He walked to Via Mario de' Fiore, took a left and then a right on Via delle Carrozze. He thought it was on the corner.
Remembered the red awnings and the rows of round tables set up outside, and the waiters in white sport coats with gold trim.
He sat at a table and ordered a beer and watched people go by. He saw Angela's friend, Enzo, come out of the restaurant with a tray of drinks and serve four well-dressed, middle-aged women. He came toward McCabe's table, carrying the tray under his arm.
McCabe said, "Enzo, how're you doing? I'm a friend of Angela's. We were supposed to meet here." He said it one guy to another. The waiter stopped and looked at him. It was obvious he didn't recognize McCabe or have a clue who he was.
"Have you phone her?" Enzo said.
"I've tried for over an hour," McCabe said. "I think she's talking to someone."
"Women," Enzo said. He turned his hand sideways, opening and closing his thumb and fingers, making a mouth.
McCabe nodded. Now they had a common bond, men waiting for women to stop talking, get off the phone. Like it was a problem all men had to deal with. "You know where she lives?"
"Near the Colosseum," Enzo said.
McCabe said, "What direction?"
"Via Cavour?" Enzo said.
McCabe knew where Via Cavour was. It ran northwest from Via dei Fori Imperiali. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a start.
McCabe had seen a Budget car rental office on Via del Corso. He walked there from the restaurant, ten blocks, and rented a blue Fiat Stilo with a credit card, a Visa, his dad told him to use only in an emergency, as a last resort. He thought what he was about to do qualified. The car cost?43 a day. Not knowing how long he’d need it, he rented it for a week.
He took a left on Via del Corso and drove straight down toward the Colosseum. He’d never driven in Rome, and it took him a few minutes to get used to it, cars and motorbikes flying by him like he was in slow motion. By the time he got to Piazza Venezia he was keeping up with traffic, feeling confident behind the wheel, his Detroit rush-hour instincts coming back.
It was 6:07 when he took a left on Via Cavour, cruising the streets to the south, Via Frangipane, Via delle Carine and Via degli Annibaldi, catching glimpses of the Colosseum in the distance. Traffic was heavy and it was difficult to take his eyes off the road for more than a couple seconds at a time. It was a residential neighborhood, beautiful old apartment buildings, restaurants and shops lining the streets on both sides. He was looking for a red Lancia and a dark-haired girl with blonde streaks in her hair, which described half the women he saw. He didn't even know if the car was hers, but that's all he had to go on — not knowing her last name or anything else about her except she had an uncle who lived in Detroit.
Now he tried the neighborhood north of Cavour, taking Via della Madonna dei Monti past the Hotel Forum and Birra Moretti. There were more bars and cafes. This area looked familiar. He'd been to Birra Moretti, an Italian beer hall, one night with Chip and a group of students, drinking beer out of glass boots. There was a cafe he passed next to Hotel Duca di Alba that also looked familiar.
He'd been driving around for an hour and twenty minutes. He was thinking about giving up, thinking that what he was doing was insane. He wasn't going to find this girl and if he did, what was he going to do with her? He pulled over and parked on the street, considered taking the car back, cut his losses.
There was a map of Rome in the console between the seats, courtesy of Budget. He took it out and unfolded it. He found his approximate location, traced a line where he’d been down Via Cavour and the neighborhoods north and south. To the west was Via del Corso and Piazza Venezia. There was another neighborhood to the east he hadn't been to yet. He glanced in the rearview mirror and when the traffic was clear in both directions he made a U-turn. He drove a couple blocks and it turned into Via Leonina. Nothing.
He drove back the way he had come. If she had a view of the Colosseum, her apartment had to be closer to it. He passed the tunnel that led to San Pietro in Vincoli, a little piazza tucked back behind the buildings lining the east side of Via Cavour. He parked and ran across the street and went up the steps and through the tunnel.
The square was surrounded by buildings, and had a parking lot in the center that was filled with motorcycles, hundreds of them, and cars. He walked past the university building, students standing in groups on the steps in front, talking, and a vendor truck that said BIBITE, GELATI, COLD DRINKS on a brown awning that ran along the side.
He walked down the street to Bar del Mose and went in and had a quick espresso. He came out, and went left and saw the Colosseum. He walked down Via della Polveriera and saw a red Lancia parked across the street from an umber-colored apartment building. He looked in the driver's side window. It had tan leather seats, and the front left fender was dented. He pictured it on the road that day when they caught him trying to get away. It was definitely the car.
The number of the building next to it was 44. It had a decorative black wrought-iron door with glass panels. He checked the directory, two rows of names on a brass plate: Di NelLo, Gabriel, M. Puraro, L. Terrachina, Sacelli, Liquori, Soave, J. Fabiano, G. Migliorelli, and P. Confalone.
He walked back around the block, across San Pietro in Vincoli, went back through the tunnel to his car. He drove west and took a left near the Roman Forum. The Colosseum was straight ahead. He drove past it and took another left on tree-lined Via delle Terme di Tito. There was a park, deserted now, set back behind a fence. He drove around the block and parked next to a green city trash bin twenty yards behind the Lancia. He had a good angle on the car and the apartment building. He put the window down and turned off the engine and waited. It was 7:19 p.m., almost dark.
At 8:45, he saw a woman appear down the street, coming toward him. Even from thirty yards he knew it was Angela. He could tell by the way she walked, the way she carried herself, looking good in dark slacks, a white blouse and a black leather jacket, dressed nice, going out for the evening.
He was thinking about what Captain Ferrara had said, profiling the street gang that grabbed him, contrasting that with the expensive car and upscale neighborhood Angela was living in, and it didn't fit. What was this well-heeled girl, with an apartment near the Colosseum, doing with a Roman street gang?
As she came toward him, McCabe wondered if she shared the apartment with Mazara. Of the gang members he'd be the obvious choice. Or did she live by herself? He saw the
Lancia's front parking lights flash as she pressed the remote, and saw her open the door and get in behind the wheel. She started the car, put the lights on and pulled out. McCabe stayed close, following her across town to a restaurant near the Trevi Fountain called A1 Moro. He'd read about it, a place that catered to wealthy Romans and tourists. He watched her park, and saw her walk in the restaurant. Saw the maitre'd kiss her on both cheeks.
McCabe figured he had some time and drove back through the city, over the river and up Monte Mario to school. Chip was standing at the sink brushing his teeth when McCabe came in the room, Chip barefoot in a pair of sweatpants and a tee-shirt. McCabe moved past him and went to his dresser, opening drawers, pulling out clothes — a pair of Levis and a couple of tee-shirts and a blue long-sleeved work shirt. He folded the clothes in a pile on his bed. He could see Chip looking in the mirror, watching him.