Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [10]
“The money came from someone else, Mr. Addison.”
“Who?” Harry glanced angrily at Pio, then back to Roscani.
The policeman stared for a moment and then his right hand came up, smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers, the fingers pointed directly at Harry.
“You, Mr. Addison.”
Harry’s mouth went dry. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. This was why they had so carefully met him at the airport and brought him to the Questura. Whatever had happened, Danny had become a prime suspect and now they were trying to tie him in. He wasn’t going to let them. Abruptly he stood, pushing his chair back.
“I want to call the U.S. Embassy. Right now.”
“Tell him,” Roscani said in Italian.
Pio moved from the window and crossed the room. “We did know you were coming to Rome. And what flight you were on, but it wasn’t for the reason you thought.” Pio’s manner was easier than Roscani’s, the way he stood, the rhythm of his speech—or maybe it was just that he sounded American.
“Late Sunday we requested help from the FBI. By the time they found where you were, you were on your way here.” He sat down on the edge of Roscani’s desk. “If you want to talk to your embassy you have every right. But understand that when you do, you will very quickly be talking to the LEGATS.”
“Not without a lawyer.” Harry knew what the LEGATS was. It stood for legal attachés, the name for FBI special agents assigned to U.S. embassies overseas who work in liaison with the local police. But the threat made no difference. Overwhelmed and shocked as he was, he wasn’t about to let anyone, the Rome police or the FBI, continue this kind of questioning without someone very well versed in Italian criminal law standing beside him.
“Richieda un mandato di cattura.” Roscani looked at Pio.
Harry reacted angrily. “Talk in English.”
Roscani stood and walked around his desk. “I told him to call for an arrest warrant.”
“On what charge?”
“—A moment.” Pio looked at Roscani and nodded toward the door. Roscani ignored him and kept staring at Harry, acting as if Harry himself had killed Cardinal Parma.
Taking him aside, Pio said something in Italian. Roscani hesitated. Then Pio said something else. Roscani relented and they went out.
Harry watched the door close behind them and turned away. The long-haired woman at the keyboard was staring at him. Ignoring her, he walked to the window. It was something to do. Through its heavy glass he could see the narrow cobblestone street below and across it a brick building. At the far end was what looked like a fire station. It felt like a prison.
What the hell had he walked into? What if they were right and Danny had been involved with the assassination? But that was crazy. Or was it? As a teenager Danny had had problems with the law. Not much, but some, like a lot of restless kids. Petty theft, vandalism, fighting, just generally getting into trouble. It was one of the reasons he had gone into the marines, as a way to get some discipline in his life. But that had been years ago; he was a grown man when he died and had been a priest for a long time. To envision him as a killer was impossible. Yet—and Harry didn’t want to think about it, but it was true—he would have learned how in the Marine Corps. And then there was the phone call. What if that had been why he had called. What if he had done it and there was no one else he could talk to?
There was a sound and the door opened and Pio came in alone. Harry looked past him, waiting for Roscani to follow but he didn’t.
“You have hotel reservations, Mr. Addison?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the Hassler.”
“I will arrange to have your luggage taken there.” Reaching into his jacket, Pio took out Harry’s passport and handed it to him. “You’ll need it when you check in.”
Harry stared