Private Rome

Chapter 6

I woke early the following morning. The first fingers of dawn reached between the heavy drapes at the windows of my sixth-floor suite. I could hear faint sounds from the waking city, but neither sound nor light had troubled me. I’d been woken by disjointed dreams of the previous night’s events, the troubling memory of a dead man lying at my colleague’s feet. It had been a long time since I’ve been to church, but I’d been raised a Catholic. Despite drifting away from the faith and all the trouble and scandal the institution had faced in recent years, I still had a special respect for the men and women who devoted their lives to God. Whether one was devout or faithless, it was hard not to be moved by a strength of belief that drove people to seek a higher, more profound connection with the divine.

I couldn’t put my finger on why the Church had shrunk into the background of my own life. Maybe my wartime experiences as a pilot had exposed me to horrors that made me question why an omnipotent God was not more vengeful in the face of wrongdoing. Or perhaps I’d sinned so many times myself, killing in the name of necessity, that I was afraid of how I’d be received by the Almighty. Whatever the reason, my faith today felt far less real and immediate than it had as a child, but the sight of a dead priest had stirred it into life. Even someone as lapsed as I was knew it took a special level of evil to kill a man of the cloth.

After trying and failing to fall back to sleep, I rose, showered and put on the only suit I had brought with me; a light blue linen two-piece, which I wore with an open-collar white shirt. It was professional, but cool enough to cope with Rome’s scorching July heat.

I had planned to grab breakfast and head for Private’s empty new offices on Via Attilio Regolo, near Rome’s historic shopping district, but my phone rang as I was putting on my shoes. It was Alessandro Calla, our Rome lawyer.

“Alessandro,” I said. “You heard?”

“I have,” he replied. “And arranged for a criminal defense lawyer to interview Signor Ricci. Her name is Gianna Bianchi, and she is one of the best in Rome. She’s going to see him at eight... half an hour’s time... at police headquarters on the Via di San Vitale. I thought I should let you know in case you want to sit in.”

“Thank you,” I said, cradling the phone against my shoulder as I tied my laces. “I’m on my way.”

“Good luck,” Alessandro responded. “Let me know if I can be of further assistance.”

I took a cab from the rank in the square opposite the hotel, and the driver, a young Moroccan, drove me on a circuitous route that navigated the city’s one-way system, passing the Villa Borghese Park and the National Gallery, among other landmarks. It was impossible not to be captivated by the beauty and history of Rome. Everywhere I looked, the past reached out and called to me. From the ancient stones and statues that adorned the streets to the historic buildings and churches still in use, it was hard not to picture all the past lives spent in this awe-inspiring place. People caught up in intrigue and drama in what had once been the most powerful city on earth, or ordinary folk just struggling to get by — all of them had felt the warmth of the same sun that shone down on the city today, making its terracotta roofs, stucco and sandstone buildings glow beneath a cloudless blue sky.

We arrived at Rome police headquarters on Via di San Vitale at 7:50 a.m. I paid the driver and went inside. Constructed of monumental white blocks of stone in the classical style, the grand four-story building took up almost an entire city block. A large archway cut through the outer façade to reveal the imposing structure was built around a courtyard used for parking. I walked under the arch to find a vaulted reception area to my left. It felt cool, almost chilly, in the early-morning shade. The lobby was quiet, but as I made my way to the reception desk, a voice called out, “Mr. Morgan.”

I turned to see a woman in a light brown trouser suit rise from a chair in a waiting area off to one side. She had wild black hair barely restrained in a messy bun and couldn’t have been more than five foot four in her three-inch heels.

“I’m Gianna Bianchi,” she said, swinging a messenger bag over her shoulder as she approached.

I shook her hand. “Jack Morgan. Alessandro told me I’d find you here.”

“I’m just waiting to be taken inside,” she told me. “You were at the party, correct?”

I nodded. “I found Matteo and Father Brambilla, the victim.”

“I’ve read the first reports,” she said, tapping her bag.

“Matteo claims innocence.”

She smiled. “That’s good. It’s hard to convince a judge if even the client doesn’t believe he’s innocent.”

A reinforced security door beside the reception desk opened and a uniformed cop stepped through.

“Signora Bianchi,” he said, signaling to my companion.

She walked over and I followed; they spoke together in Italian. He looked me up and down, before standing back to allow us to pass.

We followed him along a maze of corridors until we reached a run of interview rooms. He took us to one at the very end and used a key card to unlock the door.

When we stepped inside the whitewashed room, I saw Matteo sitting opposite the police inspector who had brought order to the crime scene the previous night. Mia Esposito, dressed in a black skirt and red blouse, didn’t bother standing as we entered.

“Mr. Morgan shouldn’t be here,” she said to Gianna.

“Mr. Morgan is assisting me. If that’s a problem, we can go before a judge.”

The lawyer stared at Esposito, who caved and nodded at the uniformed officer. He stepped out and closed the door, and Gianna crossed the small room and took a seat next to Matteo. He looked drained, haunted even, his eyes wide and ringed by shadows that looked deep enough to be bruises. Shock and exhaustion had left his handsome face looking drawn. He was still in his tux, but instead of glamor, it added an air of desperation.

I leant against the wall and nodded to Matteo, who barely registered my presence.

“We will conduct the interview in Italian,” Esposito noted. “For the benefit of the court.”

Gianna nodded and the inspector pressed a button on a desktop device. She was about to begin her preamble when Matteo looked at me and interrupted her.

“Before we get started, I want to speak in English so Mr. Morgan can understand. I want him to know I’m innocent. I did not kill Father Brambilla.”

Maybe he could see doubt in my eyes.

“There is knowledge and then there is faith. Sometimes when all the evidence tells us something, faith compels us to a different truth. I know how it seems, but I did not shoot that man.”

“What happened then?” I asked, ignoring an irritated tut from Esposito.

Matteo hesitated. “I don’t know.” He paused again. “I understand how that must sound, but I did not kill Father Brambilla. He was my mentor once, and a friend.”

Matteo’s voice broke; he looked as though he might cry.

“I could never hurt him.”

“Faith is the preserve of the naïve,” Esposito said. “Those more experienced in life know that truth is a case of compiling facts and evidence. If you are finished with your little drama, perhaps we can begin in earnest now. Please explain to me if you can, Signor Ricci, how a man came to be dead at your feet, shot by a bullet from the gun you were holding.”

Matteo sagged back in his chair. After a few moments’ silence, he nodded.

Esposito bent closer to him and began the interview preamble in Italian.