Read Online The Orpheus Deception by David Stone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Stone
Ads: Link
into the stone casement.
The distance from the bathroom window to the roof of the buildings below looked to be about forty feet, with nothing but sheer stone wall between the casement and the roof. He reached up and tugged at one of the bars; he might as well have been trying to pull the sword from the stone. He heard the sound of amused laughter and turned to see Alessio Brancati, a major of the Carabinieri, wearing his formal navy blues, boots gleaming black, his leather harness shining, a holstered Beretta at his hip, leaning against the doorway, his dark, craggy face wearing a sardonic grin, his piratical leer set off by a black mustache, his strong yellow teeth showing.
“Awake for only a minute and already you are plotting, Micah.”
Dalton could not help but return the smile, although his satisfaction at seeing Brancati again was, under the circumstances, rather muted.
“Alessio . . .” Dalton swayed a little, and Brancati’s expression changed to grim concern. He stepped forward and took Dalton’s right arm in an iron grip. He smelled strongly of the same Toscano cigars that he had been smoking when they first met in the little courtyard of the church of San Niccolò in Cortona, where an old verger named Paolo had found the bloody remnants of Dalton’s friend Porter Naumann huddled by the gates. Brancati was the officer in charge of the murder investigation, and, although his part in it had remained in Italy, he had been an unlikely ally in the pursuit of Naumann’s killer during the following days, a chase that had taken Dalton from Venice to London, to Washington, D.C., and finally to a violent collision in a stand of cottonwood trees by the Little Apishapa River, in southeastern Colorado.
Brancati led Dalton gently across to the wooden chair and helped him down into it, making odd little soothing sounds as if he were leading a lame horse. When Dalton was safely settled, Brancati went across to the wooden armoire, retrieved the threadbare blue robe, and arranged it with rough but careful hands across Dalton’s shoulders. Then he stepped back and looked down at him with an expression on his strong Tuscan face that was a curious amalgam of sympathy, strong official disapproval, and residual affection.
“Cretino!” he said, not unkindly. “You came back. Perché?”
Dalton opened his mouth to answer, but Brancati raised his hand, palm out, shaking his head. “No need. You came back for her. And now look at you. Stuck like a bistecca, and all the Americans in an uproar. This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous. And you have placed her in danger too. You are a professional, a trained man. And yet you do this?”
“I just wanted to . . .”
Dalton’s voice trailed off, bitterly aware that there was nothing to be said in his defense. Brancati nodded once, as if satisfied that on this point at least—on Dalton’s state of sentimental idiocy—there was to be no argument.
“Yes. No defense. At least you still have your honor. She has been here many times. Not ten hours ago, she sat in that chair, love struck, with a face as white as Palladio’s paint box.”
“Cora?”
Brancati shrugged and made a hard face, his hands upraised.
“There is no reason in it. I tried to reason. No chance. She is down below now, waiting. Sister Beatrice, who is a romantic, called her at the Museo Civico. At least she has accepted having a guard, so there is that to be grateful for. It is not much, but I will take it. Now, I have to ask you, what are your intentions?”
“About Cora?”
Brancati waved that aside with the gesture of a man dispersing a cloud of cigar smoke, which seemed to remind him of his Toscanos. He patted his uniform tunic, his harness creaking, and extracted a rumpled pack of cigars, offering one to Dalton as a reflex and then jerking the pack away as Dalton reached for it.
“No. No cigar for you! Your intentions about Cora will be what I tell you they are. They are to have
The distance from the bathroom window to the roof of the buildings below looked to be about forty feet, with nothing but sheer stone wall between the casement and the roof. He reached up and tugged at one of the bars; he might as well have been trying to pull the sword from the stone. He heard the sound of amused laughter and turned to see Alessio Brancati, a major of the Carabinieri, wearing his formal navy blues, boots gleaming black, his leather harness shining, a holstered Beretta at his hip, leaning against the doorway, his dark, craggy face wearing a sardonic grin, his piratical leer set off by a black mustache, his strong yellow teeth showing.
“Awake for only a minute and already you are plotting, Micah.”
Dalton could not help but return the smile, although his satisfaction at seeing Brancati again was, under the circumstances, rather muted.
“Alessio . . .” Dalton swayed a little, and Brancati’s expression changed to grim concern. He stepped forward and took Dalton’s right arm in an iron grip. He smelled strongly of the same Toscano cigars that he had been smoking when they first met in the little courtyard of the church of San Niccolò in Cortona, where an old verger named Paolo had found the bloody remnants of Dalton’s friend Porter Naumann huddled by the gates. Brancati was the officer in charge of the murder investigation, and, although his part in it had remained in Italy, he had been an unlikely ally in the pursuit of Naumann’s killer during the following days, a chase that had taken Dalton from Venice to London, to Washington, D.C., and finally to a violent collision in a stand of cottonwood trees by the Little Apishapa River, in southeastern Colorado.
Brancati led Dalton gently across to the wooden chair and helped him down into it, making odd little soothing sounds as if he were leading a lame horse. When Dalton was safely settled, Brancati went across to the wooden armoire, retrieved the threadbare blue robe, and arranged it with rough but careful hands across Dalton’s shoulders. Then he stepped back and looked down at him with an expression on his strong Tuscan face that was a curious amalgam of sympathy, strong official disapproval, and residual affection.
“Cretino!” he said, not unkindly. “You came back. Perché?”
Dalton opened his mouth to answer, but Brancati raised his hand, palm out, shaking his head. “No need. You came back for her. And now look at you. Stuck like a bistecca, and all the Americans in an uproar. This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous. And you have placed her in danger too. You are a professional, a trained man. And yet you do this?”
“I just wanted to . . .”
Dalton’s voice trailed off, bitterly aware that there was nothing to be said in his defense. Brancati nodded once, as if satisfied that on this point at least—on Dalton’s state of sentimental idiocy—there was to be no argument.
“Yes. No defense. At least you still have your honor. She has been here many times. Not ten hours ago, she sat in that chair, love struck, with a face as white as Palladio’s paint box.”
“Cora?”
Brancati shrugged and made a hard face, his hands upraised.
“There is no reason in it. I tried to reason. No chance. She is down below now, waiting. Sister Beatrice, who is a romantic, called her at the Museo Civico. At least she has accepted having a guard, so there is that to be grateful for. It is not much, but I will take it. Now, I have to ask you, what are your intentions?”
“About Cora?”
Brancati waved that aside with the gesture of a man dispersing a cloud of cigar smoke, which seemed to remind him of his Toscanos. He patted his uniform tunic, his harness creaking, and extracted a rumpled pack of cigars, offering one to Dalton as a reflex and then jerking the pack away as Dalton reached for it.
“No. No cigar for you! Your intentions about Cora will be what I tell you they are. They are to have
Similar Books
