“That’s not the point. Are you drinking again?”
“Again implies that at some point I stopped. And I sure as hell would be if you’d quit asking me questions. Every time I get the glass up to my lips you ask me something else. The crux is, what you should be asking is, why am I drinking. You didn’t see him. I did.”
“Toughen up. You were in the Horn.”
“That was a straight-up interdiction. This was different.”
“Are you saying Naumann committed suicide by ripping his own throat out with his bare hands?”
“No. I’m not. Brancati thinks he died from a heart attack.”
“And what are you saying?”
Fur Boy swept in, plunked the bottle down hard. Dalton handed him a fifty-euro tip and waved off a newborn Fur Boy with a gladsome eye and birdsong in his shriveled black heart while he thought about his answer.
“I think it’s possible that some kind of drug was a minor factor.”
“You mean like one was slipped to him?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“This is what I like to hear from my cleaners. ‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ It gives me a warm glow.” Stallworth paused here.
Dalton, who knew his man well, wasn’t surprised to hear what came next.
“I tell you kid, if some kind of drug was a factor in this, and I’m not saying it was, but if, and it was something freaky enough to derail a seasoned pro like Porter Naumann, man, I’d love to know what it was. I mean, the company could use something like that.”
“You asking me to find out?”
More hissing dead air from the cell phone. Maybe Stallworth’s heavy breathing in the background. Office noises in the distance.
Finally…
“If I let you poke around in this a little more — and I mean if — I want your word you’re not going to take it any further than finding out whether or not Naumann had any kind of unknown psychotropic drug in his system.”
“Then all I have to do is wait; Brancati will tell me that as soon as he knows. Was Naumann doing anything for us that would make somebody want to see him dead?”
“We looked into it. I mean really looked. He and Mandy Pownall were keeping an eye on investment patterns, looking for indications of insider trading, money laundering that might be connected to al Qaeda operations, or the people who fund them. Hard work? Yes. Boring? Massively. Lethal? No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Damn sure. Whatever happened to Porter, I’m morally certain that it wasn’t connected to what he was doing at Burke and Single. Sometimes things are as simple as they look.”
“Okay then. On your head, if you’re wrong.”
“I’m not. What next?”
“Well, the Carabinieri will do the toxicology. I’ll get the report from Brancati. I was wondering, while I’m waiting around, let me at least do a workup on his room at the Strega. Walk his last walk. See if something stands out. What harm can it do?”
More pensive silence from Stallworth’s end of the line. He came back in a petulant mood. “With you I never know until it blows my ears off. Somebody has to go to London and hold hands with Joanne. It ought to be you.”
“Has anyone talked to her lately?”
“Sally says she’s been pretty silent. Not a call for four days, and she’s not answering her voice mail. My take is she figures Naumann’s gone off on a bit of a bender. He’s done it before.”
“She’s going to call in soon. What are we going to tell her?”
“The truth. He had a heart attack.”
“Joanne’s got money and muscle. What if she digs in a little? Asks for another autopsy, for example?”
“You’re the cleaner. Make sure she doesn’t.”
“What if she wants an open casket?”
“Can’t he be prettied up a bit?”
“Jack, you buy him a steel casket and weld the lid shut unless you want to see the funeral guests puking into the flowerpots. Haven’t we got anybody in London Center who could do this up right?”
“Mandy Pownall. She knows the family pretty well. I guess we could send her.”
“She’ll need a case of Cristal and some major meds.”
“She’ll have them.”
“And a couple of handlers for the girls. They’re a treat.”
“I’ve never met them.”
“Good decision. Now, how about it?”
While Stallworth was working out the many ways in which he could come to bitterly regret saying yes, Dalton poured some more wine into the glass and watched the tour guide girl coming back along the Riva. Her thighs remained wonderfully mystical and now her hapless Hindu tourists were liberally dappled with variegated tones of pigeon shit. She had the kind of look on her strong young face that said My work here is through.
“All right. I admit I’d like to know what kind of drug could make a pro like Naumann go batshit. We’d have a tactical interest in something like that. Go to Cortona. Toss his room at the Strega. And make sure you get a clean copy of the toxicology report. Not just a verbal description. And see to it that they don’t lose the tissue and blood samples. If you can, have them handed over to you before you leave. Tell Brancati that Naumann’s insurance policy requires an independent medical exam before they can release any funds to the family. And Micah, hear me on this—”
“I live to serve, Jack.”
“Whatever you get — anything at all that looks weird to you, anything that catches your eye — it comes straight to me. Person to person. No messages. No e-mail. Verbal report to me direct. Got that?”
“What about Sally?”
“Not even her. No reflection. But that’s the way it is. Got that?”
“How could I miss it?”
“I know it sounds hinky. But this comes from the Vicar himself.”
“A policy thing?”
“He said it was. If Deacon Cather farts, farting becomes policy.”
“Is Cather personally interested in Naumann?”
“No. It’s a general order. Cleaners talk only to their handlers.”
“Has he asked about Naumann?”
“Yes. He’ll see the synopsis once you file your report. He sits on the Losses board. But we’re losing a lot of field guys these days, thanks to our lovely little War on Terror. Just do what you can. Make sure there’s nothing I have to worry about. File it direct to me, every detail you get, no matter how pointless. Send it by diplomatic courier, sealed, paper only, no copies, and my eyes only.”
“This directive from the Vicar too?”
“Like I said. It’s policy. Then go back to London and take it easy for a while. You follow?”
“About the hostel, I can’t get into it until tomorrow.”
“So do it tomorrow. Tonight, stay out of trouble.”
“I’m in Venice. It’s an island. What can I do on an island?”
“Cuba was an island too, and look what you did there. Gotta go.”
“Jack… ask Mandy Pownall to be gentle with Joanne. She was once something to write your mommy about.”
“My mommy died in a knife fight. They buried her in an oil drum.”
“I was speaking metaphorically.”
“Well don’t.”
That evening, against Stallworth’s better judgment, Dalton went for a stroll. Venice was cool but not cold, with a few early stars glittering in a cobalt sky, and the canals were, mercifully, reeking only a little. Dalton wandered aimlessly along the ins and outs of the Riva with the eventual goal of a dinner at Ristorante Carovita. He smoked a couple of Toscanos on the way to sharpen his appetite, idly harassed a mime who was pretending to be a white marble statue, and bought a little ruby-colored Murano glass heart to send to Laura. It was their tenth anniversary next week. Maybe she’d remember who he was if she got a ruby glass heart from Italy. Probably not, and the bitter awareness of this hopeless delusion burned him a little as he crossed the canal bridge and came down to the little lantern-lit courtyard café under the awning, where he elected to dine alone in a tiny corner table at the back. He ordered a bottle of Bollinger in honor of Porter Naumann, wherever he was and however he may have gotten there. Now cracks a noble heart, and flights of angels sing him to his rest.