The Estruscan Chimera

EPILOGUE

CRAWFORD LAKE IS DEAD. HE SPENT more money than most of us can even imagine on a fancy yacht, sailed it out into the Mediterranean, and on a clear day, when no one was looking and the sea was like glass, the sun reflected in it so bright it was almost painful, quietly slipped away.

There has been much speculation about why someone with all the advantages he had—wealth, intelligence, and a much brighter future than the rest of us can look forward to—could do such a thing.

I know he just got tired of sitting alone in the dark. I'm mad at him, though. He wouldn't let me give up. Why did he?

Cesar Rosati is gone, too. Smoke inhalation. Nicola Marzolini, Vittorio Palladini, and Alfred Mondragon have managed to have their sentences reduced by testifying against Rosati, who couldn't defend himself for obvious reasons, placing him at the scene of both murders, and by telling the authorities where the hydria had gone: a buyer in Hong Kong. Italy has initiated proceedings to try to get the chimera hydria back.

The Societa della Chimera has been disbanded. Lola and Salvatore seem to be having a good time scouring the countryside together looking for Lars Posena's tomb. Dottie has found a new man to bankroll her store. Antonio's Teresa has married someone else.

My little 1887 worker's cottage with its white picket fence and tiny garden looked so nice when I got home that I just stood out front and stared at it for a few minutes. The lights were on. Perhaps I thought, Alex, my friend and neighbor, had gone over to turn them on to greet me.

I opened the door. I could see there was a fire in the fireplace. Rob was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," I said. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too," he said. He looked tired, and discouraged, and older, somehow. "Did you have a good time?"

"Not really," I said. "Your job done?"

"Yes."

"I read about it in the newspaper on the plane," I said.

"Then you know?"

"Yes," I said. "You arrested a fellow officer in a sting operation. Drugs."

"I worked with that guy for fifteen years," Rob said. "We were even partners for a couple of them. When I finally figured out who it was, I felt as if I'd been kicked in the gut by a horse."

"That's too bad," I said.

"I'm thinking of quitting," he said. "I'm sure there's something else I could do."

"I'm sure there is," I said. "But you're an awfully good policeman."

"Maybe I could start up a security company, or something. I mean, would that be all right with you?"

I looked at him for a minute. "Whatever you want is okay with me. But I know what you need," I said, going up behind him and putting my arms around his neck and nuzzling his ear. "First," I said, "grappa, which, as it happens, I have in this duty-free bag." I opened the box, placed a glass in front of him, and poured.

"Second," I said. "Pasta. Not just any pasta, mind you. Pasta con aglio, olio, and peperoncini, garlic, oil, and hot peppers. I've been taught by an expert." I opened the kitchen cupboard and brought down the ingredients, then filled a large pot at the sink. "That should fortify you.

"And third," I said, walking over to the Indonesian armoire I use to house my stereo equipment, "Music. Verdi. Otello. Because whatever else there is to learn from it, it's about finding out the hard way whom to trust."