I mmediately, we smelled the blood. A gagging sound came from Maggie's throat. She put her hand over her mouth and stepped into the room.

I followed her inside, unable to look at the right side of the room. Instead, I just raised my arm and pointed at the couch. "There."

But as I said the word, my body turned against my will, needing to see. Then I turned more fully, my eyes opening wide, blinking, because...because...

There was no one there.

"He was..." I said. "He was right..."

A moment pa.s.sed-a moment that seemed so long, contained the power of so much sensory information. That smell, a soft ticking of a clock on the desk, the low rumble of something-subways?-somewhere in the city, the sound of my breath coursing, jagged, in and out of my lungs, the sight of the red couch still pushed aside, of the pool of red liquid next to it.

"Are you sure?" Maggie asked.

"Look." I pointed to the blood. "Obviously, something happened. He was lying right there."

Maggie shook her head. "But where is he now?"

I paced the room, my eyes wildly scanning the place, my brain scanning every memory I had, every sight I'd seen, looking for something that made sense.

"There are drag marks over here. Elena must have had the body removed. After we saw him, when we got upstairs, she took off running."

"Where would she take the body?"

"I have no idea."

"We have to figure out where she could be."

I was about to make the same response-I have no idea-but then I stopped. "I think I know." I grabbed Maggie's hand. "Let's go."

50.

"C harlie!" the producer yelled. "That author is at the front desk. Get her and take her to the green room."

Charlie removed his headset and shot off his chair. He left the booth where the producers ran the radio show and made his way through the studio. Two walls of gla.s.s overlooked Michigan Avenue, right where the street met the river. The desk in the studio, in front of those windows, was ma.s.sive and triangular, each side having two or three headphones and mikes, except for the host's side, which had only one headset and a soundboard in front of it.

The host glanced up at him, gave a half smile and kept reading a newspaper. A commercial was playing, but you couldn't hear it in the studio, and although the guy would have to be back on air, live, going out to millions of listeners in twenty seconds, he was unfazed.

Which never failed to amaze Charlie. The skill this guy had-h.e.l.l, the skill that nearly everyone at the station had-was impressive and inspiring. Charlie had been sitting on his a.s.s for so long in his apartment that he hadn't seen this kind of expertise up close and personal for a long while. Sure, his mom and stepdad and Izzy were successful, but Izzy had been flaking lately, which made Charlie feel rather simpatico with her. Yet it was Izzy's meandering in and out of jobs that made him realize he needed to get one. A real one, which he'd never had before.

Charlie had worked during high school and college, and he'd had the dump truck gig, but since he was an adult he'd never had a truly professional job. Of course, this thing with WGN was just an internship, something a college student could probably do, but it was perfect for Charlie. He got to watch the way people worked, the way they thought, the way they prepared. He knew the host was always up early in the morning-Charlie sometimes got e-mails from the guy sent at 6 a.m.-watching the news, boiling it down into witty, pa.s.sing quips that sounded like off-the-cuff opinions. Charlie observed the head producer, too, who was a master of scheduling and glad-handing. The guy had to stack the book every day with interesting people-authors, comedians, politicians, celebs, sports guys-and then make the show feel as if it had exactly the right balance. When one guest called to cancel, or when the publicist for a better guest jumped in, the producer had to juggle the whole thing, moving this guest here, rescheduling another there.

The host dropped the corner of his newspaper. "Who do we have next?"

"The author." Charlie gestured in the direction of the front desk. "The one who traveled with that band, The Decker Brothers, for a year."

"It's a kid's band," the host said, "right? They're like six and eight years old?"

"Eight and ten." Charlie had been up last night reading all the press releases.

"And this grown woman traveled with these..." The host shook his head, his voice trailing off, ending with a short sigh. Then something seemed to catch his eye, and he stared out the window onto the street.

Charlie followed his gaze. Outside was the usual collection of tourists, some trying to take pictures of the studio through the gla.s.s, others cupping their faces around it to see inside. Sometimes people stood and waved until the hosts would wave back, even though they were live. Sometimes the people outside brought signs and jumped around with them until the host read them out loud, and hearing their signs read through the speakers on the street, the people would jump higher and cheer.

But today, there was something else going on. Two guys dressed in Cubs jerseys and baseball caps were staggering around outside, sort of tussling with each other.

"Drunk," the host said fondly. Charlie heard he was a recovering alcoholic.

One of them, a big guy with tattoos up and down both sides of his neck, threw the little one against the gla.s.s, and it made a huge bam sound. It looked like a fight, but then both of the guys just laughed. They turned to the gla.s.s and pressed themselves against it, pounding with their fists as if someone could open the gla.s.s and let them in.

The producer stuck his head out of the booth. "Charlie! Go control those idiots!"

Charlie hustled to the door. He was about to leave the studio when the host spoke up again. "Get the guest first. Make sure she knows we're a little delayed."

"But what about those guys..." Charlie pointed out the window where the two men were now doing some kind of cheer. The one with the tattoos on his neck threw his head back and looked as if he was howling. The other one cupped his hand and peered inside the gla.s.s then started banging on it again.

The host just rolled his eyes. "Guest first, then bozos. Hurry."

Charlie rushed from the studio and ran down the hallway, past the executive offices to the front desk. He greeted the author and hurried her to the green room, which wasn't green at all but brown, and strongly resembled someone's rec room bas.e.m.e.nt from a few decades ago. The author looked around with big eyes and p.r.o.nounced it "Great!" Charlie's producer said she was a first-timer and would be a little nervous.

"We're just about ready for you," Charlie said, "but we're running a little late."

"Sure, sure!" she chirped.

He turned and took off down the hall, past the reception desk and outside. It was a crisp, almost cool June day. The heat didn't really blast Chicago until July. Charlie jogged through the plaza toward the street and the men.

When he reached them, they didn't look at him. They were too busy banging on the gla.s.s.

"Hey, guys," Charlie said in a loud voice, raising his hand in a sort of surrender gesture so they wouldn't think he was being aggressive. The truth was, Charlie didn't even know how to be aggressive. "Hey, guys," he said, "we've got to stop that." He thought the "we" was a nice touch.

The one with the tattoos on his neck turned to him. "What do you mean?" Now here was a guy who knew how to be aggressive.

Charlie looked at the tattoos. He never could understand what counted as art-or body art-to some people. The tattoos were all gruesome little images surrounding one big red tattoo-a large A with a circle around it.

"Guys," Charlie said, "I have to ask you guys to stop." He thought of how the producer was always talking about appreciation of listeners, so he went on. "We're really glad you're our fans, and we're glad you're here, but we just need to..."

They still weren't listening. The little guy looked as if he was about to drop his pants and moon the studio. Charlie took a step closer. He'd have to control this situation or he'd lose his job. And even though this job didn't pay a dime, he liked it. Really liked it.

So he took another step closer to the men, raising his hands higher in surrender. "Dudes, seriously, you got to stop knocking on the window. Why don't I get you some T-shirts? Some hats maybe..." His words trailed off. The guy with the tattoos looked at him, and he didn't seem drunk or even aggressive anymore. He was calm and focused, and he looked as if he recognized Charlie.

Both guys darted toward him, grabbing Charlie around the neck and dragging him to a stairway that led down onto Lower Wacker. Charlie fought against them, but they were powerfully strong, and so was the scent. What was that he smelled? Charlie realized then that they were pushing a cloth over his mouth and nose, and it smelled intense. But just as quick the smell went away. And so did the rest of Charlie's world.

51.

T he Trevi piazza still held a bunch of tourists who didn't care about the soccer match. Maggie pushed through them, and then I took the lead, dodging past one beautiful church after another and eventually heading down the Corso.

"Where are we going?" Maggie asked.

"I remembered something Elena said. I know where she might be."

"Where?"

"Palazzo Colonna."

"The gallery where she works? It's closed."

"She keeps a private office there that she said she uses when she needs to escape or to think. I don't know why it didn't occur to me earlier."

When we reached the gallery, the tiny side street was mostly dark except for a cafe up the street, its outside tables empty.

I buzzed at the door of the Palazzo Colonna. No one answered. I looked up at the windows. There were three windows that I figured would have been in the anteroom just before the galleria, then a few high windows in the galleria itself, and finally two others at the tail end. All were dark.

"Doesn't look like she's here," Maggie said.

"Maybe not, but there's a chance. If I could just figure out..." In my mind, I followed Elena through the galleria, into Princess Isabelle's apartment, to the far side of the room-twisting and then pushing the pink dress-and into Elena's office, a hidden one, just like my father's. I heard Elena saying, This is where I come to escape, to think.

I led Maggie down the tiny street, explaining about the location of the office. "I think once you get through the galleria and the apartment, the office is on this side..." I pointed up at the stretch of building. "There were two windows. They were high up in the room and small."

"Like those?"

I followed the direction Maggie was pointing. There, two stories above, were rectangular windows lit up orange.

"That's them."

"Try to call her again."

I did. No answer. "Elena, we're outside," I said to her voice mail. "Please let us in." I thought about my first few days in Rome, when I called her over and over. She hadn't called me back until I texted her.

I picked up my phone and wrote her a text. I'm outside the galleria. Please let me help, whatever is going on. I will stay out here until you are ready to see me.

I showed it to Maggie and hit Send. We stood on the street, waiting. Soon, another ring of shouts burst into the city. Apparently, the soccer match had been won. People streamed into the street, singing soccer songs, chanting and cheering. A crowd of young boys rushed up to Maggie and me, trying to make us dance with them. It made me feel ancient. I could remember a time when I would have found fun in such a scene. I would have linked arms with one of the young boys and let him twirl me around the street. Now, though, it only made me anxious. I wanted to shove them away and yell Basta! the single Italian word that meant, essentially, Enough! Stop it. Get the h.e.l.l away from me. But I stopped myself. It would have been rude, I knew. I had no right to rain on the parade of these young boys. Finally, they left us. Other people pushed through the streets, clapping and cheering. Still, the two lights upstairs in the galleria remained on.

"Maybe she's not there," Maggie said.

"Maybe. I guess I don't know her well enough to know what she'd be doing right now. It's the only thing I can think of. It's the only thing I know to do. It's the only thing..." My voice rose, taking on a note of panic. I closed my mouth, then looked at Maggie. "Mags, what should I do?"

Maggie furrowed her brow. "Okay, you're right. We have to do something. Something else." She stared back up at the two rectangular windows shining into the night. "There's got to be a fire escape, don't you think?"

I shrugged. "This is Italy. There's no rhyme or reason to these buildings, and they don't have codes like we do. Or, at least, they don't always pay attention to them."

"What about that?" Maggie pointed to a small garden terrace one floor up from the street and below the lit windows of Elena's office. "If we climb over that-" she pointed at a stone wall to the right "-we could get to the stairway that leads up to that garden."

"They must have a security system."

Maggie raised her eyebrows. "Which would bring anyone inside the palazzo outside."

"And which would also bring the police."

"Not if we do it fast enough to trigger the alarm, but just be standing here like we have no idea what happened."

"Don't be crazy, you-"

But before I could finish, she was lifting her self onto the fence like a gymnast onto a beam and swinging her legs over it. She landed on the other side. "So far so good."

"Mags, don't be deranged. This is my mess. My family. You don't need to get yourself in trouble."

She stared up at the terrace and at Elena's windows, then she turned to me. "Iz, we're best friends. I know Sam took that spot for a while, and he should have. He was your fiance. But following you around for the last hour, seeing you go through this h.e.l.l, it reminds me that the best friend spot is my job again. And so your mess is my mess." She turned away.

"Wasn't it my mess when I wanted to call the police a few hours ago? Now you're going to try and get arrested?"

"I'm not going to get arrested. I just want to trip an alarm. Let me just look around."

She walked up to a French door on the ground floor and cupped her hands around her eyes, peering inside. The moment her hands touched the gla.s.s, a shriek screamed through the night, louder than any cheering shouts from the soccer fans.

"Maggie!" I yelled.

She leapt back over the wall and trotted down the street to me, an Oh, s.h.i.t, did I just do that? look on her face.

I peered up and down the street as the alarm screeched. "Should we go?" I yelled at Maggie, who looked as if she might have changed her mind.

But she only shook her head. "What thieves would stand here and wait for the cops?" she shouted back at me. "And we're not going to tell them about your dad."

An image of him lying in that blood hit me, made not just my stomach but my whole internal body constrict with pain.

A police car zipped up the street and parked outside the palazzo. Two carabinieri got out. They didn't look particularly alarmed by the alarm. Maybe they were used to false ones.

Maggie and I tried speaking to them in the little Italian we knew, but it was useless. One of them said something into his radio, squinting at me above it, and something in his look made me nervous. I'd had more than enough experience lately with suspicious cops, and the reminder sent a shot of terror to my brain.

But just then the front door of the palazzo opened. Elena stood there. One of the carabinieri approached her. They had a quick conversation in italiano. From what I could make out, she was saying, "They are fine. They are with the galleria."

She gave me a long look and spoke a few more words to the police. The one who seemed to be in charge finally shrugged, nodded and gestured for the other officer to leave with him.

Elena waited until they got in the car. She waited until they pulled away. She gave me a stern, sad look. Her eyes were red, and there were swaths of dark skin below them.

She glanced at Maggie, then back to me. "Come," she said. "Come in."