"Yes, coffee would be fine."
She gestured for him to take off his coat and to follow her into the kitchen. He left the coat on a chair in the corridor and ran his hands through his hair.
"Are you sure you don't mind my coming without Gennaro?"
She turned and smiled. "I suppose you have a reason. Black or with milk?"
"Black, no sugar. Oh, I got you some cigarettes, the ones you like."
He tossed a package of her Turkish cigarettes on the table and pulled out a chair. She smiled her thanks and continued filling the percolator.
He sat awkwardly in the kitchen chair, feeling foolish, knowing he should not have come, as he watched her getting cups and saucers, putting them on the table in front of him. As she passed him, he caught her hand.
"I had to see you, to find out if everything was all right. Where are the others?"
"I told you they were going shopping. Do you want to see them?"
"No . . . Are they all together?"
"Yes."
"You've had no trouble?"
"No. Should I have?"
He smiled suddenly. "I've missed you, Sophia."
He turned her hand over and kissed the center of her palm. She withdrew it quickly and gestured toward the coffee. He lifted his hand in a gesture of apology. "Sorry ..."
"What does he need to ask me? Did he tell you?"
"Better wait for him to tell you himself. By the way, I told him I was having a meeting with the attorney general. . . . It's °only partly a lie; I am having lunch with him."
"Is that why you're here, in New York?"
Pirelli nodded. "I got a possible lead to Luka Carolla. He's here in New York. I got a tip. Someone using his ID picked up the contents of a safety-deposit box previously owned by Paul Carolla."
She seemed uninterested. He continued. "I was virtually off the case. I'd already returned to Milan—"
She turned. "You mean, they closed the case? Even though you hadn't found the killer?"
"Not exactly, but we aren't looking for anyone else. The case is still open, but since this tip . . . Can I help at all?"
She stepped back quickly as if afraid he would touch her again. "No, I won't be a minute."
But when he again reached for her hand, she gave in, leaned against him slightly. "Don't, Joe. Whatever happened between us was a mistake. It is over."
He still held her. "Didn't it mean anything to you?"
Tentatively she touched his head. "Yes, at the time, of course, it did."
Pirelli looked up at her. "I'll leave my wife. Is that what you want?"
She drew away. "What I want shouldn't make any difference. If you want to leave your wife, that is your business. It has nothing to do with me."
He snapped, "Of course, it does!"
Equally angry, she turned to him. "No, it hasn't. You're married. I don't want anything to do with breaking up your marriage. That would put the on us on me, wouldn't it? What you're saying is, if I want you, you will leave your wife."
"But if I left her, where would we be?"
"There is nothing between us."
He felt as if she had slapped his face. "I see. Well, I'm sorry. I believed you felt something, maybe even wanted me, because I wanted you—"
"Then you were mistaken. I'm sorry, too."
Pirelli stood up. "Look, I'll leave, come back with Gennaro."
With some semblance of control, he asked if he could make a telephone call. Sophia nodded and pointed to the study. He made sure he didn't touch her as he passed.
The coffee percolator bubbled and frothed, and she poured herself a cup, then went back to the hall, unintentionally able to overhear his phone call. She heard the name Barzini and moved closer to listen.
"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, but if you could check out Barzini's associates, in particular over the last five years . . . You can contact me at my hotel. I'll be back there about three this afternoon, local time. . . . Thanks a lot, bad timing. . . . Okay, thanks!"
Pirelli let the phone fall back onto the hook. He had just been told that Barzini had been buried that morning. He was glum-faced as he walked into the corridor.
"Everything all right?" asked Sophia.
He nodded and went down the hall to get his coat.
"Your coffee's ready."
"What?"
"Your coffee . . ." She waved toward the kitchen.
He gave her a lopsided smile. "I'd better skip the coffee. I'll see you later."
She walked to the front door and reached for the lock. He was close; as she turned, he drew her into his arms. She struggled slightly, resisting as he kissed her neck.
"No . . . No, please don't."
He grabbed her hair roughly, pulling her head back, and kissed her lips. She couldn't stop herself, couldn't prevent her arms from encircling him. ... He lifted her off her feet.
"Where's the bedroom?"
She clung to him, and he didn't wait for a reply. He crossed the hall, kicked open a door, and laughed. "First time lucky!" He carried her to the bed and laid her down.
"Do you want me the way you tried before? You want me that way? You call the shots because I'll have you any way you want, take anything you want to give me. . . . Just tell me, tell me you want me."
She held her arms out to him, and he knelt on the bed, holding her gently. His voice was muffled with emotion. "I love you. You know that, don't you? I love you. I ache with it, hurt with it. . . ."
She was close to tears. "It can't work, it can't. . . ."
He tilted his head and looked at her as he loosened his tie, threw it aside, and began to unbutton his shirt. When he reached the third button, he tapped his chest. "You know how to knife a man in the heart, kill him? Want to know exactly where to place the knife? Here, third button of the shirt. You hit the bull's-eye the first time I laid eyes on you.
She couldn't stop herself from smiling up at him, wanting him closer.
"I want you," she whispered.
He smiled and took her face in his hands, kissing her sweetly. Then his tongue traced her lips, and she pulled him to her, feeling him against her, the rush of heat sweeping over her until her legs wanted to open for him, curl around him. . . .
The coffee was cold, but he didn't care. He gulped it down, then looked at his watch. He was dressed only in his shirt and shorts, and she laughed.
He grinned. "It's not funny, I've got to get out of here and down to the street before Gennaro arrives. It's almost twelve now."
"Go just as you are. He'll never suspect anything."
Pirelli laughed, a wonderful, infectious laugh, and it made her want to hold him. She giggled as he stumbled around trying to get into his trousers.
"Get dressed, woman. This is all your fault."
"No, it's yours. You came early."
He kissed her. "Do you have any idea what it did to me, seeing you in just that robe? I could smell you, fresh from your bath. You drove me crazy within seconds."
She laughed, then looked around the room. All her carefully chosen clothes had been thrown in disarray on the floor. She picked up a silk shirt.
"Never mind what I do to you. Look what you've done to my beautiful shirt! And get your pants on, Commissario. Your friend will be arriving."
He was suddenly serious, almost as if he were rehearsing her. "You just have to tell him the truth; we met in Milan by accident and went to the opera, had supper—"
"What if I were to come clean, tell him what we did? What would happen?"
He slipped his shoes on. "He'd want the graphic details and then get me in the shit. Can you see my tie anywhere? Besides, he's not really interested in you. I've already given you an alibi. He's just after the driver of your car."
He located his tie and bent to retrieve it. He saw her expression change; she looked puzzled. He knew he should leave, but he hesitated, quickly knotting his tie.
"It's your chauffeur he's trying to trace. Right, I'm ready. I look okay?"
She too
k two steps away from him. "My God, why didn't you tell me this before? Before you made love to me? Why?"
"Because what just happened was more than I believed possible."
She folded her arms. "Why are you here, Joe? To fuck me, or what?"
He turned on her, his face flushed with anger. "I am here in New York to continue the investigation into the whereabouts of Luka Carolla. I am hunting a killer, Sophia, the possible murderer of your two sons. But I am in the bedroom with you, right now, because I had to see you. To put it simply, my priority is to track down a murderer. That I happen to be in love with you complicates—"
She snapped, "I'm a complication now, am I? You came early to soften me up?"
"That's not true, and you know it."
"Then tell me why you will be coming here with Gennaro? Tell me."
He stared at her, feeling the fear behind the anger as she asked again why Gennaro wanted to know who was driving her car.
Pirelli opened the front door. "I'm sorry, I can't discuss it. You'll have to wait for Gennaro; this is not my case." The look on her face made him close the door again. "Okay, you win. Gennaro believes the driver of your car was Fabio's killer."
Sophia gasped, staring wide-eyed in faked amazement. "What?"
Pirelli looked at her and gave a dispirited shrug. "That's Why I was so afraid for you, for your family. . . . Who was he, Sophia?"
"We just hired him. There must be some mistake."
It was late. Pirelli walked out, saying over his shoulder, 'I'll see you in a few minutes."
Sophia closed the door, her heart thudding. They knew about Johnny. She shook with panic, then got a grip on herself. The trembling faded as she reapplied her makeup. They just Want to question me about the driver of the car— They? Joe . . . Had he told her the truth?
She hurled her lipstick across the room. Was there more that Pirelli hadn't told her? Had he simply used her, betrayed her? She reached for the Valium to ease her confusion but let the bottle fall into the wastebasket.
There's nothing more anyone can do to you, Sophia, she told herself. Tell them just enough to get rid of them and then go .. . get out.
Pirelli stamped his feet. It was cold; the snow was still falling, the light flakes making the sidewalk wet. Slush filled the gutters.
Gennaro was late. Pirelli checked his watch, then, with relief, watched the yellow cab draw up.
Gennaro paid off the driver. "Sorry, I took the stuff I bought back to the hotel. Everything go all right?"
Pirelli nodded. "Barzini was killed in a road accident; he was buried this morning. I tell you, this case is some crazy scene, created to torment me." He checked his watch. "We should go up, we're late."
Pirelli and Gennaro walked up the stairs side by side. As they reached the apartment, Pirelli ran his fingers through his hair.
When Gennaro was introduced to Sophia, he flushed to the roots of his unruly mop of dark hair. Pirelli had not exaggerated her beauty. . . .
Pirelli sat in silence, listening as Gennaro took Sophia's statement. Her voice was quiet, and she hardly looked in his direction once.
"And you didn't see anyone at Fabio's workroom?"
"No, I think it was lunchtime. There was no one in any of the workrooms—or perhaps there was, but I didn't see anyone the whole time I was there."
Gennaro tapped his notepad and shifted position. "If I was to tell you that someone saw you and you were actually accompanied by—"
Pirelli watched the way she smiled, shaking her head. "They must have been mistaken. I presume there must have been someone in the offices or you wouldn't have known that Nino and I were arguring. . . . Nevertheless, I saw no one, and I was not accompanied."
Gennaro asked her where she was between the hours of ten-thirty and midnight on the evening she had visited Nino.
Sophia didn't even give a flicker toward Pirelli. "I met Commissario Pirelli, quite by chance, and we went to the opera together. The opera was Rigoletto, and we left halfway through, before the last act. We then dined together, until after midnight."
Gennaro raised an eyebrow to Pirelli, but he was staring down at the carpet.
"Do you know a Celeste Morvanno?"
"Yes, she used to be my receptionist. When I closed my company, she went to work for Nino, although I didn't know that at the time. In fact, I was not aware of it until I went to Nino's workshop. She had actually told me that she would not be working after she had left my firm because she was pregnant. She obviously lied, but then I am getting used to people using me, lying to me."
She did not look at Pirelli, but he coughed and shifted his position slightly.
"How did you arrive at Fabio's workroom?" asked Gennaro.
"By car, a white Rolls Corniche. It used to belong to my father-in-law, Don Roberto Luciano."
"Did you drive the car yourself?"
"No, I used a chauffeur."
"Did you know the driver well?"
"No. He had worked for my mother-in-law for some time, at the Villa Rivera."
"Do you know his name?"
Sophia hesitated, then nodded. "His first name was Johnny, but I can't recall his other name. I am sure my mother-in-law could give you his full name."
Pirelli looked up, his eyes narrowed. The name Johnny struck him as being one hell of a coincidence. He waited to hear what Gennaro would ask next, but Gennaro did not seem to pick up on Luka Carolla's alias.
"Did your driver enter the building at any time?"
"He came to collect me and take me down to the car."
"Do you know if he returned to the building?"
"No."
"You seem very sure?"
"Well, I can't say he didn't, I mean, I don't know his exact movements, but he had no reason to return. When I told him to go on to Rome, after I had agreed to-meet Commissario Pirelli, He returned directly, or so I presume."
"You don't know what time he arrived in Rome?"
"I'm sorry, I don't. But perhaps my mother-in-law, Graziella Luciano, can give you the time."
"He was staying at your apartment?"
She hesitated, licking her lips. "No, he was not, but I did ask him to check if she was all right. I don't like to leave her alone for long, after everything she has been through. I cannot give you his address, but again, perhaps my mother-in-law can provide it."
"Do you know if he knew Nino Fabio?"
"I doubt it. He was simply a driver."
"So when you went to the opera with Commissario Pirelli, what happened to the car?"
"As I said, the chauffeur returned to Rome, to my apartment there."
Gennaro closed his notebook. "I will have to question your mother-in-law, and I would also like to trace the driver. Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?"
"No, I'm sorry. I presume that after we left Italy, he got work elsewhere."
Gennaro looked at Pirelli, and the room was silent for a moment. Pirelli got up and leaned against the side of the desk.
"Do you know how Nino Fabio was murdered?"
"No. I discovered he was dead when I called from here to suggest the possibility of renegotiating the purchase of his designs."
"I have already discussed with you my need to trace Luka Carolla, the adopted son of Paul Carolla—"
Sophia nodded, then turned away, unwilling to look him in the face. He continued. "You are also aware, I think, that I believe Luka Carolla was involved in the deaths of your children?"
Her hands clasped and unclasped. "I am sure you and your associates are doing everything possible to— Would you excuse me? I need a glass of water."
Both men stood as she left the room; then Gennaro moved to stand beside Pirelli. "She's too cool. Nothing seems to register, and she doesn't ask the right questions. I think she is covering something. I'm not through with her yet, but I want you to have a go at her, so I can sit back and listen."
Sophia came back into the room carrying her glass of water and a chilled bottle of wine on a tray, with two
glasses. "Can I offer you some wine?"
"No, grazie." Pirelli stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Would you prefer to come with us to the local precinct? We have been given an interview room. Perhaps it would be more convenient—"
"Will that be necessary? Surely, if you need to question me further, then I should contact my attorney. Is there any need for me to do that?"
Pirelli crossed his legs, his hands still in his pockets, and looked at Gennaro. "As far as I am concerned, whatever I have to discuss with you does not require the presence of an attorney. Whether Detective Gennaro thinks differently . . . He is taking your statement, but if you are satisfied—"
Sophia gave a small shrug and sat down. Gennaro glanced at her perfect legs as she crossed them neatly, patting her tight skirt into place. She gave no indication of how nervous she was. Her eyes did not waver when she looked at Pirelli.
"There is really nothing more I can tell you."
Gennaro closed his notebook. A look passed between the two men. Pirelli lit a cigarette and pulled an ashtray closer, then started talking. "Sophia, I sincerely believe that you, and perhaps your relatives, are in danger. I want to make you aware of the facts. If after that you wish to call an attorney to rethink your statement, it is entirely up to you. . . ."
Sophia swallowed and glanced at Gennaro. Pirelli went for it. "I am sure Luka Carolla killed your children, just as I am sure that he was involved in a number of other homicides. I am also sure that he is a very sick young man."
There was no reaction; she kept her eyes downcast. Pirelli realized that he should try to be more relaxed. He poured himself a glass of wine.
"I want you to understand that you do not have to say anything. I also give you my word that anything you do say, °outside your statement to Detective Gennaro, will be strictly between us. All I want is to find Luka Carolla before he kills again, and there is no doubt in my mind that he will kill again. From what I have managed to piece together about his life with the aid of the Palermo psychiatric unit and a radiologist from the Holy Nazareth Hospital who saw him when he was five or six years old, I know that Luka Carolla has the classic background for a psychopath. We can only presume the worst, that he has a compulsion to kill."
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