“I assure you there is a most purposeful design here.”
“I see you already have a theory as to what happened to Mr. Bullard. Perhaps you will be kind enough to share it with me?” The colonnello leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “After all, I’ve already done you an enormous favor by not reporting your presence at the scene of the crime. Otherwise, you would be filling out paperwork from now until Christmas.”
“I am grateful,” said Pendergast. “But for now, there’s little more I can tell you than what I mentioned last night. We’re investigating two mysterious deaths that took place recently in New York State. Locke Bullard was a possible suspect. At the very least, he was involved in some extremely shady dealings. But as it happens, his own death patterns the first two.”
“I see. And do you have any ideas? Conjectures?”
“It would be unwise for me to answer that question. And you wouldn’t believe me if I did.”
“Va be’. Well then, what now?” He leaned back, picked up yet another cup of espresso, and tossed it back like a Russian tosses back a shot of vodka.
“I would like you to do a search of all deaths in Italy over the past year in which the body was found burned or partially burned.”
Esposito smiled. “Another favor . . .” He let his voice trail off into a cloud of smoke. “Here in Italy, we believe in the principle of reciprocation. I would like you to tell me, Mr. Pendergast, what you will be doing for me.”
Pendergast leaned forward. “Colonnello, all I can say is, one way or another I will return the favor.”
Esposito gazed at him for a moment, stubbed out his cigarette. “Well then. You’re looking for a burned corpse in Italy.” He laughed. “That would involve half the homicides in the South. The Mafia, Camorra, Cosa Nostra, the Sardinians—burning their victims after killing them is a time-honored tradition.”
“We can safely eliminate homicides related to organized crime, family or business feuds, or any for which you’ve already caught the killer. We’re looking for one that is isolated, perhaps an older person, probably rural.”
D’Agosta stared at Pendergast. What was he driving at? There was an eager glint in his eyes. He was clearly hot on some trail and, as usual, wasn’t sharing it with anyone.
“That will narrow things down tremendously,” said Esposito. “I’ll get someone on it right away. It might take a day or two—we are not nearly as computerized as your FBI.”
“I am most grateful.” Pendergast rose and shook Esposito’s hand.
The policeman leaned forward and said, “Quann’ ‘o diavulo t’accarezza, vo’ll’ànema.”
As they exited into the sun, Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “I find that I need to call on you again for a translation.”
D’Agosta grinned. “It’s an old Neapolitan proverb. You need a strong heart to resist the devil’s caresses.”
“Appropriate.” Pendergast inhaled. “What a fine day. Shall we go sightseeing?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“I hear Cremona is lovely this time of year.”
{ 61 }
D’Agosta stepped out of the Cremona train station into the warm sunlight of late morning. A wind had sprung up and was shaking the leaves of the plane trees in the broad piazza that lay before them. Beyond was the old part of the city, a cheerful medieval jumble of red-brick buildings rising from a maze of narrow streets. Pendergast chose one of these—the Corso Garibaldi—and began striding down it quickly, his black suit coat flapping behind him in the stiff wind.
With a sigh of resignation, D’Agosta hastened to keep up. He noticed the agent hadn’t bothered to consult a map. Pendergast had spent most of the train ride talking about the history of the nearby marble quarries at Carrara, and the extraordinary coincidence that the source of the purest white marble in the world was located only a few dozen miles downriver from the birthplace of the Renaissance, giving the Florentine sculptors options other than black or green marble. He had deftly deflected D’Agosta’s inquiries as to the reason why sightseeing had taken them here.
“Now what?” D’Agosta asked, sounding a little more irritated than he intended.
“Coffee.” Pendergast swerved into a café and approached the zinc bar. D’Agosta felt his irritation swell.
“Due caffè, per favore,” Pendergast said.
“Since when did coffee become your favorite drink? I thought you were a green-tea man.”
“Usually, yes. But when in Rome—or Cremona, as the case may be . . .”