‘Come in.’ He motioned us. ‘We talk, we may as well sit. You sit, you may as well eat. My name is Eugenio.’
He led us to a pink-covered table in a corner far removed from guests in party clothes filling most of the dining room. They were toasting, eating, talking and laughing with the gestures and cadences of Italians.
‘We do not have full menu tonight,’ Eugenio apologized. ‘I can bring you costoletta di vitello alia griglia or polio al limone with maybe a little cappellini primavera or rigatoni con broccolo.’
We said yes to all and added a bottle of Dolcetto D’Alba, which was a favorite of mine and difficult to find.
Eugenio went to get our wine while my mind spun slowly and sick fear pulled at my heart.
‘Don’t even suggest it,’ I said to Wesley.
‘I’m not going to suggest anything yet.’
He didn’t have to. The restaurant was so close to the subway station where Gault had been seen. He would have noticed Scaletta’s because of the name. It would have made him think of me, and I was someone he probably thought about a lot.
Almost instantly, Eugenio was back with our bottle. He peeled off foil and twisted in the corkscrew as he talked. ‘See, 1979, very light. More like a Beaujolais.’ He pulled the cork out and poured a little for me to taste.
I nodded, and he filled our glasses.
‘Have a seat, Eugenio,’ Wesley said. ‘Have some wine. Tell us about Scarpetta.’
He shrugged. ‘All I can say is he first come in here several weeks ago. I know he had not been in before. To tell the truth, he was unusual.’
‘In what way?’ Wesley asked.
‘Unusual looking. Very bright red hair, thin, dressed unusual. You know, long black leather coat and Italian trousers with maybe T-shirt.’ He looked up at the ceiling and shrugged again. ‘If you can imagine wearing nice trousers and shoes like Armani and then wearing T-shirt. It was not ironed, either.’
‘Was he Italian?’ I asked.
‘Oh no. He could fool some people, but not me.’ Eugenio shook his head and poured himself a glass of wine. ‘He was American. But he maybe spoke Italian because he used the Italian part of the menu. He ordered that way, you know? He would not order in English. Actually, he was very good.’
‘How did he pay?’ Wesley asked.
‘Always charge card.’
‘And the name on the charge card was Scarpetta?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I’m certain. No first name, just the initial K. He said his name was Kirk. Not exactly Italian.’ He smiled and shrugged.
‘He was friendly, then,’ Wesley said as my mind kept slamming into this information.
‘He was very friendly sometimes and not so friendly other times. He always had something to read. Newspapers.’
‘He was alone?’ Wesley asked.
‘Always.’
“What kind of charge card?’ I said.
He thought. ‘American Express. A gold card, I believe.’
I looked at Wesley.
‘Do you have yours with you?’ he asked me.
‘I would assume so.’
I got out my billfold. The card wasn’t there.
‘I don’t understand.’ I felt the blood rise to the roots of my hair.
‘Where did you have it last?’ Wesley asked.
‘I don’t know.’ I was stunned. ‘I don’t use it much. So many places won’t take it.’
We were silent. Wesley sipped his wine and looked around the room. I was frightened and bewildered. I did not understand what any of this meant. Why would Gault come here and pretend to be me? If he had my gold card, how did he get it? And even as I asked that last question, a dark suspicion stirred. Quantico.
Eugenio had gotten up to see about our food.
‘Benton,’ I said as my blood roared. ‘I let Lucy use that card last fall.’
‘When she began her internship with us?’ He frowned.
‘Yes. I gave it to her after she left UVA and was on her way to the Academy. I knew she’d be back and forth to visit me. She’d be flying to Miami for the holidays and so on. I gave her my American Express card to use mostly for plane and Amtrak tickets.’