Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [12]
“You know what blew up the bus. Do you know who did it?”
“No.”
“Was my brother the target?”
“We don’t know. All we know for certain is that we now have two different investigations. The murder of a cardinal and the bombing of a tour bus.”
An aging Oriental waiter came up, glancing at Harry and grinning and exchanging pleasantries in Italian with Pio. Pio ordered for both by rote, and the waiter clapped his hands, bowed crisply, and left. Pio looked back to Harry.
“There are, or rather, were, five ranking Vatican prelates who serve as the pope’s closest advisers. Cardinal Parma was one. Cardinal Marsciano is another….” Pio filled his glass with mineral water, watching Harry for a reaction that never came. “Did you know your brother was Cardinal Marsciano’s private secretary?”
“No…”
“The position gave him direct access to the inner workings of the Holy See. Among them, the pope’s itinerary. His engagements—where, when, for how long. Who his guests would be. Where he would enter and exit what building. The security arrangements. Swiss Guards or police or both, how many—Father Daniel never mentioned things like that?”
“I told you, we weren’t close.”
Pio studied him. “Why?”
Harry didn’t respond.
“You hadn’t spoken to your brother for eight years. What was the reason?”
“There’s no point getting into it.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“I told you. Some things just build up over time. It’s old business. Family things. It’s boring. Hardly about murder.”
For a moment Pio did nothing, then picked up his glass and took a drink of mineral water. “Is this your first time in Rome, Mr. Addison?”
“Yes.”
“Why now?”
“I came to bring his body home…. No other reason. The same as I said before.”
Harry felt Pio starting to push, the way Roscani had earlier, looking for something definitive. A contradiction, a diverting of the eyes, a hesitation. Anything to suggest Harry was holding something back or was flat out lying.
“Ispettore Capo!”
The waiter came grinning, as he had before. Making room on the table for four steaming platters, setting them between the men, chattering in Italian.
Harry waited for him to finish, and when he left, looked at Pio directly. “I’m telling you the truth. And have been all along…. Why don’t you keep your promise and tell me what you haven’t, the particulars of why you think my brother was involved in the cardinal’s murder?”
Steam rose from the platters, and Pio gestured for Harry to help himself. Harry shook his head.
“All right.” Pio took a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it to Harry. “The Madrid police found it when they went through Valera’s apartment. Look at it carefully.”
Harry opened the paper. It was an enlarged photocopy of what looked like a page taken from a personal phone book. The names and addresses were handwritten and in Spanish, the corresponding telephone numbers to the right. Most, from the heading, seemed to be from Madrid. At the bottom of the page was a single phone number, to its left was the letter R.
It didn’t make sense. Spanish names, Madrid phone numbers. What did it have to do with anything? Except that maybe the R at the bottom of the page referred to Rome, but the number beside it had no name at all. Then it came to him.
“Christ,” he said under his breath and looked at it again. The telephone number beside the R was the one Danny had left on his answering machine. Abruptly he looked up. Pio was staring at him.
“Not just his phone number, Mr. Addison. Calls,” Pio said. “In the three weeks leading up to the killing, Valera placed a dozen calls to your brother’s apartment from his cellular phone. They became more frequent toward the end, and of shorter duration, as if he were confirming instructions. As far as we’ve been able to tell, they were the only calls he made while he was here.”
“Telephone calls do not make killers!” Harry was incredulous. Was this it? All they had?
A newly seated couple looked in