Harry stared at him, unbelieving. 'Are you intimating that my brother was the other person in the room? That he bought the gun and gave Valera money for the rent?'

'How could he, Mr Addison? Your brother was a priest. He was poor. He was paid only a small stipend by the Church. He had very little money at all. Not even a bank account… He did not have four thousand dollars for a rifle. Or the equivalent of one thousand dollars in cash to pay for the rental of an apartment.'

'You keep contradicting yourself, Detective. You tell me the only fingerprints on the murder weapon belonged to Valera and in the same breath want me to believe it was my brother who pulled the trigger. And then you carefully explain how he could afford neither the gun nor the apartment. Where are you coming from?'

'The money came from someone else, Mr Addison.'

'Who?' Harry glanced angrily at Pio, then back to Roscani.

The policeman stared for a moment and then his right hand came up, smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers, the fingers pointed directly at Harry.

'You, Mr Addison.'

Harry's mouth went dry. He tried to swallow but couldn't. This was why they had so carefully met him at the airport and brought him to the Questura. Whatever had happened, Danny had become a prime suspect and now they were trying to tie him in. He wasn't going to let them. Abruptly he stood, pushing his chair back.

'I want to call the U.S. Embassy. Right now.'

'Tell him,' Roscani said in Italian.

Pio moved from the window and crossed the room. 'We did know you were coming to Rome. And what flight you were on, but it wasn't for the reason you thought.' Pio's manner was easier than Roscani's, the way he stood, the rhythm of his speech – or maybe it was just that he sounded American.

'Late Sunday we requested help from the FBI. By the time they found where you were, you were on your way here.' He sat down on the edge of Roscani's desk. 'If you want to talk to your embassy you have every right. But understand that when you do, you will very quickly be talking to the LEGATS.'

'Not without a lawyer.' Harry knew what the LEGATS was. It stood for legal attaches, the name for FBI special agents assigned to U.S. embassies overseas who work in liaison with the local police. But the threat made no difference. Overwhelmed and shocked as he was, he wasn't about to let anyone, the Rome police or the FBI, continue this kind of questioning without someone very well versed in Italian criminal law standing beside him.

''Richieda un mandato di cattura.'' Roscani looked at Pio.

Harry reacted angrily. 'Talk in English.'

Roscani stood and walked around his desk. 'I told him to call for an arrest warrant.'

'On what charge?'

'-A moment.' Pio looked at Roscani and nodded toward the door. Roscani ignored him and kept staring at Harry, acting as if Harry himself had killed Cardinal Parma.

Taking him aside, Pio said something in Italian. Roscani hesitated. Then Pio said something else. Roscani relented and they went out.

Harry watched the door close behind them and turned away. The long-haired woman at the keyboard was staring at him. Ignoring her, he walked to the window. It was something to do. Through its heavy glass he could see the narrow cobblestone street below and across it a brick building. At the far end was what looked like a fire station. It felt like a prison.

What the hell had he walked into? What if they were right and Danny had been involved with the assassination? But that was crazy. Or was it? As a teenager Danny had had problems with the law. Not much, but some, like a lot of restless kids. Petty theft, vandalism, fighting, just generally getting into trouble. It was one of the reasons he had gone into the marines, as a way to get some discipline in his life. But that had been years ago; he was a grown man when he died and a priest for a long time. To envision him as a killer was impossible. Yet – and Harry didn't want to think about it, but it was true – he would have learned how in the Marine Corps. And then there was the phone call. What if that had been why he had called. What if he had done it and there was no one else he could talk to?

There was a sound and the door opened and Pio came in alone. Harry looked past him, waiting for Roscani to follow but he didn't.

'You have hotel reservations, Mr Addison?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'At the Hassler.'

'I will arrange to have your luggage taken there.' Reaching into his jacket, Pio took out Harry's passport and handed it to him. 'You'll need it when you check in.'

Harry stared at him. 'I can go…?'

'You must be tired – from your grief and from your flight.' Pio smiled gently. 'And from a confrontation with the police you were hardly prepared for. From our view necessary perhaps, but not very hospitable. I would like to explain what has happened and what is happening… Just the two of us, Mr Addison… A quiet place at the end of the street. Do you like Chinese?'

Harry kept staring. Good cop, bad cop. Just like in the U.S. And right now Pio was the good one, the friend on Harry's side. It was why Roscani had led the questioning. But it was clear they weren't quite done with him and this was their way of continuing it. What it meant was, bottom line, he had no choice.

'Yeah,' he said finally, 'I like Chinese.'

6

'MERRY CHRISTMAS from the Addisons' Harry could still see the card, the decorated tree in the background, the posed faces smiling from it, everyone wearing a Santa Claus hat. He had a copy of it somewhere at home, tucked in a drawer, its once bright colors slowly fading, now almost pastels. It was the last time they were all together. His mother and father would have been in their mid-thirties. He was eleven, Danny eight, and Madeline almost six. Her sixth birthday was January first, and she died two weeks later.

It was Sunday afternoon, bright and clear and very cold. He and Danny and Madeline were playing on a frozen pond near their home. Some older kids were nearby playing hockey. Several of them skated toward them, chasing after the puck.

Harry could still hear the sharp crack of the ice. It was like a pistol shot. He saw the hockey players stop short. And then the ice just broke away where Madeline was. She never made a sound, just went under. Harry screamed to Danny to run for help, and he threw off his coat and went in after her. But there was nothing but icy black.

It was nearly dark when the fire department divers brought her up, the sky beyond the leafless trees behind them a streak of red.

Harry and Danny and their mother and father waited with a priest in the snow as they came across the ice toward them. The fire chief, a tall man with a mustache, had taken her body from the divers and wrapped it in a blanket and held it in his arms as he led the way.

Along the shore, a safe distance away, the hockey players, their parents and brothers and sisters, neighbors, strangers watched in silence.

Harry started forward, but his father took him firmly by the shoulders and held him back. When he reached shore, the fire chief stopped, and the priest said the last rites over the blanket without opening it. And when he had finished, the fire chief, followed by the divers still with their air tanks and wet suits, walked on to where a white ambulance was waiting. Madeline was put inside and the doors were closed and the ambulance drove off into the darkness.

Harry followed the red dots of taillights until they were gone. Finally he turned. Danny was there, eight years old, shivering with the cold, looking at him.

'Madeline is dead,' he said, as if he were trying to understand it.

'Yes…' Harry whispered.

It was Sunday, January the fifteenth, nineteen seventy-three. They were in Bath, Maine.