“I’ve no idea,” Costa replied without hesitation. “He probably went the same way as that cynical old bastard of an inspector who had this office before you turned up. Sir.”
“A little less of that, Agente. I’ve got five more years in this job. I’d like to think that, when I go, you are on the way to filling my shoes.”
Nic Costa found his cheeks going red. Promotion was the last thing on his mind. It was also the last thing an officer like Leo Falcone, who’d had more than a few troubled years of late, was in much of a position to offer.
“Commissario Messina has reminded you the sovrintendente exams come up in the summer. You should be studying now. That way you could be getting a pay rise in time for the wedding.”
“Sir…”
Costa was grateful that Peroni and Teresa bustled in at that moment. The big man had the remains of what looked like a gigantic cheese and tomato sandwich in one hand and a bag full of canned drinks in the other.
“Rations for the duration,” he declared. “Teresa and I have checked out the accommodation. The Gulag suite is ours. You two can take the Abu Ghraib wing. We have installed fresh soap and towels because the ones that were in there were quite…”
When he stopped, lost for words, Teresa filled the gap.
“Let’s put it this way, gentlemen. I wouldn’t have touched them. Not even with gloves on.”
“Ugh.” Peroni shuddered. “Quite why we can’t just go home beats me—”
“Gianni!” she yelled. “There’s a man out there who swished someone’s heart out with a high-pressure hose last night. He has our photographs.”
“We joined up for this nonsense to be popular?” Peroni asked.
Falcone harrumphed. “If Commissario Messina says we’re confined to barracks outside of normal working hours, then that’s how it’s going to be. I don’t want anyone going walkabout.”
Peroni heaved his big shoulders in a noncommittal hug.
“I’m serious about that, Gianni,” Falcone said severely. “He took those pictures for a reason.”
“I know, I know. So what news?”
Falcone and Costa were silent.
“Oh,” Teresa said with a sigh. “This isn’t going to be a protracted stay, is it? I mean, I still don’t understand why I couldn’t go to Orvieto with the other ‘ladies.’”
Falcone raised a long index finger, a man remembering something he should never have forgotten. Teresa responded straightaway.
“Orvieto,” she said with a quick and somewhat condescending smile. “He wants to call the girlfriend, Gianni. Isn’t that sweet? I don’t remember Leo being so sweet before. In fact I don’t remember him being sweet at all. Nic and Emily getting engaged — and expecting a baby too. Leo being sweet. You giving up meat. The fact that there’s some lunatic out there with our pictures and a penchant for swishing hearts out. The world’s a lovely place now, don’t you think?”
Costa didn’t like the way Falcone’s eye caught his. The expression there wasn’t sweet. It was distinctly guilty.
“Actually,” the inspector said quietly, “it’s Emily I need to talk to. A little advice.”
He reached for the phone, then pushed the conference voice box forward on the desk.
“Of course,” he added, “you’re all welcome to listen.”
Four hours later, at just after midnight, the office was empty except for Nic Costa and a lone cleaner, faceless in the shadows, working away with duster and broom at the far end of the long line of desks. Costa sat by the window, taking breaks from hunting idly through yet more files on the computer to stare out at the bright, handsome moon, high over the rooftops of the centro storico, shining down on empty streets and the dead eyelids of closed shops and bars. It was a good time for a man who couldn’t sleep to try to think. In February the city didn’t stay up late. Come June there’d be people still walking the alleyways outside, happy after dinner, munching on ice creams from the places that stayed open into the small hours, part of the restless summer life of the metropolis. Come summer, too, there’d be a wedding. And a child. Just the thought of those two events dashed Giorgio Bramante from Nic’s mind entirely.
What mattered in the end was family, that undefined and indefinable bond that required no explanation because, to those it embraced, it was as natural as taking a breath, as easy as going to sleep next to the person you loved. As simple as the sense of duty you felt to any child who grew out of that loving relationship.
That, he knew, was what had changed between him and Emily over the previous year. Without Leo Falcone’s influence, and the way the crafty old inspector had opened his eyes, Nic would never have been able to commit to their relationship in the way it deserved. Leo had taught him to relax, to live with his emotions, to take a break from trying to solve the problems of the world for a while. And then to get back into the fray. It was a gift he’d never forget.
They’d all spent an hour and a half on the conference call that evening, sharing ideas, Falcone and Arturo Messina talking together as if nothing had happened all those years before, Teresa trying to make the most of the scant forensic she’d assembled from Toni LaMarca’s corpse and from Calvi’s slaughterhouse. Costa and Peroni had kept quiet mostly, thinking, listening, exchanging that glance they both knew well, a kind of invisible shrug that said Maybe it gets better tomorrow.
Costa looked at his watch, felt guilty for an instant, then picked up the phone. Emily answered, sounding very, very sleepy.
“If you’re too tired,” he insisted quickly, “just say so and I’ll ring off. I never got the chance to ask how you were on the conference call. It didn’t seem right.”
She sighed. There was the impatient rustling of sheets. “It’s nearly one o’clock!”
“I know. I’m wide awake. There’s a bright moon. I can’t stop thinking about you. What more is a man supposed to say?”
There was the distant sound of her laughter. He wished he could reach out and touch her, just for a moment.
“Flowers would be in order when you have the time. And champagne when I’m allowed to drink it.”
“How do you feel?”
“Fine. Up and down, to be honest. Don’t sound so worried. The doctor said it would be like this. It’s not unusual, Nic. Men always seem to think their first child is the only one there’s ever been in the entire history of the planet. Women know better.”
“Don’t shatter my illusions. Please.”
She laughed again. He could almost imagine himself lying next to her on the bed, such were the tight, unspoken ties between them now.
“Something’s bothering you,” she said, becoming serious. “And it’s not the bright moon. Tell me, Nic.”
He’d worked just one cold case in his entire career. It too had been a murder, though less complex. A man of almost seventy beaten to death in his home in a quiet suburban street out in the suburb of EUR. They’d gone back to the investigation eight years later and discovered that, by then, the neighbours were ready to admit what they’d kept secret before. The victim’s son had been involved in low-level drug running. He’d gone missing two years after his father died and was never seen again. It took three months, but eventually they were able to charge a gang enforcer with the old man’s murder and that of his son. All over a measly three thousand euros owed for cocaine. Time did change the perspective with which one approached a crime. But time hadn’t done them any favours in the Bramante case.
“You said you didn’t understand why no one ever found Alessio’s body,” he answered. “Is it that unusual?”
He thought he heard a yawn getting stifled at the other end of the line.
“Maybe. Maybe not. It just makes me uneasy. They brought in all that heavy equipment. Even thermal-imaging gear. All the reports say those caves go deep. That they get too narrow and dangerous to be explored…. I can’t help but wonder why they didn’t find his body. But if he’s not there, where is he?”