Present Day Hotel Rotoletti, Piazzale Roma, Venice Evening has slung a splatter of muddy light at the window of Tom's low-rent hotel room, and it seems to be seeping all over him as he sits on the other side of the glass deep in thought.
Everything seems a world away from his nights of passion with Tina in the luxury of the Baglioni. Not that he minds. Tonight he's preoccupied with something else.
It's not a teardrop.
Lars Bale's words are haunting him, as is the exact nature of the tattoo that both the Death Row inmate and Mera Teale seem to share.
A tadpole? A comma? A snail?
He's still lost in the puzzle, doodling the image on paper, when the phone next to him rings. 'Tom Shaman.'
'Tom, it's Valentina. I'm sorry it's late.'
'That's okay. How are you?' He pushes the sketches away.
A small question, but she knows it has big implications. 'I'm fine. And please don't worry, I'm hard at work in the office and not going to embarrass either of us by turning up drunk on your doorstep again.'
'Hey, don't be silly – that's what friends and their doorsteps are for.'
She laughs but feels awkward. 'Vito would like you to come in tomorrow morning and update us on your research. Is ten-thirty okay?'
'That's fine. I've got some information, some things I think may be useful. I've written them up and was going to call you anyway.'
Valentina's office door swings ajar and an assistant appears. 'One moment, please, Tom.' She cups the receiver and looks across to a secretary. 'Yes?'
'Major Carvalho would like to see you, as soon as possible.'
'Thanks, I'll be just a minute.' She resumes her talk with Tom. 'Sorry, I have to go, the boss is calling.'
'I understand. But before you vanish, I need to tell you about a man called Lars Bale who's on Death Row in San Quentin. He was a cult leader – he and his followers killed tourists and smeared their blood in churches across-'
Valentina cuts him off: 'Tom, tell me tomorrow, I need to go.'
'Okay,' he sounds irritated. 'But this may be important – Bale has a tattoo, the same as Mera Teale's. A teardrop, just below his left eye. If you get his prison mug shot you'll-'
'Tom, I really have to go, lieutenants don't keep majors waiting. Sorry.'
'Valentina!'
He's left pleading with the dial tone.
By the time he slams the phone down he realises it's his own fault. He should have kept her more in the loop, told her what his suspicions were. He stands up and paces. Glancing down at the sketches, something clicks. From upside down he finally sees what Bale meant. It's not a teardrop.
It's a six.
Or is he clutching at straws? Making things up. Imagining the proverbial mark of the beast.
He grabs his jacket and decides to go straight to Carabinieri HQ. Even if he's got it wrong, it's best to tell Vito and Valentina. Sooner rather than later.
As he walks, he wonders if it's possible that Bale and Teale could know each other. They're both American, but she's much younger than him. Of course, Venice is full of Americans, so it could just be coincidence. And what of the tattoo? Is a teardrop as common as a peace sign or a smiley face? Or is it a modern-day Satanic gang marking? Maybe there are two other teardrops on her body somewhere, making three sixes in all. He's been around so many gangs in LA and seen so many cult tats that he appreciates the power invested in symbolically marking your body to show your beliefs, your true colours.
Tom heads east down the Ponte Tre Pont, south-east down the Fondamenta del Gafaro before finding some narrower and quicker backstreets to take him towards the Carabinieri buildings on the northern side of the Ponte di Rialto. He's somewhere close to the Campo dei Frari when a man in a red tee and jet-black jeans looks directly at him and smiles. Tom is still wondering whether he knows him when the stranger lifts his right arm like he's about to look at his watch.
It feels like water's been sprayed in his face.
Then comes the burning.
Pepper spray!
Tom puts his hands to his face just in time to stop another burst of spray.
He wheels around in the burning blindness.
Feels a sharp jab in his neck.
A hypodermic.
He rocks on his feet, feels a tingling queasiness spread through his veins and then crashes painfully like a toppled tree.