Murphy's Law by Lisa Marie Rice Page A

be included in his file—and saluted.
    “Okay, let’s—” Dante’s cell phone rang. He looked at the number on the display. It was his brother Mike. The results of the tratta –the drawing--were starting to come in and his heart beat a little faster.
    Loiacono, however, would never understand this. He had no conception of what Siena was about and would consider it dereliction of duty to worry about the Palio when there was a murder— a murder! —to investigate. He was already marching up and down the room, cheeks ruddy with excitement, tossing instructions as Carducci and Falugi trooped in.
    “Inspector.” Dante beckoned Loiacono over.
    “ Sir !”
    Dante put a finger to his lips and Loiacono moved his head closer and whispered, “Sir.”
    Dante laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. Southerners were used to the heavy hand of authority, it was in their DNA. “I have to move into the corridor for a moment for an important phone call, inspector.” Dante pointed his thumb heavenward toward the Center of All Things for a bureaucrat. “Rome,” he whispered. “The Ministry.”
    Loiacono stood to attention so stiffly he quivered.
    “Can you cover for me on such an important case, inspector? Can I count on you?”
    The cords in Loiacono’s neck stood out. “Absolutely, commissario. We’ll work the scene. Dr. Guzzanti should be here soon, too. Have no fear, commissario, everything will be done according to protocol!”
    Dante had no doubt.
    “Very good, inspector,” he said, making his voice deep. He turned and marched out of the room in almost military cadence in case Loiacono was watching and allowed himself to slump against the wall only when he’d turned the corner.
    He called Mike.
    “ Pronto .” Dante could hardly hear his brother with thousands of people shouting in the background.
    He closed his eyes briefly and imagined it—the campo filled to the brim with excited Sienese who had just watched thirty or forty of the finest horses on the face of the Earth race in packs of ten.
    The drawing was a solemn ceremony, a blindfolded young boy in medieval dress extracting the names of the contradas one by one, each contrada assigned a horse.
    As each horse was assigned, the inhabitants of that contrada would surround it and lead it off to the special stables that had been prepared.
    There would be cries of exultation from the contrada assigned a brilliant horse, moans and even tears from the contrada that had drawn a poor horse. The contrada’s rivals would then yell out baa-ing sounds, rubbing it in that the contrada had drawn a sheep instead of a horse.
    It was pure chance, fate at its most ineluctable, which was why it was so important to even up what the fates doled out by putting together the craftiest arrangement of bribes and alliances possible.
    A microcosm of Italian life.
    Dante heard a garbled noise from his brother. “What?” He curved in toward the wall. Mike was trying to shout above the noise of the crowd. Dante pressed the phone closer to his ear. The roar of the crowd was like the ocean in a tempest.
    “I said we drew Lina. Lina! Do you hear me?” Mike’s voice was exultant, and Dante wanted to shout with joy.
    “Lina!” His voice carried loudly in the empty corridor, echoing faintly, and he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Lina! That’s great! My God, Mike, we’re going to do it this year.”
    “Bet your ass, brother! Bet your ass!” Dante’s normally staid, correct-to-a-fault brother became a wild man during the days of the Palio. Another wave of sound crashed over the phone. “I’ve got to go now. We’re taking Lina back to the stables.”
    “Keep a close eye on her.”
    “You’d better believe it.” The horse was being escorted by wildly exulting Snails to the special stables in the contrada . From now until the moment of the race itself, Lina would be anxiously watched day and night. Rivals had been known to slip laxatives in the feed of horses that weren’t well