He looked at the clock on the dash. It was 12:27 a.m. He took off the jacket, folded it on the passenger seat. Gripped the SIG Sauer, got out of the car and waited for his eyes to adjust. It was difficult to see in dense woods under an overcast sky, strangely quiet too, not a sound. He used a compass to guide him through the woods and got to the villa fifteen minutes later, hanging back in the tree line, watching the front of the place that was dark, all the lights off. He was about to come out of the woods and cross the twenty-yard expanse of grass to the villa, but saw something move, a shadow near the entrance, and a man appeared, coming out of the darkness with a dog, looked like a German shepherd, on a leash, lit a cigarette and blew smoke in his direction. He didn't like the idea of a dog.
That changed everything. They'd obviously screwed things down. Security was a lot tighter after his visit that afternoon.
Ray went around the side of the villa where woods met olive grove and moved through the trees close to the veranda. Two more men with shotguns were standing on the upper level, smoking. One was holding a dog on a leash. Ray moved back through the grove to the far side of the villa and noticed two first-floor windows open a couple inches. The bottom of the window was five feet off the ground. He reached up, opened both sides and slipped the gun in his waist behind his back and hoisted himself up and in. He stepped down onto the kitchen floor next to an industrial stove, stood and listened, heard a clock ticking. He pulled the windows closed, moved into the dining room with its tile floor and long wooden table, moved through an archway into a room the size of a hotel lobby, with a fireplace you could walk into and furniture groupings, with framed paintings on the walls, with statuary and antiquity around the perimeter, moved through an archway into an elegant smaller room with a grand piano, and moved through a final archway into the foyer. There was a spiral staircase with an ornate railing that curved up to the second level.
Ray climbed the stairs and walked down a long hallway with bedrooms on both sides. He went all the way to the end and opened the door. There was a four-post antique bed with a canopy over it, and Don Gennaro in the middle of it, snoring away.
The model was in the next room on the right. He could see her left shoulder and part of her back, sleeping naked in a bed similar to the don's. There was no one in the next three rooms.
The beds were made and the closets were empty. There was no one in the sixth bedroom, either, but there was a framed photograph of Joey on the desk, Joey in a tux, grinning, a champagne glass in his hand.
There were clothes hanging in the closet, shirts, pants and a couple sport coats. He found receipts in two of the shirt pockets, and slipped them in his jeans. He didn't see any women's clothes, nothing of Sharon's, no sign of her. Maybe they were traveling. He looked out the window, the clouds had scattered and he could see a half moon now, illuminating the veranda, the guards still standing there with the dog. He wasn't sure what to do. He walked out of the room, looked down the hall and saw someone at the top of the stairs, coming toward him.
Mauro had not slept for twenty hours, and yet he was not tired. He had walked around the villa every hour, checking with the guards. They had not seen or heard anything suspicious, although one of the dogs was barking at a deer that wandered out of the woods, but deer were common enough. He thought about what happened earlier and admitted to himself that it was possible no one had been in the grove.
There was also the business with Roberto Mazara. That too was on his mind. Mazara had stood in front of Don Gennaro and said he would bring him the money he owed within forty-eight hours, and then had disappeared. Only that morning Mauro had visited the man's apartment in Trastevere. He was not there and no one in the other apartments knew anything about him.
He had walked from the don's office into the foyer, listening to the silence and thought he heard something upstairs — a door closing? He was not sure and went up to check.
There were sconces on the walls on both sides of the hallway, lights set to dim, but giving illumination. He saw the dark shape of a man come out of Joey's room and reached for the knife.
Ray saw him take something out of his pocket and heard the metallic snap, and saw the flash of the blade. Even in the subdued light Ray recognized him as the skinny Sicilian that had chased him earlier that afternoon, and recognized the knife as a stiletto. Ray could draw the SIG Sauer and blow him away, but that would attract attention and things would get crazy. He wanted to get in, find Sharon and get out without any trouble. That wasn't going to be possible now.
The Sicilian came at him, circling to the right, right arm extended, fist gripping the handle, blade angled forward, pointing at him. Ray raised his arms in a karate stance as the Sicilian moved toward him, faking right, going left, slashing air.
Ray stepped back, watching his feet. He was quick, moving like a boxer. Punched with the blade, like he was throwing a jab, connected and Ray felt the sting as it went through his forearm, and knew he was in trouble. The Sicilian stepped right, jabbed and missed, but kept coming. Jabbed again, and this time Ray timed it, grabbed the wrist of his knife hand and threw him over his hip into the wall. He bounced off and Ray chopped him on the back of the neck and he went down and didn't move.
Ray ran for the stairs and retraced his steps back to the kitchen. His arm was throbbing, sleeve soaked with blood. He pulled it up and looked. Enough light from the moon now to see a deep puncture wound that looked like it went through his left forearm, blood streaming out, rolling down his arm. He scanned the kitchen and saw an apron and ripped off a strip of fabric, and wrapped it tight around the wound, tied it and pulled the bloodstained sleeve down over it.
Ray pushed the window open and went through it, and dropped to the ground. He crouched next to the wall of the villa, listening, but didn't hear anything and took off, running through the grove to the woods. He'd gone a couple hundred yards when he heard the dogs. The pain in his arm was getting sharper, more severe. He switched the SIG Sauer from his left hand to his right. Figured he was halfway to the car, and took off again. There was enough moonlight to see where he was going, running, slipping between trees and moving around them.
He saw light ahead where the forest ended. Heard the dogs, saw the Fiat, dogs closing in, got to it and opened the door, got in and closed it as they hit, two German shepherds banging into the side of the car, jumping at the window, jaws snapping, trying to get him through the glass.
He started the Fiat and floored it out of the woods, dogs chasing him down the road for thirty, forty yards then giving up. He drove back to Mentana. Found a first-aid kit in the armrest between the rear seats and took it with him in the hotel, bloody arm covered by the jacket, stopping at the front desk to get his key, and taking the elevator to his room.
He went in the bathroom, turned on the light and took off his jacket and sweater. He cut off the blood-soaked cloth with a scissors in the first-aid kit, and examined the wound. He was cut deep and needed stitches. But where was he going to get stitches in the middle of the night in Mentana, Italy? He squeezed disinfectant into the cut and wrapped his arm with gauze and surgical tape from the first-aid kit, and took four Motrin for the pain.
Ray heard his BlackBerry beeping in the bedroom. It was a text message from Teegarden saying Sharon had checked into the Hotel d'Inghilterra on Via Bocca di Leone 14, two days ago. That might explain why she wasn't at Carlo Gennaro's villa and why Joey wasn't there either. He was probably with her.
Ray looked at his watch. It was 2:40 a.m. His arm throbbed. He could see a spot of blood blotting the bandage, getting bigger. He was tired but the news about Sharon energized him. He'd drive back to Rome, get some sleep and surprise her in the morning.
Chapter Thirty-six
9:00 a.m., Ray got out of bed, showered, dressed and rebandaged his arm. It looked bad, swollen and still oozing blood. He would have to go to a doctor, have it looked at. He'd only slept a couple hours, if at all, his mind racing, thinking about what he was going to say to Sharon. It had
been almost two months since he had seen her. He could understand why she had left him, but after thirteen years of marriage, why didn't she call, tell him her plan, leave a note? It was way out of character. That's why he'd come to Rome. That's why he was standing in front of the Hotel d'Inghilterra forty-five minutes later, stomach queasy, hands sweating, wiping his palms on his pants. He wanted to get it over with, hear what she had to say, and get on with his life.
He walked in the tiny lobby with its black-and-white tile floor. There was a trim middle-aged guy with salt-and-pepper hair behind the dark wood reception counter. Ray told him who he was and showed the man his passport. He had just arrived in Rome and wanted to surprise his wife. What room was she in?
The clerk said 410, but he was too late. Signora Pope had checked out last night. Ray asked if he could see the room. Maybe he would find something, a clue about where she had been or where she was going. The clerk handed him the key, said it was okay but the room was scheduled for cleaning, and the maid might be there already.
He took the small elevator up to the fourth floor and found room 410. The door was open. The maid's cart was in the hall as predicted. He entered and looked around. The maid was in the bathroom. She saw Ray, excused herself and walked out. There was a queen-size bed with end tables and lamps. There was a desk and chair against one wall, and two chairs and a table in front of the window that looked out on Via Bocca de Leone.
He sat at the desk, glancing down at a brochure listing the hotel services. Next to it was an empty Eclipse gum sleeve, a flavor called Polar Ice, and an empty Marlboro Lights pack. Sharon didn't smoke, or maybe she did and he didn't know it. He looked down and saw an empty shopping bag on the floor, heavy high-gloss silver paper and the name DOMUS in black type, big on the front, and an address: Via Belsiana 52.
Next to the bag was a waste basket. He reached in and took out a folded piece of paper. It was a boarding pass, KLM Flight 8934, New York-Rome, Sharon Pope, seat 14E. Okay, so she really was here. He'd still had his doubts. He got up and checked the closet. Nothing but empty hangers.
There were a couple of wet towels on the floor in the bathroom, and cotton balls black with mascara in the waste basket. He pictured Sharon standing in front of the mirror before she went to bed, wiping off eyeliner while he brushed his teeth.
He went back to his hotel, wondering what to do, and remembered the receipts he had found in Joey's shirts at the villa. He dug them out of the jeans he'd worn, and studied them. One was from a tavola calda,?1.50 for a cappuccino. The second one was a restaurant tab from Doney, Via Veneto 125, dated October 13th. Doney, he noticed, was at the Westin Excelsior Hotel.
11:10 a.m., McCabe was looking out the window, watching the street below for Chip's black BMW, wondering where he was. If you were coming from Rome this was the road you'd take into Soriano. He tried calling him and got his voicemail.
Just after noon he felt Angela's phone vibrate in his shirt pocket. He took it out, saw Chip's number on the screen, flipped it open and said, "Where the hell are you?"
"Right here," Joey said. "I'll put him on but first I want to ask how you're doing? Relaxing up there, enjoying the clean mountain air? I guess we just missed you at the villa. Don't worry, we're not coming after you. This time you're coming to us."
"McCabe," Chip said, "they broke my fucking hand — " panic in his voice.
"That's not all we're going to break," Joey said back on now. "Chipper's a little upset right now, and I won't lie to you, he's in a lot of pain, but he's learned a valuable lesson and I hope you have too. We're not fucking around."
"I'm not either," McCabe said. "Tell me where and when."
"We'll let you know," Joey said. "Listen, what happens to Chipper is up to you. Do something like you did before, it's over."
The phone went dead. McCabe could feel a surge of adrenalin like he was back on the ice, nothing quite like it, ready to take somebody's head off.
Joey was standing in a basement room under a vacant restaurant in Trastevere, Chipper tied to a chair, hands behind his back, head slumped forward looked like he was sleeping. They were near the river and the air was wet, musty. There were marks on the walls showing where the Tiber had flooded the room on a number of occasions, oily lines where the paint had broken down and separated from the pigment. Naked bulbs hung from the ceiling. Empty wine racks lined one wall, and furniture was piled up in the corner, tables stacked on tables, chairs on chairs. The floor was brick, broken in places, exposing the damp earth below.
Mazara was sitting on one of the old restaurant chairs, smoking a cigarette. Grabbing Chipper had been his idea, and Joey had to admit it wasn't bad. He remembered Mazara saying, you want McCabe? I tell you how to get him.
Joey had said, "Don't tell me, do it."
They'd driven back to Rome, dropped Joey off at the Excelsior, and gone to Chip's school, Loyola University, ended up sleeping in the car, waiting till they saw a black BMW pull out, 9:07 a.m., Chip behind the wheel, and followed him. When Chip stopped at a traffic light, Mazara and Psuz walked up to his car, broad daylight, bandanas over their faces, opened the door, yanked him out and threw him in the trunk of the Opel. Joey had finally found something these clowns were good at. Mazara had called to tell him and Joey had gotten in a cab and come right over.
The odd thing, at first, Chipper didn't seem concerned or afraid, had sat in the chair mouthing off.
"Listen," Chipper said. "You know who I am?"
"No, who are you?" Joey said.
"Charles Tallenger III."
He said it cocky like the rich Grosse Pointe assholes he knew. "No shit," Joey said. "Charles Tallenger III. Wow. I'm impressed."
"My father is United States Senator Charles Tallenger."
Joey'd heard of him. Sure. Remembered seeing him on TV one time, running for something, got beat by the good- looking babe with the glasses from Alaska.
"Let me go and all is forgiven," Chipper said.
"All's forgiven. You believe this guy?" Joey said to his Roman buddies. "See, we don't give a fuck who your dad is or who you are. We just want to know where McCabe's at."
"I don't know," Chipper said, losing the attitude. "Honestly."
"Well since you're being honest I believe you. But these guys still think you're bullshitting us," he said, indicating Mazara, Sisto and Noto.
"I don't know where he is," Chipper said, cocky attitude creeping back in his voice. "What don't you understand?"
"Okay," Joey said to Mazara. "He's yours."
The Romans picked him up and carried him to one of the round restaurant tables, stretched him out and held his right arm down, hand flat against the wood, fear in his eyes.
"Hey, what're you doing?" Chip said. Voice cracking, a couple octaves higher than normal.
"What's it look like?" Joey said. "You had your chance."
Sisto walked over and picked up a crude-looking hammer out of a toolbox and came back to the table, Chipper's eyes following him the whole way. He was afraid now, squirming and trying to free himself as Sisto raised the hammer.
"McCabe's in Soriano, in the mountains. I'm supposed to pick him up."
"How 'bout that," Joey said. "Forgot where his buddy was at, regained his memory just in the nick of time."
Sisto brought the hammer down and busted his hand.
Chipper yelled and they let him go and Joey watched him roll around on the table in pain, holding his broken knuckles. Jesus that must've hurt.
12:45 p.m., Ray was at the reception desk in the Excelsior Hotel, asking what room his dear friend Joseph Palermo was in. The clerk checked the computer in front of him and said there was no guest by that name in the hotel. He had the guy try Sharon Pope too and got the same response. Ray unfolded a Xerox photo of Joey and showed it to him. The clerk's eyes lit up. He smiled and said, "Signor Bitonte." He had seen Joey leave the hotel but he had not returned.
Ray left Joey a note, then sat in the lobby for a while, reading the Herald Tribune, an article
about Somali pirates seizing a luxury yacht in the Gulf of Aden off the north-eastern coast of Africa, and were holding the crew for ransom. It seemed hard to believe these ragtag pirates getting away with it.
He checked the football scores. Michigan State beat Wiconsin and were 6 and 1. He finished the paper and watched a good-looking woman walk past him in tight jeans, moving toward the front desk. He sat there for a few more minutes, stood up, went outside and got in his car that was parked on the street in front of the hotel.
1:48 p.m., Joey walked up the steps and went through the revolving door into the Excelsior, moving across the lobby to the front desk, his Bruno Maglis clicking on the tile floor. He stopped and got his key and the hotel guy handed him an envelope. It was cream-colored Excelsior stationery.
"For you, Signor Bitonte."
Joey thought it was from his Unk, probably asking when he was coming back to the villa. Joey put it in his pocket, got on the elevator and pressed the button for the seventh floor. He took the envelope out and ripped it open. There was a folded piece of paper. He pulled it out and looked at it. Two words in capital letters:
WHERE'S SHARON?
Joey freaked. Jesus! Had to be the husband, the Secret Service agent. But how the hell'd he find him? Joey felt the elevator slowing down, heard the bell ring, and the doors open. Expected to see a guy aiming a gun at him. It was the wrong floor, the fifth. Nobody there. He got off and ran to the stairs. The agent could've been waiting for all he knew, watched him get in the elevator. Maybe even knew what room he was in.
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