “And why is that?”

Danny described the circumstances under which Terio had been found, watching the priest’s face as the shock registered, the initial distress giving way to a wash of repugnance. When he was done, Inzaghi took a long sip of wine, then dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “My
god
! That’s grotesque. I mean—oh!”

Danny gave him a hapless look.

“Although!” Inzaghi raised a forefinger for emphasis. “Although!” he repeated, shaking his finger as if he were Fidel. “It’s not unheard of.”