The Fatal Touch by Conor Fitzgerald Page A

Health Institute, a guy called Lazzarini, also worked as a natural scientist for La Sapienza University. He had been looking into dioxin levels in San Marzano tomatoes . . .”
    Caterina stopped dead as Blume walked straight into the moving traffic, slapping his palm hard on the hood of a car that honked at him and giving it a kick in the side as it sped off. He still seemed to be telling the story of the San Marzano tomatoes as he reached Piazza Trilussa on the other side. Caterina watched him go, and waited for the pedestrian light to turn green. By the time it had, her Commissioner was already out of sight.

Chapter 8
    As he reached the other side of the road, Blume pulled out his phone and called Kristin Holmquist at the American Embassy.
    “Alec!”
    She sounded warm. He closed his eyes and imagined her standing there with her bright copper hair, her blue jeans, her white blouse, her smell of talc.
    “I’m working an interesting case,” he said.
    “Really? You want to tell me about it first, or shall we just skip to the part where you ask me to do some research for you?”
    “Well, you know it’s not safe or practical to do this sort of thing by phone, so why don’t I just give you a name, and then maybe we can meet for dinner and compare notes,” said Blume.
    “Get information and a date out of me, you mean?”
    “I know, it is a terrible role-reversal for you, Kristin . . . .” The scent of ginger and garlic from the Surya Maha Indian restaurant above him gave him an idea. “I’ll make dinner. This evening, my place.”
    “What’s the name you’re interested in?”
    “Colonel Orazio Farinelli, he’s a member of the Carabinieri. I know the name from somewhere. He’s just strolled in and taken my case away from me.”
    “How did he manage that?”
    “Investigating Magistrate Franco Buoncompagno, also known as the finger puppet. I don’t need you to look Buoncompagno up. I know more than enough about him.”
    “You can never know too much,” said Kristin.
    “I hate to disagree, but often I find myself knowing far more about people than I want to. Do we have a deal?”
    “I’m not sure, Alec. You have not always been as helpful as we had hoped. And when I say ‘not always,’ I mean ‘never.’ ”
    “That’s because I don’t like sharing info on my cases with an operative in a foreign embassy.”
    “I’m not an operative, Alec baby. And you can’t go round calling your fellow Americans foreigners.”
    “Well, let’s try this thing again. You never made it clear what you wanted me to do for you anyhow, apart from when we were, you know . . .”
    “When we were what?”
    “Sorry, that was in bad taste.”
    “It sure was. I distinctly remember explaining it to you in the clearest possible terms. I was looking for someone to keep an ear to the ground here in Rome, help me flesh out my monthly reports to the country team. You are clearly not that person. So, personal feelings and friendship aside, you’re calling me now because . . .?”
    “A case was taken away from me, I was hoping you might speed up the process of my finding out about this Colonel. If not, I can do it myself.”
    “I still don’t get why you think I’ll do this. Or why you think I have access.”
    “I know you have access. Even I have access if I try hard enough. It’s just quicker this way.”
    “Suppose I helped you, would you consider that as a favor to be returned?”
    “Of course. I never said no to what you were proposing. You know me, I love sharing. Love my country, too.”
    “I don’t know, Alec. Maybe.”
    “Great. That’s Farinelli with two ‘l’s. And 8 o’clock, my place. I’m making pure American tacos and . . .” he tried to think of something appetizing. “Guacamole.”
    When Blume arrived a few minutes later, Sovrintendente Grattapaglia was standing at the green door, arms folded as if barring entrance to it, and staring at a dark-blue Carabinieri car with a red flash emblem