officer. You should surely know more about this than me.”
“I should,” Leo Falcone conceded. “And tomorrow?”
She looked at the pasta pot and the cloud of steam finding the window, working its way out towards the iron angel, whose flame burned once more, flickering in the wind, devouring gas they could ill afford. Raffaella Arcangelo wondered how many meals she’d cooked over the years, how much of her life had been spent serving in this kitchen.
“Tomorrow they can feed themselves for a change,” she said.
13
A RMS GINGERLY INTERLOCKED, NIC COSTA AND EMILY Deacon walked the short distance from the small apartment in Castello to the waterfront by Giardini. It was just ten minutes from here to Peroni’s restaurant in the backstreets, beyond the Arsenale. They needed some time to themselves. More than the evening’s dinner with Peroni and Teresa — and Leo Falcone along as self-invited guest — would allow.
Emily wound herself free and took a table outside a small café. They ordered a couple of overpriced coffees, the cost enhanced by the unencumbered view of the lagoon. The deep yellow stain of the sun was now flooding down from the mountains that rippled the distant horizon of terra firma and everything — the lagoon, the city, the reflections of buildings in the dappled water — took on its warm, rich hue. Sometimes, when he was alone with nothing better to do, Costa would catch the slow vaporetto, number one, up the Grand Canal just to catch the moment, and watch the quiet wonder it created in the eyes of his fellow travellers, even, from time to time, a few Venetians.
“Tell me about the case, Nic,” she suggested. “As much as you can. It must be important if they’re cancelling leave.”
Costa couldn’t forget that Emily was making a fundamental shift in her career. Trying to put away her lost career, as an FBI agent kicked out of the Bureau for insubordination, and replace it with a future as an architect, in a foreign country too. All the same, her past still lived with her. She was always curious, always interested in a challenge. It was one of the facets of her complex, multifaceted personality that intrigued him.
“It’s the usual story. A family affair. A man kills his wife. Then either kills himself, or dies accidentally. We don’t know yet.”
“It sounds straightforward.”
But this was Venice, he thought. Or, more accurately, Murano, a place that welcomed the prying eyes of investigators even less.
“I think so. By the way, we have an invitation to a party tomorrow night. Hugo Massiter. The Englishman with the boat. Does the name ring a bell?”
She looked baffled. “No. Should it?”
“Five years ago. There was a scandal.”
“Five years ago I was in Washington trying to be someone else,” she said quickly. “And when aren’t there scandals?”
He must have looked downcast.
“I’m sorry, Nic. Do you really think I should have heard of him?”
“I have,” he replied. “And I want to know the details. Before we meet him again. He sees himself as a player in the city. He’s buying the Arcangeli’s island on Murano, where those people died. Tomorrow night we’re invited to a party there. He’s renovating it apparently. It’s going to be a gallery.”
Emily’s forehead grew even more furrowed. “This is the Isola degli Arcangeli you’re talking about?”
“You’ve heard of that?”
“Anyone who’s studied modern Italian architecture has heard of it. It’s one of the great follies of the twentieth century.” Her blue eyes were bright with anticipation. “That place is supposed to be amazing. They’ve kept the public out for years. I thought it was unsafe.”
“Not with the work Hugo Massiter’s having done.”
“He’s buying it? I would have thought a site like that would end up being the property of the city. It’s a kind of local monument. An odd one, a forgotten one, but all the same…”
Costa recalled Massiter’s quiet
“I should,” Leo Falcone conceded. “And tomorrow?”
She looked at the pasta pot and the cloud of steam finding the window, working its way out towards the iron angel, whose flame burned once more, flickering in the wind, devouring gas they could ill afford. Raffaella Arcangelo wondered how many meals she’d cooked over the years, how much of her life had been spent serving in this kitchen.
“Tomorrow they can feed themselves for a change,” she said.
13
A RMS GINGERLY INTERLOCKED, NIC COSTA AND EMILY Deacon walked the short distance from the small apartment in Castello to the waterfront by Giardini. It was just ten minutes from here to Peroni’s restaurant in the backstreets, beyond the Arsenale. They needed some time to themselves. More than the evening’s dinner with Peroni and Teresa — and Leo Falcone along as self-invited guest — would allow.
Emily wound herself free and took a table outside a small café. They ordered a couple of overpriced coffees, the cost enhanced by the unencumbered view of the lagoon. The deep yellow stain of the sun was now flooding down from the mountains that rippled the distant horizon of terra firma and everything — the lagoon, the city, the reflections of buildings in the dappled water — took on its warm, rich hue. Sometimes, when he was alone with nothing better to do, Costa would catch the slow vaporetto, number one, up the Grand Canal just to catch the moment, and watch the quiet wonder it created in the eyes of his fellow travellers, even, from time to time, a few Venetians.
“Tell me about the case, Nic,” she suggested. “As much as you can. It must be important if they’re cancelling leave.”
Costa couldn’t forget that Emily was making a fundamental shift in her career. Trying to put away her lost career, as an FBI agent kicked out of the Bureau for insubordination, and replace it with a future as an architect, in a foreign country too. All the same, her past still lived with her. She was always curious, always interested in a challenge. It was one of the facets of her complex, multifaceted personality that intrigued him.
“It’s the usual story. A family affair. A man kills his wife. Then either kills himself, or dies accidentally. We don’t know yet.”
“It sounds straightforward.”
But this was Venice, he thought. Or, more accurately, Murano, a place that welcomed the prying eyes of investigators even less.
“I think so. By the way, we have an invitation to a party tomorrow night. Hugo Massiter. The Englishman with the boat. Does the name ring a bell?”
She looked baffled. “No. Should it?”
“Five years ago. There was a scandal.”
“Five years ago I was in Washington trying to be someone else,” she said quickly. “And when aren’t there scandals?”
He must have looked downcast.
“I’m sorry, Nic. Do you really think I should have heard of him?”
“I have,” he replied. “And I want to know the details. Before we meet him again. He sees himself as a player in the city. He’s buying the Arcangeli’s island on Murano, where those people died. Tomorrow night we’re invited to a party there. He’s renovating it apparently. It’s going to be a gallery.”
Emily’s forehead grew even more furrowed. “This is the Isola degli Arcangeli you’re talking about?”
“You’ve heard of that?”
“Anyone who’s studied modern Italian architecture has heard of it. It’s one of the great follies of the twentieth century.” Her blue eyes were bright with anticipation. “That place is supposed to be amazing. They’ve kept the public out for years. I thought it was unsafe.”
“Not with the work Hugo Massiter’s having done.”
“He’s buying it? I would have thought a site like that would end up being the property of the city. It’s a kind of local monument. An odd one, a forgotten one, but all the same…”
Costa recalled Massiter’s quiet
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