Colonial glass lanterns mounted atop stone pillars cast the only light on a seven-foot-high cedar gate that blocked the driveway and the entrance. It had to be an electric gate, because a gold-toned keypad on a gooseneck stem sat beside the cobblestone driveway. Mary tried to see over the gate, but rain and dense trees obscured her view. She rolled down her window, blinking against the rain, when suddenly the front gate started to open.

Mary slumped in the driver’s seat just as a black sedan glided from the gate and took a left turn down the road. She followed its red lights with a nervous gaze, and when it had driven out of view, she slid up in the seat. The cedar gates were closing. She only had a minute to make a decision. She wanted to see inside. She flung open the car door, grabbed her purse, and bolted into the rain. The gate was closing, narrowing her entrance to three feet, then two. Mary darted through the opening as the gate closed noiselessly behind her and she ran for the shelter of a huge, leafy oak tree and looked around.

A winding driveway slick with wet cobblestones and lined with low lamps curled to a huge stone mansion, four stories high and constructed entirely of fieldstones, their natural earth tones vivid with rainwater and illuminated by bright lights aimed at the house. How did Saracone come to afford such a place? What did he do for a living? How had he come so far? And the mansion was only part of the compound. Beyond the house along the driveway sat a large stone carriage house, and next to it, a barn converted to the most swanky four-car garage in history. In front of it were parked two black Mercedes sedans, the model favored by Eastern Bloc diplomats. Mary looked over the cars to a stone cottage, also of fieldstone, and to the cedar fence beyond that apparently enclosed a built-in pool.

Her gaze returned to the stone mansion and its massive front door, of dense mahogany with an ornately cut glass. Giovanni Saracone lived behind that door. If he were still alive, he’d be in his early eighties and was evidently wealthy. He would have survived a world war and maybe killed a man with his bare hands, alone in a Montana beet field.

If you can’t be brave, be determined. And you’ll end up in the same place.

She left the shadows of the oak tree and walked directly down the middle of the driveway toward the front door, with far more bravado than she felt. She reached the front step of a slate flagstone, too high-rent to be called a stoop. Tall white pillars on either side of the front door soared two stories high, supporting a white-painted porch that sheltered the entrance from the storm. Mary braced herself, pressed the lighted doorbell, and tried to remember that she was a cowgirl.

The door was opened by a young African-American woman wearing a fresh white nurse’s uniform embroidered with the slogan HomeCare, WeCare. Above the stitching glinted a fake-gold pin that read KEISHA. Keisha was a pretty twenty-something, with her dark hair close-cut and her lightly lipsticked mouth forming a puzzled frown. “Did somebody ring you in through the gate?” she asked.

“No, I was about to push the button for the intercom, but a car went out, so I just walked in.”

“You shouldn’ta done that.” Keisha took in Mary’s wet blazer and khakis with disapproval. “Are you selling somethin’?”

“No. I’m a friend of Mr. Saracone’s and I’m here to see him.”

“A friend?” Keisha repeated uncertainly, blinking against the rain spraying under the porch.

“Maybe if I could come in for a second, we wouldn’t both get wet.”

“If you’re Mr. Saracone’s friend, you know he’s very ill.” Keisha was still squinting against the rain, or maybe in suspicion. “He’s not taking visitors except for family, and certainly not tonight.”

“To tell the truth, I’m not really his friend.” Mary scrambled to cover, digging a business card from her purse and handing it to the nurse. “I’m really a lawyer, and I represent a man who’s a very old friend of Mr. Saracone’s. A man named Amadeo Brandolini. I really do need to see Mr. Saracone, about him.”

“I don’t know.” The nurse edged away from the door, but on impulse, Mary thrust her hand inside.

“I swear, Mr. Saracone would be angry with you if you sent me away. He might even fire you.” Mary was winging it, but the nurse stopped closing the door.

“You serious? I need this job.”

“I’m very serious.”

“What’s your client’s name?”

Mary repeated it. “Please, just show Mr. Saracone my card, and tell him I’m here. I promise, if you tell him that name, he’ll want to see me.”

“Well, wait here for a minute,” Keisha said, her voice softening. Her gaze lifted to the rainstorm. “Sorry I have to make you wait outside in this weather. I can’t let you in until I ask Mr. Saracone.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Mary waited while the front door closed and was locked. Not only was Saracone alive, she would be meeting him any minute. Mary had no sooner had the thought than her determination evaporated, replaced by good old-fashioned fear.

Still she managed not to run back to the car and made herself stay until the front door opened again.

Twenty-Four

Five minutes later, it wasn’t the nurse who opened the front door, but instead a beautiful woman about Mary’s age. She had glossy black hair that grazed her shoulders in a chic cut, dark almond-shaped eyes with no crow’s feet, and a body that strippers would kill for. She looked way too young to be Saracone’s wife, which had to mean she was Saracone’s wife.

“Hello, I’m Melania Saracone, Giovanni’s wife.” She pursed thin lips and extended her manicured hand in a confident, if not friendly, way. “Please come in.”

“Thanks.” Mary felt her hand gripped a little harder than necessary as Mrs. Saracone fairly pulled her inside the house and shut the door behind her.

Okay, I’m intimidated. It had been a stupid idea to come here without telling anyone, putting herself inside this house, alone and vulnerable. Her determination had vanished, evidently figuring she would get them both killed. She could only hope it was calling 911.

“Would you like a drink? Diet Coke, or water?” Mrs. Saracone asked, leading her over a thick Oriental carpet through a dimly lit entrance hall, with one of those pretentious staircases that curved around in a costly curl. Her hair bounced like a shampoo commercial and her head was cocked stiffly to the side, as if awaiting the answer.

“No, thanks.” Mary followed her into an immense living room lined with books that reached all the way to a vaulted ceiling, topped by a dramatically arched skylight. Plush couches and matching wing chairs clustered in three different areas – one near a stone fireplace, one on the right, and one on the left – but the furniture looked more stage-set than living room. Mrs. Saracone sat down in a navy velvet chair next to a mahogany end table and motioned Mary into the identical chair opposite her. “Thanks,” Mary said, sinking into the down cushion. “This is a lovely house, Mrs. Saracone.”

“You can call me Melania. So you’re the lawyer for a man named Amadeo Brandolini.” Melania crossed one long leg over the other and brushed down charcoal slacks that broke above pointy black velvet mules. She wore a pressed white shirt with darts that emphasized the curve of an amplified C cup, and her waist didn’t bulge at her belt when she sat down. It was easy to see she worked out, and Mary tried not to imagine how many lawyers she could bench-press.

“Yes, actually, I represent his estate.”

“Then your client died?”

“Yes, a long time ago. In 1942, by suicide.” Mary didn’t want to show her hand, at least not until her determination got off the cell phone and came back. All was forgiven. “It’s my understanding that your husband was with him when he died.”