“When was the visit?” Eve asked.
“This was late last spring. She was so unhappy, and though she tried to hide it, we were sisters. I could see, and I pressed her to tell me.”
She paused, closed her eyes a moment, this woman with strong shoulders and the athletic build of her former profession.
Though tears glimmered in her eyes, she didn’t let them spill.
“She told me she felt no love from her husband. She wished to work, but he would not have it.”
“She said …” Antonio gathered himself. “She told us she wished to step away from the business for a time, to be only a mother to Angelo.”
“I know. I think …” Tereza rubbed his fisted hand. “I think she said it so we wouldn’t think less of Jorge, but she missed the work, missed the family, missed home. And Jorge, she told me, became more distant, more—it would be restrictive. She said he only wished her to present herself as his wife, to attend the social events with him, the business dinners.”
She managed a smile at Eve. “She was so beautiful, you see, so charming and knowledgeable about the business. This made her an asset to him, and I think she felt that’s what she had become. Only that to him. An asset.
“She wished to take Angelo to Tuscany, to show him his mama’s home, but Jorge wouldn’t allow it. He worked very much, and gave her little time. She was lonely, and she missed her family, her home. She had no real friends, as he wished her only to socialize with the wives of clients, to take them to lunch or host parties.”
“Why didn’t she tell me? I’m her mama.”
Tereza turned to Anna Maria. “She didn’t want to disappoint you. You didn’t want her to marry so soon, to marry Jorge without more time. And still when she wanted him, you gave your blessing. You were right, Mama. Galla said to me you were right. But she had married him, and they had a son. She asked for my promise not to tell you or Papa, not even to tell you, mi amore. I’m sorry.”
“Do you think I’d be angry with you for keeping your word to my sister? For giving her comfort when she was unhappy?”
“I told her, come back with me. I would help her bring the baby home, but she wouldn’t. She said she couldn’t take her husband’s son from him. And then …”
She rubbed a hand over her heart. “Is there water, please?”
“I’ll get you some.” Peabody rose, walked to where she’d stacked tubes of water. “She was lucky to have you. To have someone to talk to.”
“Thank you. Thank you. It was weeks later. We kept in closer contact after the visit. I tried to speak to her or write with her every day if I could. She told me she’d met someone, an artist. She bought one of his paintings—one of home. She would go for walks, or for runs—this was an outlet. And she met him when she was walking. They became friendly. They became more. And she was happy. She found love. She knew it was wrong to break her vows.”
Her family said nothing as she stopped to drink some water.
“She thought of divorce, of going back home to see if her heart stayed with the artist. Then she thought, again, of her vows, and the child she had made with her husband. Though she was happy, she knew she couldn’t simply end her marriage, break her family. She had to try to mend it. She tells me all this. Tells me, a week or two ago—two, I think—she ended her love affair. She said her lover wept with her, and so I wept with her.”
Tereza closed her eyes. “I wept with her because I think she makes a mistake, and should have gone with her heart. I don’t say this to her. I think I wish I had.”
She fought back tears, drank water before turning to her father-in-law. She spoke softly in Italian. He shook his head, drew her toward him, kissed her temple.
Then he straightened in his chair, those dark eyes burning into Eve’s. “You think this artist killed her because she ended it?”
“No, sir, I don’t. She went to the park that night to meet him, at his request. But—” she said as the rage came back into his face. “He asked her to meet him to say goodbye with a gift. A painting to be a companion to the one she’d bought when they’d met. He came forward to me, and told me what your daughter-in-law has just confirmed. He had the painting. I believe his grief was as real as yours. More, the evidence we have doesn’t support his involvement in her death.”
“Jorge.” Unlike Antonio’s wife, Anna Maria’s face had gone stark white. “There is coldness in him. Galla couldn’t see it. She was blind to it, but there is coldness in him.”
“We have no evidence that places him in the park at the time of her death. All evidence indicates he was at home, never left the residence that evening. However, we’ll interview him extensively.
“Mr. Modesto?”
“Sì?”
“Your daughter-in-law keeps her word. Do you?”
“If I give my word, I do not break it.”
“I need the word of everyone at this table. Everyone here who loved Galla, who wants justice for her, that what we discuss now won’t leave this room. That no one in this room takes any action that will interfere with this investigation.”
“You’ll have it.” Antonio looked down the table. “She has the word of the Modesto family. It won’t be broken.”
“Peabody, put Cobbe on-screen. Lorcan Cobbe,” Eve said as Peabody got up to do so. “Is that name familiar to anyone?”
“I know of no one by that name,” Antonio told her as the others shook their heads. “Is this who killed my daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why would this man kill Galla?”
“Because it’s his job. Lorcan Cobbe.” Eve gestured to the screen, and his ID shot. “A professional killer. We have evidence he was in the park. We have evidence he was hired to kill Galla. Do any of you recognize this man?”
“I’ve never seen that face,” Stefano said. “He kills for money? Who would—?”
He broke off, and, like his mother, went very pale.
“What did you remember?” Eve demanded.
“It must be nothing, nothing. It was a joke.”
“What was?”
“Jorge was in Rome for meetings, a presentation. After many meetings, the long presentation, I took him for drinks. He says, poor joke, where is the Mafia when we need it? We have a competitor who is undercutting our prices, and he jokes we need—how does he put it—we need the men in the black limousine to take them out, for good.
“In this spirit—we had a very long, difficult day—I joke back. We only contact Bellacore—Salvadore Bellacore.”
At his father’s hiss of breath, Stefano lifted his hands. “I know, Papa, a very poor joke.”
“Who’s Bellacore?”
“From the old mafioso,” Stefano told her. “He is very old, retired—and no longer in prison, where he spent many years. It’s said he has a fine villa in Sardinia. It’s also said—and this I tell Jorge—he knows the cutthroats, and where to find them, as he was one himself. There are rumors that he brokers such matters in his retirement. I said all this. Did I give him this idea?”
“I have no doubt he already had the idea. Can you pinpoint the date of this conversation?”