He looked around. They were completely alone.
Stefan reached into his pocket and closed his hand around the cool metal.
Tap, tap, taptaptaptaptap...
Chapter 38
Carl Sandburg.
"Carl...The poet, right?" Amelia Sachs asked the balding man driving a small, gray Renault.
The associate of Charlotte McKenzie's, he'd picked her up at Linate Airport, the smaller of the two aerodromes in Milan, closer to the city center. They were in thick traffic.
"That's right," Pete Prescott told her. "He wrote 'Chicago.'" The legal liaison dropped his voice a bit, to sound poetic, Sachs guessed, and recited the opening lines, about the Hog Butcher.
"You from there, Chicago?" Sachs didn't know where this was going.
"No, Portland. My point is the poem might've been about Milan. Milan is the Chicago of Italy."
Ah. Got it. She'd been wondering.
"Working, busy, not the prettiest city in the country, not by a long shot. But it has energy and a certain charm. Not to mention The Last Supper. The fashion world. And La Scala. Do you like opera?"
"Not really."
A pause. Its meaning: How could someone with a pulse not like opera?
"Too bad. I could get tickets to La Traviata tonight. Andrea Carelli is singing. It wouldn
't be a date." He said this as if waiting for her to blurt, "No, no, a date would be wonderful."
"Sorry. I've got to get back tonight, if possible."
"Charlotte said you're working on the case. The kidnapper."
"Right."
"With the famous detective Lincoln Rhyme. I've read some of those books."
"He doesn't like them very much."
"At least people write about him. Nobody's going to write novels about a legal liaison, I don't think. Though I've had pretty interesting cases."
He didn't elaborate--she was pleased about that--but concentrated on his GPS. Traffic grew worse and Prescott swung down a side road. In contrast with this, the trip from Naples to Milan had been lightning-fast. Computer millionaire Mike Hill's driver, a larger-than-life Italian with thick hair and an infectious smile, had met her outside the hotel, where he'd been waiting with a shiny black Audi. He'd leapt forward to take her bag. In a half hour, after an extensive history lesson on southern Italy, delivered in pretty good English and with more than a little flirt, they had arrived at the private aircraft tarmac in Naples. She'd climbed onto the plane--even nicer than the one they'd flown to Italy on--and soon the sleek aircraft was streaking into the air. She'd had a pleasant conversation with one of Hill's executives, headed to Switzerland for meetings. Pleasant, yes, though the young man was a super geek and often lost her with his enthusiastic monologues about the state of high technology.
Prescott was now saying, "I prefer Milan, frankly, to other cities here. Not as many tourists. And I like the food better. Too much cheese in the south."
Having recently been served a piece of mozzarella that must've weighed close to a pound, she understood, though was tempted to defend Neapolitan cuisine. An urge she declined.
He added, "But here? Ugh, the traffic." He grimaced and swung the car onto a new route, past shops and small industrial operations and wholesalers and apartments, many of whose windows were covered with curious shades, metal or mesh, hinged from the top. She tried to figure out from the signage what the many commercial operations manufactured or sold, with limited success.
And, yes, it did resemble parts of Chicago, which she'd been to a few times. Milan was a stone-colored, dusty city, now accented with fading autumn foliage, although the dun tone was tempered by ubiquitous red roofs. Naples was far more colorful--though also more chaotic.
Like Hill's swarthy, enthusiastic driver, Prescott was happy to lecture about the nation.
"Just like the U.S., there's a north/south divide in Italy. The north's more industrial, the south agricultural. Sound familiar? There's never been a civil war, as such, though there was fighting to unify the different kingdoms. A famous battle was fought right here. Cinque Giornate di Milano. Five Days of Milan. Part of the first War of Independence, eighteen forties. It drove the Austrians out of the city."
He looked ahead, saw a traffic jam, and took a sharp right. He then said, "That case? The Composer. Why'd he come to Italy?"