“Rospo should be here today. He works a couple jobs.”
Just ahead was the Arch of Constantine, and beyond it the Colosseum. Even periodic restoration and cleaning could not detract from the ancient aura of the two structures. The arch looked like the decorative entrance to a castle, left standing after someone had made off with the rest of the structure. To the right the immense bulk of the Flavian Amphitheater loomed confidently over its smaller neighbor. Despite missing walls, and craterlike holes in its facade, the Colosseum was the city’s top dog, and it knew it.
It was a perfect morning, even by Rome standards, and the tourists were taking advantage of the weather. Rick remembered living in the city in his youth, when nationalities were easily spotted by their dress, and shoes were the easiest giveaway. Not anymore. Markets were worldwide and the same styles caught on as quickly in Tokyo as in Bucharest. Sneakers were everywhere, along with tee-shirts and cargo shorts, not to mention baseball caps. Only by getting close enough to hear what language was being spoken could one make a sure guess of the country of origin. Carmella’s uniform, however, stood out.
Rick had thought that his first visit to the Colosseum after moving back to Rome would be with someone visiting from America, but here he was, only a few days after his arrival, striding toward it. This guy Rospo must work as a guide or ticket-taker, but that didn’t make sense. Those must be city government jobs, and he surely wouldn’t be working as a bookie on the side. Then again, it was Italy.
As they got closer to the Colosseum entrance the crowds got heavier, as did the number of vendors selling everything from tee-shirts to models of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. To one side a crew of men, dressed up as gladiators and Roman legionnaires, brandished martial implements and posed with tourist for as much of a fee as they could squeeze out of them. Today most of those posing with them were young Japanese women who giggled while their friends, armed with real cameras rather than phones, took the pictures. What did these guys do when it got cold? Those hairy legs could get mighty chilled with just sandals and a skimpy skirt covering them. Rick would have to come back in January to see if they were still there. As he pondered this he was poked by Carmella.
“There he is.” She then called out. “Rospo!”
Rick turned to see a short legionnaire brandishing an even shorter sword. His breastplate glistened in the sun and his shoulders were covered with a scarlet cape. The only aspect that detracted from the martial image was a helmet plume needing a coating of hair wax to keep it upright. The legionnaire was smoking a cigarette, apparently oblivious that tobacco first crossed the ocean well after the Roman Empire fell. At least he wasn’t wearing a wristwatch.
The legionnaire swore, but in Italian, not Latin. “Carmella? Just what I need on a good day, a cop breaking my coglioni.” He stubbed out the cigarette, careful not to burn his exposed toes. “Whatever you want, can we make it quick? I’m losing money every minute I’m not posing with tourists. And let me tell you, on a day like this it’s like having a permit to print money.” He sheathed the sword.
“It will be quick if you cooperate, Rospo. This is Lieutenant Montoya. We’re investigating the murder of Count Zimbardi.”
That got his attention. The man was used to dealing with the police, but clearly not on homicide cases. He did his best to maintain his composure. “Sure, Carmella, what can I tell you? You know me, I’m always anxious to help the cops. ”
Rick decided it was time for him to step in. “Count Umberto Zimbardi. You had some business dealings with him at the track?”
“The count? Did I ever. One of my best customers, and such a gentleman. But down to earth, mind you. If he hadn’t dressed in those tailored suits you would have thought he was just one of the regulars. Of course he had to have tailored suits, since he couldn’t fit into anything off the rack.” He shrugged, and his red cape slipped slightly.
“What about his betting habits?”
“It was a habit, all right. I’ve never met anyone who was into wagering more than the count, and there is no small number of addicted gamblers at the Ippodromo, I can assure you. It’s what keeps the place afloat. It was fun to be with him when the race started. He actually believed every time the horses left the gate that his was going to finish first, and would be in shock when it didn’t. But the shock wore off fast, and there he was again at the rail, positive that this one, this time, was going to do it.”
“And sometimes he was right.”
“Well, sure. Even a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut.”
“How about payment?” asked Carmella. “Did you ever have a problem?”
Nino shook his head. “I always deal in cash. If he was borrowing to get cash to pay me, it was with somebody else, and I never heard anything about him being a deadbeat. Word of that kind of thing gets around pretty fast. You don’t want to deal with those kind of people or you could get caught in the crossfire, if you get my drift.”
“Ciao, Rospo,” said a voice like honey. It belonged to a voluptuous woman with sandals, flowing hair, and a toga slit to the thigh. She winked at Rick as she passed.
“Ciao, Calpurnia.” Rospo watched her before he turned back to Rick. “She makes as much as the rest of us put together. What guy wouldn’t want to have his picture taken with her? And does she milk it. Beyond reproach, my ass.”
Carmella gave Rick a look which said that they weren’t going to get much more out of Signor Rospo. She turned back to the legionnaire. “When was the last time you saw the count?” It was said like she was going through the motions.
Rospo reached inside his breastplate and pulled out a smartphone. “I can tell you exactly, I keep all my appointments on this. If I lost it I’d be totally screwed.” They waited while he made various taps with his thumbs. “Here it is, sixteen days ago, at eleven in the morning. We met for coffee. If I remember right…here it is.” He looked up from the screen. “I always make notes on this whenever I have a meeting. It’s a dynamite app, keeps track of everything.” His eyes went back to the phone. “Yes, I was correct. There was someone else there, named Syms-Mulford, spoke with a British accent.”
“You wrote all this down in your phone?” Rick asked.
“Networking. It’s how I get new clients. This other guy didn’t seem like the type to need my services, but you never know.” He stole a glance at a group of tourists posing with a gladiator holding a sword and a net, the competition. “Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but I really have to get back to work.”
“Just one more thing,” said Carmella. “Do you remember if the count seemed any different that morning? Upset? Nervous?”
“Well, none of his horses had come in the previous day, so I didn’t have any money for him, but that was normal. He gave me a list of his bets for that afternoon.” Rospo again consulted his phone. “None of them paid off, according to my records. Just as well, or I’d have had to take his winnings to his widow.”
“Sure you would have, Rospo,” said Carmella, her words accompanied by an eye roll. “If you think of anything else, you know how to reach me.”
Rospo returned his phone to inside the breastplate, pulled out his sword, and melted back into the crowd of tourists.
Five minutes later Rick and Carmella were in the car and returning to the police station.
“Did you get that, Riccardo? That Rospo met the count the morning of the day he was murdered? And he was with Syms-Mulford. This could be important.”
“I suppose.” Rick stared out the window at the traffic.
“You somewhere else, Riccardo? I’ll bet you’re thinking about meeting with this guy Syms-Mulford. Don’t worry, you’ll do just fine.”
In fact he wasn’t thinking about meeting the count’s friend at all. His thoughts were on his next stop: the Vatican press office to see Lidia.
Carmella let him out at the Vittorio Emanuelle Bridge. She had offered to
take him all the way to St. Peter’s Square, but he insisted that he could make his way on foot from the river. It would give him time to compose his thoughts about what he would say to Lidia, assuming she was in the office that day. He probably should have called ahead, but he’d thought that surprising her would be fun. When Carmella pressed him about where he was going, he merely said that he was meeting an old high school friend. That was all she needed to know.
He crossed the river and worked his way through the traffic to Via della Conciliazione, at six decades old, one of the newest streets in the city, as well as one of the widest. It had been built to commemorate the end of decades of bad feelings between church and state when Mussolini signed the Lateran Pact and the pope finally recognized Italy as a nation. Rick was sure that very few of the tourists who now walked along its sidewalk toward St. Peter’s Basilica knew the history. For them it was just a wide street with a great view of the cathedral facade and a few fascist-style buildings. As it got closer to the cathedral, souvenir shops began to appear, but unlike most of Rome their wares were religious, from posters of the pope to small models of St. Peter’s Basilica.
Most of the postcards displayed on the sidewalk racks were split between portaits of the pontiff, interior scenes of the basilica, and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Apparently, there were tourists who still sent postcards to friends and family back home, but the practice had to be fading thanks to cell phones that could send photos instantly. Rick remembered vacation trips as a kid when his mother always made a point of sending postcards from every stop. He thought then that it was a way for her to make them envious of the Montoyas’ exotic travels, but later concluded it was simply an Italian thing. Or a bit of both. He squinted at the dome of St. Peter in the distance.
Lidia. How long had it been? It had to have been that tearful goodbye the summer after graduation. He was off to his father’s alma mater, the University of New Mexico, and she to a small Catholic college in the Midwest. They had exchanged e-mails for a while but after a year the messages became infrequent and eventually trailed off to nothing. Rick was heavily involved in college social life and he assumed that she was as well. As attractive as she was, Lidia would have had no problem finding male companionship. Rick had put her out of his mind and concentrated on the ladies he met at UNM, of whom there were many. After graduation he had stayed in New Mexico, working at various jobs until starting his translation business, but through those years he never got very serious about any of his girlfriends. The idea of marriage—or even a long-term relationship—had not entered his mind. Would it be a similar story with Lidia?
The end of the street emptied into a small plaza before spreading into the much wider St. Peter’s Square at the unmarked border between Italy and Vatican City. On both sides of the street sat identical stone buildings, each extending out over the sidewalk, and the one on the right held the Vatican Press Office. Rick looked at himself in the glass of the window, straightened his collar, and opened the door. His eyes were drawn to a larger-than-life-size picture of the pope that covered one wall. The pontiff was leaning over to pat the head of a child who looked up at him with wide eyes. In the center of the room a woman sat at a desk behind a computer. She looked up when Rick entered and flashed him a smile touched with piety—that’s the way he interpreted it. But it was the Vatican, after all, so perhaps it was part of their training.
“May I help you?” she said in English. She must have noticed his cowboy boots.
He walked to the desk. “Is Lidia Williams in? I was told she works here.” He stayed with English.
The pleasant smile turned to a frown, but one of incomprehension rather than annoyance. “I don’t think I know any Lidia Williams. But I’m relatively new here, let me check.” She picked up the phone on her desk and punched in a number. When the person on the other end of the line answered, she switched to Italian and made the inquiry. Rick could not hear what she was told, but she looked up at Rick and the smile returned, but wider. She pointed to an open doorway. “You’ll find her in the third office on the right, down that hallway.”
“Thank you,” said Rick. He could almost feel her smile on his back as he went where he was told. The third door on the right was marked with a sign that said “Seminars and Special Events.” The door was slightly ajar and he tapped lightly.
“Avanti.”
The voice was the same. He pushed open the door and saw Lidia sitting behind a desk, her eyes on the screen of a computer. In profile she had lost none of her beauty—if anything it had been enhanced by the years. She hit a button to save her work and turned to the doorway. Her mouth dropped open.
“Oh, my Lord, it’s Rick Montoya. How wonderful to see you.” She got up from the chair.
He stared for a few seconds until he finally found words.
“Lidia… you’ve changed.”
“I’m still the same, Rick. Only now I’m called Sister Teresa.”
Chapter Seven
Rick suggested they go somewhere in the neighborhood for a coffee, and Sister Teresa politely declined. He was unfamiliar with the protocols of sisterhood, but sensed that nuns didn’t go alone to bars with men who aren’t family. Instead, the two of them sat at a Formica table in what was the lunchroom at the Vatican Press Office, sipping bad coffee from a machine in the corner. Two other employees, one the receptionist who had greeted Rick when he came in, were at another table eating lunches they’d heated in the office microwave. Except for two posters of the pope, both from foreign trips, the walls were bare. There were no windows. Rick leaned back in his chair and Sister Teresa sat primly, her hands on her cup.
“Thank you for asking, Rick. I get that question a lot from old friends and the answer is yes, I am truly happy. I have never once regretted my decision. I can assure you that I’m at total peace with myself, not that my feelings are important in the scheme of things.” She glanced at the poster near their table, then back at Rick. “How is your family, Rick? I remember your parents fondly. And your sister, where is she now?”
“Anna is happily married in Albuquerque with two sons, much to the delight of my mother. She and dad are now in Brazil, where he was posted earlier this year. You remember that I have an Uncle Piero?”
“I think I do. A policeman somewhere in the south?”
“Right. He’s now in Rome and I’m staying with him until I can move into an apartment I’ll be renting from a distant relative. Near Piazza Navona.”
“Nice,” said Sister Teresa. “Please give them all my regards.”
“I will do that. And your folks?”
“They are well. Dad’s paper dragged him back to the home office in Boston a couple years ago, but they have kept the apartment here and visit every few months. As you remember, my mother has lots of family here, so she can’t stay away for long.”
Rick was slowly getting used to the fact that his beautiful old flame was a nun. She wore no makeup, but she never had in high school. She didn’t need it then and didn’t need it now. The habit covered her body, but it didn’t appear that she’d put on any weight. She’d never eaten much when they were on dates, and likely her eating habits hadn’t changed. There was a difference in her, however, and as she spoke he tried to put his finger on it. Serenity? Yes, that was it.
“Tell me about your work here.” He couldn’t bring himself to call her Sister Teresa.
She sipped her coffee before responding. “Anything that doesn’t fall naturally into the job description of someone else is given to me, so it’s different almost every day. Last week some Bolivians brought in their prize llama to be blessed by the pope.”
“Really? So you arranged it?”
“No. Popes don’t do that sort of thing, so I got them a cardinal. They went away happy. We get a lot of people who want to give the pope gifts, which can be tricky. One time, if you can believe it, some American college coach gave him a football helmet during
the weekly audience. The Holy Father had no idea what it was, and security was afraid it contained a bomb.”
Rick was unable to picture the pope wearing a football helmet. “The poor guy was trying to improve his record. I wonder if it worked. It sounds like you do some fascinating things here.”
She shrugged. “It can be. But I’ll tell you a secret, Rick.” She looked at the other table, where her two colleagues were eating, and then lowered her voice. “I’ve put in my application for a transfer.”
“A better job here in the Vatican?”
“No. Missionary work. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Rick, I think it’s my true calling. I just have to convince the bureaucracy that it is.”
“What do your parents think of your plans?”
“I haven’t told them, but I’m sure they’ll be horrified. They think their daughter working in the Vatican Press Office is very cool. But I didn’t take the vows to be cool.” Her face showed a determination he didn’t remember from high school. Perhaps Lidia had changed more than the way she dressed. “But you haven’t told me about your work.”
“I was doing translating back in Albuquerque, working out of a home office, and realized that with the Internet I could do it anywhere. So why not Rome? I’m hoping to get into interpreting jobs as well.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a great success.” She looked at the large clock on the wall. “Rick, I’ve got to get back to my office.”
As they got to their feet, Rick reluctantly decided that he had to bring up the other subject. “Before you go, can I ask your advice on something?”
“Of course.”
“I have an Argentine friend who is here in Rome representing a wine producer in his country. He would love to sell wine in Vatican City, but has no idea of how to start. Any ideas?” It was the abbreviated version of Juan Alberto’s dilemma, omitting the fact that the guy was here under false pretenses, was somewhat of a sleaze, and couldn’t be trusted. Lidia—Sister Teresa—didn’t require details, busy as she was.
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