The Flight Attendant(92)

“Then do.”

“They wanted to know if we ever saw you with strange people or with this Alex Sokolov person—the one who was killed. I guess, like you, he lived in New York. They wanted to know any stories you shared from Dubai. Or Europe. Traveling stories.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them you don’t have any relationship with Dennis, except he’s your brother-in-law. At first I thought they were implying you two were having some sort of really icky affair—and maybe they were—but that wasn’t it. At least that wasn’t the main thing.”

“We’re not! He loves you. I love you.”

“They were digging for something else. It was like they thought he was telling you things about work he’s not supposed to tell anyone!”

“I promise you, I wouldn’t understand a word.”

“I don’t think that was their point, Cassie. You know what he does is classified. He’s in the Chemical Corps, for God’s sakes!”

“What else did you tell them?”

Rosemary blew her nose. Cassie realized that as angry as her sister was, she was also scared: she’d likely been crying before she had phoned. There was far more terror than truculence in her tone. “I told them you drink too much, but you’re not—as far as I can tell—as irresponsible as our father. I told them I know nothing about any strange people in your life because I don’t know any of your friends. Or boyfriends. When I told them that, I think it sounded suspicious, but mostly it just made me sad. It dawned on me that I know nothing about your world except the sense that you travel to cool places and you bring my children sweet gifts.”

Cassie wanted to lash out, to say something defensive about the fact it was really Rosemary who kept her at bay. But her sister was already so upset and Cassie knew that it was her fault that Rosemary was being dragged into her nightmare, and so she didn’t respond. Instead she inquired only, “Is that the sort of thing they asked Dennis, too?”

“I don’t know. He was at the base and couldn’t talk. But I suppose so. They brought him to some conference room and just kept grilling him.”

“Well, it sounds like he had nothing to hide.”

“Nothing to hide? Dennis’s work involves chemical weapons. You think he’s just some goofy engineer geek, but that geek spends his days getting rid of our sarin and VX and some of the scariest stuff in our arsenal.”

“I know.”

“I mean, he’s got a very high security clearance!”

“I get it,” Cassie said softly.

“And now the FBI is interviewing him!”

“But he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I know that. You know that. But it’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

“It just looks bad. It just looks terrible.”

“I’m sorry,” Cassie murmured. “I am.”

Her sister ignored her apology. “They wanted to know what you told me about this man who was killed. I told them the truth: you’d never even mentioned the guy because you never mention any of the legions you sleep with.”

“It isn’t legions, Rosemary. Come on.”

“What am I supposed to tell Jessica and Tim?”

“I gather you don’t think they’ll be especially proud of their aunt?”

“Cassie, I love you. I really do. But what the hell have you done? This is different. I’m scared for my husband and I’m scared for my children. Tell me what sort of trouble you’re in.”

“I’ve done nothing,” she said. She told herself this wasn’t lying. This was staying on message. “I spent the night with an interesting man in Dubai. When I left, he was still alive. After that? I have no idea what happened.”

“Except we do have an idea,” her sister said. “Someone practically cut off his head. And as for him being interesting? I have a feeling the FBI would use a very, very different adjective.”



* * *



? ?

The front door was unlocked, and Enrico led them into the apartment without knocking. They walked through the dark, immaculate living room and kitchen, and out onto the terrace. His uncle was in a white dress shirt and light blue suit pants, no necktie, sipping Cointreau neat on the private terrace and reading the newspaper beneath a small pergola. His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair. The terrace had a four-foot-high fountain with a goddess holding a pitcher, and two raised beds with tomato plants. There were lemon trees. It was a lovely, private oasis in the middle of a city.

Cassie guessed that Piero Bianchi was in his midforties, and when he stood to greet her she detected a wisp of verbena. He was Enrico’s mother’s youngest brother, and he worked for a bank. He was trim, like his nephew, but his hair had receded and what was left was more salt than pepper. Still, Cassie found the reality that she was much closer to Piero’s age than to Enrico’s disconcerting. Enrico had texted his uncle to make sure he was home, but he hadn’t said why they were coming. He had told Cassie that she was not to bring up the gun or say a word about it. He’d said firmly that he would take care of it.

“And you’re a flight attendant,” Piero said when they were settled around the table. His accent was almost nonexistent. “I have friends who fly for Alitalia and American.”