Private Rome

Chapter 22

I walked back to the Hassler, passing through a city in full pursuit of its night-time pleasures. The bars and restaurants were packed with people who had no idea of the darkness that stalked this world, or if they had any inkling kept up a strong pretense of ignorance — laughing, chatting, drinking and making merry. The smells of coffee and pastries had given way to the rich aroma of baking pizzas, roasting meats, alcohol, and the occasional plume of fruity vapor or cigarette smoke.

I hadn’t found any answers in the Garden of Secret Confession, but the priest had been right: I had been meditating, or at least musing, trying to feel my way to the truth. It now seemed almost certain Father Brambilla had been killed by Matteo, but though light on explanation, he was adamant he was innocent, which meant I had to find another plausible alternative. There were only two: Brambilla killed himself, or someone else had entered the room and been able to kill the priest without Matteo noticing then leave him holding the murder weapon. If that was the case, I was looking for a murderer who was also a magician.

I approached the Spanish Steps lost in thought, trying to puzzle my way through the disparate facts placed in my path thus far, when someone stepped from behind the corner of the building on Piazza di Spagna and grabbed me. I wheeled round, ready to fight, but saw Luna.

“I’ve been watching your hotel,” she said, nodding up the Spanish Steps toward the Hassler, beautifully lit against the night sky. “I was waiting for you to come back so we could talk.”

“Okay,” I replied. “We can go to the bar.”

“No,” she said. “Not your hotel. Somewhere else. This way.”

She pulled me along the cobbled square toward the Column of the Immaculate Conception, but before we reached it, took me right into Via Borgognona, a narrow street that was little more than an alleyway.

“Thank you for keeping my name out of things,” she said.

“I don’t understand why a police detective is so scared. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t,” she replied.

“We should be on the same side of the law, Inspector Colombo. Why won’t you trust me?” I pressed.

She didn’t answer.

“At least tell me whether the shooter was after you or me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, as we hurried past luxury clothes stores and cafés. “This way.”

She turned left onto Via Mario de’ Fiori, another narrow, claustrophobic street cutting through this ancient part of the city, and headed toward a bar called Il Pellicano, which had smoked-glass windows. Through the open doorway I saw a large, low-lit space with booths, long shelves behind the counter stocked with liquor from all over the world. Il Pellicano was crowded with locals and tourists, but Luna pushed through and managed to grab a booth from a group that was going.

“What do you want to drink?” I asked, but we didn’t get a moment to settle.

“We need to leave,” she said urgently, drawing my attention to three men who’d followed us in.

They looked out of place; rough brawlers, the kind of men who were friends with the devil.

“They must have been watching your hotel,” she said.

“Who are they?” I asked, sliding out of the booth.

“We need to go now,” Luna replied. “Run!”