D’Agosta heard the sirens first, shattering the peace of the Tuscan countryside with their dissonant two-note ditty. Next came the headlights of two vehicles speeding around a nearby hill and sweeping up the drive. They ground to a halt before the villa with an audible spray of gravel. Police lights cartwheeled across the ceiling of the salone.
Pendergast rose from his crouch. The tweezers that had magically appeared from his clothing just as magically disappeared.
He glanced at D’Agosta. “Shall we retire to the chapel? We wouldn’t want these good gentlemen to think we’ve been tampering with their crime site.”
D’Agosta, still gripped with fear and dread, nodded dumbly. The chapel. That seemed like a good idea. A really good idea.
The chapel was in the traditional location at the far end of the salone, a tiny but exquisite Baroque room which could fit little more than a priest and half a dozen family members. There didn’t seem to be any electric lights, so Pendergast lit a votive candle in a red glass holder, and they settled on the hard wooden benches to wait.
Almost immediately there was the sound of a door booming open; boots echoing in the downstairs hall; police radios blaring. D’Agosta was still holding his cross, his eyes on the small marble altar. The candle gave out a flickering reddish glow, and the air was redolent with frankincense and myrrh. He resisted the impulse to go down on his knees. He reminded himself he was a policeman, this was a crime scene, and the idea that the devil had come and claimed Bullard’s soul was ridiculous.
And yet, in the perfumed darkness, it didn’t feel the least bit ridiculous. His hand shook as it clutched the cross.
Now the carabinieri burst into the salone. D’Agosta heard a gasp; some muffled expostulations of shock; what sounded like a prayer being quickly intoned. Then came the familiar sounds of a crime scene being secured and floodlights being set up. A moment later the room beyond was bathed in almost unbearably bright light. A beam lanced into the chapel, striking the marble Christ behind the altar and setting it aglow.
A man appeared in the doorway, casting a long shadow. He was dressed, not in uniform, but in a tailored gray suit, a couple of gold leaves on his lapel signifying rank. He paused, staring. To D’Agosta, he seemed no more than an outline, framed in brilliant light, a short-barreled 9mm Beretta Parabellum in his hand.
“Rimanete seduti, mani in alto, per cortesìa,” he said calmly.
“Remain seated, hands in view,” translated Pendergast. “We’re policemen—”
“Tacete!”
D’Agosta suddenly remembered they were dressed in black, their faces still half painted. God only knew what this police officer was thinking.
The man advanced, gun in hand, not exactly aimed at them but not quite aimed away, either. “Who are you?” he asked in lightly-accented English.
“Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States of America.” Pendergast’s wallet was in his hand, and it fell open to reveal his shield on one side, his ID on the other.
“And you?”
“Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta, Southampton Police Department, FBI liaison. We’re—”
“Basta.” The man stepped forward. He reached for Pendergast’s wallet, looked at the badge, the ID card. “Are you the one who called in the homicide?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“We are investigating a series of murders in the United States, which that man”—Pendergast nodded out into the great room—“was connected to.”
“Mafiosi?”
“No.”
The man looked visibly relieved. “You know the identity of the deceased?”
“Locke Bullard.”
The man handed back the wallet, gestured at their outfits. “Are these the newest uniforms among the FBI?”
“It’s a long story, Colonnello.”
“How did you get here?”
“You will find our car—if you haven’t already—in the olive grove across the street. A black Fiat Stylo. I will, of course, prepare a formal report for you on all the particulars: who we are, why we’re here. Some of it is already on file at the Questura.”
“God, no. No reports. It is so inconvenient when facts get written down. At the proper time, we will talk about it over an espresso, like civilized human beings.” The man moved out of the glaring backlight. For the first time, D’Agosta could see his features: prominent cheekbones, cleft chin, and deep-set eyes. He was about sixty, and he moved with a stiff military bearing, his graying hair brushed back, restless eyes taking in everything.
“I am Colonnello Orazio Esposito. Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier.” He shook their hands. “Who is your liaison at the Questura?”
“Commissario Simoncini.”
“I see. And what do you make of this . . .” He nodded again toward the great room. “This . . . casino?”