Allan Folsom - Day Of Confession

'My responsibilities are different from those of the Italian police. They protect a city. The Vatican is its own state. A country inside Italy. Therefore I am accountable for the safety of a nation.'

Instinctively Harry glanced around. They were alone. No waiter, no barman, no customers. Just he and Farel.

'The blood of Cardinal Parma splattered my shirt and my face when he was shot. It also fell on the pope, soiling his vestments.'

'I'm here to do anything I can to help.'

Farel studied him carefully. 'I know you talked to the police. I know what you told them. I read the transcripts. I read the report Ispettore Capo Pio wrote after he met with you privately… It's what you didn't tell them that interests me.'

'What I didn't tell them?'

'Or what they didn't ask. Or what you left out when they did, purposely, or because you didn't remember or perhaps because it didn't seem important.'

Farel's presence, considerable before, now seemed to fill the entire room. Harry's hands were suddenly damp and there was sweat on his forehead. Again he looked around. Still no one. It was after eight. What time did the staff come to work? Or people come in off the street for breakfast or coffee? – Or had the trattoria been opened for Farel alone?

'You seem uncomfortable, Mr Addison…'

'Maybe it's because I'm tired of talking to the police when I've done nothing and you people keep acting like I have…

I was happy to meet with you because I believe my brother is innocent. To show you I'm willing to cooperate any way I can.'

'That's not the only reason, Mr Addison…'

'What do you mean?'

'Your clients. You have to protect them. If you had called the United States Embassy as you threatened – or arranged for an Italian lawyer to represent you in your talks with the police – you knew there was a very good chance the media would find out… Not only would our suspicions about your brother be made public, they would learn about you as well. Who you are, and what you do, and who you personally represent. People who would not want to be linked, however distantly or innocently, to the murder of the cardinal vicar of Rome.'

'Who do you think I represent that would-?'

Farel cut him off abruptly, naming half a dozen of his superstar Hollywood clients in rapid succession.

'Should I keep on, Mr Addison?'

'How did you get that information?' Harry was shocked and outraged. The identity of his firm's clients was carefully guarded. It meant Farel had not only been digging into his background but also had connections in Los Angeles capable of getting him whatever he asked for. A reach and power that in themselves were frightening.

'Your brother's guilt or innocence aside, there is a certain practicality to things… That's why you're talking to me, Mr Addison, alone and of your own free will and will continue to do so until I am done with you… You have to protect your own success.' His left hand found its way up to caress his skull just over his left ear. 'It's a nice day. Why don't we go for a walk…?'

The morning sun was beginning to light the top floors of the buildings around them as they came out and Farel turned them left, onto Via Ombrellari – a narrow cobblestone street without sidewalks, the apartment buildings interrupted here and there by a bar or restaurant or pharmacy. A priest walked by across from them. Farther down, two men noisily loaded empty wine and mineral water bottles into a van outside a restaurant.

'It was a Mr Byron Willis, a partner in your law firm, who informed you of your brother's death.'

'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 into Harry's inside life and proved to him he had nowhere to go.

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.'

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.