came over to him. He informed Dardanoni that the victim had been a visiting American priest. First reports had it that he had never had to deal with other countries or been mixed up with any extremist ethnic groups, so he wasn't likely to have had any contact with the mafia—let alone the Chinese mafia in the States.
The ass-licker seemed to be waiting for new orders. Dardanoni met his eyes impassively before turning his attention to the chaotic heap of clothes and personal effects on the hotel bed. The police had already opened and gone through the victim's luggage.
"How many bags did you find?"
"Two. A suitcase with clothes and a computer bag."
"Was the computer there?"
"Yes. They're having a look at it now, but it seems that there aren't any files that were opened yesterday."
"What were the most recently opened ones?"
"A couple of PDF files about something strange. It seemed like archaeological stuff."
"What do you mean by 'it seemed'?"
"I don't know English. It seemed…"
That an urgent examination of the computer of an English speaker might be made by a lab expert who didn't speak English was beyond belief, Dardanoni thought, but there you had it.
The policeman continued, "Well, strange, anyway, that there was a desktop picture of a woman on it."
"A naked woman?"
"No, a normal one. A close-up of her face."
"What's so strange then?"
"Nothing, I guess. We also found his wallet on the nightstand."
"Empty?"
The policeman nodded.
So the Son of the Andes hadn't been lying. The dead guy really did take some bills from his wallet and put them in his pocket,' Dardanoni said to himself.
"We recovered his passport," the other added.
"Any recent stamps from China?"
"No."
"And so what didn't you find?"
The policeman's face went blank.
"I'll tell you what you didn't find. His cell phone! The desk porter said that he'd seen the priest phoning with it. So where is it?"
Before the cop had time to do another cat-got-his-tongue routine, Mineo came striding into the room.
"I've got news," he said heartily. "The priest was seen by witnesses in two other mithraeums."
"Two." Filippo Dardanoni wasn't asking a question. He just wanted the number to hang in the air, and Mineo knew it. Sometimes, Mineo had noticed, he seemed to have a thing about numbers.
"I'm going back to my office," Dardanoni announced. "See you there."
Entering the elevator, he did his mental assemblage of the facts to date: an important priest arrives from the U.S; after a long tiring trip, he doesn't go to bed but rather scurries off to visit two mithraeums, followed by a third one in which he is murdered. The only thing missing is his cell phone.
Downstairs he found that his Son of the Andes had gone home and in his chair there was a monk with a short grey and gold beard who didn't seem much at his ease with the central phone system and who was having trouble passing calls to rooms. 'This church guy doesn't know the first thing about manning a reception desk,' Dardanoni thought, 'but he's got a free ride for life, doesn't he? Poor Son of the Andes can be as efficient as he pleases, but with the state the economy's in he's never going to have the right to a pension.'
Manassas, Virginia - July 25, 2008
According to the police, Delia and Angie had no proof that their place had been burglarized. After all, nothing had been stolen. There was not ruling out a prank or a warning. At most, unlawful entry. Have a long hard think about your neighbours and acquaintances, the police advised. Any weirdos? Any neighbour with a grudge? Any teenaged candidates for first time delinquents who might have been looking for money but afraid to take anything else in case their parents find it? Careful not to slander anyone, however. There were the perimeters of criminal profiling to consider. And material evidence to find. The two came away dismayed.
Now it was seven pm. Fortunately, dinner had put Delia back in the mood for her usual Wednesday square-dancing night out, and Angie, with the house to herself, was on the computer; she was exploring the AP News Archive website for information not so much on Marc-Alexandre Brandeau but—as her mother suggested—on the Brandeau family.
She was finding that these Brandeaus were rather loved in the gossip world. Marc-Alexandre Brandeau's wife, dead now, twice showed up at the ER room with a black eye but refused to press charges. The same gossip magazine, reporting on her funeral, mentioned her drug treatment for depression, a period of internment, and a final phase of ecstatic religious manias during her chemo-therapy. The article came with photos of the Brandeau children. Eduard, the one who killed himself, had gone to volunteer in a cooperative in Africa and fallen in love with a local female doctor. He'd attempted to build a hospital for children with trachoma but, the article alleged, his father had refused to cover his debts, and Eduard had committed suicide. The caption about the daughter, Suzanne, read that she was an ambitious businesswoman who liked attending the big fashion shows. First-place trophies in shooting competitions and a couple of years in female-boxing. Participated once in the Paris-Dakar race. Rumors that she was bisexual. Finally, la pièce de résistance: the high school photo (sole existing) of the second son, Damien, who had vanished into thin air some years back. Excluded from the family business; father cut him off financially. Once a brilliant PhD student in History of Religion and Anthropology at Georgetown.
What?
Angie re-read the line a second time. She remembered Father Giovanni telling her about his ex-student. Damien Brandeau?
The phone rang. It was Stan. She told him she was on the computer without going into detail. He wanted to come by for the new World War II book her mom had checked out for him, forgetting that she was at square-dancing. "It's Wednesday, Stan, remember?" "Oh Jeez, that's right." Angie knew that he found it funny that she went to such things partnerless. Of course her mother just wanted to dance. (Not many like me, she's said to Angie. We'll see how you turn out.)
Ten minutes later, Stan phoned again and said in a different voice: "Are you still near a computer?"
"Uh-huh."
"Have a look at the latest news."
"Meaning?" She closed the AP Archive page.
"Meaning the murder in the mithraic temple."
An American had been murdered in Rome. The body had been discovered in an underground mithraic temple. The priest had been identified as Kevin O'Flanagan of Georgetown University.
Two coincidences too many.
The AP Rome release reported that Father Kevin had been tortured for hours beforehand and his body had a photocopied image of a gold medal nailed to the chest. Angie's face swooped to an inch of the screen. The image was not the best but could it be? Could it really be so like her medallion?
She was a fool for asking. That's one clear lion-man, and he's got the same radiating sun image behind him. She banged her fist on the desk.
"Angie?"
She didn't answer.
"Angie," Stan insisted.
"I feel HUNTED, ok?!"
Anger was better than fright.
"I can be right over. Or do you want me to call Delia?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Really."
They both breathed into the phone.
"No, listen, maybe I should call your mom," he said uncertainly.