I walked along Via Giovanni Battista Cigola and finally reached Via di Tor Bella Monaca, where there was a steady flow of traffic heading for the highway to the south. I finally managed to hail a cab and told the drive to take me to the Hassler.
Once I was in my room, I checked my messages on Private’s secure email server and found one from Mo-bot asking me to call her.
“Jack,” she said when she picked up. “How are things over there?”
“Interesting,” I replied. “Matteo Ricci swears he’s innocent but can’t explain what happened. You got anything on his former partner, Luna Colombo?”
“Not yet. I’m still working on it,” Mo-bot said. “But I’ve got the background on Faduma Salah. I’ll send you the full file, but she’s vanilla. What you see is what you get. Child refugee who came to Italy with her family and built a life for herself as an investigative journalist. Brave, thorough, and, more importantly, honest. No red flags at all.”
“Good to know,” I replied.
“How long do you think you’ll be out there?”
“Until this gets done,” I said.
“We’ve been talking about coming over to help.”
“Don’t. I’m okay.”
“But the Rome office isn’t even up and running,” she protested. “You’re on your own.”
“I’ll let you know if I need help. There’s no point disrupting our other operations. What’s happened here is disruption enough. Stay focused on the day-to-day.”
“Yes, boss,” she snapped back.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” she said, her tone softening. “You’re too stubborn. But you’re also right, which is infuriating. Keep in touch.”
“Will do,” I said, before hanging up.
Outside the bells of a nearby church were tolling, divine sound rising above the mundane noises of the city. It was beautiful, and I could understand why churches had seemed magical places in the days before recorded music. Where else would ordinary people have heard such beautiful sounds?
I crossed my room and picked up a card from my desk. I dialed the cell-phone number printed on the front, and my call was answered after a couple of rings.
“Sì?”
“Mr. Stadler? It’s Jack Morgan.”
“Mr. Morgan. Good to hear from you. Have you reached a decision?”
“Yes,” I replied. I was going to be investigating the death of Father Brambilla anyway. I might as well be paid for my efforts, and I suspected the Chief Operating Officer of the Vatican Bank would be a useful client. With his political and business connections, Joseph Stadler could probably open many doors around the city that would remain closed to me if I went it alone. “I’ll take the case,” I told him. “I’ll find out what really happened to Father Brambilla.”
Chapter 12
Justine and I kept a video link open while she put together a profile of someone who was blackmailing one of our New York office’s corporate clients. I spent the evening reviewing Faduma Salah’s background and journalism, and every now and again Justine and I would break off from work to chat. It wasn’t the same as being together physically, but it would have to suffice. Finally, when it got late and the world outside fell silent, I said goodnight.
The following morning, I dressed and had breakfast on the hotel terrace overlooking the city. It was a clear crisp morning and the promise of a scorching day ahead grew with each passing moment. Rome seemed alive, and was already humming with the buzz of scooters, vehicle horns and the rumble of traffic. The air around me was rich with the promise of fresh-brewed coffee and pastries.
When I finished my espresso, I caught a cab in front of the hotel and the driver took me to police headquarters on Via di San Vitale. We arrived shortly before 8:30 a.m. and Gianna Bianchi was already there. I’d requested the meeting the previous night after puzzling over my encounter with Luna Colombo.
“Thanks for coming, Ms. Bianchi,” I said, approaching the lawyer who was dressed today in a thin knee-length orange shift dress. It wouldn’t have looked out of place at the beach but was practical in the Roman summer.
“It’s no problem,” she replied. “And please call me Gianna.”
The day was only getting started and I was already feeling the heat. I took off my light blue jacket and draped it over my arm.
“It’s going to be as hot as an oven today,” she remarked. “Why do you want to see Signor Ricci again?”
“I spoke to his former police partner and our conversation raised some questions.”
“Shall we go inside?” Gianna asked.
I nodded and we headed into the building. Ten minutes after presenting ourselves at the reception desk, we were seated in an interview room, waiting for Matteo.
I’d been in many such rooms, but they never lost their ability to remind me of the precious nature of freedom and how easily it could be lost. I was able to walk out of this place, but one mistake, one simple error, and I might find myself on the wrong side of the table, trapped at the whim of a cop or judge. Any of us might, which was part of the reason I was in this business. Justice should concern us all because we can all be touched by injustice. It only takes some bad luck.
The sound of the door opening interrupted my reflection and I turned to see Matteo brought into the room by a uniformed officer, who led him to the chair opposite us and cuffed his wrists to an iron staple fixed to the tabletop.
“Morning, Signor Ricci,” Giana said as the officer withdrew.
“I need to get out of here,” Matteo said abruptly. Shadows ringed his eyes, which were bloodshot and watering. “The men they’re holding me with know I used to be a cop.”
“The circumstances of your arrest preclude bail,” Gianna replied. “I’m sorry. The only way you’ll be released is if we can clear your name.”
Matteo cursed under his breath.
“We’re working on getting you out,” I assured him. “I found Luna. It wasn’t easy, but I found her.”
Matteo gave me his attention, but his face was a mask of hopelessness.
“Why would a cop go to ground?” I asked.
He said nothing.
“Was Brambilla the one who warned you off the investigation into Filippo Lombardi’s death?”
His eyes dropped and he focused on the tabletop. Was he ashamed? Or just trying to protect a secret?
“The prosecutor Lombardi,” Gianna took up the questioning. “He died in a car crash. You said it was an accident. Was it?”
Matteo did not meet her eye.
“Was it Brambilla who persuaded you to drop the case?” I pressed him.
He hesitated.
“Yes,” he said at last.
“Why?” I asked.
“Lombardi had driven his car off a hillside near Poli. Father Brambilla told me there was nothing for anyone at the bottom of that ravine but pain. He said he was speaking as my old mentor and friend — looking out for me.”
“And you didn’t think it was odd?” I remarked. “A priest warning you off an official investigation?”
“Not if he was a friend,” Matteo replied. “This is Rome, Mr. Morgan. There are many webs connecting us all.”
“And is it possible Father Brambilla was caught up in a web of crime?”
Matteo didn’t respond. I was about to press him for an answer when he suddenly looked me in the eye and said, “I think he might have been.”
He slumped in his chair as though defeated.
“I shouldn’t have let him talk me out of it,” he said. “But I’d already decided to leave the police, and I didn’t want to put myself or Luna in danger. I didn’t think about his motives at the time. Father Brambilla was a priest, I couldn’t believe he would do anything wrong.”