Chapter 60

IT TAKES US NEARLY an hour to get to the Venice police station. We walk over cobbles, through narrow alleys, over stone bridges, ride water taxis, all in a desperate search for a truth surrounded by beauty, history and water.

Always the water.

Inside the old police building, we are escorted to a waiting area by a uniformed officer and politely offered coffee. Betti and I decline. A few minutes later, Detective Carbone enters into the room. He’s smoking a cigarette and trying to smile while he offers me his hand.

“I see that you are seeing again,” he says in his warm, if not gentle voice. “You must be delighted.”

“Positively chipper,” I say. “How are you coming with the investigation into the whereabouts of my wife?”

He smokes. Listens. Exhales. Blue smoke.

Switching his gaze from me to Alessandra, he says. “And we have not had the pleasure of meeting.”

She holds out her hand. Tells him her name. Her occupation. Who she works for.

He smokes.

“I read your small report on the web,” he says. “I understand you spoke with one of my officers on the phone.”

“They did not tell me much, Detective,” Alessandra points out. “Only that you believe it’s possible Grace left of her own accord.” She looks up at me with her deep brown eyes. “Captain Angel begs to differ.”

More smoking.

“Captain Angel,” he says through a haze of secondhand smoke, “we have yet to find the true reason behind your fiancée’s disappearance.”

“There was a man,” I say. “He has been following us. He went after her in San Marco. He abducted her. She pulled off her engagement ring and left it behind for me to find it.”

“Where is that ring?” he poses.

I dig it out of my pocket, hold it up to his face with my index finger and thumb, the square cut diamond shimmering in the overhead light.

“May I?” he asks, holding out his free hand.

I set the ring in the palm of his hand.

“Perhaps I should have this tested for prints.”

“We already did,” Alessandra interjects.

Detective Carbone’s face takes on a noticeably red patina behind the salt-and- pepper beard.

“That might be construed as obstruction,” he whispers loudly.

“Obstruction of what exactly?” the journalist presses. “Sounds like your investigation is going nowhere.”

Nodding, the neatly dressed detective smokes the last of his cigarette. When he’s done, he simply drops the spent butt to the tile floor and stamps it out with the tip of his brown leather cordovan.

“I could demand to withhold this ring,” he says to my face. “Instead, I will leave it up to you, Captain.”

My return gaze says it all. I open up my right hand and he places the ring back on my palm. I shove the ring into my right pants pocket.

“What were the results of your print analysis?” he asks.

“There’s a third set of prints on the ring besides Grace’s and Captain Angel’s,” Betti says. “They belong to a man named Heath Lowrance. An American. A professional solider turned Interpol war crimes agent. He’s befriended Captain Angel while under the guise of a waiter named Giovanni who works in the café where Grace went missing. He’s been pretending to assist the Captain while he goes in and out of blindness.”

“How do you know for certain this man is a fake?” the detective poses.

“We just made a check on his café. He’s not employed there. Not in any official manner anyway.”

The detective works up a smile.

“You are doing some excellent detective work for a man who has limited use of his eyes. I applaud you.”

“Detective Carbone,” Betti goes on, “why do you suppose an investigator from Interpol would be attaching himself to Captain Angel? And why would it happen concurrent with the disappearance of his fiancée?”

“That seems to be the major questions, doesn’t it, Ms. Betti?”

I feel her left hand take hold of my forearm. Feel her squeeze it. Without her having to say it, I sense the purpose of the squeeze. It tells me the police are hiding something.

Detective Carbone lights another cigarette.

“Captain Angel,” he says, exhaling his initial drag of smoke, “might I have a word with you alone?”

I look over my shoulder at Alessandra.

She nods.

“I’ll be outside the door,” she says, slipping out, closing the door behind her.

I shove my right hand into my trouser pocket, feel Grace’s engagement ring.

“What’s happening here, Detective?” I say.

“Captain Angel,” he says, “it’s time you stopped looking for your Grace.”