As he reached the other side of the road, Blume pulled out his phone and called Kristin Holmquist at the American Embassy.
“Alec!”
She sounded warm. He closed his eyes and imagined her standing there with her bright copper hair, her blue jeans, her white blouse, her smell of talc.
“I’m working an interesting case,” he said.
“Really? You want to tell me about it first, or shall we just skip to the part where you ask me to do some research for you?”
“Well, you know it’s not safe or practical to do this sort of thing by phone, so why don’t I just give you a name, and then maybe we can meet for dinner and compare notes,” said Blume.
“Get information and a date out of me, you mean?”
“I know, it is a terrible role-reversal for you, Kristin…” The scent of ginger and garlic from the Surya Maha Indian restaurant above him gave him an idea. “I’ll make dinner. This evening, my place.”
“What’s the name you’re interested in?”
“Colonel Orazio Farinelli, he’s a member of the Carabinieri. I know the name from somewhere. He’s just strolled in and taken my case away from me.”
“How did he manage that?”
“Investigating Magistrate Franco Buoncompagno, also known as the finger puppet. I don’t need you to look Buoncompagno up. I know more than enough about him.”
“You can never know too much,” said Kristin.
“I hate to disagree, but often I find myself knowing far more about people than I want to. Do we have a deal?”
“I’m not sure, Alec. You have not always been as helpful as we had hoped. And when I say ‘not always,’ I mean ‘never.’ ”
“That’s because I don’t like sharing info on my cases with an operative in a foreign embassy.”
“I’m not an operative, Alec baby. And you can’t go round calling your fellow Americans foreigners.”
“Well, let’s try this thing again. You never made it clear what you wanted me to do for you anyhow, apart from when we were, you know…”
“When we were what?”
“Sorry, that was in bad taste.”
“It sure was. I distinctly remember explaining it to you in the clearest possible terms. I was looking for someone to keep an ear to the ground here in Rome, help me flesh out my monthly reports to the country team. You are clearly not that person. So, personal feelings and friendship aside, you’re calling me now because…?”
“A case was taken away from me, I was hoping you might speed up the process of my finding out about this Colonel. If not, I can do it myself.”
“I still don’t get why you think I’ll do this. Or why you think I have access.”
“I know you have access. Even I have access if I try hard enough. It’s just quicker this way.”
“Suppose I helped you, would you consider that as a favor to be returned?”
“Of course. I never said no to what you were proposing. You know me, I love sharing. Love my country, too.”
“I don’t know, Alec. Maybe.”
“Great. That’s Farinelli with two ‘l’s. And 8 o’clock, my place. I’m making pure American tacos and…” he tried to think of something appetizing. “Guacamole.”
When Blume arrived a few minutes later, Sovrintendente Grattapaglia was standing at the green door, arms folded as if barring entrance to it, and staring at a dark-blue Carabinieri car with a red flash emblem parked a few meters from him.
The driver, a Maresciallo, had positioned the vehicle below a plane tree, and was leaning on the half-open door. As Blume came up beside the car, a small swirl of smoke floated out from the passenger seat behind.
Blume bent down to see inside, shading his eyes like he was saluting the occupants. The windows were slightly tinted, and he could just make out two or maybe three men filling up all the space in the backseat. Someone grabbed his shoulder, but Blume stayed relaxed.
“Take your hand off me,” he said. “I am a police commissioner.”
The grip eased, but the Carabiniere did not let go completely. Blume straightened up, turned around, and pushed down the Carabiniere’s extended arm.
“If you’ve been on duty in Rome for any length of time, you probably know my face,” said Blume. “So there should be no need for me to have to tell you to step back, now.”
The Carabiniere took a step backwards, and nodded.
From behind him came the whirring sound of a car window being lowered, and a blue cloud of cigar smoke swirled over Blume’s shoulder.
Blume turned around and looked into the car. The backseat was filled to capacity by a single man.
The voice was slightly throaty, soft, and calm, the face creased and brown like a hickory nut. “I imagine you are Commissioner Blume.”
Blume had seen people this large when traveling as a boy with his parents through towns in Iowa, Indiana, and Ohio, but everything they wore was elasticized; and he had seen obese Neapolitan criminals with Velcro straps on running shoes they couldn’t see, but he had never seen a man with so much bulk dressed in such a nicely cut silk suit.
“And you must be Colonel Farinelli,” said Blume.