From my vantage place in the square, there seemed to be only one street that could be the location of Lake's apartment. Given the narrowness of the street, a lane really, I couldn't get back far enough to see clearly. But there was one building that looked to have a roof garden—there were vines hanging over a railing at the top—and I headed for that. There was an Apartment for Sale sign on the front of the building, and the door was locked. I went and got myself a bag of groceries, making sure a nice Italian loaf and some carrot tops were plainly evident, and then waited until someone came along and unlocked the door.
I made it before the door closed. The person, an elderly woman, looked at me suspiciously, but I smiled pleasantly and wished her a good day. She glanced at my bag of groceries and decided I was all right. I took the elevator to the top floor. I was wondering how I'd know which apartment on that floor I'd been to, but I figured it would have to be the front, for me to have seen the inscription. It didn't matter. On the top floor there was only one apartment, something I should have suspected, given Lake's means.
I knocked at the door, but there was no answer. At that point, the elevator sprang to life, and before I could get away, a man stepped out. He looked surprised and not altogether pleased to see me. "There's no one there," he said. "You have to make an appointment."
"How would I do that?" I said.
"The number on the sign," he said. I must have looked baffled, because he added, "The For Sale sign n the building. You have to make an appointment with the real estate agency." He waited until I left the building.
I called the agency and was put through to a woman by the name of Laura Ferrari. I told her I was only in Rome for a few days, was interested in purchasing an apartment, and was specifically interested in the one on the Via della Rosa.
"Who told you about the unit?" she said.
"Signore Palladini," I said. It was the first thing that came into my head, the name I'd heard at the carabinieri station, but it had the most wondrous effect on Ms. Ferrari.
"Ah," she said. "The owner. Then you have some idea of the price." She told me what it was. Needless to say, I couldn't afford it. Not even close, in fact. Knowing what I did about doing business in Italy, I had to assume it was probably even higher than the price she'd quoted me, given the Italians' propensity to avoid paying taxes at all costs. What was most interesting, however, was the fact that Signore Palladini— quite possibly the same Palladini who'd called Massimo Lucca while I was sitting there, and who could have been the same Palladini that had arranged for me to meet Godard—was the owner of the apartment. A coincidence? It was difficult to think that was all it was. It also begged the question as to whether or not Lake had a place in Rome or simply borrowed Palladini's place when he was in town. Surely Lake could afford a pied-a-terre of his own. Or—and this had a nice conspiracy ring to it—were Palladini and Lake the same person, a pseudonym Lake used for convenience?
Laura Ferrari and I arranged to meet at the building an hour later. A dusty smell washed over me as we went in, and I had to stifle a sneeze. It was the same apartment, all right. The layout was the one I remembered, the painting over the mantel that Lake had claimed to be an original was there, as was the wall fresco. But everything else, all the furniture and the ceramics and books, all the collectibles, was covered in sheets. I got to see into the rooms where the doors had been closed shut on my first visit, but there, too, all was covered. No Anna. No lovely lemon cake. No sign of Lake.
"It would be better," Laura fussed, "to see the place without everything covered up, but I hope you can imagine what a wonderful apartment this is. I have a little surprise for you, signora," she added, beckoning to a door upstairs. "Ecco!" she said, with a flourish. "Magnificent, isn't it?"
I found myself in the roof garden, complete with a statue of David. "See," she said, pointing. "You can just see the Pantheon. The location here is marvelous. You could not ask for a better place for your stays in Rome. How is it you know Signore Palladini?"
"It's my husband who knows him, actually," I said.
"Then your husband is in insurance, too? Or is it law?"
"My husband's a lawyer. He argues cases before the World Court, so we're in Europe a great deal. They were at law school together." My, how the lies just rolled off my tongue. "I don't suppose Signore Palladini ever rents it out, does he, for short stays? I was thinking perhaps we could just try it out for a few days. I suppose we might ask him."
"I don't think so," she said. "I think he very much wants to sell it. Are you interested?"
"My husband will have to see it before we make a final decision," I said, edging toward the door. "I will speak with him this evening—he's in Brussels right now—and will get back to you as soon as I can. But I do think it's just perfect, exactly what I imagined our apartment in Rome should be.
"It is a gem," she said. "I look forward to showing it to your husband. You would have to be approved by the other residents," she added, "but I'm sure, for any friend of Vittorio Palladini, that would not be a problem."
I'd almost made it out of the place—we were standing in the entranceway—when a key turned in the lock, and the door began to open. Laura looked surprised. My heart was in my throat. A rather tall, slim, casually dressed man in jeans and a turtleneck came through the door. He started when he saw us.
"Signora Ferrari!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry. You startled me. I didn't know you were showing the place right now. I was just checking it."
"Signore Palladini!" Laura said. "I did leave you a message I'd be showing it, but we just made the appointment an hour or so ago. You know Signora McClintoch, I think," she said.
"Do I?" the man said, shaking my hand.
"We haven't met," I said.
"That's right," Laura said. "It's her husband that you know. You were at law school together."
"McClintoch..." he said, stroking his mustache with a perplexed expression.
"That's my name, not his," I said. "His is Rosati."
It was the only name I could come up with, that of the nice man I'd stood up in Volterra. I hoped he wouldn't mind.
"Rosati," he said, slowly. "Yes, I think I recall him. How nice to meet you. I hope you like the apartment."
"It's lovely," I said. "You must hate to part with it."
"I'm finding it a bit cramped," he said. "I'm looking for something a little larger." So Palladini was moving up, not down.
"But Signora McClintoch and her husband are looking for a small pied-a-terre, are you not?" she said, clearly worried her client was talking her out of a sale.
"I am a little concerned about the size," I said. Most of us could have managed to squeeze ourselves into it, given that it was well over two thousand square feet. "But it is really attractive."
"And the location," Laura said. "You could not do better."
"Do you let it out on a short-term lease at all? Rent it for a week or two, for example?" I said.