Casselli smiled and leaned back in his recliner; he was enjoying this.

“Trouble is,” the reporter continued, “that suddenly, Leo Casselli has vanished from sight, and the police, in spite of an intensive effort, have been unable to locate him. He has not been seen at his two homes, one in Naples and one on the Amalfi Coast, nor has he been dining at any of his favorite restaurants. He was last seen at lunch in a Paris brasserie that he managed to leave, in spite of the fact that it was surrounded by police. And since that time, two of his ostensibly right-hand men have been murdered, some say because Casselli feared their collecting the big reward.

“The Italian police, in spite of several inquiries on my part, have refused to so much as mention Casselli’s name, and it seems that his continued absence from the scene has become something of an embarrassment for them. The Rome and Naples newspapers have become interested, though, and they have begun running daily photographs from their files, in an effort to spread the word that the police would like to have a chat with Leo Casselli. The search continues. We’ll get back to you with any news.”

Casselli turned the volume back down and returned to the papers in his lap. “What’s doing with the fucking chocolate?” he asked a man sitting in a smaller chair next to him.

“Don Leonardo, we continue to try and find a buyer for the stuff.”

“Where is it?”

“About fifty meters from here, in a refrigerated trailer.”

“And how much is that costing me?”

“Only the gasoline, Don Leonardo; the trailer, we stole and repainted.”

“I’m sick of that fucking chocolate,” Casselli grumbled. “We’re going to end up dumping it into the sea.”

“That is a possibility, Don Leonardo.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Tell them to get this thing moving.”

The man got out of his chair, walked to a wall telephone, and spoke into it. From outside, there came the faint sound of an engine starting, and Casselli’s living room began to move. His minion staggered back to his chair.

—

In Rome, Stone had watched the CNN report, too, and Jim Lugano had come into the room while it was running and had taken a seat.

“Good morning, Stone.”

“Good morning, Jim.”

“As I explained yesterday, two of Casselli’s building projects had permits for construction elevators on-site. One of them you’ve already visited, in Naples, and the other is in Ravello.” He laid a stack of photos on the table. “These are of the Ravello site.”

Stone picked them up and leafed through them. “I don’t see a construction elevator,” he said.

“That’s because there isn’t one. If you’ll look at the aerial shot—the one with the sea far below, in the background, you’ll see that the only visible access to the building is on the outskirts of Ravello, a narrow stairway cut out of the rock of the mountain, leading down to a broad deck, at what appears to be the rear of the building.”

“What sort of building is it?” Stone asked. “It appears to be cut into the mountainside.”

“Honestly, I don’t know. The building permit says it’s a storage facility, but for the life of me I can’t see why anyone would store anything there. The seaward side would have an impressive view, though, so it could be a residence.”

“So how would they get construction materials in there? Certainly not down that narrow stairway.”

“First, on the construction elevator, which would be removed when an interior elevator is available.” Jim produced more photographs. “Then like this,” he said. “A large flatbed truck pulls up as close as it can get to the rear of the house, and a crane lifts pallets of boxes or pieces of furniture and sets them down on the rear deck, from where they are taken inside by workmen. It appears that someone or some business is moving into the building now.”

“This has got to be the place,” Stone said, “by a process of elimination, if nothing else.”

“Except we’re missing the feature we’ve been searching for: the outside elevator.”

“You said they’re moving into the place—maybe they were finished with the elevator. Had to happen sometime.”

“I expect you’re right.”

“Maybe there’s a more permanent elevator on the other side.”

Jim showed him another photo. “The other side is a sheer rock face, nearly three hundred feet above the coastal highway.”

Stone looked at the photo. “This is impossible.”

“More like impossibly expensive.”

“How’s that?”

“The only place they could have an elevator would be inside the face of the cliff.”

“You mean, a vertical shaft cut out of the rock?”

“It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Who could afford to do that?”

“Maybe somebody who owns his own construction company,” Jim said.

“Can we get plans for the building?”

“They’re on the way.”

40

After sunset, the articulated truck and trailer bearing Leo Casselli pulled to a stop at a wide place in the Amalfi coastal road. This led to a sort of canyon large enough to hold a couple of dozen cars.

The rear doors were opened and a set of steps set in place, and Casselli walked down them.

“This way, Don Leonardo,” his minion said. He led the way toward a tall, recently planted hedge that shielded the entrance to the house from sight.

“Very nice,” Casselli said, stroking the hedge like a pet.

“This way, Don Leonardo.” The man opened a heavy steel door, then another of smoked glass. A couple of steps, and they were in the new elevator. “Very good,” Casselli said. “I told the architect I wanted it big enough for a grand piano.”

“The piano is already in place, Don Leonardo. The house is ninety-nine percent ready for use, should you wish to spend the night.”

Casselli pressed the top button, and the elevator rose swiftly.

“First, the lower floor for staff, technical equipment, and kitchens, which are connected to the other floors by a dumbwaiter, then the main-floor living quarters, built to your specifications.”

The elevator came to rest on the main floor, and the doors slid open, directly into a very large living room, which was beautifully furnished with soft furniture and good art.

“It is like the architect’s drawings,” Casselli said. “It is very pleasing to me.”

“Would you like to see the bedrooms?”

“Yes.”

The man led him up a spiral staircase from room to room; each bedroom had a large en suite bath and a sitting room, as well. “And now the master suite,” the man said.

Casselli emerged into a large suite with two bathrooms, two dressing rooms, and a large sitting room with a spectacular view of the sea below. Still more art hung there.

“Your clothes have already been placed in your dressing room, Don Leonardo, as per your instructions.”

“Is there a cook present?”

“The house is fully staffed as of this moment.”

“Then I will have dinner served here,” he said, taking a seat in a reclining chair and switching on a six-foot television screen. “Where is the girl?” Casselli asked.

“In a maid’s room, on the lower level, awaiting your pleasure.”

“I need no pleasure from her, and I have no wish to see her. I merely want to know she is here. When is Sophia due?”

“She is being driven down from Rome, sir, and should be here within the hour.”

“Ah, good. Tell the cook to delay dinner until her arrival, and bring us a bottle of the Masi Amerone, the oldest we have.”

“Of course, Don Leonardo. You have only to lift the phone and press the upper-right-hand button to page anyone in the house.” He left his master to his news show.