The Sacred Cut

Natale

Teresa lupo stood at the kitchen window, working her way through the mountain of dishes Peroni had left in his wake. He’d now retreated to the living room with Nic and Emily, clutching a bottle of grappa, and begun to talk in that low, concerned way she’d come to recognize. Leo Falcone was outside with Laila, working to put a little life back into the disintegrating snowman before better weather came along and melted it into the hard earth.

Teresa had been astonished when Falcone accepted the invitation to Christmas lunch. She was a little surprised she’d gone along with the idea too, but the expression on Peroni’s face when Nic Costa floated the idea meant there really was no other option. Peroni wanted to cook a holiday meal. He wanted to sit down at a table with other people. With a kid, more than anything.

And Falcone… He was a lonely man. He had nothing else to do. So it made sense for him to be outside now, parading around the diminishing white figure, wondering where best to place an old, limp carrot. Laila, who’d been ferried to the farm from the social worker that morning and would be ferried back in the evening, watched with an equal amount of seriousness. The two of them were driving Teresa crazy.

“Lighten up, for God’s sake,” she muttered. Falcone drove her crazy a lot. She’d always known he was an intense, solitary man. But she’d never realized this was as much a puzzle to him as it was to everyone else. Watching him walk slowly around the snowman, carrot in hand, looking as if he were about to enter into the most important decision he’d faced in his entire life, made Teresa Lupo feel uncomfortably sympathetic towards a man she didn’t, in truth, much like.

Unable to contain herself any longer, she threw open the window and yelled, “The face, Leo. Try putting it on the face.”

Falcone gazed back at her in despair, sighed, then nodded at Laila.

“The carrot’s not the problem,” the girl said. “The face is.”

Teresa looked at the blasted thing. The face was wrong.

“Well, just do something,” she snapped.

“But…” Falcone protested.

She slammed the window shut, not wanting to hear any more or see it either. There were people on this planet for whom time was a stranger. People who took no notice of the passing years, never stopped once to add them up and work out the sums: what was now possible, what would soon disappear from your grasp once that hand ticked past midnight on another New Year’s Eve.

Peroni claimed he’d found the last turkey in town. She stared at its carcass, a bundle of fleshy bones that resembled a small, stripped dinosaur. God, they could eat. The girl in particular. Peroni’s cousin outside Verona, who’d offered to take Laila in, just for a few months to see if it could work, was going to have to buy a new freezer. Even Nic Costa had tried a tiny taste of the turkey, which Peroni had cooked to perfection, slathered in oil and garlic and rosemary. Costa eating meat. That was something she’d never thought she would see.

She turned back to the window again. The girl was remaking the face, shifting the stark gaze of the creature’s coal eyes straight at the house. Falcone was watching her, finger to his cheek, thinking. About more than a snowman too, Teresa guessed. There’d been a storm hanging over all of them since the events in the Pantheon two days before. The media hadn’t gone to town on the story beyond the plain details: that a killer had been apprehended by the state police. Then the headlines seemed to wane. The papers and the TV people liked stories with beginnings, middles and ends. Bill Kaspar didn’t really fit that profile, not without the blue file of SISDE documents, which Falcone had now taken into his care. And done what with? She half knew. She’d asked him straight out when they were alone together briefly and got that mute, secret stare in return. Falcone had presumably put them in a safe place known only to him, in case any of them needed insurance in the future. All the same, some kind of internal investigation was going on in the Questura at that very moment. Falcone knew a damn sight more about it than he’d let on over lunch. The same was probably happening round at the SISDE offices. And the Americans? She didn’t have the heart to ask Emily Deacon whether she still had a job or not. It didn’t seem right. She and Nic were, if not yet an item, sure to be one soon, Teresa thought. They had that glint in their eyes.

Great, she thought. Nic finally gets a girl and she lives in America, a different world, across a distant ocean. Probably jobless too, though with that beautiful blonde hair and a pretty, magnetic face that went from cool to angry to childlike in the space of a couple of seconds it wouldn’t take long. God, she thought. Can’t men pick them?

After all, Gianni Peroni had picked her and that made no sense at all.

“Who am I kidding?” she murmured, suddenly furious with herself. “I’m the catch of a lifetime.”

She watched Laila place the carrot in the centre of the snowman’s face, turn to Falcone and smile. Such an open, untainted smile, one she’d not managed to get out of the girl however hard she tried. One that, to her alarm, Falcone returned with just as much sudden, unbridled warmth. Then his phone bleated and the old Leo resurfaced. An urgent desire for a glass of grappa rose in Teresa. She walked into the living room, saw Gianni Peroni there, alone on the sofa, head back on a cushion, mouth open.

“Move over, you big lunk,” she grumbled, then shuffled down beside him and poured herself a big glass of the clear stuff.

Those smart, piggy eyes opened and looked at her. “Yes?”

“Yes what?”

“You look like you want to get something off your chest.”

“No, I don’t!”

He shrugged. She was going to have her say anyway and he knew it.

“I wish you were right, Gianni. I wish you could talk someone out of being ill. And Laila is ill, you know. All that stealing. It’s just a part of something else. Being sick. Not quite able to work out what’s real and what’s not.”

“I know.”

He was being infuriating. It was deliberate.

“This cousin of yours. They’re farmers or something? It’s not enough. You can’t just explain the situation and watch the child’s eyes light up listening and then suddenly she goes, ”Aahhh.“ ”

He thought about it. “This is true. But I think she’s a country girl, really. You can see the city harms her. A move might help. Just a step in the right direction. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s Christmas. Can’t we leave all the worrying to one side for a day?”

He was right. It was another of his infuriating habits. No one could cure Laila in a day. But getting her out of Rome, with its vicious round of traps waiting to ensnare even the most street-smart of kids, was surely a good idea.

“OK,” she conceded. “But will you kindly disagree with me when I want an argument? I hate punching thin air.”

She wanted to pummel her fists on his big chest. She wanted to take him home, throw him in her bed, ignore all the precautions and see what happened when you stopped thinking about the future for once.

“No,” Gianni Peroni replied and kissed her a couple of times on each cheek.

“What’s going to happen?” she demanded quietly.

“Why ask me?” He shrugged. “I’m the last person to know about anything around here.”

To her amazement, Peroni hadn’t sulked-not seriously-when he discovered what she, Nic and, to an extent, Falcone had cooked up between them to try to persuade Thornton Fielding to give himself away. Peroni was, she now understood very clearly, as straight a cop as anyone could find in Rome. The idea of trusting someone like Kaspar-even for what seemed to be the best of reasons-that there simply was no choice-was one he’d found deeply uncomfortable.

“I said I was sorry, Gianni. There really wasn’t time. Or an alternative.”

And also, she thought, you’re just too damn honest to get away with deceptions.

“I just felt awkward that you put your job on the line. Going into the embassy. Calling the Carabinieri, for God’s sake. I mean… That’s just downright rude!”

“Sorry,” she said meekly. “Won’t happen again, honest.” Then, more seriously, “So what happens to us?”

The shadow of a grimace flickered on his ugly face. “Between Leo, Nic and me we seem to have pissed off plenty of people. You should be OK, though. Leapman’s got bigger things to worry about. Besides, you’re a civilian. You can support me. That was a good meal, huh? Bet you didn’t know I could cook, too. I could have a meal waiting for you on the table when you come home. Be a househusband.”

That wasn’t funny. “Sure, sure! You can cook. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I’m not too good at being handsome. Or… talking from time to time.”

She put a hand to his cheek, lightly, because it was still bruised from the beating Kaspar had given him, and there were black scabs hardening over the marks he’d been carrying for years.

“You’ll do just fine,” she said. “I meant what’s going to happen about you and me, actually.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “You mean will I walk away once this is over? Will I run back to my wife? Or decide it’s just better being single after all?”

“That and a few other things.”

“As everyone seems to have been saying these past few days, it’s a new world, girl. Who the hell knows what will happen tomorrow?”

“Who the hell wants to know anymore?”

Peroni put his slab of a hand on the side of her face, tousled her hair with his fat fingers, then threw his arms around her and instigated a bone-breaking, bear-like hug.

“Season’s greetings, Teresa,” he whispered. “Let’s go home soon, huh? Laila gets picked up in an hour or so anyway.”

“I’ve got that spare bedroom. If you like, she could…”

He smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”

No, she thought. It was unnecessary. But she wanted to ask. She felt the need to please him, still, and there hadn’t been many men who’d prompted that urge in her.

“It’s a deal,” she said, and watched Leo Falcone come in through the back door, Laila behind him, the tall bony inspector looking pleased as punch.

He stood there, smirking.

“Leo…?” Peroni asked hesitantly.

The studio was a mess. Cobwebs hung down from the ceiling in thick, extended clumps. Canvases stood on easels, half-hidden by old sacking. There were suitcases on the floor, brimming with dust. Scarcely a soul had been in the room since his sister Giulia moved out to Milan almost five years before. The beauty of the place was obvious all the same. Floor-length French windows ran down the southern side of the house, allowing in so much light it could be dazzling in summer. For a painter, for anyone who dealt in the visual, Nic Costa thought, this would be the perfect home. Giulia even slept in this room sometimes, falling asleep on the little couch, covered in spatters of colour, exhausted.

Emily Deacon worked her way around each canvas, peeking under the coverings.

“She’s good.”

“I know. She’s also dedicated, which means she’s broke most of the time and chasing commissions from ad agencies in Milan the other half. The artist’s life.”

“That was one reason I studied architecture. The good old Deacon upbringing. Make sure you’ve got a career. Even if it’s one we’ll never let you pursue.”

That morning, when she had arrived at the house, he hadn’t asked her about the meeting she’d had at the embassy the day before. All she said was that she’d spent the whole of Christmas Eve being debriefed by a security team and had then been shunted into human resources. He knew what that meant. Disciplinary procedures. Or worse.

It was impossible to avoid the question forever.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

Her bright eyes locked on his face. “You mean do I quit before they fire me?”

“If it comes to that.”

“It already has, Nic. I’ve handed in my resignation. I’m done. I don’t even have to clear my desk. They’ll send the stuff to me. They hate me that much. Great, huh?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she laughed. “I’m delighted. I may not know exactly who or what I am but I’m damn sure I know what I’m not. That job was for someone else. Besides…”

A hint of inward anger crossed her face.

“Think about it,” she said with a shrug. “I just did what my dad did thirteen years ago. I got to the point where I wasn’t prepared to take any more of their bullshit and I snapped. I threw out all the rules. I acted as if rules didn’t matter. I knew better.”

“Emily…” He came close and grasped her shoulders lightly. She didn’t move away. “You did what was right. We all did.”

“I know that! But if I carry that badge I do what I’m supposed to. I don’t make the rules up just to suit me. To match my own personal hang-ups. That’s selfish, and they deserve someone better. Someone who’s more professional than me. More professional than Joel Leapman too. Even if I stayed I’d screw up again before long. It’s just not me. I have a renegade gene, Nic. Got it handed down to me. Should have known as much all along. And so have you. And Gianni. Maybe even Falcone, I think. How you get away with what you do amazes me.”

There was something in what she said. Costa recognized it, feared it a little too.

“Nic,” she asked, “would you really have tried to arrest them all? If you hadn’t managed to find out about Thornton Fielding? And Kaspar had simply walked in there?”

“Would he have walked in?” Costa had been asking himself that a lot.

“If he’d got that folder instead of Thornton Fielding? I think so. He was tired. He was sick of being broke and on the street. He was scared, too, of himself, and for a man like that I doubt there’s anything scarier. The fact he couldn’t control what he was doing anymore. That was the last roll of the dice. All the same”-she glanced at him-“the idea of you taking those guys on. You didn’t have the numbers. They had the authority.”

“Authority’s not the same as being right.”

“True,” she agreed. “And being right’s not the same as being the one who wins.”

Costa had avoided thinking about the alternative too much. The odds would have been stacked against them. Even so, Falcone had been adamant. Whatever the consequences, there would have been no way they would have allowed Leapman and Viale a free hand.

“So what happens to you guys?” she asked. “Are they throwing the book at you?”

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “Emily, I wish I’d known. That it was all some kind of game. That you had soda cans round your neck, not real bombs. You scared the life out of me, out of all of us.”

She waved a finger at him, an expression so Italian he had to remind himself she was a foreigner. “Oh no. I’m not taking flak on that. I guess you don’t do Gilbert and Sullivan in Italy. ”Corroborative detail intended to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.“ As long as you guys thought they were real bombs, your minds stayed focused. You didn’t go near the detail, trying to pick holes in it. This was a one-shot deal. I couldn’t take any risks.”

“We were running errands for the man we were trying to take.” He didn’t want to push it. He didn’t want to leave it unsaid either. “That was a little unusual.”

She wanted to clear the air too. “You were running errands for me too, Nic. I sent you running round to the Piazza Mattei, remember? Kaspar was just going along with my hunch that you’d find something there he couldn’t. Besides, do you think we could have won it on our own?”

He didn’t have a ready answer there.

“I know,” she went on. “You feel deceived. With some justification. I’m sorry. But I’d do the same thing again. Convincing you everything was for real was the only way. All anyone had to do was look at your face and they knew they had to go along with you. Besides, it was real. Just not in the way you all expected.”

He laughed a little. She looked relieved this wasn’t going to turn into an inquisition.

“Also,” she added, “Kaspar was going to use me one way or another. I had a choice. Be a reluctant hostage. Or go along with him, try to steer things a little and see where they led.”

“Legally…” He didn’t want to push the point. They could have picked her up themselves if they wanted. Wasting police time. Running a bomb hoax. Falcone had ruled the idea out immediately. Another officer could have thought differently.

“I don’t think anyone would dare throw the law at me,” she answered. “Or at any of us. That would be too embarrassing all round, surely. I’m sorry, Nic. I imagine you thought you knew me. But how could you? We only met a few days ago.”

“True.”

She lifted the lid on a box folder that stood on a table, the only thing in the room that didn’t seem covered in dust. It was new. Without asking, she lifted the lid and stared at the prints inside.

“What’s this?” she asked. “It’s recent.”

He stood by her and flicked through the professional-sized black-and-white photographs.

“I picked them up in the office when I went in yesterday. There’s a filing cabinet for photos in here somewhere. I wanted to keep them.”

“What are they?”

No one wanted Mauro Sandri’s last few rolls of film. Not his parents, who didn’t even want to see them, scared of the associations they had. Or forensic, who’d closed the case.

“This was the night it all began. The photographer we had with us. The one who died.”

“Oh.” She stopped on a single print. Costa hadn’t had time to go through them all. This one surprised him.

“I don’t remember him taking that one,” he said.

It was in the briefing room before they’d gone out that evening. Sandri must have taken it from the door. Costa was there, showing some report, probably on the weather, to Gianni Peroni. Falcone stood in the background, observing them. The photo was remarkable. Somehow Sandri had captured such life, such expression in their faces: Costa’s seriousness, the way it was received with a touch of jocularity by the grinning Peroni. And Leo Falcone peering at the pair of them, just the trace of a thin smile on his normally expressionless face.

“He must have been a good photographer,” Emily said. “To take a candid shot like that and you never even knew.”

What was it Mauro said that night in the deserted cafe? If you asked, people would just say no.

“It’s about stealing moments,” Costa reflected.

“Sorry?”

“That’s what Mauro said. About the kind of photography he did.”

She studied the picture, thinking. “Smart man. And you know what makes him extra smart?” Emily held the photo in front of him. “He’s just recording something there everyone else but you three sees. You’re a gang, really, aren’t you? A close one too, which is dangerous. If you were in the FBI and someone saw this they’d be breaking you three up tomorrow. Can I keep this?”

He picked up the roll of negatives. “I’ll get you a copy.”

“OK. That’s not to say there won’t be the opportunity, by the way,” she added.

“The opportunity for what?”

“For us to get to know each other. I’ve made a decision. I’m going to go back to college. Get my master’s degree. Here, in Rome. Why not?”

“To do what?”

“Finish learning how to draw buildings. Then learn how to create them. It’s called being an architect. It’s what I should have done all along.”

This was all so sudden. “When?”

“As soon as I can get in,” she said with a shrug. “There’s nothing keeping me in the States, really. I need the change, too. Now. I keep thinking about what happened. Not the details, the reasons. All those people breaking their backs over some stupid convictions. My dad and Thornton Fielding. Joel Leapman. They all thought-no, they knew-they were doing the right thing. And look where it got us. I’m sick of certainties, for a while anyway. I want to get a few doubts back in my life. Besides…”

She paused, trying to make sure this was clear to herself too, he thought.

“My dad’s dead and buried now,” she went on calmly. “He wasn’t before, and I just didn’t want to face that fact. I’m not proud of what I found out about him. But he was still my dad. There was still a part of him that always loved me. I’ve got this relationship with him right now. I-”

Her voice did falter then.

“Last night, I cried and cried and cried. I lay in bed in that soulless little apartment and let it all out. Just me, a very wet pillow, a resignation letter and some memories. Everything ended then, Nic. All this fake existence I’ve been trying to lead on someone else’s behalf. You know something?”

This puzzled her. The doubt, not something he was accustomed to seeing in her face, was obvious.

“In my head I kind of talked to him. I felt he understood. Nic, your dad’s dead: tell me, is that crazy?”

Emily was always astonishing him. She just came straight to the point, never minced words. He’d grown up in this farmhouse. He’d watched his father turn from youth to middle age, to a sick, frail, prematurely elderly cripple. He knew what she was talking about.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“All the things you never got round to when he was alive. About how you never appreciated the good times as much as you should have. How the bad always seemed worse than they really were. And how the time came when you weren’t a kid anymore. When you had to cut the cord, however painful that would be on both sides.”

Costa didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have conversations like this. Not with anyone.

“You didn’t answer me, Nic.”

“Did you feel better? After?”

She grinned. “After I talked to him? Much. And the really crazy thing is it felt as if he did too.”

He slipped Mauro’s photo back into the folder; the little photographer’s words rang in his ears.

“I know that feeling,” he said.

“My,” she murmured, “that was hard.”

“Where will you stay?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

“That’s the first on my list of doubts. I’ve no idea.”

Nic Costa was aware he was blushing and wondered how much it showed. “This is not… something you need answer quickly. It’s nothing more than a thought. No strings. Take it or leave it.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

“As you’ve noticed… I have this huge house. You can use the studio. Or use one of the bedrooms if you like. No strings. It’s up to you.”

She thought about it. “No strings. That means rent.”

He waved a nervous hand. “Of course. Rent. And there’s no rush. Just think about it.”

“OK.”

“And…” He was stuttering. His cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

She screwed up her face, looked into his eyes and asked, “Are you sure you’re Italian?”

“Just… no strings. No need for a quick decision. Tell me whenever you feel like it.”

“Nic!” Her voice bounced around the dusty room, echoing from the corners. “I have thought about it. I said OK. OK means yes. I would love to stay here for a while. Do a little dusting. See how everything works out. It would be a… pleasure.”

The blue eyes bore into him, amused, mischievous.

“Just one thing,” she added.

It took a little while to get the word out. “Yes?”

She walked up to him, spread the fingers of her hand across the base of his neck and reached round, gently stroking his nape, sending electric shivers up and down his spine.

“Can we please sleep together before I start paying rent? Because if it happened after I would find it very freaky indeed.”

“Purdah? Where the fu-”

Peroni’s eye caught Laila, who was looking shocked at the suddenness of his outburst.

“Where the hell is Purdah?” he demanded. “It’s in the north, isn’t it? They’re trying to get me to quit. They know I hate those miserable bastards up there.”

“Gianni…” Teresa Lupo stood opposite him, her arms folded, a look of tried patience on her face. “It’s not a place. It’s a, a, a…”

“A figure of speech,” Emily Deacon interjected.

“Quite,” Teresa agreed.

Peroni waved a big, angry arm at Leo Falcone. “So where’s this figure of speech when it’s at home? Will someone tell me that?”

Nic Costa didn’t like the expression Falcone was wearing. It was sly. Amused. And the inspector wasn’t saying a damn thing.

“Just a minute,” Nic said, pointing a finger at Falcone. “This is off duty. You’ve eaten my food. You’ve drunk my wine. Today, of all days, I have the right to call you Leo. Understood?”

Nothing but a frown on the long, intelligent face.

“So what’s going on?” Costa demanded.

Falcone took a deep breath. “As I was attempting to explain before the volcano exploded, there is news. I have spoken with the Questura. And others.”

He fell silent, pointed to a bottle on the coffee table, smiled with approval, motioned for the others to pick up the glasses he’d brought in from the kitchen.

“This is champagne,” Falcone announced. “Not prosecco, thank God. I had it in the boot of the car. Just in case.”

“We don’t want to talk about the wine, Leo,” Teresa Lupo growled, snatching a mouthful of liquid bubbles. “Facts, if you please.”

“Facts,” Falcone agreed. “The news is that Moretti will retire immediately. Filippo Viale the same. There will be no criminal prosecutions, no further investigations. The matter will drop, which is for the best. Kaspar will be tried in Italy, naturally, and plead guilty, which should diminish the publicity somewhat. And…”

He eyed Costa and Peroni. “And we three are going into purdah.”

“Will you stop saying that?” Peroni roared. “For how long?”

“A little while.”

Costa knew these games. “Is that a short little while or a long little while?”

Falcone considered this. “Probably nearer to long. We have to let things blow over a bit.”

“Shit!” Peroni had his eyes screwed shut and was chanting a little refrain that ran, “Please don’t make it in the north, please don’t make it in the north, please…”

Falcone listened, cool and detached, in silence.

“Where, Leo?” the big man bellowed, unable to contain himself any longer.

“ Venice,” Falcone answered, with no emotion whatsoever.

Nic Costa blinked. Emily had slipped her arm through his. She was coming to Rome. She was going to live under his roof. And he’d be on the other side of Italy, watching the grey lagoon ebb and flow, alone.

“I love Venice,” Emily said, and squeezed his arm. “It’s not so far…”

Teresa Lupo asked, “Am I going?”

“No,” Falcone replied, looking faintly shocked at the idea. “This is a police matter. What’s it to do with you?”

“Oh, nothing. Venice?” She was trying to remember something. “I’ve only been there once. Got drunk after a rugby match in Padua. I don’t recall a lot, to be honest. But…”

She looked at Laila. The poor kid didn’t know what was going on.

“ Venice isn’t far from Verona, Gianni. You can visit Laila as much as you want. I could come over too from time to time. If you like.”

She tousled the girl’s hair. Laila smiled back at her. A real smile. Teresa Lupo stifled an urge to hug her.

“I hate Venice,” Peroni moaned. “It’s cold and damp and horrible. The food stinks. The people are cheating, miserable good-for-nothings…”

Falcone looked at his watch. “We start a week from Monday. It would be best to avoid the Questura in the meantime. Take a vacation, you two. Enjoy yourselves.”

He was different somehow, Costa decided. For once, Leo Falcone seemed genuinely content, free of all those invisible burdens he was used to carrying around on his stiff shoulders. He was looking forward to the change. He needed it. Perhaps they all did.

“We did the right thing,” Falcone declared. He smiled at Emily. “Particularly you. If Nic hadn’t gone to the Piazza Mattei…”

“I was just guessing, Leo,” she replied. “Really. It was just a stab in the dark.”

Falcone looked dubious. “Really?”

She sighed. “It’s such a long time ago. Maybe it was just my memory playing tricks. I remember… sitting on that fountain, underneath the tortoises, eating an ice cream. It was summer. Very hot. And my dad had left me there to go and do some business in one of the houses. This happened more than once, I think. I never did see who he was visiting, but I understood something. It was someone he knew. Not a stranger.”

Emily glanced at Laila, who was bored by this conversation, engrossed instead in a teenage magazine Peroni had brought her.

“I remembered the name of the place. Because of the tortoises. I remembered being so happy I thought that world would never disappear.” Then, a little ruefully, “I was a child.”

Falcone nodded, acknowledging her point. “What you did was very brave. You risked everything.”

He looked at each of them. “All of you. I’m grateful.”

“Don’t hug me,” Peroni growled. “Don’t even think of it. Venice. Venice? What is happening to my life?”

“We’re taking a little detour,” Falcone said. “Let’s try to enjoy the ride. And now…”

He downed the champagne and glanced at his watch.

“I must be going. Ciao!”

Falcone moved so quickly. He had his coat back on and was about to leave before any of them could object, stopping only at the threshold as a final thought struck him.

“Oh,” he said, “one more thing.”

Peroni and Costa watched him with a mute foreboding.

“Uniforms,” Falcone said. “You will be needing them. Best get measured after the holiday. When you’ve lost some weight.”

Then Leo Falcone was through the door, with what, in another, might pass for a skip, leaving the growing storm behind him.