To start at the beginning of the story go here.
Me and Sophie arrived at Simon’s earlier than our planned rendezvous with Rotella, but it wasn’t a surprise that he was already there. Not in the cafe, but down the street, parked in a service Renault. I pretended not to see him, instead escorting Sophie in with all of the gentle happiness that still stung with every opened door or touch or light kiss. It only stung the way happiness stings when it feels like a betrayal and I could hear Cheryl laughing at me in every instance. But it stung anyway. It didn’t stop me, though, from opening the door, or accepting the kiss, or blushing at a lingering hand.
Seeing Sophie and me come in together, Simon raised his hands, twirling his towel, a welcoming sovereign greeting favored guests. This time of day, the cafe was empty, the only customer an old drunk in the front, drinking brandy and smoking one of Simon’s cigarillos.
We sat at the table at the back, beneath the mirror, and waited for Rotellato join us. It wasn’t long before he did. Enough time to see if we were being followed. He hadn’t been expecting Sophie, though, and the sour twitching of his mustache underneath his shades made that clear. He took out his anger on the old drunk, rousting him from his near stupor under the pretense of his smoking inside. Before he threw him out, though, Simon came to the old man’s rescue, spraying a florid bouquet of cursing that would have made any sailor proud. I separated them long enough to give the old drunk a hundred Euro, apologizing to him profusely and politely escorting him to the door.
When I turned back, Rotella and Simon were still glaring at each other. At least Rotella had the decency to take off his aviator sunglasses. Both being French, Simon’s anger at having a customer driven from his cafe needed no explanation. Rotella, seeing my renewed attention and knowing in Simon’s eyes he was acting the buffoon, gestured to Sophie. “Who is this?”
“Why don’t you sit down and find out?”
Rotella eyed both me and Simon, the latter’s gaze reminding him of his own crassness. With a very French harumph Rotella moved to the table at the back. As if I were asking a favor from the pope, I requested Simon to bring coffee.
In the moments it took me to calm Simon, Sophie had already begun to charm Rotella. By the time I got to the table, our policeman was leaning forward to light a cigarette he had provided to her, and she was taking a preparatory exhalation that softened the air between them.
“You should have told me you were coming with someone else,” Rotella said at my approach. Then to Sophie, “Even if she is this charming.”
I sat down next to Sophie. “She insisted.”
Rotella continued to speak to Sophie. “And who are you?”
“Sophie, Inspecteur Rotella. Inspecteur, Sophie.” Even as Sophie graciously nodded her head, Rotella continued to stare at us, waiting for further explanation. “Did you check out the address I gave you?”
Rotella’s face drained of its suspicion as the heaviness of what he had found flowed in to replace it. “Oui.”
“The map that I spoke of?” Rotella nodded, the hunger for information that’s indelible to all cops coming into his eyes. I bowed my head to Sophie. “She made it.” Rotella returned his gaze to Sophie, an admiration there that hadn’t been before. “The women in those places trust her. Tell her things they wouldn’t say to you or me.” Seeing Rotella begin to relax into his chair with understanding, I added, “So will Nika.”
“And you do not think Mitnick will care?”
“He’s a lot more likely to let her speak with Nika than either of us.”
Rotella glanced back and forth between Sophie and me. “And if I say no?”
Sophie didn’t answer the question, but said, “Mitnick’s houses?” Rotella nodded, understanding she meant the whorehouses. “There are many places alike all over the city.”
I let that sink in before I asked, “Do you want the map?”
Rotella put his sunglasses back on and regarded us safely behind their darkness. “Oui.”
“Then we should go.”
Rotella eyes dodged back and forth behind his shades, invisible yet there, like so much of what was going on. He tapped his lighter against the table and moved to stand. “I will drive.”
I nodded, grateful to have police transportation to Mitnick’s. Mitnick wasn’t likely to start murdering people in the presence of a cop. I paid the bill and said goodbye to Simon.
While I did this, the inspector drove the Renault down from his watchpoint, so we only stepped out of the cafe and to the curb. Rotella opened the backdoor for Sophie and I climbed into the passenger seat. I began to give Rotella instructions to Mitnick’s but he interrupted me. “I know where I am going.”
The inspector demonstrated a quick and able command of the city’s layout, driving us out to the byway east of town while avoiding the worst of traffic. I cracked a window as Rotella lit up his first cigarette. Exhaling, he asked, “How do you two know each other?”
My mouth felt dry at the complexity of the question, but Sophie answered first. “Do you know of Don Verdicchio?”
Rotella glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “In the north of Italy? I knew of him. His reach was great. Before his death.”
Sophie nodded then, matter-of-factly, “We killed him.”
On the winding road up the mountain, it was good that Rotella only let the surprise of the statement wink at him. The skittering of the car took us onto the shoulder and not off of it. From the passenger seat I could see a foreboding spread from his eyes to the rest of him, an oil spill moving out to cover his cop cool. “So your relationship is professional.”
The statement caused Sophie and I to laugh. I wouldn’t have blamed Rotella for thinking he was trapped in the car with a couple of crazy people. I could practically see him trying to recollect what he could about Verdicchio’s death, but I had never said word one to the authorities. The only eye witnesses spoke of a man with a gun following a knife-wielding woman covered in blood and moving with a slow fury.
Slowly as if trapped with a caged animal, Rotella asked, “Is that what you intend for Mitnick?”
The cabin filled with the noise of air moving around it and its tread across the road. I answered before Sophie did. “We just want to get the women out from under Mitnick. Including this Nika.”
Sophie was smart enough to know when to change the subject. “Many of them are illegal. Brought here against their will or with false promises. They will need help.”
This softened Rotella, his eyes floating back to the road as we snaked up the mountain. “I will remember that.”
“Good,” Sophie concluded. “If there is no one to help them, they will only be sent back to where they came, and the cycle will begin again.”
“Much like what will become of Mitnick?”
“In the end?” Sophie watched out the window as Mitnick’s Greek temple of a home rose from the sea cliff’s horizon. “It is the same for all men.”
This fatalism appealed to Rotella’s nature as a Frenchman or a cop. Or maybe both. He pulled onto the long driveway that led to Mitnick’s.
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