it?
The shopping area both women knew well was around the Spanish Steps and Via del Corso. That was also the area with all the big designer boutiques—Prada, Armani, Valentino—but they had neither time nor reason to shop there, which was in itself a sacrifice.
Get in. Get out. Get Marcello.
That was their motto.
The first thing they bought were international calling cards. No identification required. Angie had to talk to Paavo. Eventually, they found a pay phone in the lobby of an office building. In this age of cell phones, pay phones were scarce in Rome.
Cat went first. Since it was very late at night back home, she didn’t call Serefina. That would have aroused Salvatore’s suspicions. She phoned her husband. To her surprise, Charles didn’t answer.
“That’s strange,” Cat said as she turned the phone over to Angie. “Charles must be staying out all night. That man! ‘When Cat’s away, the mice will play,’ they always say.”
“Charles is no player,” Angie chuckled at the idea. Charles was about as exciting as a bowl of cream of wheat. She began to press in the multitude of numbers required with her prepaid phone card.
“I wonder if he’s gone off with some buddies,” Cat said, her irritation increasing at the thought. “Maybe to Reno. He does have a taste for poker. Damn! I’m completely miserable and he goes off to have fun. Wait until I get my hands on him!”
Angie stopped listening to Cat’s rants as her call connected.
“Angie! It’s about time! Do you know how worried—” Paavo stopped himself. “I’m sorry. Are you all right? Where are you?”
Angie assured him they were fine. She gave him the name of their hotel, as well as Da Vinci’s and the Hotel Leonardo, which he’d already discovered from Piccoletti’s store manager. With every other breath she assured him that she and Cat were quite safe, that she loved him, missed him, and he needn’t worry. They hadn’t caught up with Marcello yet, but would soon.
“Angie, it’s not Marcello you’re following. It’s Rocco. And their mother, Flora Piccoletti, was murdered the night after the murder in the Sea Cliff.” Paavo sounded simultaneously upset, worried, tense, and angry. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s nothing you two can deal with. Come home!”
“Oh, my God!” Angie clutched the phone tighter. “I can’t believe it. His mother?”
“What?” Cat tugged on her arm.
Angie turned her back to continue talking to Paavo a moment longer, then handed Cat the phone. “Paavo needs to talk to you.”
As Cat answered Paavo’s questions about all she’d seen and done in the Sea Cliff house on the day of the murder, Angie walked around the lobby. One wall was covered with granite slabs, the wall opposite it mirrored. From a particular angle, the mirrors showed the street. As she watched the passersby, she noticed the goateed man among them, the same man who’d been outside their hotel. Not only did she recognize his face, even though he now was wearing sunglasses, but she definitely recognized his ugly blue jacket, black shirt, and clashing brown slacks. He stood across the street, smoking a cigarette and watching the office building.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. He was following them. Who could he be? He didn’t look like anyone who would be working for the police.
Alarmed, she wanted out of there. She studied the wall directory of the building. As soon as it sounded as if Cat had finished answering questions, Angie hit an elevator button, then pulled the phone from her. “Paavo, we’ve got to go”—her mind raced for an excuse that wouldn’t worry him—“my phone card is almost out of minutes. But we’ll be home soon. I promise.” A bong told her the elevator had arrived. “I love you! ’Bye!”
She grabbed Cat and shoved her in the compartment, then hit B, for basement. “What are you doing?” Cat screeched.
“We were followed!”
The basement parking garage exit took
The shopping area both women knew well was around the Spanish Steps and Via del Corso. That was also the area with all the big designer boutiques—Prada, Armani, Valentino—but they had neither time nor reason to shop there, which was in itself a sacrifice.
Get in. Get out. Get Marcello.
That was their motto.
The first thing they bought were international calling cards. No identification required. Angie had to talk to Paavo. Eventually, they found a pay phone in the lobby of an office building. In this age of cell phones, pay phones were scarce in Rome.
Cat went first. Since it was very late at night back home, she didn’t call Serefina. That would have aroused Salvatore’s suspicions. She phoned her husband. To her surprise, Charles didn’t answer.
“That’s strange,” Cat said as she turned the phone over to Angie. “Charles must be staying out all night. That man! ‘When Cat’s away, the mice will play,’ they always say.”
“Charles is no player,” Angie chuckled at the idea. Charles was about as exciting as a bowl of cream of wheat. She began to press in the multitude of numbers required with her prepaid phone card.
“I wonder if he’s gone off with some buddies,” Cat said, her irritation increasing at the thought. “Maybe to Reno. He does have a taste for poker. Damn! I’m completely miserable and he goes off to have fun. Wait until I get my hands on him!”
Angie stopped listening to Cat’s rants as her call connected.
“Angie! It’s about time! Do you know how worried—” Paavo stopped himself. “I’m sorry. Are you all right? Where are you?”
Angie assured him they were fine. She gave him the name of their hotel, as well as Da Vinci’s and the Hotel Leonardo, which he’d already discovered from Piccoletti’s store manager. With every other breath she assured him that she and Cat were quite safe, that she loved him, missed him, and he needn’t worry. They hadn’t caught up with Marcello yet, but would soon.
“Angie, it’s not Marcello you’re following. It’s Rocco. And their mother, Flora Piccoletti, was murdered the night after the murder in the Sea Cliff.” Paavo sounded simultaneously upset, worried, tense, and angry. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s nothing you two can deal with. Come home!”
“Oh, my God!” Angie clutched the phone tighter. “I can’t believe it. His mother?”
“What?” Cat tugged on her arm.
Angie turned her back to continue talking to Paavo a moment longer, then handed Cat the phone. “Paavo needs to talk to you.”
As Cat answered Paavo’s questions about all she’d seen and done in the Sea Cliff house on the day of the murder, Angie walked around the lobby. One wall was covered with granite slabs, the wall opposite it mirrored. From a particular angle, the mirrors showed the street. As she watched the passersby, she noticed the goateed man among them, the same man who’d been outside their hotel. Not only did she recognize his face, even though he now was wearing sunglasses, but she definitely recognized his ugly blue jacket, black shirt, and clashing brown slacks. He stood across the street, smoking a cigarette and watching the office building.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. He was following them. Who could he be? He didn’t look like anyone who would be working for the police.
Alarmed, she wanted out of there. She studied the wall directory of the building. As soon as it sounded as if Cat had finished answering questions, Angie hit an elevator button, then pulled the phone from her. “Paavo, we’ve got to go”—her mind raced for an excuse that wouldn’t worry him—“my phone card is almost out of minutes. But we’ll be home soon. I promise.” A bong told her the elevator had arrived. “I love you! ’Bye!”
She grabbed Cat and shoved her in the compartment, then hit B, for basement. “What are you doing?” Cat screeched.
“We were followed!”
The basement parking garage exit took
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