As everyone else filtered from the room, Sonia joined Nikki.
“Good to see you,” Valerio said.
In the hospital, he’d felt irrationally comforted whenever he woke and found Nikki there.
Sonia’s presence was less comforting. She and the other team members had been at the hospital for several interviews. They were still exhuming bodies from the mass graves on Errichiello’s property.
“You’re looking better,” said Sonia.
“You’re a good liar,” he replied.
Surgeons had repaired the cheekbone, and the swelling and bruising were beginning to subside, but his face was still misshapen and painful.
“Well,” Nikki said with a crooked smile, “just don’t enter any beauty contests for a while.”
“How was Federico’s funeral?” he asked.
This small service was three days ago. The doctors stopped Valerio from attending. But he thought about the old man every day. Federico had wanted out. He’d fought his addiction and his own demons to escape that dark world. And he’d managed it, too, carving a clean life for himself. Then he’d traded all his success, the years of hard work, gone back into hell, to pull Valerio out.
Nikki had told Valerio every detail. And he’d made her tell him again. And again. He would ask again when his mind was clear, and commit Federico’s bravery to memory.
“It was good,” said Sonia. “Some of his neighbors were there, and your guys from the Falchi squad. They know what he did—that he was a hero.”
Did they? How could they possibly understand?
Valerio seemed to smell the cigarette and coffee of the old man’s breath, the eyes huge behind those glasses, as Federico smacked his face, shouting at him to stay awake. He felt Federico and Nikki dragging him, their bodies straining to heave him free of the pit. In a final act of trust, Federico had shown him the gun in his waistband.
Perhaps Federico could have killed his brother, but he’d allowed Valerio that privilege.
Valerio came suddenly to himself, to the warm lights of his mother’s living room, to Sonia and Nikki looking at him with expressions of concern.
“How’s the investigation?” he asked.
“We’ve identified nine victims so far,” said Sonia. “But we’re still trying to ID the remains of another seventy-three. This goes back decades. We’re examining every missing-person case, trying to match up—but we’re not having a lot of success. Of course, Errichiello had refugees from Africa and the Middle East, so we may need to broaden our search. The problem is, we don’t know where to start. By all accounts, Luca Errichiello kept good records—but everything went up in smoke.”
“Maybe Silvestri or Ines Mancusi has copies,” Valerio suggested.
“You haven’t heard?” Nikki asked, glancing at Sonia.
“Both of them are dead,” Sonia said.
“Silvestri’s death was on the news,” said Nikki. “His manager found him hanging in the bedroom of his villa in Sorrento.”
This should have been a relief, but Valerio felt hollow. He’d sent the cops to Silvestri’s place to rescue the girl there. They’d never found her. With Silvestri dead, there was no chance now. Guilt and shame fused to Valerio’s bones.
“How?” he asked.
“It looks like suicide,” said Sonia. “But that just feels too tidy for me.”
“And Ines?” he asked.
“Also apparent suicide. Again, no records.”
“Fuck,” said Valerio.
“Claire Sexton copied some files that link to Errichiello,” said Nikki.
Sonia nodded. “They’re incomplete, but they’ve given us good leads.”
