19 ...

Their polished leather boots seemed to propel the Carabinieri in unison along the hallway, marble under foot and on the sculpted walls reflecting back a clatter of echoes. As far as Newkirk could tell, they were alone in this tired-looking office building. The air carried the faint smell of a cleaning agent, but no fresh breeze stirred; all the windows he saw were tightly closed. 

No one spoke. After what felt like ages, he was ushered down several flights of stairs at the rear of the building. In what must have been a vast basement, confusing twists and turns followed until at last the trio came to a halt before a simple, unmarked wooden door. The policeman on Newkirk's left rapped crisply on the door, and in moments it swung inward to reveal yet another dark corridor. Once they entered, the door closed behind them with an ominous click. This scenario repeated itself twice more - unmarked doors, dark hallways and the click of locks. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, Newkirk began to notice cameras mounted near the ceilings. They were being watched.

Finally a door opened on a brightly lit room. Several computer monitors sat on a long desk against the far wall (one displaying the hallways they had just left), and directly in front of Newkirk, leaning against the desk's edge stood a large, bald man drinking coffee. To the right, a smaller man swivelled around in his chair and with a perfunctory smile, Marchese greeted the newcomers. 

"Thank you for your assistance, constables. We'll take it from here. As you were told earlier, the two of you were chosen for your discretion. I'm sure I can count on you both. That's all, thank you." Once again demonstrating precisely how to move with grace and poise, the Carabinieri pivoted, and left the room, closing the door with a faint swish.

"Please, have a seat Signore." With a flick of the wrist, Marchese waved Newkirk toward a plain wooden chair. "Would you like coffee? It's very simple to have it brought in."

"Si, grazie, Tenente. I would very much like a cup of coffee."

"Ah, you speak Italian, Signore Newkirk."

"Very little I'm afraid. I appreciate your speaking English; I think we'll both understand each other better. You speak it beautifully, by the way."

Marchese nodded to acknowledge the compliment. "In fact, I have spent some time in Toronto, as has the Sottotenente ... excuse me, I am Tenente – as you noticed – Guido Marchese, and this is Sottotenente Paolo Bandone. Paolo, meet Signore ..."

"David, please. Piaccere." They shake hands. "You were saying that you have visited Toronto."

"Yes. I have relatives there, and I sent Paolo to stay with them when he decided to brush up his English," Marchese continued. 

"May I ask where in Toronto your relatives live?"

"Years ago an uncle moved his family to your Little Italy – Toronto's Italian community is very large, no? – Euclid Avenue, I believe, not far from an authentic little cafe, the Diplomatico. 

But he did well with a flooring and masonry business and they have long since moved to a sprawling house just north of the city." He turns to Bandone. "What was the name of the place Paolo, Woodstock?"

"Woodbridge," Bandone corrected.

"Yes, Woodbridge. I have not visited them there, but we email and occasionally they send photos. I should make time for a visit while my aunt is still with us. I like Toronto very much – so clean, and quite sophisticated now. It may not be New York, but ..." he shrugged.

"Little Italy is one of my favourite parts of the city," said Newkirk. 

"When I first began teaching, I worked at a high school in the northern part of Toronto, a kind of migration stop for the Italian population, a suburban area where families moved from Little Italy, but before they went on to bigger and better things in Woodbridge. About half of my students were of Italian descent – wonderful kids. Those students and the art of Italy were responsible for my interest in this beautiful country."

Marchese leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, marking a change in tone as he spoke. "Your interest in art is the reason we asked you to join us." Now he was all business.

"Oh. Am I visiting you here, or have I been arrested? I must say that being whisked away from St. Peter's by Swiss Guards and Carabinieri officers was confusing, and a little nerve wracking. Finding myself in the basement of a huge, empty building has not been very reassuring either, despite your congenial welcome, Tenente. Can you explain in more detail just why I'm here?"

Just then there was a knock at the door, startling Newkirk. Bandone pressed a button; the door swung open, and in walked a young man in waiter's garb, carrying a tray of fresh pastries and a pot of espresso whose aroma was irresistible.