A Season for the Dead

Twenty-Four

In the moonlight, Luca Rossi’s white face was miserable. The visitor he had brought along was refusing to come to the house. He wanted to meet Nic outside the farm, under the eye of the police team stationed there but out of earshot. Rossi explained this in a low, mournful voice as he and Nic walked.

“You should be asking yourself what a man like this is doing here,”

Rossi said firmly. “Why don’t they leave us alone?”

“What harm does it do to talk?” Nic asked.

Rossi grimaced as if to say: You never learn. The harm is you just don’t know who you’re talking to.

Hanrahan stood beyond the almond tree by the rickety wall that formed the perimeter of what once was a sheep field. He was half illuminated by the headlights of a black Mercedes of city license parked some twenty yards away. Costa ran the flashlight over the license plate and recognized it as one of the Vatican’s staff cars, familiar symbols of authority. An anonymous driver sat behind the wheel, the light of the radio reflecting on his wan face. Hanrahan wore a dark overcoat in spite of the heat and was smoking a cigar. The stocky Irishman stared at the cops around him until they dispersed, Rossi with them. Costa walked over and took the hand that was offered.

“Nice place,” Hanrahan commented. “All yours one day, I guess. A big house for a cop.”

“What do you want?”

“A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss. I took risks sending you that security tape, Nic. There are people who’d be less than pleased if they knew what I’d done.”

“Thanks,” he replied curtly. “Is that good enough? But you sent it too late. We had another body by then. We knew Stefano Rinaldi wasn’t the one.”

Hanrahan shrugged. “I was just offering a little something. I wasn’t to know what would happen in the meantime.” He pulled out a pack of cigars, took out a half-smoked stub, and offered him one.

Costa shook his head.

“Clean-living boy,” the Irishman said cheerfully. “That’s what they all say about you. And now you’ve got that woman living in your house. How’s that going? I saw her on TV. She’s an attractive piece of work. Quite a private life too. I saw that trick you played, pretending there was something special between the two of you. Do you really think anyone would fall for that? With all these cops around?”

“Who knows?” Costa didn’t like Hanrahan. Talking to him was like juggling with eels.

“Perhaps you could take a shine to her. Anyone could, I imagine. Though I can’t help wondering what would make an intelligent, attractive woman behave like that. I’m a single man by choice. Young people. It’s just laziness. All these empty lives. Why does it happen?”

Costa waved the stinking cigar smoke out of his face. “I’m asking one more time before I go back in. What do you want?”

Hanrahan frowned. “You don’t like small talk, do you? It’s a shame. You’ll never make a diplomat. It’s important to learn how to deal with people. Going straight to the point is not necessarily the best way, Nic. You have to learn about nuances. You have to be patient.”

Costa looked at his watch, then glanced back at the house. Hanrahan waited, knowing he wouldn’t walk away. He said, “I gave you something. It was a gift. The next one doesn’t come for free.”

“The next one being what?”

Hanrahan threw his cigar on the ground and stubbed it out with his toe. “A name. Maybe the name you’re looking for.”

Costa blinked back the fury rising in him. “Let me make sure I understand,” he said slowly. “This man has killed four people and you know who he is? You think you can bargain for that? I could arrest you right now for withholding information and throw you in jail until you talk. I could tell those reporters around the corner and let them sweat your ass off.”

“But why would you do that?” Hanrahan asked, bemused. “I wouldn’t say anything. To you. Or to the press. Where’s the gain for any of us? And besides, it’s just a name. I don’t know if it’s useful or not. I just think it would be… productive if you talked to him.”

“Jesus, Hanrahan. What if someone else is killed?”

“It could be the wrong man. Who’s to know?”

“You make me sick. Haggling over something like this.”

“You’re so young. I thought I was doing the right thing going to you, not to Falcone. Perhaps I made a mistake.”

“I can get Falcone here in ten minutes if that’s what you want.”

The Irishman scowled. “No. I don’t think so. You haven’t even asked the obvious question. What’s the point?”

Costa gripped the Irishman’s dark coat in his right hand and pulled the man to him. “I asked the question. It was the first thing I said. ‘What do you want?’ Remember?"

Hanrahan released himself from Costa’s fist and raised a conciliatory hand. “Apologies. I forgot. You don’t do small talk. Let’s get straight to the point, then. There’s a man in the Vatican who needs his freedom, and a particular kind of freedom at that. I require you to look the other way when I ask. Nothing more.”

“Denney? You’re not serious. You think you can trade for that?”

Hanrahan looked surprised. “You can trade for anything.”

“A cardinal of the Vatican? You don’t need us. You can let Denney go yourself. There’s a helipad behind those walls, isn’t there? Get him out that way. Don’t waste my time with this.”

“Nic.” Hanrahan looked disappointed. “If it were that easy don’t you think it would be done by now? Even if the Cardinal were predisposed to leave like that, and he isn’t, we can’t have it look as if the Vatican approved his departure. There are too many… strings attached. All he would require is discreet free passage to the airport, say. We could organize a private plane there. You’d just turn a blind eye for fifty minutes, no more.”

“Are you asking for this on his behalf? Did Denney send you here?”

“Not exactly. His life’s going through a little turmoil too right now. People he thought were on his side are starting to desert him. The Cardinal’s an old man. Confused. A little scared. Don’t believe everything you’ve heard about him. He was a good priest once. You should know what the press are like. Do you think every word they wrote about your own father was true?”

Costa looked back at the farmhouse again. “My father isn’t a crook. From what I hear, Denney is.”

“So you know he’s guilty? You’re judge and jury in this too?”

“No. I’m a cop. I hand him over to people who make that decision.”

Hanrahan laughed. “And you the Italian? Here, where nothing’s ever black and white. Can you hear yourself talking?”

“I can. What if Denney has something to do with these murders? Maybe I’m letting go of a material witness. Or worse, someone who’s involved.”

Hanrahan’s bluff manner vanished. “Nic, I swear to you. The Cardinal has nothing to do with this. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I’m just trying to grease a few wheels for all of us. You with your problem, me with mine.”

Kill two birds with one stone. The Irishman was so like Falcone. Costa tried to discern some unease on Hanrahan’s rugged face and failed. “So Denney doesn’t know Sara Farnese?”

“Why the hell should he?” Hanrahan answered, shrugging his stocky shoulders. “You mean the call that old boyfriend of hers made? Let me tell you. There are forty people working off that same switchboard in the Vatican for lots of different officials. So someone answered 'Denney’s office’ by mistake. You ring again and you could get mine. It doesn’t make him part of this any more than it does me or the other people who get their messages taken that way.

But I’ve been looking at some of those we’ve had working there. And maybe—I don’t promise this—but maybe there’s something there for you. Nothing to lay at Michael Denney’s door. Just a name, that’s all. Maybe there’s a little interesting history. But it doesn’t come for free, my boy. I don’t have to lift one damn finger to help you. Remember that.“

Nic Costa took a few steps away from him and looked down the dirt track. The other cops stood smoking beneath the old carob tree that marked the farm’s boundary, looking deeply bored. It was insane to think they could lure out a killer like this. Falcone was clutching at straws.

“I’m not convinced,” he told Hanrahan.

“To hell with it then. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Fix a meeting. Me and Denney. Inside the Vatican, naturally.”

“Oh! Is that all?”

“That’s all for now,” Costa said, and turned to go.

“Hey.” He felt a powerful hand on his arm. “You really want me to book an appointment between some junior cop and a cardinal of the Catholic Church, a man you people can’t wait to throw in jail? How do you think I’m going to sell that to him?”

“Tell him I want to talk about religion,” Costa answered. “Tell him I’m thinking of converting.” Then he walked back to the farm without waiting for Hanrahan’s answer.

She was sitting by the fireplace, next to the old man, who was asleep in his wheelchair. Sara put a finger to her lips and motioned to Nic to come forward.

“You were gone a long time,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“Was it worthwhile?”

“Possibly. I can’t talk about it, Sara.”

She frowned, disappointed. “I understand. I gave him the tablets he asked for. He was very animated for a while. And then…”

“Thanks for being so kind to him. He can be quite a handful at times.” He meant that. She had gone out of her way to amuse the old man, and in doing so revealed something about herself too.

“It was a pleasure. I mean that. Nic…” Somehow his father had relaxed her, given her some perspective. She seemed a different woman, he thought. “He loves you deeply. He’s worried about you. About how you’ll cope.”

“He’s worried about me?”

“Of course. Why would he worry about himself? He knows what’s going to happen. He accepts it.”

She was right. Sometimes he allowed himself to be led into blind alleys. “'I met a man with seven wives…'”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

In the low yellow light of the farm, dressed simply, unaffected by events outside, as if this place were a sanctuary, she seemed extraordinarily beautiful. He was grateful for her presence. But this was all a mistake. The killer would never come here, not with so many cops outside. And now he would be sleeping a few steps away from her tonight. Already he was wondering what she looked like in bed, how it would feel to touch her skin.

“Distractions,” Nic Costa said by way of explanation.

“Everywhere.”

She shook her head, not understanding. “Good night,” she said, and, before he could move, kissed him gently on the cheek.

He watched her go up the stairs, then, for the first time in many years, walked into the kitchen, took down the aging bottle of grappa that sat there and poured himself a tumbler of the thick, colorless liquid.