Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [65]
“I’m not so sure he wasn’t just finished and tired and was simply going to let out a breath.”
“No, he was trying to say something. Again,” Roscani said, and Valentina played it over. In stop motion. Slow motion. At half speed and then normal. Each time Harry reached the same point, there was the brief hissing sound and then the tape was over.
Roscani looked at her. “What else?—How many thousand films have you seen? You must have other ideas about what’s going on up there on the screen.”
Valentina smiled. “A thousand ideas, Otello. A hundred scenarios. But I can only go from what I see. And hear. And from that, we have a tired man with a lump on his head who has done what has been required of him and would like to rest. Maybe even sleep.”
Roscani turned abruptly to look at her. “What do you mean required of him?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.” Valentina winked. “Occasionally we all do things required of us when our heart isn’t entirely in it.”
“We’re not talking about sex, Valentina,” Roscani said flatly.
“No—” This was no time for Valentina to break through his veneer, and she realized it. “Otello, I’m not a psychologist, just an old broad who’s been around a little. I look at the screen and see a tired man apparently speaking his mind but who sounds more like he’s doing what he thinks somebody wants. Like a child reluctantly clearing the dishes off the table so he can go out to play.”
“You think he made the tape against his will?”
“Don’t ask me to draw conclusions from the air, Otello. It’s far too difficult.” Valentina smiled and put a hand on his. “It’s not my job, anyway. It’s yours.”
44
HARRY WATCHED HER COME. WATCHED HER cross the Piazza Navona toward the fountain, sipping something from a plastic Coca-Cola cup, light blue skirt and white blouse, hair turned up in a bun, dark glasses, her walk unhurried. She could have been a secretary or tourist, perhaps wondering whether or not to meet a lover as promised; anything but a journalist about to rendezvous with the most wanted man in Italy. If she had brought the police, he didn’t see them.
Now he saw her circle the fountain, half looking, half not. Then, glancing at her watch, she settled on a stone bench twenty feet from a man painting a watercolor of the piazza. Harry waited, still uncertain. Finally he stood up, glancing at the painter as he did. Walking toward her in a wide arc, he came up from behind to sit casually a few feet to her left, facing in the opposite direction. To his surprise she did nothing more than glance his way, then looked off again. Either she was being very careful or his beard and costume worked better than he thought. As bad as things were, the idea she might not know who he was tickled him, and he tilted his head ever so slightly in her direction.
“Would the lady consider screwing a priest?”
She started and looked, and for the briefest instant he thought she was going to slap him. But instead she stared right at him and admonished him out loud.
“If a priest wants to talk dirty to a lady, he ought to do it where people can’t see or hear him.”
PIANO, OR FLAT, NUMBER 12, as it read on the worn key tag, was on the top floor of a five-story apartment building at 47 Via di Montoro, a ten-minute walk toward the Tiber from the Piazza Navona. It belonged to a friend who was out of town and would understand, Adrianna said. Then she stood abruptly and walked off, leaving the Coca-Cola cup behind. The key was inside it.
Harry had entered the lobby and taken the small elevator to the top, finding number 12 at the end of the hall.
Once inside, he locked the door behind him and looked around. The flat was small but comfortable, with a bedroom, living room, small kitchen, and bath. Men’s clothing hung in the closet—several sport coats, slacks, and two suits. A half dozen shirts, several sweaters, socks, and underwear were in a chest of drawers opposite the bed. In the living room was a telephone and small TV. A computer with separate printer sat on a desk in a cubbyhole near