by John Case
The hotel occupied the west wing of a down-at-the-heels palazzo that had fourteen-foot ceilings, a dormant garden, and a desolate bar. Though it was almost midnight when he got in, he asked for and was given a suite on the second floor, overlooking the street. A geriatric bellboy led the way, and Lassiter did what he could to keep up with him, clenching his teeth against the pain.
When the bellboy was gone, he double-locked the doors, went to the frigo bar, and emptied two miniatures of scotch into a plastic water glass. Then he sat down at the desk beside the window and took out his ‘casebook.’
Years ago, when he was in Brussels, he’d gotten into the habit of starting a new notebook whenever he began a new investigation. The practice was useful for several reasons, but in particular for a side benefit – the way it helped him retrieve names that if alphabetized would probably have been lost to him. He might not remember the name of a particular investigator, pathologist, or documents’ examiner, but he never forgot a case – and he’d remember that the person he was looking for had done some work on it. Once that association was made, it was simple to pick out the right notebook and find the name.
After the first year, he’d taken to using the same kind of journal – an inexpensive three-by-eight spiral-bound reporter’s notebook that he could hold in one hand, and which fit easily into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. If they ever stopped making them, he thought, Lassiter Associates would probably go out of business.
When he began a notebook, he entered the names and telephone numbers in the back, starting on the last page. In that way, all of the addresses could be found in a single place and he almost never ran out of room.
He’d followed the same practice in Kathy and Brandon’s case as he had in all the others, and there were now quite a few numbers. The first entry was Riordan’s, then a few doctors. Tom Truong, the hotel in Chicago. Bepi. Angela. Egloff. And Umbra Domini.
He sipped his scotch and looked out the window. It was a pretty view, with linden trees running the length of the nearly deserted street. Picking up the phone, he consulted his notebook and dialed Bepi’s home and office numbers. When he heard the answering machines, he called Bepi’s cell phone, but the call didn’t go through. Finally, he called the pager number Bepi had given him, and tapped in the numerals for the Mozart. It worried him that twenty-four hours before, he’d gone through this same routine in Naples, and still the kid had not called him back. It wasn’t like him, and Lassiter sensed that something was wrong. For one thing, he was too lucrative a client to ignore. And even more to the point, Bepi was deeply in love with technology, boasting that he was never out of touch for more than ten minutes – ‘no matter if I’m watching Lazio or flying to Tokyo or L.A.’
Lassiter had smiled at that; in all likelihood, the kid had never been to Geneva, much less L.A.
He called the office on the chance that Judy might be working late. When he got the switchboard and heard the ruckus in the background, he realized it was the night of the annual Christmas party. The woman who answered was a temp whose name he didn’t recognize, and she obviously couldn’t hear him very well.
‘Wha-aat?’
‘It’s Joe Lassiter.’
‘Who?’
‘Joe Lassiter.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Lassiter isn’t in at the moment.’
‘No, that’s not –’
‘And anyway, the office is closed.’
Irritated, he hung up and redialed his own voice-mail number in McLean. There were half a dozen messages, but the only one of interest was from Jimmy Riordan – and that message was so filigreed with static as to be unintelligible. Something about checks. You gotta love the checks! What was that supposed to mean?
Lassiter looked at his watch. It was seven p.m. in the States. He tried Riordan’s home number but there wasn’t any answer. He tried the station.
‘Sorry. Detective Riordan’s outta town.’
Lassiter slammed the palm of his hand down on the desk. The scotch jumped in the glass. He might as well be in a diving bell: he couldn’t reach anybody.
He asked when Riordan would be back.
‘I don’t know. Probably the twenty-fourth – “the night before Christmas and all that.”’
‘Is there any way to reach him?’
‘Depends.’
‘I’m a friend of his.’
‘Well, then, he’s probably told you: he’s at a conference. In Prague.’ He pronounced the name as if it rhymed with ‘vague.’
‘Prague?’
‘Prague, Prog – he’s on a junket, is what he is!’
‘You have a number I can reach him at?’
‘Hang on.’
While he waited, Lassiter remembered Riordan talking about the conference – something about Eastern Europe and democratizing the police. Riordan had even showed him a flyer – and pointed out his own name.
‘You still there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Jimmy’s at the fa-bu-lous Intercontinental Ho-tel in exotic Prog,’ the cop said. ‘Got a whole lotta numbers. First you gotta dial 011. You got a pen? ’Cuz you’ll never remember –’
‘Shoot.’
At the back of the notebook, Lassiter added the number to the others under Riordan’s name, hung up and dialed the Intercon. It was almost two in the morning, but the detective didn’t answer the phone, and so Lassiter left yet another message.
Then he stretched out on the bed, tipped his shoes off, and with a moan fell into a fitful sleep.
It was almost noon when he finally woke up, and when he did, he was in the same position as when he’d lain down the night before – flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Using his arms and elbows, he struggled to sit up, pushed himself to his feet and walked uncertainly into the bathroom, holding his side. Very carefully, he turned to the mirror and raised his T-shirt. The colors on his side made him wince: there was yellow and mauve, purple, black, and a sickly sort of rose.
It took him nearly five minutes to get the water temperature right, and after he’d showered, it took him nearly twice as long to get dry. There were sectors where he could hardly bring himself to touch the towel to the damp skin. He had almost no mobility above the waist: bending down was agony, and sudden moves were something even worse. And so he dressed with infinite patience, taking time out to order coffee and croissants from room service. When the tray arrived, ten minutes later, he was struggling to tie his shoes. It occurred to him that he’d better buy some loafers.
When the bellhop left, Lassiter flicked on the television, using the remote control. Looking for CNN, he snapped his way from one channel to another, until Bepi’s face flashed across the screen. He’d already flicked past the channel and had to go back.
The photo was dated, a graduation picture, or something like it. Bepi was smiling in a self-conscious way, and Lassiter saw that his hair was shorter and meticulously blown dry. He looked like a cross between a lounge singer and a choirboy, and the image might have made him smile – if there had been any good reason for Bepi to be on TV.
Lassiter tried to understand what the voice-over was saying, but he didn’t get a word.
A moment later Bepi’s picture was replaced by a live-action scene. A reporter stood on the sidewalk in front of a large church, talking somberly as a claque of kids gaped and mugged at the camera. Nearby, two police cars and an ambulance idled on the sidewalk.
The voice of the newscaster continued as the camera closed in on a trio of grim-faced men in uniforms, wheeling a gurney. The walkway was rough, maybe cobblestone, because the men were having trouble pushing the thing. It bounced and lurched, and every so often they had to lift it over an impediment.
The camera returned to the studio, and listening hard, Lassiter was able to make out a few of the newscaster’s words: ‘Santa Maria’ . . . ‘Polizia’ . . . ‘Bepistraversi’ . . . ‘Molto strano.’ Then the newscaster smiled, shuffled the papers in front of him, and shifted to a different story.
Lassiter moved from channel to channel, flipping the remote, but he couldn’t be sure what he was watching. A tearful woman in a black shawl was being interviewed about something, but there was no way to know if she was Bepi’s wife or a refugee.
Frustrated, Lassiter turned off the set and called Judy Rifkin. Home number. It was seven-thirty in the morning in Washington, and he didn’t care if she was awake.
‘Joe! Where are you?’
‘Rome.’
‘I was gonna call you this afternoon. The American Express thing is really heating up –’
‘I think Bepi’s dead.’
The line went quiet on the other end. Judy didn’t say a word.
‘Things started getting a little rough all of a sudden and . . . I just saw his face on television. I don’t know what they were saying, but there was an ambulance, cop cars, a stretcher.’
‘You sure?’
‘No, I’m not. Maybe . . . maybe he’s a suspect in something. I don’t know what the fuck he is – but I can’t get him on the phone, and –’ A pain shot through his side and he gasped involuntarily.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing . . . I got knocked around last night.’
‘You?!’
‘Yeah. But, look: the important thing’s Bepi. Take a look at the wires – Reuters, AP, whatever. Just run Bepi’s name and fax me anything you get.’
‘Where are you staying?’
He gave her the numbers and hung up. While he waited, he got out the telephone directory, looked up the Associated Press, and dialed the number. They were completely unhelpful. So were the BBC, Westinghouse Radio, and the good folks at the Rome Daily American.
Two hours later, there was a knock at the door and an envelope slid into the room. There were two pages inside: a cover sheet on Lassiter Associates’ letterhead, and a second page. The cover sheet read:
Reuters’ story attached. Are you okay? Rifkin.
Copyright 1995 Reuters, Limited
The Reuter Library Report
December 23, 1995, BC cycle
LENGTH: 152 words
HEADLINE: VICTIM FOUND IN CHURCH
DATELINE: ROME
BODY: A private investigator was found slain early this morning outside the cathedral of Santa Maria Maggiore, a few blocks from the Colosseum. According to police, the victim, Antonio Bepistraversi, 26, was tortured before he was killed.
The body was discovered by sixty-year-old Lucilla Conti. She spotted the victim on the expanse of steps leading up the Esquiline hill to the rear entrance of the basilica. In an interview with reporters, Mrs. Conti disclosed that she first thought the figure to be one of the homeless who have long made a base of the nearby Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II. She detoured around the man, for fear she’d be asked for money. Seeing that the figure remained immobile, she approached it and saw that the man’s head was enclosed in a plastic bag.
Homicide detectives noted that the incident occurred in ‘a deteriorating neighborhood,’ and expressed confidence that the crime would be solved.
Lassiter read the story three times, hoping he’d misunderstood, but it always came out the same. Bepi was dead, and not only that: he’d died badly. Or hard. Either way . . .
Suddenly, it occurred to him that the person he ought to be talking to was Gianni Massina. If anyone could tell him what had happened, Massina could. Flipping to the back of his notebook, Lassiter found the reporter’s number and called.
‘Pronto?!’
‘It’s Joe Lassiter.’
‘Yes?’
‘We met a few days ago –’
‘Of course!’ His voice crashed. ‘You’ve heard? About Bepi?’
‘Yeah. I saw it on television.’
Massina heaved a sigh. ‘I still can’t believe it.’ He sighed again.
‘The reason I called . . . I don’t know. Bepi – he was still working for me when it happened, and I thought, maybe – with Umbra – since they found him outside a church . . .’
Massina made a skeptical sound. ‘With Umbra there are always rumors. But this? I don’t think so. It’s an interesting church, but – there’s no connection with Umbra Domini.’
‘So why do you say it’s “interesting”?’
‘Because . . . it is! It’s six hundred years old and consecrated to the Mother of God. They say it was built after a snowfall, a miraculous snowfall that fell in a way that . . . it’s like a blueprint for the cathedral. Right there on the ground! So every year, on the church’s birthday, they throw flower petals – white flower petals – from the duomo. And there are relics – pieces of wood from the manger! Five of them, eh? What about that?’
‘Are they real?’
‘How do I know? This is religion. Everything’s real! Nothing’s real. You want to know what’s real? The neighborhood the church is in is real.’
‘Reuters says it’s “deteriorating.”’
Massina snorted. ‘We call it the Piazza of Shit and Needles! Even the whores won’t go there. It’s all junkies and crazy people –’
‘So what?’
‘What?’
‘So what if it’s a lousy neighborhood? The Reuters story said he’d been tortured. So it had to happen somewhere else. You don’t torture people on the steps of a church.’
‘You’re right. They dumped him. I talked to the cops . . . off the record, okay? They say he was brought there around five A.M. They don’t know where he was before this, but from the way the blood settled, it wasn’t on the steps. Not in that position, anyway. Maybe he’d been dead a day before they dumped him.’ Lassiter and Massina both fell silent. After a moment Massina said, ‘He’s got a kid, you know.’
‘Yeah, he told me.’ Once again the line went quiet.
Finally Massina broke the spell. ‘You know how he died?’
‘No. Not really.’ But he knew, somehow, that Massina was going to tell him.
Massina sucked in some air. ‘The police don’t release this, but . . . They tied his arms and legs behind his back, with the rope around his throat in – I’m not sure of the word – a slide knot.’
‘Slip knot.’
‘A slip knot. The more he’s struggling, the tighter the rope, you know? The police say this goes on for many hours. He starts to strangle – his interrogator frees him. Over and over. Many abrasions around his throat. And his wrists. And the ankles. This means they must threaten him while he’s bound up like this – so he can’t stop from struggling.’
‘What do you mean?’
Massina sucked in some more air. ‘They find a plastic bag over his head. With this, you know – you hold your breath, maybe, as long as you can, but then your instinct is taking over – so you struggle! The way Bepi is tied, the rope tightens, you start to black out, and then they take the bag off. They loosen the rope. And they do this many times. Then, the last one, they’re putting the plastic bag around his head – only this time they don’t take it off. So it’s over. He’s dead.’
Lassiter didn’t say anything. What was he supposed to say?
Massina cleared his throat. ‘What do you think they were looking for?’
‘Information.’
‘But what information?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they were just – fishing. Maybe they didn’t know what they were looking for. Maybe they were trying to find out how much he knew . . . or how much I knew. Or . . . maybe it was recreational – a nut.’
‘I don’t believe in nuts,’ Massina said.
‘Neither do I.’
The air hung between them until Lassiter finally broke the silence. ‘Well . . .’ he said.
‘Felice Natale, eh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Take care of yourself.’
‘You, too. Merry Christmas.’
21
THE MOMENT HE put the receiver down, the phone bleated like a smoke alarm, then bleated again. He picked it up as if it was something unclean. ‘Lassiter,’ he said in the neutral voice he used wh
en his secretary was on a coffee break.
‘Guess who!’
‘Jimmy,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a few things –’ He was about to mention Bepi and his own troubles in Naples, but Riordan bulldozed right past him with his energetic voice.
‘You wouldn’t think, you know? Case is stalled, you go off someplace you’ve never been, but you know what? I think I’m on to something.’
Lassiter sat upright.
Riordan cackled. ‘Got your attention, didn’t I?’
‘Yes. You did.’
‘When can you get here?’
‘Where?’
‘Prague! Where do you think I’m callin’ from?’
‘Jimmy. Things have been happening. I don’t –’
‘It’s an hour’s flight. Just like the shuttle.’
Lassiter realized Riordan wasn’t picking up the tone in his voice, wasn’t really listening to him, because Riordan was really excited about something. ‘Why don’t you just tell me?’
‘Because there’s someone you gotta meet! So get on a plane, and get over here.’
‘You’re sure –’
‘Trust me. It’s important.’
Lassiter set down the receiver and tried to think. He felt he should stay in Rome and do something about Bepi, but after thinking about it, he couldn’t come up with anything useful. Besides, he could be back in Rome in a day. Maybe even less.
Five hours later Lassiter stood in the parking lot outside the Intercontinental Hotel in the capital of the Czech Republic, looking up at a commissar’s idea of progress – a glass-and-concrete box whose ersatz modernity held out the promise of insipid abstracts, stained carpeting, and Europop. Erected at the height of the cold war, the hotel was meant to be a plug for the Communist party, an architectural statement that proclaimed to one and all: We’re marching into the future, doing business arm in arm! But as so often happens with architectural statements, this one came out a little differently, so that, today, the hotel seemed to be saying: We don’t need no stinking AHM-bee-ahnce!