“His problems have a way of becoming my problems.”
“And vice versa,” said Chiara.
***
Gabriel spent the night at the Sloane Square Hotel and in the morning caught an early flight to Rome. As he was stepping off the jetway at Fiumicino he spotted Luca Rossetti, in a dark suit and open-necked dress shirt, waiting at the arrival gate.
“When were you planning to tell us?” he asked.
“Tell you what?”
“About the girl from Bar Dogale.”
“I see you’ve been talking to my friend Paolo Caruso.”
“I popped into the Salute yesterday afternoon to see if you had made any progress on the sketch. And when you weren’t there...”
“You headed straight to my usual hangout in the Campo dei Frari.”
Rossetti nodded. “Paolo told me about the sketch of the young Englishwoman who had been sitting next to you and the children.”
“And you put two and two together.”
“Math was always my best subject.”
“How did you know I was in London?”
Rossetti made a typing motion with the fingers of one hand, indicating that he had searched the manifests of flights departing from Venice. “Needless to say,” he added, “I was rather surprised by the second leg of your itinerary.”
“Does Baggio know you’re here?”
Luca Rossetti shook his head.
“In that case, who sent you?”
“Who do you think?”
***
The headquarters of the Art Squad were located in an ornate yellow palazzo in Rome’s tranquil Piazza di Sant’Ignazio. On the second floor was the large, high-ceilinged office of the unit’s longtime commander, General Cesare Ferrari. Seated behind his desk in his blue-and-gold Carabinieri finery, he contemplated the forensic sketch displayed on Gabriel’s mobile phone. The general held the device in his left hand, for his right was missing the third and fourth fingers, the result of a parcel bomb he received while serving as chief of the Carabinieri’s Naples division. The assassination attempt, mounted by elements of the ultraviolent criminal organization known as the Camorra, had claimed his right eye as well. His ocular prosthesis, with its immobile pupil and unyielding gaze, unnerved underlings and adversaries alike. Even Gabriel, who had worked with General Ferrari on several high-profile cases, found his gaze difficult to bear.
“When did you realize it was her?” the general asked at last.
“The instant I laid my hand on the bones of her face. The surveillance video from Bar Dogale confirmed my suspicions.”
“And yet you failed to report your findings to Colonel Baggio.”
“Is that a crime?”
“A rather serious one.” The general turned to Rossetti. “Wouldn’t you agree, Luca?”
“At the very least, he interfered with an official investigation. I’m afraid we have no choice but to haul him before a magistrate and press charges.”
Ferrari nodded his head solemnly in agreement. “Regrettably I must concur. Still, thereareextenuating circumstances. After all, our mutual friend’s conduct, as deplorable as it is, has resulted in a windfall of valuable information.”
“Information,” added Gabriel, “that might very well allow the Art Squad to assume control of the investigation.” With a smile he added, “Wouldn’t you agree, General Ferrari?”
Ferrari laid a hand piously over his heart. “The thought never entered my mind. That said, you’ve raised a valid point. A sensitive case involving the Vatican couldn’t possibly be handled by the Venice office. It requires someone of my expertise.” He paused, then added, “And yours as well.”
