Red, White and Dead Part 13

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter. I'm not even sure what it means-the Camorra."

She flinched a little. "Justina!" she called out suddenly, her voice cutting through the stillness. "Justina!" she yelled again. She paused. There were no sounds-not an answer or the patter of footsteps. "Good," Elena said. "She has gone." She placed a hand on my arm. "And we must talk."

18.

E lena led me from the gallery through a few smaller rooms to the other side of the palazzo. She opened a door using a set of keys.

"Wow," I said, following her through the doorway.

She glanced around as if seeing what I was seeing-a series of rooms that led one to another. These rooms were also trimmed in gold and laden with paintings, many of them landscapes of Rome, but there was furniture, too. "Yes, I was going to surprise you with this," she said. "These are the private apartments of Princess Isabelle, one of the Colonna daughters. I was thrilled when I came to work here, because they made me think of you." She looked around a little more, and said distractedly, "Part of Roman Holiday was filmed here. With Audrey Hepburn. But this is not important now. Let me show you something."

She drew me across the room. At the far end, the wall was painted with tiny strokes. When I looked closer, I saw it was a miniature frescoed ballroom scene.

"What do you see?" Elena said, pointing at the wall.

I looked from her to the wall and back again. "What do you mean?"

"Do you see anything in particular? Anything special?"

"It's beautiful."

She nodded. "It is that. But no, I want to show you something else. Something that is very special to me. She pointed toward a depiction of a woman in a pink flounced skirt, then reached out and touched the skirt. And suddenly the painting seemed to move. The skirt popped out in her hands.

"Oh," I said, surprised.

Elena turned and smiled at my reaction, which made her appear younger, more carefree. Holding on to the skirt in the painting-the edge was still connected to the wall-she twisted it, pulled it, and suddenly the entire wall moved, slid aside under her grasp.

"A hidden door," I said. Beyond the door was a room, small with two high windows, the sun streaming inside.

"My office." Elena gestured me in with a hand.

I took a few steps inside. "So this is where you do all your work for the galleria?"

She shook her head. "No. No one knows about this. It was a closet of Isabelle's, used for undergarments and such. Have you heard that every woman should have her own s.p.a.ce, a room of her own?"

I nodded.

"Well, this is mine. I have an office, officially, downstairs with all the other galleria employees..." She shrugged. "There are not so many of us, really. Just my a.s.sistant, my two events planners."

"So why do you need this room?"

"When I first worked here, the palazzo was not open to the public. It was something I worked hard at. I wanted this beautiful place to be seen by everyone. But sometimes it is sad for me to see strange people in the place where I worked for such a long while by myself."

"It's not just yours anymore."

"Yes, exactly. So this is where I come to escape, to think."

I wondered what she had to escape from, but didn't ask. I looked around the office. Two upholstered chairs in a soft blue had been placed below the tiny windows. An eclectic a.s.sortment of sketches-historical fas.h.i.+on drawings apparently-decorated the walls. A little marble table with tapered, spiraled legs sat near the wall, obviously used as a desk.

Elena took a seat behind the desk and opened a round, lacquered box using a set of keys. She reached into the box and removed another smaller box, this one made of brown velvet. "I want to give you something, Isabel."

I had grown to love how she said my name-Ee-sabel.

She put the box on the desk and pushed it across, nodding at me.

"What is it?" I asked.

She nodded at the box again.

I pulled it toward me. It was heavy, as if weighted. I opened it. Inside was a delicate yellow gold chain with oval links. Dangling from the chain was a stone, about the size of a small egg. The stone was amber and intricately beveled so that the sun from outside hit it and sent spikes of orange light around the room.

I gasped a little as I lifted the necklace from the box. I looked at my aunt.

Elena smiled. "It was my mother's."

"Grandma O's?"

She nodded. She got up from her desk, walked around it, and took the necklace from my hands. She undid the clasp and stood behind me, fastening it behind my head.

The necklace fell between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and the stone hit my ribs with a light thud, the sun glittering through it again. I was mesmerized by it. "It's beautiful. Are you sure you're okay to give it to me?"

"Absolutely. It's almost your birthday, and I do not wear it anymore." She took her place behind her desk again and looked at the necklace, c.o.c.king her head a bit. "It makes me too sad to wear it."

"Why?"

"It is difficult when your family is gone, when you are the only one left."

We both were silent, I met her eyes. I wanted to say, "Are you the only one left?" but I had already asked that question. So I returned to the one left unanswered. "Are we Camorra?"

She gazed at her hands, squeezing them into fists, then unclenching them. "Isabel, please be careful when you say-" she cleared her throat "-Camorra."

"Why?"

"The Camorra is not something to play around with."

"I'm not playing. I'm just asking you, are we Camorra?"

Now she looked annoyed; her mouth pursed. "What do you know of this, the Camorra?"

It was my turn to give the Italian shrug. "I know it's an organized-crime syndicate. Kind of like the Cosa Nostra group from The G.o.dfather."

She laughed but without mirth. "The Camorra is not like Cosa Nostra. Not at all."

"What are they like?"

"Dangerous." She said the word plainly. "You must be very careful."

"Of what? I'm not even sure what we're talking about here."

She sighed. "I wanted to give you that necklace because it is true that it makes me too sad, and I do not wear it anymore. But also I wanted you to remember your grandmother and her family. That stone has been handed down for generations. And yes, my mother's family was traditionally a Camorra family. When they lived in Naples, they were one of the leading families of the Camorra. But ultimately, many members of the family did not want to be defined by the Camorra. Oriana's mother and father were such members and they moved to the United States. They wanted their daughter to be raised differently. Which is why they allowed her to marry Kelvin, who wasn't Camorra or even Italian."

"But Kelvin was killed by two Camorra members."

She glanced around, as if someone was listening. "Who told you that?"

"My friend."

"Yes, well, your friend is correct. The men who killed my father were Camorra."

"Why did they kill him?"

"I do not like to talk about the Camorra, Isabel." She cleared her throat. "But in answer to your question, Are you Camorra?-the answer is no. You are not born into the Camorra. You choose to be involved or you don't. And you do not."

"I still don't understand what it means, the Camorra."

"Nor do you need to know, Isabel. Please just leave it be. It's what we all should have done."

"We?" I said. "Who do you mean by 'we'?"

She shook her head, looked at me sadly, then glanced at her watch, a small, exquisite piece of jewelry with a black face studded with little diamonds. "We must go. The princess's apartments are only shown to certain groups who book a tour in advance. And I have such a group coming in right now."

She stood. Reluctantly, I did the same. "Could we get together later?" I asked. "For coffee or dinner?"

"I am not sure, Isabel. I will let you know."

"Or tomorrow?"

She led me from the room, locking the door behind her. "Yes, possibly tomorrow."

Our heels clacked on the marble floor as we pa.s.sed through the gallery. It seemed less majestic, less fascinating somehow now that Elena didn't have the spring in her step, the joy in her eyes.

A minute later, I was outside on the street. "Goodbye, Isabel," Elena said. And then she closed the door.

19.

W hen I got back to the campus, most of the students were studying for an exam. The place was quiet, the campus snack bar filled with students staring into their laptops. I decided to follow suit and do some studying of my own.

I brought my laptop into the snack bar and found an empty table at the back. As I waited for it to power up, I lifted the necklace that Elena had given me and studied the amber stone. It was beautiful, seemed mysterious. I liked that I now owned something that had been in my family for a long time.

Once my laptop was up and running, I did an Internet search for helicopter crash. Even though such a crash sounded like a rare thing to me, I learned that they happen every day somewhere in the world. They almost always resulted in serious injuries or death. There were even lawyers who specialized in nothing but helicopter crashes. Usually pilot error was the cause of the crash, although it could also be a defective part or design, particularly if the helicopter was made from rebuilt or worn parts. And what my mom had been told-that crashes into large bodies of water often result in the human remains being unrecoverable-was true.

I read some more and studied photos of crashes until I began to feel ill, imagining my father inside those wrecked twists of metal.

After I closed the search engine I checked my e-mail. There was one from Maggie, and the subject line read, I GOT A TICKET!!! I'LL BE THERE TOMORROW!!

I clapped my hands, drawing a few frowns from the studying students. I read quickly through Maggie's e-mail, jotting down the information about her flight. At the end she'd written, There's one thing you have to do for me-book us a hotel. I love Loyola, but I am too old to be staying in a dorm, and so are you. I know, I know, you don't have any cash but I do. Consider it a birthday gift. Pick any place you want.

I thought of the hotel where Elena and I had met. I found their Web site and booked a room for the next day, wincing at the rate and thanking G.o.d for good friends.

I went to the vending machines and bought a bottle of water. When I got back to my table, a message light had popped up on my phone. I called my voice mail. The message was from Mayburn. "I've been trying to find Dez Romano," he said, with no other greeting, "but he's keeping a low profile. Been looking for someone named Ransom, too, but I'm not getting anything. Probably a nickname. I did find that guy-R. J. Ohman. He wasn't technically a Fed. He was a flight instructor who did civilian contracting for the FBI. Retired now. Lives in Bozeman. I've got a number for you." He listed it. "Let me know if you want me to call him."

But this was one call I wanted to make myself. I looked at my watch. It was morning in Bozeman. I took my cell phone outside and called. The phone rang and rang and rang. No answer. No voice mail. I tried it again. Same thing. I went back inside and texted Maybu. You're sure that's the right number? I tried it but it just rings and there's no machine.

A minute later, he texted me back. I just tried, too. Got the same thing. I'll see if I can dig up another number or e-mail, but it was pretty tough to find that one.

I sat back in my chair and tried not to be frustrated. I picked up my cell phone again and went back outside. A basketball court of sorts had been set up there. The hoops were literally baskets with the bottoms cut open. The court itself was red earth, and the guys playing on it kicked up puffs of red dust.

I sat on a stone wall and watched them for a minute, then tried R. J. Ohman's number again. I kept getting the same endless ringing.

I called my mom on the private phone number for her charity. So few people knew about that number that I figured if Dez and Michael were tapping any phones that wouldn't be considered a place I might call.

"Izzy!" she said, "I was just about to call you. Do you want to come over for brunch? We have pastries from Red Hen Bakery, and Spence is going to make those decadent cream-cheese omelets." There was a shout in the background. "What's that, Spence?" my mother called. "Oh, yes," she said, speaking into the phone again, "and he says to tell you later that he's making some kind of c.o.c.ktail that's got kiwi juice in it." She dropped her voice. "That doesn't sound good, but you know Spence when he gets on these kicks."

I looked around the snack bar, full of students a decade younger than me, and suddenly, I missed Chicago. "I can't come over, Mom. You won't believe this, but I'm in Italy."

"What? Italy? When did you leave town?"

"Sat.u.r.day afternoon. I didn't have anything going on with the job search, and I found out the Loyola campus in Rome had cheap rates for alums so I just went for it."

"Spence, Charlie," she said, sounding as if she was calling over her shoulder. "Izzy is in Rome."

"Fabulous!" I heard Spence say.

"What?" Charlie said, then he got on the phone. "Hey, Iz."

"How's the new job at the radio station?"

"Awesome. I love it."

"That's great."

"Yeah, it is." A pause. "What are you doing over there?"

"Visiting with Aunt Elena. And Maggie is coming over tomorrow."

"Find out anything I should know?"