She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t—” Barbara Barelli looked down at the photo in her hand again. “And you say no one’s heard from her? Not at all?”
“As far as we know, no.”
She caught the qualification and raised an eyebrow. Pallioti did not elaborate. He thought it best to leave Anna Carson, and who she might or might not have spoken to, out of it for now.
“Messages have been left on her phone,” he said. “By us, her friends. Her parents. As far as we know, none of them have been answered.”
Barbara Barelli swallowed. She handed him the photograph.
“It’s cold out here,” she said. “Perhaps you’d like to come in.”
The house was large and new and very fancy. Not unlike the matching Mercedes that sat outside, the automotive equivalent of stone lions flanking front doors, or griffons perched on gateposts. Barbara Barelli may have devoted her working life to championing admirable causes, but she’d clearly been well paid for it.
“This is Hedwige, my partner.”
The tiled entryway opened onto what Pallioti believed was known in America as a family room, a large airy space containing a number of sofas and armchairs and a glass-topped dining table and vast flat screen television, which in turn opened onto a kitchen area—a sort of corral of polished granite interspersed with vicious-looking stainless steel machines. The woman who was doing something with one of them looked up at Pallioti and smiled. She was as fair as Barbara was dark, and as tall, and, obviously, even under a sweatshirt and running pants, as well toned and muscled. The two of them reminded Pallioti of a pair of very fit horses. But where Barbara’s dark eyes were still and flinty, this woman’s were as round and dewy as a doe’s. When he shook her hand he half expected her to nicker.
“I’m making a smoothie,” she said. “Do you want one?”
Pallioti had no idea if she was talking to him or to Barbara Barelli. He had no idea what a smoothie was, either. In certain circumstance it might have sounded obscene. He was not reassured by the stainless steel machine or by the pile of vegetation that lay beside it.
Barbara Barelli rescued him.
“I think we need something stronger.”
She opened a refrigerator that was as large as most people’s wardrobes. Pallioti watched as she lifted out a bottle of white wine. He shook his head as she reached for a couple of glasses, then wished he hadn’t. Eating or drinking anything offered—even smoothies—pretty much guaranteed that you’d get thrown out later rather than sooner. No matter how much they wanted you to go, most people wouldn’t show you the door while you had a glass or a plate in your hand. Hedwige had stopped what she was doing and was watching Barbara.
“Perhaps I’ll change my mind,” Pallioti murmured, but Barbara didn’t seem to hear him.
“That son of a bitch,” she said suddenly. “That fucking son of a bitch. I trusted him.”
Her hand shook, slopping wine onto the counter. Hedwige took a towel from a rail by the stove and mopped it up.
“Have a seat.” Barbara waved vaguely toward the sofas and chairs. Then she said, “Oh, sorry,” and poured Pallioti’s wine.
This time it went in the glass. He took it, sipped, and put it down and thanked her. She nodded, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. Her eyes narrowed as she stared toward the television, which was turned off. Finally she looked at Pallioti again.
“The parents,” she said. “The girl’s parents?” As if she had forgotten what he told her in the street. Perhaps, she had. The news that a client she had worked to get released might have abducted a teenager was likely to be as startling as it was unwelcome. Pallioti had the feeling that Dottoressa Barelli did not like being surprised and did not take well to being wrong. And given her attachment to women’s causes, this would be something of a double, if not triple, blow.
“I never liked him,” she said suddenly. “Not from day one. The first time I saw him. Son of a bitch.”
Pallioti waited. When she said nothing more, he frowned.
“Then, dottoressa, if I may ask—”
“Oh, ask away.” She put her glass down and he noticed it was almost empty. “I did it because I believe that even if you don’t agree with what someone’s done—even if you think they’re despicable—it’s my job. I did it for the system, because otherwise it cannot function and we’re all screwed.” She threw back her head and laughed. “There. That’s the high-minded explanation. The good law school answer. The truth?” She reached for her glass and looked at Pallioti. “I did it,” she said, “for a friend. Love.” She shrugged. “It’s why we make all the biggest mistakes in our lives, isn’t it? I even tried to like him. I did. I tried to like him because—” She waved her hand again and let the words go. “The parents,” Barbara Barelli asked, looking at him. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
Actually Pallioti had not been saying. He slid his own glass, almost untouched, a little farther away.
“They’re in Florence. They’re very worried. Naturally. I have to ask you, dottoressa, and I understand it puts you in an awkward position—” Barbara Barelli made a huffing sound, as if there was nothing he could tell her about awkward positions. “Once more, given the circumstances, you’ll understand why I have to ask—if you’ve heard from Antonio Tomaselli? Or have any idea, any idea at all, where he might be?”
At that, Barbara smiled.
“And once more, I have to tell you—privilege, dottore. I may have just said I don’t care for him, and I don’t. But I am Antonio’s lawyer.”
Pallioti nodded. He had not really expected more, but he realized he had hoped for it. He was aware of Hedwige, silently watching both of them.
“For the record,” Barbara added, “and in the spirit of goodwill, given the circumstances—I will say that the last time I saw him was, I don’t know? Three months ago.” She waved a hand. An obviously expensive watch caught the light and glittered. Pallioti wondered if there was a matching one on Hedwige’s wrist.
“Do you have any idea where he is?” Barbara Barelli asked.
Pallioti shook his head.
“We’ve checked known addresses,” he said. “Known associates. Of course.”
“Which led you to me?”
“More or less.” He thought of the pictures.
“But nothing?”
She didn’t sound surprised. But then again, Pallioti thought, why would she be? Why should any of them be? Tomaselli’d been Brigate Rosse. And that’s what they did. Went underground. Disappeared. Melted away like smoke. A few gunshots and, Poof! Now you see them. Now you don’t.
“I was hoping I might ask you—” Pallioti paused, then pressed on. “Is there any family property, for instance? Anything, any place, from his childhood perhaps, that he might have mentioned?”
She shook her head.
“No. Not that I know of. Of course, he was in prison almost thirty years. So—” She shrugged as if this explained anything.
“Think, dottoressa.” Pallioti watched her closely. In his experience prison gave people more time to remember than to forget. “It could be very important. If he has this girl—”
Barbara looked at him sharply.
“And you really believe he does? Honestly? You aren’t just fastening on him because he used to be BR?”
Pallioti looked at her for a moment.
“We can’t prove it,” he said finally. “But, yes, I believe that she is with Antonio Tomaselli and whether or not it began that way, or he intended it from the start, I believe that he is now holding her against her will.”
“Why? Why would he do that? Has there been a ransom demand?”
Pallioti shook his head.
“No. As I said—”
“Then why?” Barbara cut him off. “Why would Antonio abduct or kidnap, or whatever you want to call it, a seventeen-year-old American? I can’t see what’s in it for him.”
It was the lawyer’s question—and Pallioti had no intention of answ
ering it. Not that he had the answer, but he thought he saw a glimmer of it. Revenge? Love—as Barbara had just said herself—the most warped and powerful motivator of all? To punish the woman who’d betrayed him? Or to reel her back in? Or both? Hook her, using her stepdaughter like a bright lure dangled in front of a wary fish? He looked at Barbara Barelli. And reminded himself that whether he liked her or not, there was no question of trusting her. Or showing his hand. She was playing for the other side.
“Kristin was last seen by anyone,” he said carefully, “getting into Antonio Tomaselli’s car. Since then she’s vanished. No, I know it’s not proof. And you’re right, there’s been no ransom demand. Nothing like that. In point of fact there’s been nothing at all. But, yes, we do believe he has her. As I said, I do.”
Barbara crossed her arms and nodded.
“So I ask again,” she said. “Why?”
“Why do fucked-up creeps take girls?”
It was Hedwige who spoke. Pallioti had almost forgotten she was in the room. She pushed herself off the counter where she’d been leaning.
“It’s what sickos do,” she said, her tone of voice suggesting strongly that she’d evidenced this opinion of Antonio Tomaselli before. More than once. “He fucking killed Aldo Moro, or—” Hedwige looked at Barbara and shrugged. “OK. OK. Or he stood there while somebody else did it. Who knows? And frankly, who cares? What’s the fucking difference? You’re part of it, you own it.”
Barbara sighed. “Hedwige—”
“No.” Hedwige glared at her. “No. I mean, what the fuck do you expect from a guy like that? That he’s going to change? Jesus Christ, Bar. In your dreams. The Red Brigades ran around shooting people in the legs. And that’s when they were being nice. They weren’t fucking heroes. They weren’t anything but self-righteous little killers. And don’t give me why,” she snapped. “You know why isn’t worth shit when you start shooting people.”
Hedwige’s chest was actually heaving. The argument had clearly raged between them before, and more than once. But as interesting as it might be to hear its ins and outs for the umpteen-hundredth time—like most people of a certain age in Italy, Pallioti had had this discussion himself—he didn’t feel inclined just now. Hedwige’s words chilled him, and amplified the tiny voice inside him that he had half thought he had managed to stifle, but had driven him here in any case. She was right. And they all knew it. Antonio Tomaselli—like everyone else who had been involved, everyone else who had done nothing to stop it—was nothing but a cold-blooded killer.
Pallioti glanced at his watch, and thought again of Kristin Carson. And of her increasingly distraught father, who held his phone like a man with his finger on the trigger. That genie could not be kept in the bottle forever. Sooner or later Dr. Carson would stop listening to them and start making calls. To friends in Washington. To television stations. To newspapers and bloggers and God knows whom.
And if they could do nothing, couldn’t find hide nor hair of his missing child, why should they blame him? Wouldn’t Pallioti himself do the same? Wouldn’t any parent? Yes. Even if all hell broke loose. Which it would. Armed searches and SWAT teams, and roadblocks and bullets. Lots of bullets.
Given his conversation of last night, even the faintest prospect of an armed publicity-hyped hostage rescue was enough to make Pallioti cold to the bone. Killed by the abductors, or killed by the rescuers—how much difference did it make? Dead was dead. He had visited that field in Sicily, had picked up a clod of that earth and kept it for some months in his overcoat pocket, until it had melted away to dust. He took a card from his wallet and laid it on the counter.
“If you think of anything—” He found he was looking from Hedwige to Barbara, and then back to Hedwige again. “Anything,” he said again, “at all that might help us. Please call me. It’s confidential,” he added. “No one ever needs to know.”
Barbara Barelli followed him into the entryway.
“It wasn’t all garbage, you know. What I said earlier, about why I do this.”
Pallioti smiled as he buttoned his coat. “I know.”
“We both have our jobs.” She held out her hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you. But I take mine as seriously as you take yours. I also don’t lie,” she added. “I haven’t seen Antonio in the last three months.”
Her grip was as firm as her gaze, and again Pallioti realized he liked her. You could do worse, he thought, much worse, than have this woman stand up in court for you.
“You should know,” he said, groping for the words. “You should know that Antonio Tomaselli has—” He tried again, then failed, and shrugged. It sounded so ridiculously melodramatic.
“Enemies?” Barbara finished the sentence for him, still holding his hand. Again the not very nice smile played over her face. “People who’d like him dead?” she said. “Who find the fact that he’s out of prison an affront, and would use any excuse to correct the little problem of his being alive?” She cocked her head, her dark eyes reading his face. “You don’t want to believe that, do you?” she said. “You couldn’t survive if you really thought that the state—that your beloved polizìa even—might go around eliminating those they find inconvenient. Or just plain don’t like. That they might do a little correcting when they think the courts have gotten it wrong? No,” she said. “I’ve heard of you. I’ve read about you. You couldn’t do it. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be one of the angels, and that’s what keeps men like you going. You have to believe in the difference, between you and them.” She shrugged. “Or else you’re just two sides of the same coin. Both judges. Both executioners.”
Pallioti looked at her for a moment. Barbara dropped his hand.
“Well,” she said. “To answer your question. Yes, I have told Antonio. Believe me, I have told him.”
“And did he believe you?”
Barbara crossed her arms, hugging the red silk blouse.
“To be honest?” she said. “I have no idea. I wasn’t lying about that, either. Yes, I’ve represented him a long time. But I don’t know Antonio all that well. I doubt anyone does. Perhaps even Antonio. On the other hand, he’s not stupid. And I doubt anyone in jail ever forgot about Ulrike Meinhof.”
In May 1976 Ulrike Meinhof, the cofounder of Germany’s Red Army Faction, otherwise known as the Baader-Meinhof Gang, had been found hanging in her maximum security cell. Her death had raised a certain number of uncomfortable questions, such as how someone whose possessions were monitored and who was kept under twenty-four-hour observation managed to rig a noose and hang herself.
“That was Germany,” Pallioti said, and stepped out onto the gravel.
“Of course,” Barbara Barelli said. “You’re right. That was Germany.”
She followed him, standing on the top step. The weak sun caught her blouse, and the band of her expensive watch.
“I saw it, you know.”
Pallioti turned. He was aware of the cold, and of the fact that it was late in the day.
“Saw what, dottoressa?”
Barbara Barelli blinked, her arms folded her tight across her chest.
“Mara Cagol’s autopsy report.”
He frowned.
“Not the one that was released to the press,” she said. “There are always two. But surely you know that? I saw the real one.”
Barbara Barelli looked at him for a moment.
“Mara was shot in the back,” she said. Then she swung the door closed, and left him standing alone in the drive.
* * *
Blood dribbled down the door panel. It welled in a ridge of the molding, then spilled and trickled, leaving a thin red trail on the cracked gray paint.
“Let me out!”
Kristin’s voice was hoarse. She pounded on the door, ignoring the cut on the pad of her palm, the soft fleshy place where the nail hammered halfway up had caught and ripped open a flap of skin. It might have hurt, if she’d thought about it.
“Let me out! Of. Here!”
She uncurled her hand and sucked. When had she last had a tetanus shot? If she got gangrene or lockjaw, if she started to foam at the mouth, would he take her to a hospital? Or just dump her by the side of the road with a tag around her neck? Or let her die here?
The skin, thin and papery, caught her tongue. Her blood tasted like pennies. She’d swallowed one once when she was a kid. As a dare. And lain awake the whole night afterward, wondering if she’d die.
“You have no right, you miserable fucker. You have no right to keep me here.”
It came out as a mutter, almost an afterthought. And it was wrong anyway. Might makes right.
The words echoed in her head, rattling in a child’s high, snotty voice.
She was hearing that a lot since he’d locked her in here—a kid, screaming—as if she’d come back to haunt herself. Kristin licked her lips—pennies again—and slid down onto the floor, watching the blood on the cracked gray paint, staring at it as if it might form itself into letters and feeling a tremor of satisfaction that at least she’d damaged the décor. Such as it was.
The room was mostly bare. Tiled floor. Mattress in the corner. Two blankets. A plastic garden chair. Bars on the window. A plastic bucket and roll of toilet paper—for emergencies. There was a toilet down the hall. A rust-stained sink where she brushed her teeth. Cold water only. He stood over her, but looked away when she pulled her pants down, trying not to sit on the cracked toilet seat. Kristin almost laughed. So much for the love nest of her dreams. So much for the hundred-dollar scraps of lace she’d bought, and all her fantasies of who might bite what off whom.
At first she’d assumed this had to be some kind of game. Maybe some kind of S and M thing he was into—wild sex in bare rooms. A little Last Tango in Paris that would surely be followed by champagne and caviar. She looked down at her dirty black pants. The new boots, all scuffed up. The cashmere sweater that probably smelled under the armpits. At least he’d let her change her underwear, twice so far. And looked away while she’d done it. Virtually covered his eyes. A gentleman to the core, since the moment they arrived—stepped out of the car after a five-hour drive to God knows where on roads that seemed to grow darker and darker. He hadn’t shown one whit, not the tiniest bit of interest in the curve of her belly. Or the pale creaseless skin. Or the pink blush that rose around her nipples hardened with cold.
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