The Da Vinci Cook (8 page)

“Wait a minute.” Angie grasped her arm, stopping her. “We’ve got to think about this.”

“What’s to think about? I’m tired, achy, and want to soak in a bath for an hour. They have nice dress shops nearby for us to pick up some clothes. I’ve got it all worked out.”

Angie looked over her shoulder at the armed, tough-looking
carabinieri
milling about outside the train station. One noticed her and stared.

She pulled Cat down the crowded street, past rows of magazine and newspaper vendors, in the direction of the metro, Rome’s subway. They found it quite warm as they walked, and took off their jackets.

“Have you also worked out what happens when we show our passports in order to get a room?” Angie’s voice was low, her head bent toward Cat’s. “You know that’s the rule here. What if the police are looking for us? They’ll have gotten word out, and as soon as anyone sees our passports, they’ll grab us.”

“You’re being overly dramatic, just as you were with security in Frankfurt, and then at the airport in Rome.” Cat held her purse close as she tried to avoid being bumped or jostled by the masses of humanity rushing toward the metro. This was the most dangerous spot in Rome for pickpockets, and on top of that, Cat detested public transportation. She was a taxi person. “I’m through listening to your wild ideas, Angie. The police never act that fast.”

“How do you know?” Angie jumped onto a down escalator. Cat hesitated, and got knocked from behind. She hurried to the same step as Angie. “Do you want to take the chance that, instead of a four-star hotel, you end up in an Italian prison? I’ve heard scary things about Americans getting locked away in foreign prisons. Everybody fights about jurisdiction and what laws were and weren’t broken. Then the American embassy comes in and starts throwing their weight around, which pisses off the other country’s government, which then digs in its heels, and the poor American pays the price!”

“You know that isn’t the sort of thing we’re facing. This is Italy! The police don’t act that way.”

“Which police? Between the
carabinieri
, the
polizia di stato
, the finance police, the antimafia police, and the antiterrorist police, we could get caught up in an internal fight that would be worse than an international one!”

They were off the escalator now and walking down a long underground corridor.

“Stop, already! Let’s just get out of this horrible subway.” Cat looked for a way up, back to street level, but didn’t see anything.

Angie hurried her along. “We simply need to make sure nobody stops us. We need to find Marcello, let the police know, spend some time checking out a few things in Rome, and then go home. I miss Paavo already!”

“That, I can agree to,” Cat said.

“Good. Now, we used our ATM cards at the airport, but that was okay. If the police were alerted about us, they knew we landed there anyway. We can’t make that mistake again, however.”

Cat sucked in her breath. “What are you suggesting?”

Angie stopped at a wall map of the metro system. “You have a lot of cash on you, don’t you?”

They huddled together as Cat opened her wallet. “Seventy dollars and a couple dollars in coins. Plus, I always carry emergency money.” She slid some folded cash halfway out from under her driver’s license. “Two hundred dollars in case ATMs break down.”

“Very smart,” Angie said as she went through her own wallet. She had a $153. “Four hundred twenty-three dollars, plus the two hundred euros we got from the ATM, minus the cost of the train tickets. That’s a fortune. We’ll be just fine.” She looked at the metro map and pointed to the Ottaviano station. “I think it’s time for dinner, don’t you?”

“Dinner?” Cat looked with dismay from the map to the turnstiles that led to grimy, graffiti-filled boarding areas.

The doorbell rang. Paavo tightened the sash on his bathrobe and went to answer it. After Serefina’s call, he put on coffee, then showered and shaved to get ready to go to Homicide.

Nobody ever came to his house except Angie. Unless—a great possibility entered his mind—Angie had come to her senses and taken a plane home. He flung open the door.

Angie’s eldest sister, Bianca, stood on the porch. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “I brought you some fresh muffins for breakfast.” She held up a pastry bag.

Chubby, in her forties, with straight chin-length brown hair cut in the same practical bob that she’d probably worn for the past twenty years, Bianca was the most perennially good-natured person Paavo had ever met. Sometimes, he had to admit, it was really hard to take. Warm, kind, and motherly, she was completely uninterested in politics, religion, world health, or even fashion—her clothes were as plain and practical as her hairdo. The only thing she seemed to genuinely care about her was family.

At least with the Amalfis she was never bored.

“What a surprise,” Paavo said, finding his voice. “Come in. I guess you’re here to ask about your sisters.”

“I can’t begin to understand what’s going on!” She gave him the muffins, and immediately began fluffing the pillows on his sofa. Paavo’s yellow tabby, Hercules, awoke with a start from his favorite corner. Back arched, tail fluffed, he marched from the room in a huff. “Mamma’s so worried about the girls she can hardly talk. They’re chasing a potential murderer! My God! Anyway, Mamma sent me here to take you to Flora Piccoletti’s house.”

“She could have just phoned with the address,” he managed, the bag of muffins in hand.

“She wanted to be sure. And she was afraid Papa might get suspicious if she kept having secret phone calls. She’s already had a bunch of them. We all have to be sure Papa doesn’t hear about this.” Bianca stacked the magazines on his coffee table and began gathering up the newspapers. “Do you save the crosswords?”

“Uh, no,” he said.

“Good.” She lifted the papers. “Where’s your newsprint recycle bin?” Everybody in San Francisco had several recycle bins of varying kinds. It was the only way to get garbage picked up without going through the third degree.

He took the papers from her. “You don’t have to do this.”

She took the papers back. “It’s nothing. I enjoy it. Besides, it helps take my mind off . . . ” Her eyes turned teary. “What in heaven’s name were they thinking? If anything happens to them . . . ” She bustled to the kitchen to find the newspaper stacks on her own. “I can understand Angie, but Cat?”

Paavo followed her, and couldn’t help cringing at the truth of her last words. “Coffee?”

“Sounds good. And I bought enough muffins for both of us. You get ready to go. I’ll take care of everything here.”

Muffins had all the appeal of sawdust to Paavo under the circumstances. He escaped to his bedroom. Once dressed, he called Yosh to fill him in.

“You’re taking a civilian with you?” Yosh asked.

“It’ll be okay. She’s calm and mature.” Paavo peeked into the kitchen, where Bianca was at the moment washing down the outside of his refrigerator. He hadn’t even known that the outsides of refrigerators were supposed to be washed. He sucked in his breath. “Anyway, their mothers are friends. Having someone Flora Piccoletti knows with me when I question her about her two sons will be a good thing.”

“You may be right. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” He gently took the Formula 409 out of Bianca’s hands as she was about to shoot it at his light switches. In this old house, she’d probably cause a short.

“I see finger marks,” she explained.

“They’re part of history.” He understood all this hubbub was a reaction to being upset. He led her to a kitchen chair. “Coffee and muffins await.”

Chapter 10

“Ecco
Da Vinci.” The cab driver pointed to a restaurant as he double-parked.

Angie thanked the driver and paid him, including a generous tip. Unsure which way to go after their metro ride to the northwest part of Rome, near the Vatican, they found a driver who knew the restaurant. It was on the Via Porta Cavalleggeri, facing the high, yellow-beige walls of Vatican City. The street was busy with shops—clothes, handbags, jewelry, appliances, gelato, a
farmacia
, a deli—and the small, unimposing restaurant owned by Marcello Piccoletti: Ristorante Da Vinci.

Inside, the dining room was fairly dark, the walls a dingy off-white, with dark wood-stained trim around the doors and windows. Wooden tables and chairs were situated close together in a way that would barely be tolerated in the U.S.

They were greeted by a short, round man with a bald head and wide, black mustache. “
Buona sera
,” he said in greeting, and showed them to a table.

Cat immediately requested a bottle of his best merlot. The menu was long, but Angie saw that it was basically different variations of basic food. For the
primo
, there were a variety of pasta noodles with an equal variety of toppings, a number of risotto dishes, and several kinds of
zuppa
. The
secondo
, or entrée, had far fewer choices of meat or fish. The menu listed several rather simple antipasto dishes which came, as the name implied, before the pasta. Salads, small and with less variety, were generally served after the entrée to clear the palate—except in restaurants that catered to tourists, where they were served early to be eaten in whatever order the customer preferred.

They ordered an antipasto of
caprese
—tomatoes with mozzarella, basil, and spices—a
primo
of porcini mushroom risotto for Cat, and linguine with pancetta for Angie. As their
secondo,
both chose the day’s special of veal scaloppine with green olives. For dessert, they decided on one that was typically Italian—sliced melon and walnuts, with a demitasse of espresso.

“We made it,” Angie said as they clinked their wineglasses together. They both took long sips. Angie could all but feel the drink helping her relax for the first time in twenty-four hours.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” Cat said. She looked around. “Unfortunately, I don’t see Marcello. I was hoping he’d come out to say hello. He’d better be here.”

“Let’s eat a bit before we ask about him,” Angie said. She didn’t want disappointment to color their meal or dampen her optimism about this adventure. Who could be anything but optimistic in Rome?

They quietly enjoyed their antipasto and
primo.

In the restaurant, a family with a couple of children were settling in at one table, and near them an elderly couple were just leaving. Two men who looked like they might be father and son were huddled together having an intense conversation, and sitting alone was a young priest. He was blond and wore glasses with thin gold rims. His long, narrow face was intriguing enough to catch Angie’s attention, as it bore a troubled, almost moody, demeanor.

She was speculating on what the problem might be when the waiter, the same rotund man who had seated them, brought out their veal scaloppine.

Angie nodded at Cat, who nodded back.

“The linguine and risotto were excellent,” Angie said to the waiter. “I’m Angelina Amalfi and this is my sister, Caterina Swenson.”

He stood as if at attention. “I am Bruno Montecatini.” He patted his bulbous stomach. “I am the maitre d’ of this dining room.”

Cat spoke up. “We are friends with Signore Piccoletti. Is he here this evening?”

Montecatini looked surprised. “Signore Piccoletti?” he repeated, confused.

Cat and Angie glanced at each other. “Marcello Piccoletti,” Cat said. “The owner.”

“Ah!” The maitre d’ said. “I believe he’s in his summer home in San Francisco.”

Cat cocked her head. “That’s where we’re from.” Her voice was completely matter-of-fact. “He just left there for Rome. Please tell him we’re looking for him.”

“I will do so . . . if I see him,” the man said.

“And what about his brother, Rocco?” Angie asked casually.

“Rocco?” Montecatini again seemed uncomfortable with the question. “I have never met his brother. Excuse me, please.”

With that, his stubby legs took him away quickly. As Angie watched him go, something made her glance at the other diners. The family paid no attention, but both the priest and the father and son were watching. All three men looked away when her eyes met theirs.

“That was strange,” Cat whispered to Angie, drawing back her attention. “Everyone in San Francisco thinks he’s here—and here, they think he’s there. I don’t like it. Why didn’t he tell me about this?”

“All right.” Angie faced her sister squarely. “Just what is going on between you and Marcello?”

Cat’s wide-eyed innocence was completely fake. “When I was a kid, I’d go to his house with Mamma and play with his little sister, Josie. I knew the whole family, but then we lost touch for nearly thirty years.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Angie’s tone was firm.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cat filled her mouth with veal and mushroom.

“I think you do,” Angie argued. “You said he wouldn’t go to Italy without telling you. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cat swallowed. “I don’t like what you’re implying! Marcello is hardly my type. What about Charles? Damn! I’d better call him soon.”