You sure you not under arrest-a?” The thirty-something officer at the Questura Centrale asked Glenda and me for the third time while a squadron of policemen gawked on.
I stared at the stuccoed ceiling seeking inner calm. I’d already explained the reason for our visit in perfect Italian, but as local men were wont to do, he insisted on showing off his English.
“Like I said,” I practically growled, “we have committed no crime.” I held up my PI license. “I’m a private investigator from the United States.” I pointed at Glenda. “And she’s my associate. We’re here for information about missing American college students.”
He sized me up, shifted his gaze to Glenda, and looked her down and up again.
Never one to disappoint an audience, my esteemed associate held out her cigarette holder and opened her coat, revealing a sexified Southern Italian peasant outfit that seemed tailor-made for dancing the strip tarantella.
I collapsed onto a bench to wait out the consequences, which included (but were not limited to) a collective gasp followed by exclamations of “Madonna” and “Mamma Mia,” whistles, gestures aimed at the heavens, a few wipes of the brow, and a hat toss.
And I thought I’d been so clever when I’d talked her out of the sleuthing suits by arguing that she didn’t want to misrepresent her profession at a police station.
The questioning officer, whose white gun belt had gone askew in the ensuing chaos, shifted his stance and looked at me. “She no work-a for you?”
A realization struck me like a police baton. He thought Glenda was a prostituta—and I was her madama. And given that she had thirty-five or so years on me, I resented the assumption. Moltissimo. “Officer Mongelluzzo, I need to speak with your supervisor.”
He put his hand on his hat and recoiled as though I’d slapped him for indecency. “You wan’ to speak-a with Commissario Boccadifuoco?”
After I’d heard the inspector’s surname, I wasn’t so sure. Boccadifuoco meant “mouth of fire,” and I was in no mood for any more lip. But this wasn’t about me, it was about the boys, so I womaned up. “This instant.”
He made a tch sound with his tongue and the roof of his mouth, which in Italy was a definitive “no.”
My blood boiled hotter than a pasta pot, and while I was trying to keep a lid on it, a buxom woman who looked to be around forty burst from an office in a chic police pencil skirt and a cloud of musk perfume.
“Oh!” She pressed her hands together. “Ma che è ‘sto casino?”
Based on the rather heated way she’d inquired about the noise, I ID’d her on the spot. “Commissario Boccadifuoco?”
She sized me up much like her male counterparts. “Sì?”
“Sono Francesca Amato, investigatore privato. Potrei parlarle di un caso?” After I’d introduced myself and asked to speak to her about a case, I thought I saw recognition in her gaze.
“Follow me, please.”
Her English reply was ice water in my boiling pot. No matter how well I spoke the language, Italians could always sniff my American out.
She reentered her office, and when I turned to close the door to Officer Mongelluzzo’s worried eyes, my eyes took on a worried look of their own.
A barista from a nearby bar had entered with caffè on a tray, and an older officer took one of the cups, bowed with a flourish, and offered it to my open-coated associate.
The last thing I needed was Glenda all jacked up in a puny peasant outfit with a roomful of policemen as a captive audience. “Go easy on the caffeine, okay?” I gave her a pointed look. “And close your coat.”
She sat on a desk and kicked up her legs, and another officer lit her a cigarette. “I know how to be professional, Miss Franki.”
Right. A professional stripper.
I left the door ajar.
The inspector gestured to a chair facing her desk, and when I sat before her, I got the impression I was about to be sentenced by a judge.
“You are a private investigator?” Her tone was skeptical, like her eyes.
I leaned back in the chair. Male officers sometimes gave me that kind of attitude, but I hadn’t expected it from a woman. “From New Orleans. One of the two American students who went missing on Saturday, David Savoie, is an employee at my firm.”
She took a candy from a dish and removed the wrapper. “It surprises me that you would work in law after your swim in the Fontana di Trevi.”
The ice water went straight to my veins, and the memory of my drunken fountain dip flooded back. “You . . . know about that?”
Her full lips thinned but remained impressively plump. “Your picture appeared on a poster advising tourists to respect our monuments.”
I froze like I’d been caught frolicking in the fountain again. Evidently, the fact that the charges were dropped didn’t disqualify me from having my face splashed all over anti-crime ad campaigns.
“That was the night I discovered limoncello.” I gave a sheepish grin. “And something about the refreshing flavor and the pure grain alcohol inspired me to reenact the Mastroianni-Ekberg scene.”
She popped the candy and wadded up the wrapper. “See that you do not get such an inspiration again. That fountain dates to 1732, and we intend to preserve it for many more centuries.”
I could feel my pot getting hot again. Who did this dragon think she was dredging up my youthful transgression? “Not to be rude, but I didn’t fly to Rome to relive my college days. I came to find out if you have any leads on my colleague and his friend.”
Boccadifuoco studied me and crunched the candy. “What we know is that they attempted to buy a gladio from the third century.”
“What’s that?”
“In Latin, gladius, which is an ancient Roman sword.”
I thought about the gladiator battle the boys had in the office. Had they bought a gladius? If so, that could have been the weapon the police had confiscated from their hotel room. But I knew better than to ask the inspector. She was being unusually forthcoming for a fire-breather, and I didn’t want to douse her flame. “Is it illegal to buy one?”
“Not if it is purchased from a reputable arms shop, but they used their computer to research and email an illegal dealer.”
The revelation took me aback. The boys wouldn’t have broken the law on purpose. “Have you spoken to the dealer?”
“He has been questioned, but he claims he did not meet them.”
“What if he’s lying?”
She sighed. “He has been in Milan for one week, so it is not likely.”
If that were true, he would have been out of town when the boys went missing. “What about their cell phones? Have you tracked the signals?”
“There are not any.”
Something was wrong. David and the vassal wouldn’t have turned off their phones, but it was possible their batteries had died. Or—and I hated to think it—that the phones had been disposed of, and maybe by an accomplice of the arms guy. “So what happens now? Are you looking into whether the dealer sent someone else to meet them?”
Her black eyes blackened. “We have appealed to the public, and we will investigate all information we receive.”
I lurched forward. “That’s it? You’re just going to sit back and wait?”
“We are doing everything in our power to locate your colleague and his friend.” She rose from her desk and hit me with a glare. “But I would suggest that you spend your time enjoying this beautiful country—provided that you can resist touching our monuments.”
My pot threatened to boil over, but I kept my lid on because something she said had inspired me.
Her heels struck the concrete as she strode to the door. “And I would strongly advise you not to try to exercise your profession in Italy. Remember, you have no authority here.”
Without a word, I got up and left.
Fire-Mouth had another thing coming if she thought I was going lay low and do nothing. Rome might be her jurisdiction, but American college students were mine. And when it came to finding gladiator swords, I knew better than she did where two young boys would go look.