Not surprisingly, Nicosa also possesses a brawnier-than-average sexuality. Powerful men have it — the kind of animal magnetism that must have kept the Rome-based surveillance team wide awake while they documented the affair with his counterpart sexpot, Lucia Vincenzo. It is impossible for him to simply sit in a chair in this theatrical setting and not look larger than life, simmering with operatic passions, especially when his artistically cut black and silver hair curls with just the right panache along the nape of the neck, and his expressive face gleams with a masculine hint of sweat.
“Sit.”
He motions toward a cushioned wicker chair. On the table is salvation: a bottle of white wine in a silver bucket of ice.
“I’m glad we have some time to talk before my wife comes home.” Like that of the male guests at the London birthday party, the flirtatiousness is reflexive and without meaning, but he does have a way of making himself feel very close, as if his furrowed, animated face has become magnified with interest, following your every thought.
“How was your trip from Rome?”
“The train station was a nightmare,” I tell him. “But you’ll be happy to know that every spot at Caffè Nicosa was taken. Your company must be doing well.” “I have a secret weapon. His name is Sofri. He does not look like a secret weapon — he looks like Marcello Mastroianni with a white mustache — but he is an old friend and a brilliant biologist who cracked the genome of the coffee plant and created a new, genetically engineered bean. He is the reason for our success.” “In Italy, don’t you also have to know the right people?” Nicosa’s eyes hold mine. Within the coarse stone walls, the early twilight softens our skin tones so we gaze at each other with frankness — there is no hiding in this sultry light.
“What do you mean, ‘the right people’?” he inquires gently.
My cell phone rings. It is Dennis Rizzio.
“Sorry …”
“Go ahead,” Nicosa says.
Dennis’s voice is clipped. “Can you talk?” “For a minute.”
I look questioningly at Nicosa, and he reads it exactly. “I’ll get some glasses,” he says and politely leaves the table.
“Hi, Dennis. What’s up?”
“I received a call from Inspector Reilly of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command, Metropolitan Police. He spoke to you on the scene.” “I remember.” The dinosaur with the head cold.
“They recovered the Ford used in the attack.” “Where?”
“Aberdeen, Scotland. Pretty much burned to a crisp. Forensics has determined that the fire was deliberately set. Point of origin was the engine. Accelerant used was gasoline. They were trying to destroy the vehicle identification number on the engine block, but the team was able to recover another copy of it on the axel that the knuckle-brains didn’t know existed. They’re using it to trace the original owner.” “Witnesses?”
“If there are any, they’re under a rock. We’re talking a poor section, infested with gangs. The Brits are canvassing the scene.” “You don’t sound optimistic.”
“Why Aberdeen?” Dennis wonders. “It bothers me.” “Scots nationalists?” I suggest. “They did hit a diplomat neighborhood.” Dennis mulls it over. “I dunno, but they drove way the hell to Scotland for a reason. It’s likely they went there because they knew someone who would take them in after they dumped the car.” Nicosa is walking out the kitchen door with a corkscrew and two wineglasses.
“He’s coming back. Tell me quickly, anything more on the London attack?” “They used an Ingram MAC-10,” Dennis reports. “A crap gun used by your basic street thug. I’m guessing the shooters were hired hands.” “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise Dennis as my host sits down.
“Everything okay?” Nicosa asks.
“Fine.”
“Va bène.”
He flicks open a waiter’s corkscrew, effortlessly withdraws the cork, and pours wine into two squat glasses, not of cut crystal as I might have imagined, but everyday tableware.
“You ask about knowing the right people,” he muses. “I assume you mean the mafias? Italy, you will find, has always been a fairly lawless place. We have laws, of course, but nobody pays attention. We will always be a collection of dysfunctional tribal families ruled by old men who want to settle scores. But foreigners have the wrong impression. We are moving toward democratic capitalism; the old dons can’t fix everything. Salute.” We toast. The white wine is sweeter than what I am used to. Nicosa seems unfazed, so I venture deeper.
“It’s not just Italy, Nicoli. Criminal networks rule the world — and that’s no exaggeration.” I am about to add that they have become a main focus of intelligence efforts by the Bureau when he points to a red Ferrari parked near the gate.
“You see that car? I had another, just like that one. It was stolen in Rome in the morning, and they found it in Croatia the following afternoon. The collapse of communism has blessed us with a new breed of jailbeaks.” “Jailbirds?”
“Yes. Allora … what do you do in Los Angeles? I love it there. Some of it looks just like Italy.” “What do I do?”
I am about to explain that FBI agents do everything from bank robberies to counterterrorism when we are interrupted by the sound of tires on gravel, and a sporty green Alfa Romeo hatchback driven by Cecilia Maria Nicosa surfs through the gates to a space between two palm trees. There’s a whirl of exhaust, and then the smell of leather settles briefly.
The door opens fast and she calls, “Hello!” an exuberant hand waving even before the car stops. Then she emerges — mountains of auburn hair, large sunglasses with jeweled frames. She’s wearing a white lab coat over a tight-fitting silk sheath in vibrant shades of plum. She makes a diminutive figure in the solemn space of the sanctuary, but from her self-assured stride it is clear that she, like Nicosa, owns it.
We kiss back and forth in a fragrant blur, and next thing I know, her arms are around my neck. We hug wordlessly, tightly, for a long moment. Her body is heavier than mine, soft and voluptuous. The intensity seems a bit overwrought, considering we have never met.
Although Cecilia dresses like an Italian, she looks entirely Central American, like the Latinas I know in Los Angeles. The flat cheekbones, full lips, and broad nose show the African, Spanish, and Indian mix of our El Salvadoran background — the difference being that I received a dominant helping of Scots/Irish. She removes the sunglasses, revealing strong eyebrows and warm brown eyes, empathetic and searching, taking me in. We gaze into each other’s souls and my thoughts come to a flat-out stop — I’m face-to-face with a brown-skinned woman from another part of the globe with whom I have nothing in common.
“Do I say Buenas tardes or Ciao?” I wonder.
“You say—I am so happy!” We embrace again, awkwardly now, and when we step apart, the candid courtyard light permits no illusion.
She looks tired.
This is not a pampered social climber. This is a person in the real world, a doctor with a mind full of equations; a mother preoccupied with a teenage son; the wife of a man in the social spotlight, always under pressure to be fabulous.
As we walk, she murmurs, “I have a favor to ask. Please don’t tell my husband you are FBI.” “Why not?” I whisper. “I thought he knew.” She shakes her head.
“God!” I gasp. “I almost spilled the beans!” “But you didn’t tell him?”
“No. What’s the problem?” I ask. “Why can’t your husband know?” “Some people are upset by these things,” she says evasively.