"C'mon, man, there must be a way around!" Lewis banged the steering wheel in utter frustration. He and Hathaway were stuck behind what seemed like the thousandth tailback on the road from Catania to the south, more waiting, more delay, as they paid the price for the insanity that was Italian traffic.
Hathaway let his temper get away. He waved the map in Lewis's face. "THIS IS THE ONLY BLOODY ROAD, OKAY?!"
They stared at each other for a moment, then Lewis exhaled through his nose. "Imagine living here and putting up with this, every day."
James recognized an apology when it came, even masked this way, as it often was from Lewis. The frustrations of the day had simply compounded themselves, and this was the ultimate reminder that they were now operating on "Italian time."
"Sorry, Sir." He paused long enough to light another cigarette. Lewis didn't mind him smoking in the car, which made everything easier for everyone. After a long inhale, he studied the glow at the end of the fag.
"Helluva day, wasn't it?"
Lewis huffed an exhale, companionable now, in their mutual suffering. "All this time spent, and what do we have? Nothing! What's that in Italian?"
"Niente."
"Must be their bloody favorite word."
It was somewhere after one in the morning. How there could be so many cars out on the road at such an ungodly hour, Lewis had no idea. Moreover, they were returning to Vigàta almost completely empty-handed: they'd acquired two of the three required signatures. The person they apparently needed to see to get that last line signed wasn't there, wouldn't be in until tomorrow afternoon, perhaps . . .
And so, they had made little progress on the actual transfer of Jack Cornish to their custody, and had spent more time on the road than anywhere else.
They eventually reached the Vigàta hotel at close to three in the morning. Lewis was exhausted, but he looked forward to relaxing in Laura's arms. He quietly entered the dark hotel room, shed the accoutrements of the day, shrugged out of his clothes and slithered into bed.
But it was an empty bed he slithered into. There was no Laura, no warmth, no companionship. Surprised, worried, and—well, hurt, if he was honest with himself—by her absence, he rang her phone as soon as he realized she wasn't there to make his fatigue go away.
Laura's phone almost went to voice mail, but she caught it just in time. She checked the screen.
"Robbie?" Her voice was rich with sleep.
"Laura! Hi . . . erm, I mean . . . we're back at the hotel and I'm wondering where you are? It's three in the morning . . ." Lewis's voice comprised that mix known so well to anyone who has been the parent of a teenager: a blend of relief at making contact, annoyance at not being kept informed, and worry about what has happened in one's absence.
She wasn't yet fully awake, and she struggled to gain her bearings.
"I'm . . . at your new friend's house, Salvo, he . . ." She sighed, remembering all that transpired in the last eight or nine hours. "It's a lot to explain over the phone. There have been some new developments."
Next to her, Salvo sat up and tried to gather what was happening. They had fallen soundly asleep together on the sofa, essentially in each other's arms, and certainly in a position indicating a level of comfort Robbie might not be too happy with if he could see it, although it was all completely innocent. Salvo nudged his chin toward Laura, questioning. She shook her head. Not now.
"What happened with Jack?" She managed to sound very businesslike in her interest.
Robbie managed to remove most of the annoyance from his voice. "We got some of the paperwork done. That's a big step, apparently. But we need to get one more signature to make the transfer actually happen. Then they will move him either tomorrow or the day after. My understanding is, given the 'Italian time' factor, we're doing great so far. It's pretty frustrating."
Then his timbre changed as he focused on a more personal level.
"So, Laura, you're spending the night in . . . Salvo's flat?"
She knew he was right to ask what on earth she was doing there, and it made her defensive.
"It's not a flat, it's his house; he owns the whole thing, right?" Then she realized how this would sound to Robbie. She knew he could hear her inhale and exhale. "I'm sorry, Robbie, it's just, so much has happened . . ." she glanced at Salvo and inaudibly was given permission . . . "Why don't you come here first thing, so we can explain it all. There's been a bit of a complication, someone we have to take care of." She knew that by posing the recent events as being related to the case, Lewis's mind would be less likely to stray to personal angles, to what she might be thinking in her heart.
"Yeah, okay, we'll be there. First thing." Robbie growled the last into the phone, pitched the instrument into a chair, and flung himself onto the bed for a few hours' sleep, if it would come. He refused himself the wish to wallow in speculation about what Laura was doing at the moment, and with whom.
After Lewis rang off, Laura found relaxation in the sublime neck-and-shoulder massage Salvo offered her as recompense for having to sleep halfway sitting up on the sofa. She recognized that, by appearances, she was walking a fine line. But she also knew he was unquestionably harmless to her, and he made her feel so very, very good. She hadn't slept that well in years. Even if it was on a sofa.
The three unlikely companions were sipping coffee in silence on the commissario's terrace overlooking the beach when the doorbell rang. Salvo had asked Fahrid a few questions, but the language barrier meant they had to stick to basic topics; neither man could express or understand subtleties in English, which was their only way to communicate. Salvo had tried French, but Fahrid was no better at that than English. He had closed up at Salvo's questions, and moved closer to Laura as though seeking protection.
Salvo leaped to attend to the door, dabbing his lips with his napkin and tossing it on his chair. He opened it for the two English policemen and instinctively paused a moment before letting them inside his home, his refuge.
Lewis sized him up: despite having had a short night, Salvo was clear-eyed and sharply dressed in what was an expensive-looking, well-fitted suit. Salvo noticed that Lewis's nostrils flared, and he was aware Lewis was giving him a thorough sniff test. He admired the Englishman's thoroughness. He himself was very sensitive to odors; most detectives overlooked this important source of information. He had to smile when he realized he was being checked to see if he bore any scent of recent sexual activity. He reached out and touched Lewis on the arm. "Come. Laura . . . here." He waved toward the sun-drenched terrace, and the three men walked through to it. While Laura introduced Fahrid, Salvo pulled two more chairs from somewhere, and two more of the small coffee cups.
After greeting Laura with a quick kiss, Lewis fixed his eyes on Salvo's. "Right. What are these new developments, then?"
Salvo smiled, encouraging trust. He looked at Hathaway to translate, but he did pretty well on his own. "The document I sign . . . I see?"
Lewis proffered the transfer papers. "This?"
Salvo looked them over. "Sì, questo. Grazie." He folded them and tucked them away into the inner pocket of his own jacket.
A puzzled scowl creased Robbie's forehead. Without taking his eyes off Salvo's, he said in a low voice, "Sergeant, find out what the hell just happened here."
Hathaway asked a few questions, and Salvo answered. Like Lewis, he did not shift his focus. Even though Hathaway was asking the questions, both senior officers understood that the conversation was between the two of them.
"Sir, he says Fahrid is an important eyewitness in the human trafficking case against Jack Cornish. According to him, things are now very different from yesterday, and he is no longer willing to extradite Cornish without further consideration."
Robbie took a moment to absorb what had occurred. The Sicilian had essentially rescinded his approval of Jack's transfer. He hissed. "You son of a—"
Hathaway leaned in and cleared his throat to be certain Lewis realized he was about to dutifully translate that last comment.
"That's enough, James, thank you. I think the commissario understands my English just fine."
Hathaway helped Laura clear away the coffee and brioche remains, happy for an excuse to avoid the tension on the terrace. When they were in the kitchen, he turned to her, making sure of their mutual eye contact before continuing.
"You seem to understand our Sicilian friend pretty well. Do you think he is going to insist on keeping Cornish here, now that he actually has a witness?"
Laura took in a deep breath. "James, I met the man less than twenty-four hours ago. But I am certain he is as right-minded as you and Robbie. In my opinion, he will put up as big a fight as he must to satisfy his superiors that he did everything he could, and then will let you have him. Fahrid's only one witness, that's pretty weak. And the charges would be pretty insubstantial compared to yours. He has an innate sense of justice—you know what I mean. It's what I find attractive in you and Robbie."
Hathaway cocked his head. "So . . . Detective Salvo has the same features you find attractive in Lewis. This is not a problem?"
He thought she might get defensive. But instead, she laughed. "James, think about it. Yes, he has those 'same features,' as you call it. What would Robbie do, if tonight he had to deal with an important witness whose testimony he could only discern with the help of a woman who found him attractive? Should I have any concern that Robbie would dally with this woman, and betray our relationship?" She got the reaction she expected. "Exactly. Salvo is the same." She snorted a little. "You spend an hour or so with him, you'll understand what I mean. He's good, James. He's just. Does the right thing, despite the rules." She allowed herself a smug smile. "Like our Robbie."
They were lingering yet on the sunny terrace when Salvo's phone rang; he excused himself to answer it, and even though the handset was right there and he didn't have to leave the table, he stood and strode to the farthest corner. Lewis turned slightly, focusing his ears on the Sicilian.
The commissario listened only a moment before snapping an order, mentioning Fazio. Then: "Fazio, cos'è successo?" Hathaway's ears perked at that: Fazio, what happened?
Salvo didn't ask very many other questions. When he clicked off, he turned and fixed his gaze on Lewis. He chuffed out in a brusque exhale.
"Cornish make run. You, me, tutti—" his wave encompassed the whole company and then he swooped his hands toward the door "—'diamo subito!"
They fairly flew to headquarters at Vigàta, Salvo's driving flirting with the laws of physics. At the station, he hustled them into his office, where Fazio was already waiting. The younger man gave a breathtakingly rapid explanation to his superior, which Hathaway struggled to catch enough of to make sense. At the end, Salvo barked an expletive and banged the top of his desk with both hands, furious. He whirled in search of something to do, something to throw, someone to strangle. But eventually, he stopped, resigned and worn down. They were all helpless to do anything but wait.
Hathaway pulled Fazio aside for a bit of clarification, then he turned to Lewis.
"He's gone. Escaped somehow, during the night. They have a helicopter out, looks like he nicked a high-speed boat and is headed for open water. His keepers apparently didn't notice him gone until they got a call from the Coast Guard, who had managed to identify him. Bloody Italian coppers, I'm not sure there's a one that isn't either incompetent or on the mafia payroll . . ."
Laura scowled at him, and he rolled his eyes. "Present company excepted, of course."
Hathaway noticed Fazio studying Fahrid, and he moved to introduce the two. But Salvo pushed himself between them, arching his neck as a means of waving James away. The two Sicilians put their heads together, and Salvo gave Fazio a brief recap—so brief that Hathaway caught it all.
Lewis touched him on the arm. "What's this about?"
Hathaway scowled inwardly, convincing himself he heard correctly. "Salvo has told Fazio that Fahrid isn't here, that he doesn't exist. Why would he do that?"
Lewis had seen the look that passed between the two Sicilians. "I think, but I could well be mistaken—" he checked Hathaway's eyes to be sure he understood the tenuousness of the inspector's opinion "—that he means to keep Fahrid under wraps. I don't think he's ready to commit himself to taking our case away from us. If his superiors don't find out he has an actual witness, he won't catch hell for letting Cornish be extradited."
The younger man's brow furrowed deeply. "He's favoring us? Over an in-house conviction?"
"Our case is stronger and the offenses more grave, in my opinion. More people died in that shipwreck, but from what I've gathered, Jack didn't have much say in the conditions. He simply arranged the price of passage. The masterminds for his operation have to be found elsewhere. "
"Elsewhere . . . ?" James worked it out. "Oh – mafia, again. Jack is merely their puppet?"
Lewis gave him a look that was a bit amused, a bit patronizing. "Or else they're his. Which d'you think?"
Hathaway's half-smile conceded that it was an obvious answer. But he thought on it some more. "But, Sir, isn't there also the chance that Salvo simply doesn't want to draw the mafia's attention to the fact that there is a witness? Or maybe he means to make Fahrid disappear so there isn't a case." Hathaway locked his eyes on Lewis's: "We don't have any way of knowing how clean this commissario may be. He could be up to his ears in mafia—" he swallowed the word that leaped to his lips, and substituted "merda."
Lewis inhaled deeply. Hathaway had a point. But it ran against his gut feeling. He had picked up on something, something – no more than a twinge, a hunch, a twinkle – that he and his Italian counterpart were cut from the same cloth when it came to scruples. Not that he couldn't be wrong about that, he'd once thought he and Jack Cornish were cut from the same cloth. He noticed Salvo watching them converse, and without thinking, Lewis winked at him. The Sicilian was at first a little taken aback, but then he understood. And he gave the slightest hint of a smile that was meant only for Lewis. But whether this meant he, too, had confidence in his counterpart or he was simply amused that Lewis would trust him, the Geordie had no way of knowing.
They stewed around the station for some time longer, the Sicilian inspector becoming more and more peevish and short tempered. Lewis was shocked that at one point he actually threw an ash tray at the desk officer when the latter banged into the office with something that turned out to be not news at all. It missed him, and that looked to be intentional, but still, it made its point, and the Englishmen realized this was not a man who hid his emotions. Salvo would be calmed, however, whenever Laura intervened, and Hathaway noted with amusement how the commissario's mood seemed inversely related to Lewis's, depending on the proximity of Laura.
Fazio sidled up to James, touching him on the arm. "Scusi . . . vuoi una sigaretta?" He mimed smoking a cigarette.
They slipped outdoors to where a few others were standing about, indulging in their habit.
Hathaway held out his packet of cigarettes, offering one.
Fazio's answer was as clear as his need to connect with his Oxford counterpart. "No, grazie. Ma . . . ho bisogno di parlare con te." I need to talk with you.
"Okay. Shoot." James lit up.
Between them, with Hathaway's half-done Italian and Fazio's half-done English, they managed a conversation.
Fazio conceded that Salvo could be a real bear, and Hathaway allowed that Lewis more than once resembled a mule. Hathaway knew that he and Fazio were playing roles here; they were representing their superior officers, but in a setting where they didn't have to maintain turf boundaries.
Their conversation, in somewhat broken Italian, followed essentially this track:
"The commissario needs to feel he can trust your inspector."
"Your boss – he's a good man?" Hathaway drew on his cigarette as though disinterested in the answer.
"Good? He's the best . . . . But sometimes . . . ."
"He pushes the line too much?"
Fazio snorted. "Yeah. Both with his subordinates and with his superiors. He doesn't understand that not everyone is always focused on justice as a result."
Hathaway shared the chuckle. "Yeah, mine, too." Then he allowed himself a full inhale and exhale before continuing. "And if justice prevails, what is the result of our two cases?"
"You mean real, cosmic justice? Jack Cornish in Hell would be the result."
Hathaway couldn't resist a smile. "Hey, do they really make every schoolkid read The Inferno?"
Fazio shrugged. "I know I had to . . . Yeah, maybe." He and James watched the passing traffic a while. Then Fazio took in a big breath. "It's just a hunch, but I think the commissario wants to let you have Cornish. But even if he does, he will first want to be sure you are honorable men." He held his hand up quickly to stop the expected objection to this anachronism. "He hasn't decided yet, as far as I can tell. And we have to keep Fahrid safe whether we use him to go ahead with our case or not."
"'Safe'—from the mafia?"
The Sicilian was clearly more accustomed to dealing with organized crime than they were in Oxford, and he nodded matter-of-factly. "Not only is Fahrid in danger if he is found before we're ready but whoever let him slip through the net is likely to eventually wash up on one of our beaches. With La Cosa Nostra, when you're paid to clean up a mess, you'd better make sure it's done right."
James shot him a sudden look. "Cosa Nostra? Is that what operates here?"
Fazio did an instinctive scan of the vicinity before continuing. "There are some smaller organizations, but in this case, our information is that Cornish paid La Cosa Nostra for the work." He noticed Hathaway's grim expression, and faced him fully, taking hold of both of James's upper arms. "Why?"
The taller man's nostrils flared as he came to grips with this new information, and with everything it implied. "In Croatia, his operations were funded by the 'Ndrangheta." A rival mafia, known for its ruthless enforcement techniques.
This drew a gasped Merda! from Fazio. "If the commissario finds out about this . . . . The 'Famiglia Montalbano' they're also called, did you know that? Salvo gets a lot of grief about that from people who don't know him."
"Does it matter, as far as our negotiations over Cornish?" When there was no ready answer, James looked at his companion and saw that Fazio had gone pale. "Fazio?"
His already dark eyes were all black. "It'll be war. That bastard Cornish has started us a mafia war in Vigàta. If the 'Ndragheta find out their man Cornish is in trouble because La Cosa Nostra employed sloppy clean-up efforts . . . And Cornish is a dead man for paying off the wrong people. He'd better hope the Carabinieri get to him before his mafia buddies. They won't hesitate to kill him. Gotta keep the ranks in order."
Hathaway snorted and smiled wryly. "Do you get overtime here?"
Fazio rolled his eyes, but there was a dark humor in them. He sighed. "Shit." This time he said it in English. Then, "Well, I'd better go tell the boss."
Hathaway finished his cigarette and ground it out and checked to see if Fazio had collected himself sufficiently: "Sei pronto?" Ready?
The answer was resigned: "Sì, sì, sono pronto."
When they entered the commissario's office, they both immediately understood that things had not been as collegial there. Lewis, Laura, and Fahrid huddled near one wall, while Salvo sat at his desk, glowering. It was as though his foul temper took up its own space, occupying a large part of the office and preventing anyone from nearing him.
Fazio, who had dealt with this mood countless times in the past, approached slowly and cautiously, but steadily. "Commissario?"
A black eyebrow cocked in his direction.
The younger man spoke rapidly in quiet, calming tones. Something he said definitely caught his boss's interest. At first, Hathaway thought there would be an explosion. But then his ears picked up a word—"pranzo"—and he saw the corner of Salvo's mouth twitch upward.
Lewis leaned in. "What's he saying to him? Did you two reach some kind of agreement out there?"
"No, Sir." Hathaway cracked a puzzled smile. "Fazio's telling him we should all go to lunch."
It was obvious the junior officer knew what he was doing. As though a fresh breeze had entered and cleared smoke from the room, the snarl on Salvo's lips—and its accompanying attitude—had completely dissipated. He stood and with a polite smile and made what was, as Hathaway translated, indeed an invitation to lunch, seeing as how there was nothing they could do while they waited for news of Cornish's pending capture.
They dressed Fahrid up in borrowed clothes, put a hat and sunglasses on him, and headed out of the station, led by Salvo. As he passed the desk officer's station, he banged on the glass and roared an order at the hapless man inside. Hathaway glanced curiously at Fazio, who leaned over with explanation in Italian.
"If there's any news, Catarella is to interrupt our lunch. Normally, that would not be allowed."
"Is he always so sharp with that man?"
Fazio looked surprised that anyone would think it unusual. "Oh, sure, Catarella's used to that. Doesn't bother him. You have to make things very clear to Catarella, and even then he gets it wrong."
They arrived at a small place called Enzo a Mare, and it was immediately apparent that the commissario was well known there and treated like a benefactor. The staff all greeted him by name, and the owner personally came to identify the specials. It all went by a bit too fast for Hathaway, but he was looking forward to this experience, genuine Sicilian cuisine. He was learning by now that, for Salvo, eating was not something one did for mere survival. It was practically a religion in itself.
Lewis was a bit more hesitant about this lunch. "Did he just order for us all? What are we going to be eating? Horse, again?"
Laura squeezed his hand, sensing his trepidation. "Don't worry, Robbie, it will be fine. I'm sure everything will be delicious."
Lewis's tastes had expanded greatly since his trip to Italy with Morse, when he had turned up his nose at a selection of some of the finest cured meats in the world. And when the appetizer came, little cubes of something in a wee sort of tart crust, he dug right in. It was some kind of fish, he decided. And quite good, at that.
Hathaway leaned over: "Tonno crudo, sir. How is it?"
"What's that when it's at home? And it's good, anyway."
"Raw tuna. Sir."
Lewis shot a look that proved James had failed to ruffle him. He'd won that round.
Next came pasta ai ricci, which Enzo—bringing the dishes himself—pronounced "ri-chee." Laura thumbed quickly through her pocket dictionary, but her result brought only puzzlement to her brow.
"Well? What is it?" Lewis urged, his hand on the back of her chair.
"Burrs? Or hedgehogs. I don't think . . ." She broke off, confused.
Fazio glanced at James. "Ricci di mare." He tried to provide a gesture to go with his words, but couldn't think of anything.
James leaned over to Lewis and Laura. "Mare: the sea. 'Burrs of the sea' would be sea urchins."
James's interpretation was received and considered. But Lewis's attention was fixed on Salvo. As the dish was brought to him, his nose tracked it through the air, his eyes closed, blissful. It was as though everyone else in the room ceased to exist. He raised a forkful to his mouth, inhaled again, bit down, and then slid the fork from his mouth. He gave a low moan and chewed slowly, transported to another existence while he savored the mouthful.
Both Robbie and James watched, amazed, and then both at the same time glanced at Fazio, who was clearly amused. He shrugged, helplessly, and whispered to James, "He's always like this. Good food is his true love."
While it didn't affect him as it did Salvo, Lewis found the pasta rather tasty. It reminded him of the mussels and whelks he'd enjoyed as a lad, growing up Tyneside. Not that he'd gotten them often. And for all their rareness, they were to be considered a treat when they were available. Even the ones that still had a bit of sand in them.
Robbie sat back in his chair, fully satisfied. But to his astonishment, Enzo brought around yet another course, and this one included two dishes: one he called "falsomagro" and one that held "broccoli affogati."
Robbie dug into this, smiling at Laura. "Well, this I recognize. Good old broccoli." But the first bite immobilized him. Not merely "good old broccoli," this was flavored with onion, cheese, red wine, and something a little bit fishy and a little bit salty. He turned to James. "Affogati, I heard that word before; it's what, now? Drowned, isn't it?"
"Drowned, yes, Sir." Hathaway chewed thoughtfully. "Bit of anchovy in there, if I'm not mistaken."
"And this other thing? Some sort of beef, I hope."
James picked at his, identifying the various components.
"Beef, rolled around . . . boiled eggs, obviously . . . some sort of cheese and something like, erm, luncheon meat? And then of course tomato sauce."
Lewis did not share his bagman's distaste for this dish. "Eggs, meat, more meat? I think I'm learning to like Sicilian cooking!" He dispatched it enthusiastically.
Salvo enjoyed watching his new friends eat almost as much as he enjoyed eating it himself. And Fazio shared a smile with James: amusement at the foibles of their senior officers, and how easily—or not, in some circumstances—they were distracted from their bad moods.
This "secondo" course was followed by a small salad, then the choice of dessert and espresso. Salvo swallowed an entire cannoli in pretty much one bite, Lewis and Laura shared one, and Fazio, Fahrid, and Hathaway excused themselves for a smoke, Fazio abstaining.
Fazio nudged Hathaway in the ribs with his elbow. "Come on, what is it you want to say?"
Hathaway snorted. "It's that obvious? Well, I'm wondering why you don't sedate him with food all the time, rather than put up with those moods where he seems so dangerous. In England, an inspector with violent tendencies like that would find himself facing an internal inquiry!"
Fazio simply smiled warmly, replying, "And would you stifle your boss that way? When his brain works in such mysterious ways, travels paths you can't follow, makes conclusions that seem unsupported but turn out to be absolutely correct?" It was as though he had personally experienced the relationship that existed between James and Robbie. And he already knew the answer to his question.
A pensive crease furrowed Hathaway's brow. "He took the news of the pending mafia war pretty well."
Fazio ducked his eyes behind his hand, swallowing hard. "I . . . didn't actually have a chance to mention that. Guess it won't hurt if another hour passes before he finds out."
The relative tranquility of the moment was shattered by a human missile hurtling into the restaurant and nearly upsetting the cup of espresso held daintily in Salvo's fingers. James and Fahrid dropped their cigarettes and the three young men dashed back inside.
"Dottore, dottore!"
Salvo's mood immediately blackened, and he roared at his unfortunate desk officer. "Catarella?!" Almost more of a threat than a question. And the answer came so rapidly, and with such a thick Sicilian accent, that Hathaway could not understand one single word the man said. But his mannerisms, extraordinarily apologetic and subservient, conveyed bad news with urgent action required.
Salvo's sudden leaping up galvanized the entire company, though not many of them understood what was occurring.
Fazio grabbed at Hathaway's arm, turning toward him and speaking at first too rapidly, then taking a deep breath and repeating the words at a rate Hathaway could understand. "Cornish, the boat he took, he crashed it; the Coast Guard herded him north and he hit the rocks on an island off Tuscany." He checked, and Hathaway was with him so far.
"He took off overland and barricaded himself in a house there. He's taken a woman in ostaggio . . ." Fazio's expression tightened when he saw that James did not understand the last word. "Erm . . . " He grabbed Catarella with an arm around the neck and held an index-finger gun to the man's temple.
"Eh, Fazio! Che c'è?" But Fazio was too intent on James to answer.
"Hostage, yes, I get it, go on." Hathaway thought perhaps he had never nodded so much in his entire life.
"He wants Luìs." Fazio gestured animatedly while talking, though Hathaway understood most of what he said even without the sign language. "He refuses to talk to anyone else." Then, a quick snort. "Which is fine, seeing as how apparently no one else can understand the figlio di puttana."
