73Chapter Fifty-Seven: Delia Rocks The Palace
"I don't know anything about this Gino character one way or another," Delia admitted, gulping down cappuccino and hastily wiping her mouth with a fancy linen napkin. "But I promised Mallory I'd check into him, and maybe find out more about his shady past!"
"Well, we'd best hurry then," Lady Agatha said, checking her tiny pearl-gray Bremont watch. "Blake's private plane will be picking us up this afternoon. We should be back in London in time for dinner!"
"We'll make it." Delia felt like saying a private plane could wait. But immature behavior might just make her friend decide that it was too hot to play detective in the height of Roman summer. So instead she flashed Lady Agatha a meek and obedient smile, and tried to focus on fueling up for the day with coffee and fresh Italian rolls.
"Pasticceria Barberini serves the finest pastries in Rome," Lady Agatha remarked, watching her youthful companion devour a flaky golden-brown cornetti. "My feeling was that a cup of coffee and a bit of pastry would help us both get off to an energetic start."
"Your feeling was correct." Delia didn't like to dwell on the fact that they were running late because she'd been gabbing all morning with Mallory James. In fact it was the unexpected long-distance call that had roused Delia from a deep sleep. "So where is this Palace of Justice place, anyway?" the little redhead chirped.
"It's the Palazzo di Giustizia, darling, and it's on the Tiber River, quite close by. Near the Vatican. You'll want to see the court records of the young man in question, and I've already arranged for someone from the Ministry of Justice to help us get started. We'll be on our way as soon as you finish your morning coffee!"
Delia was feeling suitably energized by the time the two women left the Pasticceria Barberini. The heat outside was already scorching, though it was barely noon. Lady Agatha wasted no time in flipping open her phone and summoning a sleek air-conditioned Mercedes from the Fiumicino airport service. She also insisted on taking along a carefully wrapped container of the most decadent desserts to be enjoyed later.
"So do you know this fellow at the Palace?" Delia asked in the car, still buzzing from the coffee and still trying to wrap her head around the idea that the Italians called their legal headquarters a palace.
"We've a bit of a history." Lady Agatha said no more, but her enigmatic smile made Delia picture a real steamy love affair.
Unfortunately, when they arrived at the Palace of Justice, it turned out that the computers were down, the air-conditioning was barely working, and the lifts that went up and down from the study area to the criminal archives were closed for the summer for repairs.
"But if the two beautiful ladies would care to wait in my office, I would gladly have my clerical staff comb the records for evidence. Or you might come back tomorrow, or . . . or in a few days perhaps. Give us a week or two and we can provide the complete criminal history of the young offender you seek!"
"That is very kind of you, Don Reynaldo." Silver-haired Lady Agatha beamed as though the bald, fat man in the fancy blue uniform had just offered her a priceless diamond. As ridiculous as it might seem, the old chemistry was evidently still sizzling between Agatha and fat little Reynaldo. The two of them clearly had a lot to talk about!
"But there's no time!" Delia was hot, and impatient. She almost felt like stamping her foot on the marble floor of the Palace of Justice. But she quickly stifled her anger, because the two lovebirds were looking at her like she was a spoiled toddler throwing a tantrum. "Look, you two can catch up on things in Don Reynaldo's office. I just want to go up to the archives and see what's on file for Gino!"
"Well, darling, if you're sure you can manage . . . Delia still struggles with her Italian." Lady Agatha smiled winningly at Don Reynaldo. "Such a beautiful language!"
"I'll use my phone to take pictures. We can translate them later!" Delia was done explaining. The two older people were so wrapped up in each other that they hardly noticed when she stomped off to the nearest stairwell.
Without computers, Delia had to drag down heavy binders full of juvenile records and haul them over to the tall, narrow windows where she could paw through the files and take pictures. It was hard work, and the archives were stuffy and hot. There were loads of Italian names, but the one Mallory gave her was Gino DiMartino.
"D'Alessandro, D'Amico, DiNapoli, DiNovo . . . where is he?" The harder she worked, sweating in the stacks and struggling with the bulky files, the more Delia began to suspect that someone had tampered with the records. Did Gino really have enough influence to expunge his own history? Had that rich employer of Mallory's helped him out somehow? What were the two of them really up to?
"Orario di chiusura," said a soothing female voice. The sound came from the crackling speakers set high on the wall. "Ora siamo chiusi!"
"Closed for the day," Delia grumbled, shutting the last of the files. Her back ached from standing up all afternoon. She felt hot and tired and sweaty all over. She needed a bath, and she saw herself collapsing into bed, not rushing to catch a private plane to London. But her instincts told her that Mallory James was onto something.
What was the real truth about Gino DiMartino?