“I’m afraid it can’t wait. Please open the door.”
Several seconds elapsed before the buzzer sounded and the lock snapped open. Gabriel followed Rossetti into the foyer and up the stairs to the fourth floor. Giada Pozzi, wife of Ottavio Pozzi, waited in the doorway of apartment 408. She was a thin, sinewy womanof perhaps thirty-five, pierced and heavily tattooed. She ignored the Carabinieri identification that Rossetti held before her nearly black eyes.
“Why do you want to talk to him?”
“Move aside, Signora Pozzi.”
“He’s done nothing wrong.”
“In that case, he has nothing to worry about.”
The woman held her ground for a moment longer before finally yielding. Rossetti brushed past her, with Gabriel at his heels. Two children, a boy and a girl, were staring at the television in the sitting room. The boy looked to be about eight or nine. The girl was a year or two younger.
“Where’s Ottavio?” asked Rossetti.
“I told you, he’s sleeping.”
“Wake him up. We haven’t got all day.”
The woman disappeared down a hallway and returned a moment later with her husband. He wore a wrinkled cotton pullover and a pair of jeans. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin was pale, his dark hair was uncombed.
He looked at Rossetti and asked, “What do you want?”
“Is there somewhere we can speak in private? I wouldn’t want to upset the children.”
They all four went into the kitchen. Pozzi joined Gabriel and Rossetti at the linoleum table while his wife filled a Bialetti stovetop with Illy and San Benedetto.
Rossetti laid one of the files on the tabletop and lifted the cover. “Your Vatican personnel file, along with a copy of your original application and security questionnaire.”
Ottavio Pozzi regarded the material with the blank expression of the sleep-deprived. “Where did you get that?”
“It was given to us by your boss.” Rossetti placed the second file on the table. “This one we found all on our own.”
Pozzi was silent.
“Why did you lie on your application?” asked Rossetti.
“I needed a job. And I knew they would never hire me if I told them my brother was a criminal.”
“You could have found a job somewhere else.”
“I wanted to work at the Vatican.”
“Why?”
“To be close to the Holy Father.”
“You admire His Holiness?”
“I love all the popes.”
“You’re a devout Catholic?”
“Very.”
Rossetti looked at the pierced, tattooed woman. “And what about you, Signora Pozzi?”
She placed a cup of coffee before her husband but said nothing.
