“Capitano! Sit, relax, today we have the tartufo nero.”
“Good news is always welcome, Marco. What are you putting it on?”
“I recommend tagliatelle, if you want smaller, you could do tagliolini.”
“I have found,” said Milo, “that less is not more. Tagliatelle.”
“Perfect. And you, signor?”
“The same.”
Marco hurried back to deliver the good news to his wife. Soap Opera came over with bread, butter, and olive oil. “What would you like to drink, please?” Perfect English, marked accent.
Milo said, “Pitcher of iced tea, two glasses.”
“Immediately.”
When the tea arrived, Milo had Giovanni Aggiunta’s passport flipped to the I.D. photo.
“Has this gentleman ever been here?”
The waiter peered carefully. “No, sir.” His eyes shifted to the name beneath the photo. “Aggiunta. Like the shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“Expensive shoes.” He looked down at his own dusty black lace-ups and smiled.
“Are they sold locally?”
“I don’t know, sir. Maybe Rodeo Drive?”
“Super high-end, huh?”
The waiter whistled.
Milo put away the passport. The waiter’s curiosity had been stoked but he knew better than to push it. “Anything else, Capitano?”
“We’re fine, thanks. What’s your name?”
“Bartolomo.”
When we were alone, I said, “Cobbler to the Stars.”
“All those shoes in the closet,” he said. “All I had to do was examine the labels.”
He poured tea for both of us, lifted his glass, put it down. “Here I was writing him off as a boy-toy and the guy turns out to be a serious businessman. Probably has an office in Century or B.H. Probably has a business phone.”
I said, “The house is still no great shakes.”
“You keep coming back to that.”
“Fashion’s all about promotion. Someone representing a high-end manufacturer in L.A. would be entertaining conspicuously. That place doesn’t fit.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m just guessing,” I said, “but it’s possible he’s got a token job.”
“The dumb son.”
“Or just a son not interested in the family business. Alternatively, what if he got into some sort of trouble back home so they sent him here with a housing allowance, a leased car, and a fund that paid all his bills?”
“Trouble,” he said. “With someone like Meagin.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“He crossed a husband in Italy with a short temper and a long memory? God, I hope not, Alex. Last thing I need is my suspect list expanding to international.”
The waiter delivered two plates of golden-tinged pasta topped by shavings of black truffle.
Milo said, “Thanks, Bartolomo.”
“Pleasure, sir. Enjoy.” Still curious. Still discreet.
Milo coiled tagliatelle onto his fork and held it, suspended.
I said, “Something the matter?”
“Waiting for you to start.”
“When did that become a thing?”
“Hey,” he said, “it’s not often you actually order something sinful. I want to see if it transforms you.”
I tasted, smiled. “Do I look different?”
He said, “Yeah, like a bon vivant. Or whatever that is in Italian.”
I ate.
He said, “You live with an Italian girl and don’t know how to say it?”
“Robin’s fourth-generation Californian and her mother was English.”
He worked his phone. “Same thing, bon vivant.”
I said, “Speaking of my girl, when did she call you and suggest you call me?”
His eyes, always a shockingly bright green, slid to the right. Seasoned detective giving off a liar’s tell.
He nibbled with atypical precision. Chewed even slower.
I said, “It wasn’t a trick question.”
“You’re making this assumption because...”
“The case doesn’t feel different. And no more about aura, please.”
“Someone’s testy... when did she call? I wasn’t supposed to let on but now you’ll go home and badger her, so fine. A week ago. She said you were champing at the bit. Assured me you were okay then wondered if I’d lost my nerve.”
He smiled. “She comes right to the point, Robin does.”
I said, “I appreciate your wanting to protect me but she’s right. I’m ready to go.”
He drank tea.
I said, “The problem is...”
He put down his glass. “I keep turning it over and over, wondering how things screwed up so badly that you were nearly...” He waved away the rest of the sentence. Specks of moisture had collected in the corners of his eyes.
“Nothing screwed up. It was unpreventable.”
“So you say.”
“Have you come up with anything that could’ve stopped it?”
“No and that’s the problem. My line of work, stuff happens. But it’s not part of your job description.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Silence.
I said, “How about this: I’ll keep my distance from anything remotely resembling danger. Though I’m not sure how that’ll affect riding with you and your damn lead-foot.”
Queasy smile. He’d stopped eating.
“And if you get to go to Italy, I’ll stay home.”
He rubbed his face, looked up at the ceiling then down at the table. Pushed his plate away.
“No, no, no,” I said. “Don’t tell me you lost your appetite.”
He patted his gut. “That would be so terrible?”
“Indeed it would,” I said. “The world’s tough enough without having my faith challenged.”
“Wiseass.”
“You used to say wise man.”
He stared at me. I stared back. We broke into simultaneous grins.
From behind the counter, Marco said, “Ah, you like the tartufo. Fabulous!”
We both cleaned our plates. Bartolomo came over to bus.
Milo said, “Where you originally from?”
“Sardinia. But I lived in Rome. Studied architecture.”
“No architecture jobs?”
“If only. I hope to certify here but it takes time.”
Milo handed him a wad of cash. “Whatever’s left is yours.”
“Capitano, I cannot—”
“No big deal, stay healthy.”
Bartolomo left looking stunned. Murmured conversation rose from behind the counter. Moments later, he was back with two small plates. A pair of cannoli on each, coated with pistachio bits and dark chocolate.
Milo said, “Thanks but not necessary.”
“Life, Capitano, is not about necessary.”
The moment his back was turned, Milo polished off one pastry and was reaching for another.
All was right in the world.
Chapter 6
As we walked back to the station, Milo checked in with Detective Alicia Bogomil.
“Anything on the canvass, kid?”
She said, “I wish. The properties are spread out and maybe twenty percent of the houses seem to actually be occupied. Of the people I did make contact with, no one heard a thing. What’s with the ghost-town atmosphere, Loo?”
“These are second- and third-home people. Did you get to the neighbors directly behind the scene?”
“Yup. Ginormous place, older couple with three German shepherds. They had no clue, were totally freaked out. It’s like two acres from their house to the fence line and the back is like a forest so I can see them not hearing the shots.”
“The dogs didn’t bark?”