Peroni was looking to him for something. There were limits to being jerked around, even by the grey men. Falcone had spoken to Costa first thing that morning and knew he felt the same way too. The American woman had told Costa a long, interesting and highly speculative narrative that attempted to explain what was happening around them now in Rome. Then she’d gone missing, leaving her things in his house. Costa hadn’t a clue where.
Falcone had phoned Joel Leapman immediately to report the fact that Emily Deacon had vanished. It was the right thing to do. Her car was gone. He also wanted to judge the FBI agent’s reactions to the news. Leapman seemed genuinely puzzled. Concerned, even. It was one more weapon Falcone could use.
He’d recognized, too, the worry in Costa’s voice that morning. Deacon wasn’t a field officer. There were personal reasons why she might step out of line. But there were personal issues everywhere in this case. Peroni and Costa carried them because they-and Falcone-had been present when the unfortunate Mauro Sandri fell bleeding in the snow outside the Pantheon three nights before. For most cops that would simply be bad luck. For Nic and Peroni-and Falcone understood this was one reason that he defended the pair constantly-the photographer’s death was a challenge, an outrage, a tear in the fabric of society which demanded correction. This dogged resistance of theirs had led to Falcone trusting them with information and thoughts he was reluctant to share with others on the force. Ineluctably, events over the past eighteen months had made the three of them a team, a worryingly close and private one at times. Costa, in particular, had reminded Falcone why he’d become a cop in the first place: to make things better. Hooked up to Peroni, the pair had shaken Falcone out of his complacency, dared him to throw off the dead lassitude and cynicism that came with two decades as a policeman. Costa and Peroni asked big and awkward questions about what was right and what was wrong in a world where all the borders seemed to be breaking down. No wonder Viale hated them.
When Falcone turned the corner he saw them, standing together outside the anonymous grey SISDE building next to a Chinese restaurant, an odd couple who looked nothing like plainclothes cops. Peroni was shuffling backwards and forwards on his big feet, hugging himself in a thick winter coat, scanning the sky, which now bore fresh scratches of white, wispy clouds that could be the presentiment of more snow.
Costa wasn’t thinking about the weather. He was examining the fresh marks on his partner’s battered face, looking concerned.
Falcone walked up and peered into Gianni Peroni’s face himself. “I’ve seen worse. Think of the up side. You weren’t that good-looking beforehand.”
“I could sue for that,” Peroni replied. “I could call you up in front of the board and out you for the bitch of a boss you are.”
“Do that,” Falcone said, almost laughing. “I’ll get there one way or another soon enough.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be at home in bed, Gianni?” Nic asked.
“Don’t nanny me, Mr. Costa,” Peroni replied curtly. “Do you think a few cuts and bruises are going to keep me away from all the fun?”
Fun? It wasn’t that, not for any of them, Falcone thought. It never had been. Even when Peroni had been an inspector in vice, before his fall from grace, he was a man known for his seriousness.
“The funny thing is,” Falcone observed, “I’ve never known anyone to get beaten up so often. What’s your secret?”
“Working with you,” Peroni responded. “Until I was bounced down to your team of misfits, I never got beaten up at all. Not once in my adult life.”
“You want a transfer?”
“You know damn well what I want. I want my old job back. I want my old rank. I want men who drive me around. I want to deal with the admirable world of dope and prostitution because I tell you, Leo-sorry, sir-it’s much saner than your world.”
“Is that so?” Falcone replied, amused. “So how are you now? Did your friendly pathologist tend your wounds after I left?”
“I’ll live,” Peroni said with a smile. “But I’m getting heartily sick of this weather. And heartily sick of this case too.” He nodded at the sky. “I know you don’t run that crap, which I hate to say doesn’t look finished to me. But do you think we can do something with the second?”
Falcone sniffed and looked at Costa. “One way or another. Emily Deacon. Where is she?”
“I don’t know.” Costa shook his head. “She took the car. But her computer’s still in my house, which is odd. I’ve been calling and calling. Maybe Leapman…”
“I asked,” Falcone replied. “He sounded a little worried for once. You don’t imagine, for one moment, that she’s gone out and done something stupid, do you?”
“I don’t think so,” Costa replied, though he didn’t look too sure.
Peroni cast a grizzled glance at Falcone and moaned, “Families. Leapman should never have brought her in. What kind of an asshole is he?”
“The kind who knows exactly what he’s doing,” Falcone said firmly. “Nic, perhaps it’s best if you skip this meeting. It could be a little… career-damaging. You’ve got more ahead of you than us.”
Peroni’s jaw dropped. “What? What the fu-?” He put his hands together, praying. “Why me, Leo? Why me?”
“Put out a call for Deacon’s car,” Falcone continued, ignoring him. “Try some of the obvious places. Did you get me those printouts?”
Costa passed over the manila envelope.
Peroni scowled at the grey SISDE building. “Career-damaging, Leo? I’ve been there often enough already. And I don’t like these spooky people. They’re bad company. Let me wet-nurse Nic here, hold his hand. Or I could go to the Questura and make some calls, clean your desk, press your suits. Anything-”
“Or,” Falcone suggested mildly, “Nic could drop you off at home and let you get some rest. You’re not immortal, you know, Peroni. You got clobbered last night.”
“Yeah!” the big man barked back. “All the more reason for sticking with this, don’t you think?”
Falcone shrugged. “Your funeral, then. If you’re in, you’re coming into this meeting with me. I’d appreciate a witness. Some backup. Leapman will be there, I imagine. Commissario Moretti too, since they’ll need someone to take notes. Who knows? You might even enjoy yourself.”
Peroni groaned. “Oh, sweet Jesus… enjoy?”
Falcone was smiling again. A big, warm smile.
“So what are you going to do, sir?” Costa asked. “Is there anything the two of us ought to know about in advance?”