Part 4 (1/2)
”Yes...”
So Farel knew that, too. He was doing the same thing Roscani and Pio had done, trying to intimidate him and get him off guard, let him know that no matter what anyone said, he was still a suspect. That Harry knew he was innocent made little difference. Law school years had made him more aware than most of the long history of jails, prisons, and even gallows that had been peopled with the guiltless, men and women charged with crimes far less grievous than the one being investigated here. It was unnerving, if not frightening. And Harry knew it showed, and he didn't like it. Moreover, Farel's digging into his professional world gave everything a calculated spin. One that gave the Vatican policeman added power, because it let him inside Harry's life, and told him there was nowhere he could go that Farel couldn't find out about.
Harry's concern about publicity had been one of the first things he'd addressed yesterday, as soon as he'd left Pio and checked into his hotel, calling Byron Willis at his home in Bel Air. By discussion's end they'd enumerated, almost word for word, the reasons Farel had just given for Harry's keeping a low profile. They'd agreed that, tragic as it was, Danny was dead, and since whatever involvement he'd had or not had in the murder of Cardinal Parma was being kept quiet, it was best for all of them to let it stay that way. The risk that Harry's clients might be revealed and his situation exploited was something neither they, nor he, nor the company needed, especially now, when the media seemed to rule everything.
”Did this Mr. Willis know Father Daniel had contacted you?”
”Yes.... I told him when he called to notify me of what had happened...”
”You told him what your brother said.”
”Some of it.... Most of it.... Whatever I said, it's in the transcripts of what I told the police yesterday.” Harry felt the anger begin to rise. ”What difference does it make?”
”How long have you known Mr. Willis?”
”Ten, eleven years. He helped me get into the business. Why?”
”You are close to him.”
”Yes, I guess...”
”As close to him as to anyone?”
”I guess so.”
”Meaning you might tell him things you would tell no one else.”
”What are you getting at?”
Farel's gray-green eyes found Harry's and held there. Finally his gaze moved off and they continued to walk. Slowly, deliberately. Harry had no idea where they were going or why. He wondered if Farel did, if it was simply his manner of interrogation.
Behind them, a blue Ford turned the corner, drove slowly for a half block, then pulled over and stopped. No one got out. Harry glanced at Farel. If he was aware of the car, he didn't acknowledge.
”You never spoke with your brother directly.”
”No.”
Farther down, the men loading bottles finished, and their van pulled from the curb. Parked beyond it was a dark gray Fiat. Two men sat in the front seat. Harry glanced back. The other car was still there. The block was short. If the men in the cars belonged to Farel, it meant they had essentially sealed off the street.
”And the message he left on your answering machine... you erased.”
”I wouldn't have done it if I had known how things were going to turn out.”
Abruptly Farel stopped. They were nearly to the gray Fiat, and Harry could see the men in the front seat watching them. The one at the wheel was young and leaned forward in his seat almost eagerly, as if he hoped something would happen.
”You act like you don't know where we are, Mr. Addison.” Farel smiled slowly, then swept his hand at the yellow stained and paint-peeled four-story building in front of them.
”Should I?”
”Number one-twenty-seven Via Ombrellari-you don't know?”
Harry looked down the street. The blue Ford was still there. Then his eyes came back to Farel.
”No, I don't.”
”It's your brother's apartment building.”
9.
DANNY'S APARTMENT WAS ON THE GROUND floor, small and exceedingly Spartan. Its cubicle of a living room faced a tiny back courtyard and was furnished with a reading chair, small desk, floor lamp, and bookcase, all of which looked as though they had come from a flea market. Even the books were secondhand, most of them old and dealing with historical Catholicism, with t.i.tles such as The Last Days of Papal Rome, 18501870, Plenarii Concilii Baltimorensis Tertii, The Church in the Christian Roman Empire The Last Days of Papal Rome, 18501870, Plenarii Concilii Baltimorensis Tertii, The Church in the Christian Roman Empire.
The bedroom was sparer yet-a single, blanket-covered bed and a small chest of drawers, with lamp and telephone on top, which served as a bedside table. His closet was as meager. A suit of the cla.s.sic priest's vestments-black s.h.i.+rt, black slacks, and black jacket all on one hanger. A pair of jeans, a plaid s.h.i.+rt, worn gray sweat suit, and pair of old running shoes. The chest of drawers revealed a white clerical collar, several pairs of well-worn underwear, three pairs of socks, a folded sweater, and two T-s.h.i.+rts, one with the logo of Providence College.
”Everything just as he left it when he went to a.s.sisi,” Farel said quietly.
”Where were the cartridges?”
Farel led him into the bathroom and opened the door of an ancient commode. Inside were several drawers, all of which had locks that had been pried open, presumably by the police.
”The bottom drawer. In the back behind some toilet tissue.”
Harry stared for a moment, then turned and walked slowly back through the bedroom and into the living room. On the top shelf of the bookcase there was a hot plate he hadn't noticed before. Beside it was a lone cup with a spoon in it, and next to that a jar of instant coffee. That was it. No kitchen, no stove, no refrigerator. It was the kind of place he might have rented as a freshman at Harvard, when he had no money at all and was there only because he'd earned an academic scholars.h.i.+p.
”His voice-”
Harry turned. Farel stood in the bedroom doorway watching him, his shaved head looking suddenly too large and disproportionate to his body.
”Your brother's voice on the answering machine. You said he sounded frightened.”
”Yes.”
”As if he might be afraid for his life?”
”Yes.”
”Did he mention names? People you would both know. Family? Friends?”
”No, no names.”
”Think carefully, Mr. Addison. You hadn't heard from your brother in a long time. He was distraught.” Farel stepped closer, his words running on. ”People tend to forget things when they're thinking about something else.”