"I'm not in love." She made a little face that seemed to say, At least not yet.

I told her the story of how I'd called Theo, how he had a corporate share on a plane and said he'd be in Naples by midnight.

"And then what?" Maggie asked.

I shrugged. "I guess I didn't think much after that. He said he couldn't stay more than a day or two."

The clerk handed the credit card back, and Maggie tucked it into her wallet. "Do you really like this guy, or is this a reaction to finding Alyssa in Sam's apartment?"

I winced at the memory. "If anything it's a reaction to Sam and me saying goodbye. It was just so...so final."

"If it's a reaction to that, why not just pick up an Italian guy? Why have the kid fly all the way over to Italy?"

"It was his suggestion, not mine." I thought about it some more. "And there's just something about him."

"I can't believe I haven't met him."

"Well, you will tonight."

The rooms at the hotel weren't large but they were beautiful. The floors were tiled in blue and yellow. A tall window overlooking the street and bay was covered with ta.s.seled robin's-egg-blue drapery.

While Maggie took a nap, I went back downstairs to the concierge desk. I was here in Naples to talk about the Camorra, but I had no idea where to do that. Once again, all roads pointed to Elena.

The concierge was an older gentleman who looked as if he took his profession very seriously.

When I asked for information about traveling to Ischia, he nodded somberly and gestured to a seating area to the left. "Please," he said, "sit down and I will bring you information."

A minute later, he had spread maps, ferry schedules and hotel pamphlets over the table. He sat down across from me. "Okay," he said, "you tell me what you want to do in Ischia."

"Is there a place called Poseidon?"

"Poseidon, yes." Now he sounded pleased. He riffled through the materials and pulled out a white brochure with blue-and-green lettering.

"I was told that this is a place for healing waters."

"Si, si," he said. "The island is...how you say...volcano? And so the water on the island is like medicine. Full of minerals. You may go different places on Ischia to sample the waters. Poseidon is one of the best." He made a gesture, his fingers and thumb together, and brought it to his lips as if he tasted something delicious.

"How do the waters heal exactly?" I asked.

"Well," he said, "how do I explain?" He looked upward, lifted his shoulders high and dropped them slowly, showing me that they did the Italian shrug as well in Naples as they did in Rome. "You sit in the waters. There are different temperatures with different minerals. You move from one pool to another. You relax, you are quiet, you eat well, you do not drink alcohol." Another shrug. "When you leave, you feel wonderful."

"Sign me up."

He opened the Poseidon brochure, and explained that Poseidon Gardens was essentially a park that charged daily admission. You spent the day in the different pools or on its beach and then you went home at the end of the day. We'd have to find somewhere to stay, he said, and showed me different brochures with hotels of varying costs.

"Thank you," I said. "Now, if I may ask you something different about Ischia?" What the h.e.l.l, I thought. Give it a shot.

"Of course." He nodded gravely. "This is my job."

"I have heard that Ischia is a place where some Camorra people are from. Is that true?"

The concierge drew his head back and looked around swiftly. He looked back at me, his eyebrows pushed together, a stern expression on his face. "Why do you ask about the Camorra?"

I shrugged, giving my best impression of the Italian version. "I just wondered."

He shook his head. "No, no. Please. You don't ask about the Camorra."

"Why not?"

He sighed deeply. "The Camorra has done nothing but bring ruin to this city. Did you see the garbage outside?" He gestured with an arm toward the front door.

"Yes. I saw it." I thought of the children kicking b.a.l.l.s and playing next to that garbage.

"That is all because of the Camorra. They take over the garbage, the recycling, so they say, but they cannot handle it. It was so bad, the Italian military had to step in." He made a disgusted face. "And did you see down at the docks? Did you see all the big ships?"

I nodded.

"The Camorra, they ship goods from China." He shook his head, made a sad expression. "But they dump the waste into the waters. Everyone becomes sick." He shook his head again. "My mother, my family, ah! So many of my family have died because of the terrible waste that the Camorra puts into our water. Miss, you do not want to ask about the Camorra. No one around here wants to talk about them. This is not something for turistas."

I sat back and nodded. "I'm sorry," I said simply. Then, "I know it's not a matter for tourists, but my father died, and I think it was because of the Camorra."

The concierge swallowed, his mouth twisted a bit. He looked over his shoulder at the front desk. The few people behind it were on the phone, talking to guests. "What do you mean when you say this?"

"I believe my father was working on a case having to do with the Camorra. He died many years ago. I am trying to find out what happened."

The man's face softened. "What is your name?"

I held out my hand. "Isabel."

He shook it. "And I am Carlo." He gathered the brochures and pamphlets in his hands. "Come. Let's go somewhere where we can discuss this."

He led me past the side of the front desk and up a double staircase trimmed in silver and gold. Upstairs was a set of meeting rooms. But it was as if we were inside a grand palazzo, the walls decorated with art from all different periods-sketches, paintings, sculptures. Carlo took me into a meeting room where staff was cleaning up from a previous event. Coffee, tea and other refreshments still sat on a buffet table.

Carlo pointed at the table. "Please have something to drink."

I helped myself to a sparkling water with lemon. He said something in Italian to the cleaning staff, who left the room. Carlo poured himself a cup of coffee and we sat at one side of a table designed to seat ten people.

"Now," Carlo said. "This is unpleasant, but...okay. What do you want to know about the Camorra?"

I told him I just wanted the basics. What did the Camorra do or specialize in? Were they also in the United States? I really didn't understand much of anything about the group.

He took a sip of his coffee, then crossed his hands in front of him, lacing his fingers tight. He nodded. "The Camorra is not a group. Here in Naples, we do not even call it Camorra. We call it the System, and the System is not a group, either. It is made up of many clans. But for our discussion, let us call it the Camorra, okay?"

I nodded.

"The Camorra does many things. One is drug running. They take the drugs in at the port, then they take them around the country. They go to Roma, Milano. They have teenagers who take them to these big cities, and they reward the teenagers with a motorcycle when they are done. They do not tell these teenagers that if the carabinieri stop them, they will be arrested and they will spend ten years in prison. So that is one thing, the drugs. But really that is something little. They also try to do the garbage, which I tell you about already. The big thing for the Camorra right now is in fashion."

"Fashion?" I was definitely confused now.

"Yes, the Camorra deals in fashion. You see-" he spread his hands across the table "-this is how it works. The designers, the italiano designers will come to Camorristi brokers here in Napoli. They will say to these brokers, 'Okay, here is this fabric and from this fabric we want to make these dresses.' He gestured again at my dress. "They will tell the brokers, 'Please, find us the cheapest but best seamstresses.' The Camorristi then take the fabric, they go to different teams of seamstresses around Napoli, around the country, sometimes even in China, and they pick the groups they like. Those seamstresses then work all day, all night, around the clock, Sat.u.r.days, Sundays, every day.

"They work around the clock until they finish. Whoever finishes first, and also has the best product, the Camorristi broker will award them the contract. The designer then pays the broker, who pays that seamstress."

"What about the other seamstresses? The ones who have been making the dresses and still have the fabric?"

"A very good question. They get to keep that fabric, and the dresses they have made. The fabric is cheap. The designers do not care about it. So the Camorristi brokers pay those seamstresses, but less, for the dresses, and they sell them on...what do you call it? The black market?"

"Yes, the black market. Underground."

"Si, but it is not always so underground. Sometimes they sell right to stores, and you americani will never know the difference. Very few people can tell the difference. Sometimes they sell to discount stores. Sometimes to africani who sell on the streets."

"Like in New York?"

"Esattamente. Exactly." He gestured at my yellow sundress. "For example, what designer has made your dress?"

"It's Parker Casey, an American designer." I twisted around and tried to see the tag on the dress.

"If that had been an Italian designer," Carlo said, "it could have been a Camorra dress. The problem with the Camorra is that they don't care about people. They use these people who work for nothing. The people don't stand up for themselves, because they live in an area where there's no other industry. There is nothing else for them to do to make money to feed their families. So they work for the Camorra. Many times, they give their earnings back to the Camorra, hoping that the Camorra, like a bank, might be able to provide interest. But often it doesn't. Many people lose everything. My mother was one of those people. My grandfather also gets sick from the garbage and the water. My whole family..." He waved his hand, disgusted. For a second, he looked on the verge of tears.

"I'm so sorry."

"Be glad you don't know about the Camorra."

"Do they have a presence in the United States?"

"As to the clothing, si. As to everything else?" A shrug. "For your sake, I hope they are not there. I hope that you will never, never have to deal with the Camorra in your life." He gazed at me miserably. "Miss," he said. "If you do not have to ask about the Camorra any further, if you do not have to deal with them, then please, per favore, do not."

28.

S he was with a girlfriend, Dez learned, a short woman with blondish brown hair "And where is she staying?" he asked the man whom La Duca had asked to call him from Naples.

"Grand Hotel Vesuvio."

"Good work."

Since his mole first called him, Dez had done more homework on la testa rossa. He'd called some of the old guard Camorra in Napoli and asked who was this father she was talking about? He learned that her father was indeed a traditore. And one who paid the ultimate price. Pathetic the rossa even cared enough to ask about him.

The man in Naples spoke. "The duke wants to know. What do you want to do with the redhead now?"

He beamed internally that the duke still trusted him, was letting him help run this game. And yet the question he'd just been asked was at once the easiest and toughest. He knew what he wanted to do to her. In fact, it would be facile, easy. But while the authorities wouldn't blink at the killing of a Camorra drug pusher or even a higher-up, they wouldn't turn away from the killing of an American woman. They couldn't. Such an event would get too many headlines, bring too many eyes. And that was exactly what Dez was looking to avoid.

So Dez came up with a slightly different plan. He would scare her back to the United States. And when she was here in the red, white and blue, he would make sure she was red, white and dead.

29.

W e followed Bernard out of the Grand Hotel lobby and onto the twilit streets of Naples. A sultry feeling hung in the air-heavy and salty. People strolled along sidewalks that wrapped around the sea. Across the street, the cafes near the sailboats were bright and hopping.

"The best pizza in Naples," Bernard said as we walked, "is a subject of ma.s.sive debate. When I told people I was coming here, I started getting recommendations, and people really have opinions. They take this stuff seriously."

Maggie gazed up at him and grinned, looking as if she was ready to hear more, to hear whatever Bernard had to say.

He'd changed from the baggy jeans and orange polo shirt to darker, still-baggy jeans and a navy blue polo shirt. I thought I spied a uniform of sorts.

"So, I've heard about this one restaurant from ten different people," Bernard said. "Are you guys willing to try it?"

"Sure," I said. "It's good to know someone with the inside scoop."

Bernard led us through the streets of Naples to Antica Pizzeria Brandi della Regina on a street called Anna di Palazzo. Like many other Naples streets, it was chaotic, but Pizzeria Brandi della Regina was a refuge, its ivory awnings shading it protectively from the craziness of the rest of the street.

I took a peek inside and saw a huge wood-burning oven, tiled in mosaic, the name of the restaurant spelled proudly on its flank.

As we took our seat outside, a waiter came over and boasted about the restaurant. "We are the inventors of the pizza Margherita."

"The pizza Margherita?" Maggie said, and even in English, you couldn't mistake her disbelief.

The waiter puffed up his chest. "Yes. In 1889. Other pizzerias, they will tell you that they invented it. They will tell you they have the real pizza of Napoli, but it is here. We invented it. We make it."

He and Maggie had a standoff with their eyes. She caved and gave him a little shrug. Bernard laughed.

When the waiter walked away, Bernard leaned in. "They pa.s.sed a law here. In order to be official pizzerias, your pizza has to be a certain width and height, and there are all these rules, like the dough has to be kneaded by hand and certain olive oil and mozzarella have to be used."

"Seems like a lot of trouble," Maggie said. "If a pizza is good, who cares if it's official?"

A pa.s.sing waiter apparently heard Maggie's words and understood English. He stopped and gave her a grave look, his hand still holding aloft a tray of gla.s.ses, before he moved on.

"Sheesh," Maggie said.

But when the pizza came, we could see what all the fuss was about. We had ordered the traditional Margherita, which sounded boring, but it was divine-the crust spongy and b.u.t.tery, the buffalo mozzarella soft and bubbling, the tomatoes tasting as if they'd been picked today. We also took the recommendation of the waiter and ordered a broccoli and sausage pizza, which was enough to make all of us swoon.

In two minutes, both pizzas were gone.

Bernard looked at the empty pans, a forlorn expression pa.s.sing over his features.

"We should order more," Maggie said.

Bernard's face lit up, and the two of them bent toward each other to consult the menu.