Page 2

Chapter

2

Our silent walk covered three blocks before Milo hooked a thumb at a café with a tricolor Italian flag over the door.

Geppetto’s was Closed SATURDAYS until noon. One person inside, a squat, aproned, gray-haired man sweeping. Milo rapped the glass, the man saw us and unlocked the door, beaming.

“The usual, Comandante ?”

“Sounds good, Miro.”

“You, signor?”

I’d had three cups of Ethiopian at home. “Decaf espresso.”

We settled at a marble-topped table in the far corner as Miro fiddled behind the counter.

I said, “Miro. He’s Spanish?”

“Croatian. Miroslav.”

“Ah.”

“Long story.” Showing no inclination to tell it.

Miro returned with a double latte for Milo, a demitasse for me, and a plate that he set down in front of Milo.

“Some coffee” had expanded to an assortment of baked goods. Or maybe that was the intention all along.

“Today we got cannoli, amaretti, and frittelle.” A finger-poke indicated each one.

Milo said, “Can’t wait,” and didn’t.

—

When he’d finished the pastries and accepted two more cannoli from Miro, I told him what I knew about the hospital.

“You held off telling me because…”

“Didn’t see it as relevant but now I’m wondering. At a typical hospital he couldn’t have escaped detection. Maybe he’s got a connection to the place. Or he’s from the neighborhood and familiar enough to know security’s lax. A third possibility is that he’s actually dumped another O.D. there.”

“I asked the staff about anything like that happening there and they said no.”

“Given all the changes, the current staff probably hasn’t been there long.”

“Fine, I’ll look into it.”

Reaching for the cannoli, he bit down with fury, rained crumbs onto his shirt.

—

He finished everything Miro brought before throwing cash on the table, standing and stretching.

During the walk back to the station, his head canted forward as if primed for battle.

Resumption of silence.

That changed a block later when his phone chirped Mozart.

He listened, said, “Fantastic, kiddo. Could you email it to—you have? I love you.”

Clicking off, he doubled his pace, long legs chewing up distance like a relentless mass of farming apparatus.

I said, “Basia.”

“She ever quits, I’ll need Prozac.”

—

Within an hour of hearing Milo’s plea, Basia had examined the body externally and confirmed the absence of wounds, x-rayed it anyway, and found no bullets or foreign objects internally. A blood draw submitted for a tox screen was followed by inking and printing ten fingertips and two palms.

The prints paid off.