The Fifth Gospel(123)

            Its outer edge seems smooth, but the inside is jagged and bent. Something about it seems familiar, yet I can’t think why.

            There’s a noise in the distance. Gianni, warning me. I put the sliver of metal into my pocket and start crawling back toward the popemobile.

            On the way out, though, I pass a utility cart. On top of it, in plastic bags, are the objects that must’ve been removed from Ugo’s car. A car charger for a mobile phone. A flask engraved with Ugo’s initials. A scrap of stationery. There are several others below. I stop.

            The plastic bags have red seals that say EVIDENCE. Their backs are embossed with boxes for the time and place of collection, the case number, the chain of custody. It seems odd that these would still be here, rather than entered as exhibits at the trial. A loose sheet of paper atop the utility cart says HOLD FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTION. I wonder if Mignatto knows any of this was found.

            There’s something else. No object here matches the impression under the driver’s seat. Nothing the size of a small laptop computer, nothing that could’ve been tied around the metal sleds of the seat. Maybe that’s why the window was broken: to steal whatever was down there.

            I start to reach for the bags at the bottom of the heap, whose contents I can’t see—when my eyes focus on the scrap of stationery.

            A number is written on it. A phone number.

            I look closer, and the breath catches in my lungs.

            My phone number. The landline at my apartment.

            Another sharp clang comes from the back of the garage—Gianni knocking over the rain frame, warning me that time’s running out.

            I scurry to the Fiat.

            Gianni doesn’t even check that I’m in the foot well. He turns the ignition and shifts the jeep into first. The drive is short. In the same dark corner of the autopark where we started, he stops to let me off.

            I want to thank him, but his eyes are wide and anxious, glancing behind him in the mirror. Distractedly he says, “So did you find anything useful?”

            “Yes,” I say.

            His head bobs. “Good. That’s good.”

            I step away from the jeep. He’s panting. “If you need anything else . . .” he says.

            “You’ve done plenty,” I say, thinking only of the phone number on that scrap of paper. “I really appreciate it, Gian.”

            He offers a small wave and makes the sign of a telephone, as if I should call if I need anything else. He’s trembling. The Fiat drives away toward the autopark doors.

            I think to myself how often I’ve seen Ugo’s handwriting. How many sheets of his homily paper scrawled with gospel verses I’ve corrected when he insisted on giving himself homework after our lessons. I would recognize his penmanship anywhere. But the writing on that scrap of stationery was not his.

            The contents of those evidence bags shouldn’t still be locked in the impound garage. If the gendarmes are waiting for someone to collect them, then that someone seems to have decided to keep them out of sight.

            Gianni’s final gesture lingers with me. The sign of the telephone. It gives me an idea.





CHAPTER 24





BEHIND THE AUTOPARK is the Belvedere Palace. I jog up the stairs to my apartment. Before entering, I listen for sounds on the other side of the door. Until the locks are changed, this will have to be a part of my visits here. But I see that Leo has left something behind from our last visit: the flap of a matchbook, stuffed between the frame and the door. It’s a trick he uses in the barracks to make sure cadets don’t sneak into Rome. Paper on the floor means someone’s come and gone. Paper in the door means the seal is unbroken. I’m relieved.