Page 65 of Identity Unknown
“Si, si,he told me you were planning on dropping by, and I said that next time he comes to Italy he has to bring you. We talked about taking you back to Trattoria da Enzo in Trastevere where we got a bit drunk on a bottle of very nice Chianti. Well, more than a bit, and more than one bottle. Remember?”
Grief wells up as I envision the three of us at an outdoor table in the cobblestone alleyway, light spilling from the restaurant. Sal continued refilling our glasses as we feasted on Roman cuisine, that night’s menu written on a blackboard.Panzanella. Burrata di Andria. Pennette con cozze e pecorino…
“I could never forget our times together,” I tell her.
“Are you here now?” Her tone is touched by misgiving.
“I’m in Virginia.”
“Is everything all right?” She’s instantly somber.
“I have something very unfortunate to tell you, Sabina.” I sit down on the edge of the bed. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”
I explain that her brother disappeared Monday night and has been found dead.
“That can’t be right,” she says in a shocked voice. “No, that can’t be!”
“DNA has confirmed his identity. I’m so very sorry.”
“What do you mean he disappeared?” Her voice quavers.
“He was abducted after leaving a restaurant last night in the mountains of West Virginia. This morning, police found his body in an abandoned theme park some ninety miles from there.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “He was kidnapped and murdered?”
“His death was violent, but we’re not sure who or what is responsible,” I answer carefully.
“No, oh no…!”
“I’m sorry I’m not there with you right now, Sabina…”
“I’ve never liked him going there. It’s so desolate. And he’s too trusting.” She’s sobbing. “I never liked him driving in the mountains and staying in that old lodge.”
“There’s much we don’t know. I’m hoping you might help with a few details.”
“Anything I can.” She blows out a long shaky breath, and I can feel her grief and horror.
“When you called him yesterday, what time was it?” I have my notebook and pen ready.
“Midmorning his time.”
“Not long after that, a florist appeared at his house with a delivery of five dozen long-stemmed white roses in a hand-painted ceramic vase.” I refrain from telling her that it was rigged with explosives. “I’m wondering if you have any idea who might have sent something like that to him?”
“Scusa?”
“They were delivered just minutes before I arrived at eleven.”
“I do not know and can’t imagine. That’s very strange.Morbosa. Non bene.” She doesn’t like the gesture, finding it as morbid as I do. “And Sal told you he had no idea who would they were from?”
“The card had nothing on it but his name.” I don’t mention that he thought the roses were from me. “When he visited you in Rome several weeks ago, did he mention having concerns about anything or anyone? Did he seem like himself then?”
“No, not really. He was not himself.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He said the world is more dangerous than it has ever been and he should redo his will,” Sabina explains. “We were having dinner in the Quartiere Coppedè, and I told him I did not wish to discuss anything so depressing while eating a perfect carbonara with a beautiful Abruzzo rosé.” Her voice sounds tragic.
“Did he mention anything specific? I know how hard this is. But anything you remember might be helpful, Sabina.”