The big jet hit the tarmac with a jolt; tipped back into the air at an angle; then settled once more onto the ground, thrust reversers screaming.
As the plane decelerated, a lazy voice came over the P.A. system. “This is your captain speaking. We’ve landed at Kennedy Airport, and as soon as we get clearance, we’ll taxi to the gate. Meanwhile, y’all please keep your seats. Sorry about that bit of turbulence back there. Welcome to New York City.”
Faint applause arose here and there from a sea of ashen faces, then died quickly away.
“Bit of turbulence,” muttered the man in the aisle seat. “Is that what he calls it? Shit on a stick. You couldn’t pay me enough to get back in a plane after this.”
He turned to his seatmate, nudged him with his elbow. “Glad to be back on the ground, pal?”
The nudge brought D’Agosta back to the present. He turned slowly away from the window, through which he’d been staring without really seeing, and glanced at the man. “What’s that?”
The man snorted in disbelief. “Come on, stop playing it cool. Me, my own life passed before my eyes at least twice the last half hour.”
“Sorry.” And D’Agosta turned back to the window. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”
D’Agosta walked woodenly through Terminal 8 on his way out of customs, suitcase in one hand. All around him, people were talking excitedly, hugging, laughing. He passed by them all, barely noticing, eyes straight ahead.
“Vinnie!” came a voice. “Hey, Vinnie. Over here!”
D’Agosta turned to see Hayward, waving, walking toward him through the crowds. Laura Hayward, beautiful in a dark suit, her black hair shining, her eyes as deep and blue as the water off Capraia. She was smiling, but the smile did not reach quite as far as those perfect eyes.
“Vinnie,” she said, embracing him. “Oh, Vinnie.”
Automatically, his arms went around her. He could feel the welcoming tightness of her clasp; the warmth of her breath on his neck; the crush of her breasts against him. It was like a galvanic shock. Had it really been only ten days since they last embraced? A shudder passed through him: he felt strange, like a swimmer struggling upward from a very great depth.
“Vinnie,” she murmured. “What can I say?”
“Don’t say anything. Not now. Later, maybe.”
Slowly, she released him.
“My God. What happened to your finger?”
“Locke Bullard happened.”
They began to move through the baggage area. A silence grew between them, just long enough to become awkward.
“How’s it been here?” he asked at last, lamely.
“Not much has happened since you called last night. We’ve still got ten detectives working the Cutforth murder. Technically. And from what I hear, that Southampton chief of police is catching holy hell for lack of progress on Grove.”
D’Agosta gritted his teeth, started to speak, but Hayward put a finger to his lips.
“I know. I know. But that’s the nature of the job sometimes. Now that Buck’s out of the picture and the Post has moved on to other things, Cutforth’s finally off the front page. Eventually it’ll become just another unsolved murder. Along with Grove’s, of course.”
D’Agosta nodded.
“Amazing that it was Fosco. I’m floored.”
D’Agosta shook his head.
“It’s a hell of a thing, knowing who the perp is but being able to do nothing.”
There was the ring of a claxon; an amber alarm flashed overhead; and a carousel nearby began to move.
“I was able to do something,” he said in a low voice.
Hayward looked at him sharply.
“I’ll explain in the car.”
Ten minutes later they were on the Van Wyck Expressway, halfway back to Manhattan, Hayward at the wheel. D’Agosta sat beside her, idly looking out the window.
“So it was all about a violin,” Hayward said. “The whole damn thing. A lousy violin.”
“Not just any violin.”
“I don’t care. It wasn’t worth all those deaths. And it especially wasn’t worth—” But here she stopped, as if hesitant to break some unspoken code between them. “Where is it now?”
“I sent it by special courier to a woman on the island of Capraia. Comes from a line of violinists. She’ll restore it to the Fosco family at a time of her choosing, when the new heir is settled in. Somehow, I think that’s what Pendergast would have wanted.”
It was the first time Pendergast’s name had passed between them.
“I know you couldn’t explain on the phone,” she went on. “But what happened, exactly? After you took the Italian police to Fosco’s castle yesterday morning, I mean.”
D’Agosta did not reply.
“Come on, Vinnie. It’ll be better if you talk about it.”
D’Agosta sighed. “I spent the rest of the day combing the Chianti countryside. Talking to farmers. Talking to villagers. Anyone who might have seen anything, heard anything. Checking my hotel for messages. Of course, there was nothing. But I had to be sure, you see—absolutely sure . . .”