6. We got friends. You know how many Iraqis it takes to change a president? Just a couple, provided you got the dough. We’ve been buying buddies on the ground there for years, making the down payments, preparing the way. They’re waiting on us to show up and close the deal. That check’s just burning a hole in someone’s back pocket right now.
7. We got a home. A nice home too, picked it myself. No tent for us, boy. No running hot water and mints on the pillow at bedtime either. But this place has got class. I’m a history man, Steely, got campaigns going back to Mesopotamia locked in these brain cells. Never forget that. This place is like you, it’s got breeding. Also, it’s real nice and peaceful, a little oasis in the desert where the Republican Guard got no reason to visit at all. Here’s a word to think about, Steely. Ziggurat.
Your old friend Billy K. bids farewell now. Eat this paper after reading. Wipe your ass with it if you like. Or even-no, I mean this, this is the best of all!!!-file the damn thing somewhere among all those big metal cabinets you people in the Via Veneto love so much. Put away a little piece of my ramblings for history. It doesn’t matter a damn.
I am William F. Kaspar which means, as you understand well, I don’t exist.
And you know the good news, Steely? For the next few months, neither do you.
We are the Babylon Sisters. Shake it.
“I am calm,” Peroni protested, storming towards Falcone and the American, his face a dangerous shade of red.
The big man stopped and Costa felt the full force of his frank and intelligent stare.
“Nic,” Peroni raged, “Falcone has half the Questura here. He doesn’t need me. That runaway kid does. I know what I’m doing. Trust me. Leo will love this one.”
“Oh great,” Costa replied ruefully. He knew it was no damn good arguing anyway. In this mood Peroni was unstoppable.
They marched over to the big black car where Falcone and Leapman stood smoking, watching the SOCOs and Teresa Lupo’s team at work, not exchanging a word.
“Sir,” Peroni said briskly.
The inspector cast him a puzzled glance. “Officer?” Leapman looked him up and down.
“I came to hear the theory,” Peroni demanded.
“The theory?” Falcone repeated.
“Yeah. There’s some lunatic out there with a scalpel. This dead woman’s been cut with one, too. Seems obvious to me what’s going on, but I gather our friend here’s got a theory. I was wondering what it was.”
Falcone nodded at the American. “Agent Leapman seems to think it’s coincidence. And we’re not absolutely sure about the scalpel, Peroni. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Peroni pulled a face at Falcone. The two men exchanged a brief knowing look that made Costa think something interesting was in the cards. Then Peroni gave his partner that “Can you believe this?” expression and glowered at the FBI agent. “Coincidence? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Leapman blinked slowly, as if to show he was dealing with very stupid people. “No, it’s not coincidence. It’s just sloppy police work. You guys have been so goddamn lax with your news management, half of Rome knows what this guy does to get his kicks. It’s in all the papers. Everyone in Rome is sitting around the breakfast table out there reading every last detail and guess what? Someone’s starting to think maybe he’d like to get in on the act too. This is just copycat stuff, that’s all. Maybe some guy was going to kill the woman anyway and thought he’d mess around with a scalpel just so’s we’d think it was our man all along. Who knows? Not you, that’s for sure.”
Costa couldn’t believe his ears. “Copycat? What the hell does that mean?”
“Read the stuff I send you,” Leapman barked. “Think about it. This guy’s a perfectionist. He kills these people in a specific way. He lays them out in a specific place, cuts pieces into their backs like he’s a surgeon or something. He doesn’t slash them around, then chop ”em into pieces and stuff them into suitcases. This is just run-of-the-mill stuff. It’s out of his class. Beneath him. Besides…“
Leapman stopped himself, as if he were about to go too far.
“Besides what, Agent Leapman?” the inspector asked.
“Besides… nothing. This is not our man. I’ve been working on this longer than you. I’ve got a feel for this guy.”
Falcone was quiet for a moment, thinking, watching the path team work at the car. “I didn’t think that was the way you people worked. Feelings.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Leapman grumbled. “Come up with the smart stuff. Get it off your chest.”
“Perhaps something went wrong,” Costa suggested. “Maybe he’s losing his self-control. Maybe this wasn’t someone he intended to kill.”
Leapman screwed up his face in disbelief. “Don’t you people understand a criminal profile when you see it? Don’t you have a word for ”modus operandi“ in Italian?”
Falcone’s eyebrows rose in amusement.
“I’ll check,” he said dryly. “Where’s the girl, Peroni? I thought she was in your care.”
The big man grimaced. “I don’t know. I thought I’d got her trust. I didn’t realize we needed to keep her under lock and key. I’ll happily go looking if you want.”
“What’s the point?” Leapman snarled. “Immigrant brat like that. She can run rings round you guys. Not that it seems hard. I mean… letting a material witness go-”
The expression on Peroni’s face cut him short. Nic Costa had to hand it to his partner sometimes. The big cop surely knew how to scare the daylights out of people.
Peroni prodded Leapman in the chest and muttered, “I wasn’t aware I was talking to you. Sir.”
Leapman bridled and eyed Falcone. “You got a discipline problem here too, Leo?”
Peroni breathed deeply, gave the American a stony stare, then turned and walked inside the empty McDonald’s. The three of them watched as he marched to the deserted counter, jabbed a finger at something on the rack, then returned with a burger, which he unwrapped steadily on the way, tossing the paper into the street with the casual nonchalance that drove Nic Costa crazy.
Peroni rejoined them, with the burger now steaming in his hand.
Costa knew what was coming next.
“Whoa!” the FBI man yelled as loud as he could manage, so loud even Teresa Lupo turned to listen from the wrecked Renault. “Do you people own some weird work practices or what? I mean, you’ve got a dead woman here carved up in suitcases. You got uniforms wandering round throwing up like punks at a prom. And the best this guy can do is go feed his ugly face. I mean what the fu-”
Peroni stepped forward, seized Leapman by the collar of his winter coat, then crammed the burger full into the American’s gaping mouth, pushing damn hard so that the bun, the mayo, the vegetables and the grey, greasy meat splattered all over his face, down to his bright white cotton shirt and expensive black wool coat.
Leapman reeled back, spluttering, hands waving, food falling down his front, eyes fixed on Peroni, scared of what the big man would do next.
“Ah, ah,” Peroni warned, waggling a finger in his face. “The next burger goes up your ass and that won’t be pretty.”
“Morons!” Leapman yelled, beside himself with fury. “Utter fucking morons! They’ll hear about this, Falcone. I’m warning you!”