had named Josh Jonah, the photographer Martin Vogel, and the Lukatmi security guard Jimmy Gaines as the principals in the plot to murder Allan Prime. Vogel had arranged the poison for Maggie Flavier. Jonah had then approached the photographer after being blackmailed over his involvement in the plot. Tonti had promised them Prime would be the only victim. He had hoped that would be the case, and that the halfhearted attempt on Maggie Flavier’s life, which he had not expected to be successful, would merely gain yet more publicity to keep the movie in the headlines. The deaths of Jonah and Vogel he regarded as accidental, if fortuitous. He claimed to have shot Tom Black—who had never understood the true nature of the scheme—himself, from a viewpoint near the Embarcadero, and then disposed of the weapon.
Dino Bonetti’s role remained unclear. The producer had disappeared the night of the premiere and was now the subject of arrest warrants for fraud and attempted murder. Tonti, however, steadfastly refused to discuss his involvement in the conspiracy, dismissing it as minor. The credit, as he saw it, was to be his.
In spite of the man’s age and frailty, he remained in custody, though Kelly was minded to waive any objections to bail provided Tonti surrendered his passport and reported to the police on a daily basis. The medical reports indicated that he had, at most, a few months to live, and would never face trial. There was no question, either, that the man would wish to flee to Italy, in spite of Gianluca Quattrocchi’s promises. The truth, Kelly felt, was that Roberto Tonti had achieved what he wanted.
The SFPD phone lines had burned with calls from TV networks and newspapers pleading with Tonti to go on air or give lengthy press interviews. From the major newspapers to the prime-time celebrity shows, he was, suddenly, in demand. This, it seemed, was worth a succession of lives, none of which the dying man deemed of any great value. Only his own reputation, his legacy, mattered, and by force of circumstance, that would always be tied to a single movie, Roberto Tonti’s Inferno.
Hank and Frank Boynton had been round for breakfast when Falcone returned from Bryant Street to brief them on what he’d heard from Gerald Kelly. All of them at the table—the Boyntons, Teresa, Peroni, and Costa—listened intently, and then the Italians stayed silent.
Hank, however, raised a forefinger and said, by way of objection, “But just a minute—”
“The movie business,” Frank grumbled. “He couldn’t take being behind that camera all his life, watching others get the fame. What was that line from Dante he spouted after he killed that poor bastard in front of everyone?”
“ ‘Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars,’ ” Costa said.
“Envy. Greed. This insane craving for fame.” Frank Boynton shook his head then got up from the table. “Come on, brother. These people have things to do.” He looked at Teresa. “That invitation to Rome still stands?”
“Whenever you boys want it.”
“Good. Have a safe journey home. All of you.”
They watched the two men leave. Ten minutes later Catherine Bianchi arrived and offered them one last drive round the city before a farewell lunch in the Marina.
2
COSTA ALMOST FELL ASLEEP IN THE MINIVAN AS it wound through a city landscape he felt he now knew well. The views across to Marin County, the great bridge, the hulking island of Alcatraz … It would be hard to shake San Francisco from the memory for many reasons, good and bad. Then he remembered he had something to return. It was sitting in a plastic grocery bag he’d brought along for the purpose. When they stopped at a light, he reached forward and placed it on the console between the front seats.
“That belongs to Gerald Kelly. Tell him thanks but I didn’t need it.”
Catherine Bianchi took a look at the handgun in its leather holster. “Lucky you.”
Her dark eyes wandered to the tall lean figure in the passenger seat. Something had changed between these two. Falcone sat next to her looking relaxed and perhaps a little bored. He was no longer the ardent pursuer and had already talked wistfully that morning of work back in Rome. Yet, as his eagerness waned, Catherine Bianchi’s, it seemed to Costa, was beginning to surface, rather too late in the day.
“Is everything good?” she asked with a brittle, edgy ease.
The question was principally aimed at the man next to