“I’d suggest just what I suggested in the first meeting.”
“Even after your, ah, unpleasant experience this morning?”
“Nothing happened this morning to change my mind.”
That produced a long, leaden silence. Grable was shaking his head, as if to say, Some people never learn.
“I see. You suggested going in alone, is that right?”
“Right. I go in there and ask for Buck’s cooperation in sending his people home for a shower and change of clothes. We’ll promise him a parade permit in return. Treat him with respect. Deliver a fair, honest warning.”
There was a snort of derision from Grable.
Rocker turned. “Captain Grable, you have something to say?”
“I was there, Commissioner. Buck is crazy. He’s a dangerous ex-murderer. And his followers are like Jonestown, real fanatics. She goes in there alone, without a large force to protect her, they’ll take her hostage. Or worse.”
“Commissioner, I respectfully disagree with Captain Grable. It’s been almost a week now, and Buck and his followers have been reasonably well behaved and orderly. I believe it’s worth a try.”
Wentworth had joined in the head-shaking.
“Dr. Wentworth?” Rocker said.
“I would give Captain Hayward’s plan a very low probability of success. Captain Hayward is not a psychologist, and her prognostications of human behavior are simply lay opinion, not based on scientific study of human psychology.”
Hayward looked at the commissioner. “I’m not one to toot my own horn, sir, but the fact is, I do have an M.S. in forensic psychology from NYU. Since I believe Dr. Wentworth is an assistant professor at the College of Staten Island—CUNY, it’s understandable that we never met academically.”
In the uncomfortable silence, it seemed to Hayward that Rocker might even be suppressing a little smile of his own.
“I stand by my earlier comment,” Wentworth said acidly.
Rocker ignored him, still speaking to Hayward. “And that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You better have a SWAT team standing by to extract Captain Hayward, along with paramedics, for when the inevitable occurs,” said Grable.
Rocker looked down at his hands, his brow creased. Then he raised his head again. “Sunday is the day after tomorrow. I’d already decided on using the relative calm to go in with overwhelming force and arrest this man. But I hate to take a step like that until all avenues have been tried. I’m inclined to let Captain Hayward have a shot at it. If she can get Buck out of there without tear gas and water cannon, I’m all for it.” He turned to Hayward. “You do your thing at noon. If it doesn’t work, we move in, as scheduled.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A beat. “Hayward, are you sure this plan of yours is going to work?”
“No, sir.”
Rocker smiled. “That’s all I wanted to hear—a little goddamned humility for a change.” His eyes raked the rest of them, then returned to Hayward. “Go to it, Captain.”
{ 72 }
D’Agosta looked out at the vague outlines of the island looming off the ferry’s port bow, rising steep and blue from the sea, shimmering slightly in the midmorning light. Capraia: outermost of the Tuscan islands, a mountaintop lost in the wide ocean. It looked unreal, almost fairylike. The Toremar car ferry chiseled its way forward, squat steel bows stubbornly parting the turquoise water as it plowed toward its destination.
Pendergast stood beside D’Agosta, sea breeze ruffling his blond hair, his finely cut features like alabaster in the glare of the sun. “A most interesting island, Vincent,” he was saying. “Once a prison for the most dangerous and intelligent criminals in Italy—Mafia capos and serial escapees. The prison closed in the mid-sixties, and now most of the island is a national park.”
“Strange place to live.”
“It is actually the most charming of all the Tuscan islands. There is a small port and a tiny village on a bluff, connected by the island’s only road, which is all of half a mile in length. There’s been no ugly development, thanks to the fact that the island doesn’t have any beaches.”
“What’s the woman’s name again?”
“Her name is Viola Maskelene. Lady Viola Maskelene. I couldn’t find out much about her on short notice—she’s a private person. It seems she spends her summers on the island, leaving at the end of October. Travels the rest of the year, or so I’ve been informed.”
“You sure she’s home?”
“No. But I prefer to take the chance of surprising our quarry.”
“Quarry?”
“In an investigative sense. We’re dealing with a sophisticated and well-traveled Englishwoman. As the only great-grandchild of Toscanelli’s greatest love, she is in the best position to know the family secrets.”
“She might be a tough nut to crack.”
“Quite possibly. Hence the surprise approach.”
“How old is she?”
“I assume middle-aged, if my calculations are correct.”