“But—”
“Not now.”
“The movie business,” Frank grumbled. “He couldn’t take being behind that camera all his life, watching others get the fame. What was that line from Dante he spouted after he killed that poor bastard in front of everyone?”
“ ‘Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars,’ ” Costa said.
“Envy. Greed. This insane craving for fame.” Frank Boynton shook his head then got up from the table. “Come on, brother. These people have things to do.” He looked at Teresa. “That invitation to Rome still stands?”
“Whenever you boys want it.”
“Good. Have a safe journey home. All of you.”
They watched the two men leave. Ten minutes later Catherine Bianchi arrived and offered them one last drive round the city before a farewell lunch in the Marina.
2
Costa almost fell asleep in the minivan as it wound through a city landscape he felt he now knew well. The views across to Marin County, the great bridge, the hulking island of Alcatraz … It would be hard to shake San Francisco from the memory for many reasons, good and bad. Then he remembered he had something to return. It was sitting in a plastic grocery bag he’d brought along for the purpose. When they stopped at a light, he reached forward and placed it on the console between the front seats.
“That belongs to Gerald Kelly. Tell him thanks but I didn’t need it.”
Catherine Bianchi took a look at the handgun in its leather holster. “Lucky you.”
Her dark eyes wandered to the tall lean figure in the passenger seat. Something had changed between these two. Falcone sat next to her looking relaxed and perhaps a little bored. He was no longer the ardent pursuer and had already talked wistfully that morning of work back in Rome. Yet, as his eagerness waned, Catherine Bianchi’s, it seemed to Costa, was beginning to surface, rather too late in the day.
“Is everything good?” she asked with a brittle, edgy ease.
The question was principally aimed at the man next to her. He scarcely seemed to notice.
They were travelling along Union towards Russian Hill, trying to make a left turn, when, after her third attempt to start a conversation, Catherine finally lost patience.
“Listen,” she snapped. “I may never see any of you guys again. Ever. And all you can do is sit there moping. What the hell is the matter now? What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing,” Falcone remarked, turning to look at her.
“Then why are you … all of you …”
She muttered something beneath her breath, then added, “You might at least look a little grateful this mess is over. That someone’s in custody, admitting to the whole damned thing. Loose ends all tied up. Case closed.” She glanced at Falcone. “Tickets home all booked.”
The Italians squirmed uncomfortably on their seats.
“The loose ends aren’t all tied up, Catherine, and you know that as well as the rest of us,” Teresa said before anyone else could. “All that’s happened is that Tonti’s stuck up his hand and said, ‘Send it all my way.’ Which is very convenient in the circumstances. But …”
“But what?”
She was too late. The dam had burst. Peroni got in next, aware, perhaps, that there was likely to be a queue.
“I was under the impression we weren’t going to talk about this. But since we are, let me say just one thing. Tom Black was shot from a considerable distance by someone using a hunting rifle. Either Roberto Tonti is quite a marksman or he got very lucky. Have you seen his eyes? How he shakes? I don’t believe he could do that. Not for one moment.”
He was getting into his stride. “Also … how did he know Tom Black was in that car with Nic in the first place?”
“He says Black called him beforehand asking for help,” she snapped.
“But why?” Peroni asked. “If Tom Black knew Tonti was behind the whole thing … Oh, I give up.”
Falcone smiled pleasantly in the passenger seat and said nothing.
“Carlotta Valdes,” Costa added abruptly. “Who was she? Where is she now?”
Catherine Bianchi turned around, looking cross. “He won’t tell us, Nic. The guy’s just confessed everything and that’s that. Are we supposed to lose sleep over it? Whoever that woman was, she didn’t do much. Maybe roped in Allan Prime and brought Tonti a gun on-stage at the Palace of Fine Arts. One more fake ID among many. Trust me. Kelly’s people have checked. They could spend a lifetime chasing someone who was nothing more than some two-bit courier. And they even will, for a little while. But not for long. Do you blame them? Don’t you have priorities in Rome, too?”
“It’s the name,” Costa emphasised, not quite knowing what he meant, struggling to place a memory. “Why that name?”
“Because of Hitchcock,” Teresa insisted. “As I’ve been trying to tell you all along. Tonti worked with him. It was all here …”
The vehicle came to an abrupt halt by a busy junction. Catherine Bianchi slammed her hands angrily on the steering wheel.
“You people make me want to scream. Why, in God’s name, do you have to make everything so complicated?”
Falcone finally took his gaze off the ocean horizon. “We didn’t. We never had the chance. The fact that film was made here—”
“This is San Francisco! Movie central!” she yelled. “Haven’t you noticed? Watch.”
She jerked out into the street, cut left onto another road, then bore right again.
“Dirty Harry,” she chanted. “Bullitt. Mrs. Doubtfire, The Joy Luck Club …”
“Eastwood and McQueen—” Teresa cut in.
“Shut up! Harold and Maude, Freebie and the Bean, Pal Joey … Am I making my point here? It’s not all dark and bloody. Remember The Love Bug?”
The Italians stiffened and glanced at each other.
“The Love Bug?” Teresa asked eventually. “You mean the kids’ movie?” She winced. “The Disney one?”
“The Disney one.”
“Like Bambi,” Costa murmured, still trying to place the recollection that was haunting him, one that was buried somehow in that dark night that had ended in bloodshed outside the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero.
He was amazed to see that the road they had entered bore the name Lombard, just like the broad highway that became Route 101 as it swept towards the Golden Gate Bridge. Here, however, it was narrow and residential. Then they crossed a broad cross street and Lombard became a one-lane road that turned into a crazed series of steep switchbacks winding downhill past grand Victorian mansions and newer apartment blocks.
“Tourist time,” Catherine announced as she wheeled the big Dodge easily around the tight hairpins, the vehicle grumbling over the brick road. “America’s crookedest street. Architecturally speaking, of course. Most of the people around here are upstanding citizens, with plenty of cash, too.”
The street straightened and became smooth asphalt once more. She pulled in by the junction at Leavenworth and looked back over her shoulder at the winding lane behind.
“Recognise anything?” she asked. “That little Beetle Herbie came down here. Lots of movies came down here. After L.A., this city is the biggest movie stage in the world. So what’s the big deal if someone steals the name of a movie character now and again?”
Costa wasn’t looking back. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, seeing something he recognised. There was a city map in the seat back; Costa took it out, scanned the index, found what he wanted, ran his finger across the ganglion of streets that crisscrossed the crowded, confined peninsula of San Francisco, a complex patchwork of neighbourhoods, each running into the next, overlapping, obscuring the obvious.