Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [97]
But none of them did. And then Harry was gone, just someone else walking by. A moment later he turned a corner and entered Piazza Cavour. Directly ahead was the Hotel Barchetta Excelsior.
67
HARRY PRESSED THE BUZZER FOR ROOM 525 and waited, beret in hand, soaked with sweat. From his own rattled nerves as much as from the July heat. Still eighty-some degrees at almost sunset.
He started to push the buzzer again when the door abruptly opened and Adrianna stood there, hair wet from the shower, a white hotel bathrobe around her, a cell phone to her ear. Harry went in quickly, closing the door behind him and locking it.
“He’s here now.” Adrianna was at the window pulling the curtains, talking into the phone as she did. The television next to the window was on, tuned to the news channel, the sound off. Somebody was doing a standup in front of the White House. As quickly the scene shifted to the British Parliament.
Crossing to a dressing table, Adrianna bent in front of the mirror to scribble something on a notepad.
“Tonight, okay…. I have it….”
Clicking off the phone, she looked up. Harry was watching her in the mirror.
“That was Eaton… ,” he said.
“Yes.” Adrianna turned to face him
“Where the hell is Danny?”
“Nobody knows….” Her gaze drifted off to the TV-always half watching in case something happened, an ongoing habit, the disease of a field reporter—then back to Harry. “Roscani and his men went over the villa in Bellagio where he was supposed to be with a toothbrush just a few hours ago…. They found nothing.”
“The police are certain it was Danny, not somebody else.”
“As certain as they can be without having been on the hydrofoil themselves. Roscani’s back here, in Como, coordinating Gruppo Cardinale forces. They’re not leaving. That should say enough in itself….” Adrianna tucked a sprig of still-wet hair behind an ear. “You look like you’re going to melt. You can take your jacket off, you know. You want a drink?”
“No.”
“I will…”
Crossing to a console, Adrianna opened it and took out a small bottle of cognac. Pouring most of it into a glass, she turned back.
Harry stared at her. “What do I do next? How do I get to Bellagio?”
“You’re angry with me, aren’t you? About what happened in Rome, about bringing Eaton into this.”
“Yes and no. But I could never have gotten this far without your help or Eaton’s. You both stuck your necks out, for your own reasons, but you did anyway…. The sex just made me feel a little cozier about it. So why don’t we just forget it and you tell me what I’m supposed to do…”
“All right….” Adrianna watched him for a moment, then, glass in hand, leaned back against the dressing table.
“You’re to take the late hydrofoil to Bellagio. Check into the Hotel Du Lac across the street from the boat landing. The reservations have been made—Father Jonathan Roe of Georgetown University. You’ll have the phone number of the man who runs Villa Lorenzi. His name is Edward Mooi.”
“I’m to call him?”
“Yes…”
“What makes you think he knows where Danny is?”
“Because the police think he does.”
“Then they’ll have his phone tapped.”
“And—what are they going to hear?” Adrianna took a tug at her drink. “An American priest offering to help simply because he’s seen the news coverage and would like to do anything he can…”
“If I were him, I’d think the call was a setup. A police sting.”
“So would I, except that between now and when you phone him, he’ll get a fax sent from a religious bookshop in Milan. He won’t know what it means at the time—neither will the police if they intercept it because it will look like an advertisement—but Edward Mooi is an educated man, and after you call, he’ll go back and find the