Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(115)
“Rimanete seduti, mani in alto, per cortesìa,” he said calmly.
“Remain seated, hands in view,” translated Pendergast. “We’re policemen—”
“Tacete!”
D’Agosta suddenly remembered they were dressed in black, their faces still half painted. God only knew what this police officer was thinking.
The man advanced, gun in hand, not exactly aimed at them but not quite aimed away, either. “Who are you?” he asked in lightly-accented English.
“Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States of America.” Pendergast’s wallet was in his hand, and it fell open to reveal his shield on one side, his ID on the other.
“And you?”
“Sergeant Vincent D’Agosta, Southampton Police Department, FBI liaison. We’re—”
“Basta.” The man stepped forward. He reached for Pendergast’s wallet, looked at the badge, the ID card. “Are you the one who called in the homicide?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“We are investigating a series of murders in the United States, which that man”—Pendergast nodded out into the great room—“was connected to.”
“Mafiosi?”
“No.”
The man looked visibly relieved. “You know the identity of the deceased?”
“Locke Bullard.”
The man handed back the wallet, gestured at their outfits. “Are these the newest uniforms among the FBI?”
“It’s a long story, Colonnello.”
“How did you get here?”
“You will find our car—if you haven’t already—in the olive grove across the street. A black Fiat Stylo. I will, of course, prepare a formal report for you on all the particulars: who we are, why we’re here. Some of it is already on file at the Questura.”
“God, no. No reports. It is so inconvenient when facts get written down. At the proper time, we will talk about it over an espresso, like civilized human beings.” The man moved out of the glaring backlight. For the first time, D’Agosta could see his features: prominent cheekbones, cleft chin, and deep-set eyes. He was about sixty, and he moved with a stiff military bearing, his graying hair brushed back, restless eyes taking in everything.
“I am Colonnello Orazio Esposito. Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier.” He shook their hands. “Who is your liaison at the Questura?”
“Commissario Simoncini.”
“I see. And what do you make of this . . .” He nodded again toward the great room. “This . . . casino?”
“It is the third in a series of murders, the first two of which took place in New York.”
A cynical smile grew on Esposito’s face. “I can see we’re going to have quite a lot to talk about, Special Agent Pendergast. Listen. There is a nice little caffè in Borgo Ognissanti, just two doors down from the church and very near our headquarters. Shall we meet there at eight this morning? Unofficially, of course.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“And now it would be better if you leave. We’ll make no note of your presence in the official report. To have the American FBI reporting a crime on Italian soil . . .” His smile broadened. “It just wouldn’t do.”
He briskly shook their hands and turned on his heel, crossing himself so rapidly as he passed the altar D’Agosta wasn’t sure if he had done it at all.
{ 60 }
D’Agosta had seen a lot of police headquarters in his time, but the so-called barracks of the carabinieri in Florence beat them all. It wasn’t a barracks at all, but rather a decaying Renaissance building—D’Agosta thought it was Renaissance, anyway—facing a narrow medieval street. It was huddled up beside the famous Ognissanti Church, its gray limestone facade streaked with dirt, every ledge and projection covered with needle-like spikes to ward off pigeons. Florence itself was nothing like what he’d imagined: even in the warm, mid-October light, the city seemed austere, its crooked streets always in shadow, the rough-cut stone facades of its buildings almost grim. The air smelled of diesel fumes, and the impossibly narrow sidewalks were clogged with slow-moving tourists dressed in floppy hats and khaki shorts, with packs on their backs and water bottles strapped to their waists, as if they were on an expedition into the Sahara rather than walking around perhaps the most civilized city in the world.
They had met the colonnello in the nearby café, as planned, and Pendergast had quickly brought him up to speed on their investigation—omitting, D’Agosta noticed, certain small but critical details. Now they were following him back to his office, single file, fighting a steady stream of Japanese tourists coming in the opposite direction.
The colonnello turned into the grand arched entryway of the barracks, over which hung a limp Italian flag—the first D’Agosta had seen since arriving in Italy. They passed through a colonnaded corridor and into a vast interior courtyard. Once elegant, the courtyard itself had been turned into a parking lot and was wall-to-wall with police vans and cars, packed together with such mathematical precision it seemed impossible to move one without moving them all. The windows looking down on the courtyard were all open, and from them issued a continuous clamor of ringing telephones, voices, and slamming doors, magnified and distorted by the confined space.