Moretti was glowering at the building, as if he wished it weren’t there. The snow had stopped now but the sky was the colour of lead, pregnant with more. The great dome of the Pantheon wore a picturesque mantle. The rest of the square was a hideous sight, frozen slush churned to a grey mess by the constant movement of emergency vehicles and the tramp of feet.
“ ”Probably,“ ” the commissario snorted. “When will you be out?”
“Mid-afternoon at the earliest.”
“Make it noon. You’ve got the manpower. You managed to requisition half the Questura without my knowing last night. You could have called.”
Falcone nodded. He could have done that. But he chose not to. Nothing got past Moretti easily. There was too much explaining to be done and all for no reason. He’d worked for better bosses, and worse. With Moretti it was simpler for both of them if they both stuck to their own particular skills. In Falcone’s case, investigation. For Moretti, the behind-the-scenes management of internal and external relations, the marshalling of budgets and staff. Politics.
“I didn’t want to disturb you, sir. Not until we knew who she was.”
Moretti laughed. The sound shocked Falcone. There didn’t even seem an edge inside it. “She’s an American. That’s all. I find it a little insulting you think it’s worth calling me over for her but not for that poor bastard who was taking the photos. He was at least Italian.”
“I don’t make the rules,” Falcone murmured. “Sir.”
It was a standing order these days. Verbal and physical attacks on Americans were rare and usually had nothing to do with nationality, but the previous October an American military historian had been badly beaten up in the centro storico. Had a couple of uniformed cops not stumbled on the scene the man could have died. The brutal assailant had escaped. No one had claimed responsibility. Initially it was assumed that the Red Brigades were behind the attack, and everyone waited for the customary anonymous phone call citing it as a blow against American imperialism. But it never came. No one-not the police, not SISDE, not even the military spooks as far as Falcone knew-had come up with a shred of evidence to suggest who was really responsible, or whether this was part of a concerted campaign against US citizens. Nevertheless, the order had come down from high, in all probability from somewhere in the Quirinale Palace itself: all incidents involving Americans had to be reported to a senior level immediately.
“Just another tourist, huh?” Moretti said. “Woman on her own? Well, I suppose I can guess what happened there. Probably met some complete stranger. Thought it was just a little romance. Throw a few coins in the fountain, then walk here for a little fun. It’s just another sex crime, right?”
Falcone checked his watch, then looked at the activity inside the building. “You tell me,” he replied, and began walking towards the Pantheon door, knowing the commissario had no choice but to follow.
The lights of the Pantheon burned brightly, supplemented by a forest of police spots. Half a dozen SOCOs in white bunny suits were now scouring every last square millimetre of the patterned floor. A makeshift canvas tent had been erected over the corpse in the centre, with a set of lights tethered at the corners. Snow had continued to fall steadily through the night. Teresa Lupo and her team had built the contraption to keep the body from being buried ever more deeply by the continuous white stream that worked down through the oculus directly above them. From the moment Falcone saw the corpse emerging from the ice under Teresa Lupo’s care, he understood the body was in good hands. She was a wonderful pathologist, the best, even if his relationship with her was often strained. She had seen immediately that it was important to preserve any shreds of evidence that might be hidden in the ice as it melted under the heat of the lights. There was another reason too. The body had been arranged, quite deliberately, on the circle which marked the exact midpoint of the building, arms and legs outstretched to their limits in an angular fashion Falcone recognized, though he was unable to remember from what. The pose of the body-there was no other way to describe it-possessed meaning. It was, somehow, a cryptic message from the woman’s murderer and one they needed to try to understand as quickly as possible.
Carefully, Falcone wound his way through the clear area marked by tape that had been set up to allow safe access in and out of the building. Moretti followed in silence. They reached the mouth of the tent. Falcone stopped and gestured towards the body. Lupo and her deputy, Silvio Di Capua, were on their knees moving gently around it, poring over the dead woman with painstaking, obsessive deliberation. He had watched them get to work in the early hours of the morning. Teresa Lupo had ordered her people to erect the tent the moment she saw the scene, but it had proved a long and difficult job in the bitter cold of the Pantheon’s interior under a constant whirling downfall of snow. It was almost an hour before they could crawl beneath the covering to examine the ice funnel, slowly sweeping away the snowflakes with tiny brushes, revealing the horror that lay beneath, millimetre by millimetre.
Moretti looked at the naked woman, then fired a disgusted expression somewhere into the dark corners of the building. “Sex crime, Leo. As I said.”
“And the photographer?”
Moretti scowled. He didn’t like being put on the spot like this. “That’s what you’re supposed to find out.”
Falcone nodded. “We will.”
“Make damn sure you do. The last thing this city needs is something that scares off tourists.”
Falcone reached into his pocket and took out the woman’s passport. They’d found it in a bag in a corner of the building. It named her as Margaret Kearney, aged thirty-eight. The next-of-kin details weren’t filled in. Her driving licence had been issued in New York City six months before.
“We don’t actually know she was a tourist. All we have is a name.”
“This is going to be messy, isn’t it?” Moretti grumbled. “The Americans are asking questions already. They’ve got some resident FBI people up at the embassy who want to talk to you.”
“Of course,” Falcone murmured, trying to decode what Moretti had said. “I don’t understand. You’re saying these are FBI people who are resident here in Rome?”
Moretti emitted a dry laugh. “Well, isn’t that wonderful? Something you don’t know. Of course they’ve got FBI people here. Who the hell knows what they’ve got here? They’re Americans, aren’t they? They do what the hell they like.”
“What do I tell them?”
Moretti’s dark eyes twinkled with delight. “Welcome to the tightrope. You tell them just enough to keep them happy. And not a damn thing more. This is still Italy as far as I’m concerned. We police our own country, thank you. At least until someone tells me otherwise.”
Falcone glanced at Teresa Lupo. She’d broken off from the work in the tent to speak, in low and guarded tones, to Gianni Peroni, who was standing by the altar looking exhausted. Nic Costa hung around just out of earshot.
“I understand,” Falcone murmured.
“Good,” Moretti replied. “You didn’t say how the dinner went. I would have gone myself but, frankly, I don’t think they feel I’m sufficiently… interesting. At least they never talk to me with quite the enthusiasm they seem to summon up for you.”
“It slipped my mind. It was… fine.”
“Really?” the commissario sniffed. “That’s not what that slippery bastard Viale said when he called this morning. He doesn’t like hearing the word ”no,“ Leo. You’re either very brave or very foolish.”
TWO PEOPLE WERE WALKING into the building now, picking their way through the tape maze like professionals. A man and a woman who were complete strangers. He was about forty-five, thickset, with cropped grey hair, like that of a US marine, and a head that looked too small for his body. The woman was much younger, perhaps twenty-five, striking in a bright scarlet coat. They were walking into a crime scene as if they owned the place and Leo Falcone already possessed a gloomy, interior conviction about who they were.