Day of Confession Page 5
“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 titles such as The Last Days of Papal Rome, 1850–1870, 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 classic priest’s vestments—black shirt, black slacks, and black jacket all on one hanger. A pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, 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-shirts, one with the logo of Providence College.
“Everything just as he left it when he went to Assisi,” 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 scholarship.
“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.”
“If there had been names I would have told the Italian police.”
“Did he say why he was going to Assisi?”
“He didn’t say anything about Assisi.”
“What about another city or town?” Farel kept pushing. “Somewhere he had been or might be going?”
“No.”
“Dates? A day. A time that might be important—“
“No,” Harry said. “No dates, no time. Nothing like that.”
Farel’s eyes probed him again. “You are absolutely certain, Mr. Addison…”
“Yes, I’m absolutely certain.”
A sharp knock at the front door drew their attention. It opened, and the eager driver of the gray Fiat—Pilger, Farel called him—entered. He was even younger than Harry had first thought, baby-faced, looking as if he were barely old enough to shave. A priest was with him. Like Pilger, he was young, probably not thirty, and tall, with dark curly hair and black eyes behind black-rimmed glasses.
Farel spoke to him in Italian. There was an exchange, and Farel turned to Harry.
“This is Father Bardoni, Mr. Addison. He works for Cardinal Marsciano. He knew your brother.”
“I speak English, a little, anyway,” Father Bardoni said gently and with a smile. “May I offer my deepest condolences…”
“Thank you…” Harry nodded gratefully. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged Danny in any context outside of murder.
“Thank you,” Harry said again, right now wanting only to get out from under the authoritarian shadow of the police and take Danny home for burial.
“Mr. Addison,” Farel warned, “the investigation is not over. The FBI will follow up for us in the States. They will want to question you further. They will want to talk to Mr. Willis. They will want the names and addresses of relatives, friends, military associates, other people your brother may have known or been involved with.”
“There are no living relatives, Mr. Farel. Danny and I were the last of the family. As for who his friends or associates were, I couldn’t say. I just don’t know that much about his life…. But I’ll tell you something. I want to know what happened as much as you do. Maybe even more. And I intend to find out.”
Harry looked at Farel a beat longer. Then, with a nod to Father Bardoni, he took a final look around the room, a last, private moment to see where and how Danny had lived, and started toward the door.
“Mr. Addison.”
Farel’s voice rasped sharply after him, and Harry turned back.
“I told you when we met that it’s what you haven’t said that interests me…. It still does…. As a lawyer you should know the most insignificant pieces sometimes make the whole…. Things so seemingly unimportant, a person might pass them on without realizing it.”
“I’ve told you everything my brother said to me.”
“So you say, Mr. Addison.” Farel’s gaze narrowed and his eyes grasped Harry’s and held there. “I was washed with the blood of a cardinal. I will not bathe in the blood of a pope.”
10
The Hotel Hassler. Still Tuesday, July 7, 10:00 P.M.
“GREAT! GREAT! I LOVE IT!… HAS HE CALLED in?… No, I didn’t think he would. He’s where?… Hiding?”
Harry stood in his room and laughed out loud. Telephone in hand, his shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up, shoes off, he turned to lean against the edge of the antique desk near the window.
“Hey, he’s twenty-four, he’s a star, let him do what he wants.”
Signing off, Harry hung up and set the phone on the desk among the pile of legal pads, faxes, pencil stubs, half-eaten sandwich, and crumpled notes. When was the last time he’d laughed, or even felt like laughing? But just now he’d laughed, and it felt good.
Dog on the Moon was a monster hit. Fifty-eight million dollars for the three-day holiday weekend, sixteen million more than Warner Brothers’ highest estimates. Studio number crunchers were projecting a total domestic gross of upward of two hundred and fifty million. And as for its writer-director, Jesus Arroyo, the twenty-four-year-old barrio kid from East L.A. Harry had found six years ago in a special writing program for troubled inner-city teenagers and had mentored ever since, his career was blasting off the planet. In little more than three days he had become the new enfant terrible, his golden future assured. Multi-picture contracts worth millions were being overtured to him. So were demands for guest appearances on every major television talk show. And where was baby Jesus in all this? Partying in Vail or Aspen or up the coast looking at Montecito real estate? No? He was—hiding!
Harry laughed again at the purity of it. Intelligent, mature, and forceful as Jesus was as a filmmaker, at heart he was really a shy little boy who, following the biggest weekend of his career, could not be found. Not by the media, not by his friends, his latest girlfriend, or even his agent—whom Harry had been on the phone with. No one.
Except Harry.
Harry knew where he was. Jesus Arroyo Manuel Rodriguez was his full name, and he was at his parents’ house on Escuela Street in East L.A. He was with his mom and his hospital custodian dad, and his brothers and sisters, and cousins and aunts and uncles.
Yes, Harry knew where he was, and he could call him, but he didn’t want to. Let Jesus have his time with his family. He’d know what was going on. If he wanted to be in touch he would be. Much better to let him celebrate in his own way and let all the other stuff, including the congratulatory call from his lawyer, come later. Business did not yet rule his life as it did Harry’s and the lives of most everyone else who was a success in the entertainment world.
There had been eighteen calls waiting for Harry to return when he’d checked in yesterday. But he’d answered none of them, just gone to bed and slept for fifteen hours, emotionally and physically exhausted, the idea of business as usual impossible. But tonight, after his encounter with Farel, work had been a welcome relief. And everyone he’d talked to had congratulated him on the big success of Dog and the bright future of Jesus Arroyo, and had been kind and sympathetic about his own personal tragedy, apologizing for talking business under the circumstances and then—all those things said—talking business.
For a time it had been exhilarating, even comforting, because it took his mind off the present. And then, as he’d ended the last call, he realized no one he had talked to had any idea that he was dealing with the police or that his brother was the prime suspect in the assassination of the cardinal vicar of Rome. And he couldn’t tell them. As much as they were friends, they were business friends, and that was all.
For the first time, it came to him how singular his life really was. With the exception of Byron Willis—who was married and had two young children and still worked as many hours as Harry did and maybe more—he had no genuine friends, no soul mates of any kind. His life moved too quickly for those kinds of relationships to develop. Women were no different. He was part of Hollywood’s inner circle, and beautiful women were everywhere. He used them and they used him; it was all part of the game. A private screening, dinner afterward, sex, and then back to business; meetings, negotiations, telephones, maybe seeing no one at all socially for weeks at a time. His longest affair had been with an actress and lasted little more than six months. He’d been too busy, too preoccupied. And until now it had seemed all right.
Turning from the desk, Harry went to the window and looked out. The last time he’d looked, the city had been a dazzle of early-evening sun. Now it was night, and Rome sparkled. Below him, the Spanish Steps and the Piazza di Spagna beyond teamed with people—a mass congregation of coming and going and just being, with little collections of uniformed police here and there making sure none of it got out of hand.
Farther away he could see a convergence of narrow streets and alleyways, above which the orange-and-cream-colored tile rooftops of apartments, shops, and small hotels fingered out in ancient orderly blocks until they reached the black band of the Tiber. Across it was the lighted dome of St. Peter’s, that part of Rome where he’d been earlier in the day. Beneath it sprawled Jacov Farel’s domain, the Vatican itself. Residence of the pope. Seat of authority for the world’s nine hundred and fifty million Roman Catholics. And the place where Danny had spent the final years of his life.
How could Harry know what those years had been like? Had they been enriching or merely academic? Why Danny had gone from the marines to the priesthood he didn’t know. It was something he had never understood. Not surprising, because at the time they were barely talking, so how could he have asked at all without sounding judgmental? But looking out now at the lighted dome of St. Peter’s, he had to wonder if it was something there, inside the Vatican, that had driven Danny to call him, and afterward sent him to his death.
Who or what had he been so frightened of? And where had it originated? At the moment, the key seemed to be the bombing of the bus. If the police could determine who had done it and why, they would know if Danny himself had been the target. If he had been the target, and the police knew who the suspects were, then they would all be a major step closer
to confirming what Harry still believed in his heart—that Danny was not guilty and had been set up. For some unknown reason altogether.
Once more, he heard the voice and the fear.
“I’m scared, Harry…. I don’t know what to do… or… what will happen next. God help me.”
11
11:30 P.M.
HARRY WOUND HIS WAY DOWN THE VIA CONDOTTI to the Via del Corso and on, unable to sleep, looking in shop windows, just wandering with the late crowd. Before he’d gone out he’d called Byron Willis in L.A., telling him about his meeting with Jacov Farel and alerting him to the probability of a visit from the FBI, then discussing with him something deeply personal—where Danny should be buried.
That twist—one that, in the crush of everything, Harry hadn’t considered—had come in a call from Father Bardoni, the young priest he’d met at Danny’s apartment, informing him that, as far as anyone knew, Father Daniel had no will, and the director of the funeral home needed to advise the funeral director in the town where Danny was to be interred about the arrival of his remains.
“Where would he want to be buried?” Byron Willis had asked gently. And Harry’s only answer was “I don’t know…”
“You have a family plot?” Willis had asked.
“Yes,” Harry had said. In their hometown of Bath, Maine. In a small cemetery overlooking the Kennebec River.
“Would that be something he would like?”
“Byron, I… don’t know…”
“Harry, I love you and I know you’re pained, but this is going to have to be your call.”
Harry had agreed and thanked him and then gone out. Walking, thinking, troubled, even embarrassed. Byron Willis was the closest friend he had, yet Harry had never once spoken to him of his family in more than a passing way. All Byron knew was that Harry and Danny had grown up in a small seacoast town in Maine, that their father had been a dockworker, and that Harry had received an academic scholarship to Harvard when he was seventeen.