Day of Confession

  Two desks were at right angles in front of him. Roscani was behind one—a framed photograph of his wife and three teenage boys next to a computer whose screen was a mass of brightly colored icons. An attractive woman with long red hair sat at the other, like a court stenographer, entering the text of what they said into another computer. The sound of the keys as she typed made a dull staccato against the noisy grind of an aging air conditioner under the lone window, where Pio stood, leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, expressionless.

  Roscani lit a cigarette. “Tell me about Miguel Valera.”

  “I don’t know a Miguel Valera.”

  “He was a close friend of your brother.”

  “I’m not familiar with my brother’s friends.”

  “He never spoke of Miguel Valera.” Roscani made a note on the pad next to him.

  “Not to me.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Detective, my brother and I were not close…. We hadn’t spoken for a long time…”

  Roscani stared a moment, then turned to his computer and punched something up on the screen. He waited for the information to come up, then turned back.

  “Your telephone number is 310-555-1719.”

  “Yes…” Harry’s defensive antenna suddenly went up. His home number was unlisted. They could get it, he knew. But why?

  “Your brother called you last Friday at four-sixteen in the morning Rome time.”

  That was it. They had a record of Danny’s calls.

  “Yes, he did. But I wasn’t home. He left word on my answering machine.”

  “Word. You mean a message?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  Harry folded one leg over the other, then counted to five and looked at Roscani. “—That’s what I wanted to talk to you about in the first place.”

  Roscani said nothing. Just waited for Harry to continue.

  “He was frightened. He said he didn’t know what to do. Or what would happen next.”

  “What did he mean by happen next?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He apologized for calling the way he did. And said he would try and call back.”

  “Did he?”

  “No.”

  “What was he frightened of?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever it was, it was enough to make him call me after eight years.”

  “You had not spoken in eight years?”

  Harry nodded.

  Roscani and Pio exchanged glances.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Our mother’s funeral. Two years before that.”

  “You had not spoken with your brother in all that time. And then he calls you, and very shortly afterward he is dead.”

  “—Yes…”

  “Was there a particular reason you and your brother were at odds?”

  “—No. Some things just build up over time.”

  “Why were you the one he chose to call now?”

  “He said… there was no one else he could talk to…”

  Once again Roscani and Pio exchanged glances.

  “We would like to hear the message on your machine.”

  “I erased it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the tape was full. It wouldn’t have recorded anything else.”

  “Then there is no proof there was a message. Or that you or someone in your home did not actually speak with him.”

  Abruptly Harry sat forward. “What are you insinuating?”

  “That perhaps you are not telling the truth.”

  Harry had to work to hold down his anger. “First of all, no one was in my house when the call came. Secondly, when it came in, I was at Warner Brothers studios in Burbank, California, talking about a movie contract for a writer-director I represent and about the opening of his new film. For your information, it just came out this past weekend.”

  “What is the name of this film?”

  “Dog on the Moon,” Harry said flatly.

  Roscani stared for a moment, then scratched his head and made a note on the pad in front of him.

  “And the name of this writer-director,” he said without looking up.

  “Jesus Arroyo.”

  Now Roscani did look up.

  “A Spaniard.”

  “Hispanic-American. A Mexican to you. Born and grown up in East L.A.” Harry was getting angry. They were pressing him without telling him anything. Acting as if they thought not only Danny but also he were guilty of something.

  Roscani stubbed his cigarette into an ashtray in front of him. “Why did your brother murder Cardinal Parma.”

  “What—?” Harry was stunned, taken completely off guard.

  “Why did your brother kill Rosario Parma, the cardinal vicar of Rome?”

  “That’s absurd!” Harry looked at Pio. Nothing showed. He was the same as he’d been before, arms still folded over his chest, leaning against the wall by the window.

  Roscani picked up another cigarette and held it. “Before Father Daniel joined the Church he was a member of the United States Marine Corps.”

  “Yes.” Harry was still reeling, trying to grasp the magnitude of their accusations. Clear thinking was impossible.

  “He trained with an elite unit. He was a highly decorated marksman.”

  “There are thousands of highly decorated marksmen. He was a priest, for God’s sake!”

  “A priest with the skill to put a tight three-shot pattern into a man’s chest at two hundred yards.” Roscani stared at him. “Your brother was an excellent shot. He won competitions. We have his records, Mr. Addison.”

  “That doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “I’ll ask you again about Miguel Valera.”

  “I said I never heard of him.”

  “I think you have…”

  “No, never. Not until you brought his name up.”

  The stenographer’s fingers were running steadily over the keyboard, taking it all down; what Roscani said, what he said, everything.

  “Then I will tell you—Miguel Valera was a Spanish Communist from Madrid. He rented an apartment across the Piazza San Giovanni two weeks before the shooting. It was from that apartment the shots were fired that killed Cardinal Parma. Valera was still there when we arrived. Hanging from a pipe in the bathroom, a belt around his neck….” Roscani tapped the cigarette’s filter end on the desk, compacting the tobacco. “Do you know what a Sako TRG 21 is, Mr. Addi-son?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a Finnish-made sniper rifle. The weapon used to kill Cardinal Parma. It was found wrapped in a towel behind the couch in the same apartment. Valera’s fingerprints were on it.”

  “Just his…?”

  “Yes.”

  Harry sat back, hands crossed in front of his chin, his eyes on Roscani. “Then how can you accuse my brother of the murder?”

  “Someone else was in the apartment, Mr. Addison. Someone who wore gloves. Who tried to make us think Valera acted alone.” Roscani slowly put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, the match still alive in his hand. “What is the price of a Sako TRG 21?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “About four thousand U.S. dollars, Mr. Addison.” Roscani twisted the burning match between his thumb and forefinger, putting it out, then dropped it in the ashtray.

  “The apartment had been rented at nearly five hundred U.S. dollars a week. Valera paid for it himself in cash…. Miguel Valera was a lifelong Communist. A stonemason who worked little. He had a wife and five children he could barely afford to feed and clothe.”

  Harry stared at him, unbelieving. “Are you intimating that my brother was the other person in the room? That he bought the gun and gave Valera money for the rent?”

  “How could he, Mr. Addison? Your brother was a priest. He was poor. He was paid only a small stipend by the Church. He had very little money at all. Not even a ba
nk account…. He did not have four thousand dollars for a rifle. Or the equivalent of one thousand dollars in cash to pay for the rental of an apartment.”

  “You keep contradicting yourself, Detective. You tell me the only fingerprints on the murder weapon belonged to Valera and in the same breath want me to believe it was my brother who pulled the trigger. And then you carefully explain how he could afford neither the gun nor the apartment. Where are you coming from?”

  “The money came from someone else, Mr. Addison.”

  “Who?” Harry glanced angrily at Pio, then back to Roscani.

  The policeman stared for a moment and then his right hand came up, smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers, the fingers pointed directly at Harry.

  “You, Mr. Addison.”

  Harry’s mouth went dry. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. This was why they had so carefully met him at the airport and brought him to the Questura. Whatever had happened, Danny had become a prime suspect and now they were trying to tie him in. He wasn’t going to let them. Abruptly he stood, pushing his chair back.

  “I want to call the U.S. Embassy. Right now.”

  “Tell him,” Roscani said in Italian.

  Pio moved from the window and crossed the room. “We did know you were coming to Rome. And what flight you were on, but it wasn’t for the reason you thought.” Pio’s manner was easier than Roscani’s, the way he stood, the rhythm of his speech—or maybe it was just that he sounded American.

  “Late Sunday we requested help from the FBI. By the time they found where you were, you were on your way here.” He sat down on the edge of Roscani’s desk. “If you want to talk to your embassy you have every right. But understand that when you do, you will very quickly be talking to the LEGATS.”

  “Not without a lawyer.” Harry knew what the LEGATS was. It stood for legal attachés, the name for FBI special agents assigned to U.S. embassies overseas who work in liaison with the local police. But the threat made no difference. Overwhelmed and shocked as he was, he wasn’t about to let anyone, the Rome police or the FBI, continue this kind of questioning without someone very well versed in Italian criminal law standing beside him.

  “Richieda un mandato di cattura.” Roscani looked at Pio.

  Harry reacted angrily. “Talk in English.”

  Roscani stood and walked around his desk. “I told him to call for an arrest warrant.”

  “On what charge?”

  “—A moment.” Pio looked at Roscani and nodded toward the door. Roscani ignored him and kept staring at Harry, acting as if Harry himself had killed Cardinal Parma.

  Taking him aside, Pio said something in Italian. Roscani hesitated. Then Pio said something else. Roscani relented and they went out.

  Harry watched the door close behind them and turned away. The long-haired woman at the keyboard was staring at him. Ignoring her, he walked to the window. It was something to do. Through its heavy glass he could see the narrow cobblestone street below and across it a brick building. At the far end was what looked like a fire station. It felt like a prison.

  What the hell had he walked into? What if they were right and Danny had been involved with the assassination? But that was crazy. Or was it? As a teenager Danny had had problems with the law. Not much, but some, like a lot of restless kids. Petty theft, vandalism, fighting, just generally getting into trouble. It was one of the reasons he had gone into the marines, as a way to get some discipline in his life. But that had been years ago; he was a grown man when he died and had been a priest for a long time. To envision him as a killer was impossible. Yet—and Harry didn’t want to think about it, but it was true—he would have learned how in the Marine Corps. And then there was the phone call. What if that had been why he had called. What if he had done it and there was no one else he could talk to?

  There was a sound and the door opened and Pio came in alone. Harry looked past him, waiting for Roscani to follow but he didn’t.

  “You have hotel reservations, Mr. Addison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Hassler.”

  “I will arrange to have your luggage taken there.” Reaching into his jacket, Pio took out Harry’s passport and handed it to him. “You’ll need it when you check in.”

  Harry stared at him. “I can go…?”

  “You must be tired—from your grief and from your flight.” Pio smiled gently. “And from a confrontation with the police you were hardly prepared for. From our view necessary perhaps, but not very hospitable. I would like to explain what has happened and what is happening…. Just the two of us, Mr. Addison… . A quiet place at the end of the street. Do you like Chinese?”

  Harry kept staring. Good cop, bad cop. Just like in the U.S. And right now Pio was the good one, the friend on Harry’s side. It was why Roscani had led the questioning. But it was clear they weren’t quite done with him and this was their way of continuing it. What it meant was, bottom line, he had no choice.

  “Yeah,” he said finally, “I like Chinese.”

  6

  “MERRY CHRISTMAS from the Addisons”

  HARRY COULD STILL SEE THE CARD, THE DECorated tree in the background, the posed faces smiling from it, everyone wearing a Santa Claus hat. He had a copy of it somewhere at home, tucked in a drawer, its once bright colors slowing fading, now almost pastels. It was the last time they were all together. His mother and father would have been in their mid-thirties. He was eleven, Danny eight, and their sister, Madeline, almost six. Her sixth birthday came on January first, and two weeks later she died.

  It was a Sunday afternoon, bright and clear and very cold. He and Danny and Madeline were playing on a frozen pond near their home. Some older kids were nearby playing hockey. Several of them skated toward them, chasing after the puck.

  Harry could still hear the sharp crack of the ice. It was like a pistol shot. He saw the hockey players stop short. And then the ice just broke away where Madeline was. She never made a sound, just went under. Harry screamed to Danny to run for help, and he threw off his coat and went in after her. But there was nothing but icy black.

  It was nearly dark when the fire department divers brought her up, the sky beyond the leafless trees behind them a streak of red.

  Harry and Danny and their mother and father waited with a priest in the snow as they came across the ice toward them. The fire chief, a tall man with a mustache, had taken her body from the divers and wrapped it in a blanket and held it in his arms as he led the way.

  Along the shore, a safe distance away, the hockey players, their parents and brother and sisters, neighbors, strangers watched in silence.

  Harry started forward, but his father took him firmly by the shoulders and held him back. When he reached shore, the fire chief stopped, and the priest said the last rites over the blanket without opening it. And when he had finished, the fire chief, followed by the divers still with their air tanks and wet suits, walked on to where a white ambulance was waiting. Madeline was put inside and the doors were closed and the ambulance drove off into the darkness.

  Harry followed the red dots of taillights until they were gone. Finally he turned. Danny was there, eight years old, shivering with the cold, looking at him.

  “Madeline is dead,” Danny said, as if he were trying to understand.

  “Yes… ,” Harry whispered.

  It was Sunday, January the fifteenth, nineteen seventy-three. They were in Bath, Maine.

  PIO WAS RIGHT, Ristorante Cinese, Yu Yuan, on Via delle Quattro Fontane was a quiet place at the end of the street. At least it was quiet where he and Harry sat, at a highly lacquered back table away from the red-lanterned front door and spill of noontime customers, a pot of tea and large bottle of mineral water between them.

  “You know what Semtex is, Mr. Addison?”

  “An explosive.”

  “Cyclotrimethylene, pentaerythritol tetronitrate, and plastic. When it goes off it leaves a distinctive nitrate residue along with part
icles of plastique. It also tears metal into tiny pieces. It was the substance used to blow up the Assisi bus. That fact was established by technical experts early this morning and will be announced publicly this afternoon.”

  The information Pio was giving him was privileged, and Harry knew it, part of what Pio had promised. But it told him little or nothing about their case against Danny. Pio was just doing what Roscani had done, giving him only enough information to keep things going.

  “You know what blew up the bus. Do you know who did it?”

  “No.”

  “Was my brother the target?”

  “We don’t know. All we know for certain is that we now have two different investigations. The murder of a cardinal and the bombing of a tour bus.”

  An aging Oriental waiter came up, glancing at Harry and grinning and exchanging pleasantries in Italian with Pio. Pio ordered for both by rote, and the waiter clapped his hands, bowed crisply, and left. Pio looked back to Harry.

  “There are, or rather, were, five ranking Vatican prelates who serve as the pope’s closest advisers. Cardinal Parma was one. Cardinal Marsciano is another….” Pio filled his glass with mineral water, watching Harry for a reaction that never came. “Did you know your brother was Cardinal Marsciano’s private secretary?”

  “No…”

  “The position gave him direct access to the inner workings of the Holy See. Among them, the pope’s itinerary. His engagements—where, when, for how long. Who his guests would be. Where he would enter and exit what building. The security arrangements. Swiss Guards or police or both, how many—Father Daniel never mentioned things like that?”

  “I told you, we weren’t close.”

  Pio studied him. “Why?”

  Harry didn’t respond.

  “You hadn’t spoken to your brother for eight years. What was the reason?”

  “There’s no point getting into it.”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “I told you. Some things just build up over time. It’s old business. Family things. It’s boring. Hardly about murder.”