Authors: Peter Lovesey
"Any idea how this happened?"
David Flexner gazed at two blackened pillars rising some ten feet above the rabble that had once been Manflex Italia's Milan plant. Immense heat had melted those pillars into stark, Daliesque images in the ashen landscape. All this, and a perfect, cloudless sky. What a location for a film, he found himself thinking.
He had been driven there by Rico Villa, the plant manager, whose Zegna suit and D'Anzini shoes weren't the best choice for stepping through ashes. Rico always dressed the part of the business executive, but David, casual as usual in white denims, black T-shirt and faded red running shoes, regarded him as a kindred spirit, one of the few in his father's employ that he might actually have chosen to drink with.
"Some electrical fault, I guess," Rico answered. "Isn't that what usually starts a fire?"
"Or a lighted cigarette."
"I don't allow smoking here."
In that gutted ruin, Rico's use of the present tense amused David. He had to turn his face away in case Rico noticed. "Smokers will always find somewhere."
"That's true, but the Saturday shift had finished when the fire started. The plant was empty except for the two security guards."
"A fire can take some time to get going," David pointed out, adding with more tact, "but I guess the fire service is making a report."
"The fire team and the insurance investigators, too," said Rico. "The boys from Prima Roma Assurance came out here the next day to see what they could find."
"Any theories yet?"
"Nothing anyone will say."
"How about arson? Someone with a grudge against the company."
"Arson?"
"Was anyone dismissed in the last six months?"
Rico was shocked. He pressed his hand to his mouth as if unwilling to admit the possibility. "I guess five or six for absenteeism and petty theft. The personnel records went up in smoke with the rest. We won't have their addresses anymore."
"Then the computer wasn't linked to our offices in Rome?"
"Some files were. Not personnel. That's against the data protection legislation."
"We'll have to rely on memory, then. How's yours, Rico?"
Rico made a negative gesture.
"Let's check with some of the people who worked in personnel. Draw up a list of everyone they can remember who was fired and anyone else with reason to dislike the company."
"I'll see to it"
"Fine." David stared around at the devastation. "Must have been one hell of a fire. Where was your office in this heap?"
"To your right, approximately sixty meters," Rico answered bleakly. "Nobody would know."
"Lose anything personal?"
He shrugged. "My certificates. I had them framed on the wall. Membership of the Institute of Pharmacists and so forth. They can be replaced. And some photos of my family. They can't."
"What will you do? Do you want to move to Rome?"
"Not really. I'm fifty-three. My home is here. My father is in a retirement home. I have kids in school. I guess I'll look carefully at the redundancy terms."
"Jesus, Rico, we can't afford to lose you," David heard himself say, and it was a perfectly obvious thing to say, except that he surprised himself by so readily taking on the role of spokesman for Manflex. Until now, he'd never truly identified with the company. He only attended Board meetings out of loyalty to his father. "We'll find some way of keeping the family together. For the present, you're wanted here in Milan, so no problem. We need a temporary office. Can you find one?"
"Michael, I'm dying."
Michael Leapman jerked around to look at Manny Flexner. There was no hint of amusement in his features, but that wasn't necessarily significant. Manny was capable of the straightest face when stringing hapless people along. He was a shameless liar in the cause of fun. And Manny's style of humor frequently eluded Leapman.
At Manny's suggestion, they were walking through the Essex Street Covered Market in the Lower East Side after lunching on blintzes and beer in Ratner's. This place throbbing with life, filled with pungent aromas of breads and cheeses, hardly seemed right for such a morbid announcement, but you could never be sure what Manny was up to.
"Did I hear you correctly?"
"How would I know?"
"I thought you said you were dying."
"Correct."
"You really mean that?"
Manny nodded solemnly. "I saw my physician this morning. He sent me for tests a while back. Now he has the results. It's inoperable. I have maybe six months, maybe nine."
Leapman stared at him. There was still no indication that some kind of black humor was intended. "But that's not possible."
"Precisely what I said to the doc. I have my faculties. I can read the paper still, eat a good meal, take a woman to bed when I want, and I don't disappoint I'm not the biggest in that department, but what I got is in working order. He said fine, some people aren't so lucky. They languish and droop. At least I was going out in style. I said I didn't believe him. He asked if I wanted to bet I said okay, Doc, fifty bucks I'm still alive for Thanksgiving. I thought I was on a sure thing, but he suggested we put the money in a bfown envelope and leave it with his receptionist because he didn't want to trouble my executors. That really brought it home to me, Michael. My executors. He meant it." Manny exhaled, vibrating his lips. "I called off the bet."
"You should get a second opinion," said Leapman, trying sincerely to be helpful while he assessed what this grim news would mean for his own prospects. He believed the story.
"More tests, more bad news." Manny groaned at the prospect. "No thanks. I'd rather spend my last days on earth profitably, robbing banks while I have my strength left." He turned to a woman behind a fruit and vegetable stall. She must have overheard the last statement, because she was goggle-eyed. "Ignore me. I'm in shock. How much are your pineapples, ma'am?" He chose one and felt it for firmness. "Do you buy many pineapples, Michael? They can look fine outside, like me, and when you put in the knife, they're rotten. No offense," he told the woman. "I'll take this.one."
They reached the end of the market and made their way back down Delancey Street. "Still, this isn't all bad for Man-flex," Manny remarked altruistically. "We can do with a change at the top."
Leapman's flesh prickled.
Manny went on smoothly. "My shares will pass to Davey. He'll have a controlling stake, and he'll be fine."
"For Chairman, you mean? David?" Leapman tried to sound casual, but the shock couldn't be stifled.
"I can't put it better than Shakespeare: some guys are born managers, some achieve management and some, like my son, have it thrust upon them."
"The market won't like it," said Leapman, impervious to Shakespeare.
"Davey taking over, you mean?"
"Your going." An answer more tactful than honest.
"What choice do I have?"
A pause. "Fair point."
"He'll need your support," Manny said.
"He can depend on it."
"And the know-how. You have a grasp of the business. He doesn't"
"Of course I'll help any way I can." Michael Leapman was functioning on autopilot. The news of Manny's illness was bad enough. The prospect of his son taking over the Chairmanship was beyond everything.
Manny shifted the pineapple to his left hand and rested his right on Leapman's shoulder. "Thanks, Mike. You don't have to tell me the sharks will be circling, but I have confidence in the boy. I like the way he's shaping up. As a matter of fact, I called Rico last night. Davey's doing a great job in Milan, and that isn't easy, closing down a plant"
It was a skill that might soon be required nearer home, Leapman thought cynically. "Have you told him?"
"Told him what?"
"This terrible news your doctor gave you."
"Not yet It's not easy over the phone."
"You'll wait, then?"
"Davey doesn't need to be told at this stage. Maybe not at all."
Frowning, Leapman said, "But you just told
me.
Surely you owe it to him. He needs time to adjust"
"Weren't you listening just now?" said Manny. "About management being thrust upon him? It's better he doesn't have time to think about it. Knowing Davey, he'd look for an out"
Leapman didn't pursue the point Maybe Manny was right from the company's point of view, given the staggering premise that David Flexner had to be installed as the next Chairman. What was the point in getting steamed up about David's sensibilities when his own had been ruthlessly trampled over?
And now the misguided old jerk was weighing the group's prospects without mentioning the obvious fact that Manflex might be vulnerable to a takeover. "We're lower down the league than I'd like to be, but we're not in bad shape right now. We still have a good cash flow."
"Mainly from Kaprofix."
"What's wrong with Kaprofix? It's helped millions of people with angina."
"Nothing—except that it's a declining asset."
"Since I put the lid on development costs, we boosted the operating margin by 2.6 points. You talk about Kaprofix as if it's all we've got. We have a wide base of steady-selling products. The surplus from the pension fund was over ten million last year. Sure, we could do with a big-selling new drug—"
"Soon," said Leapman.
"What?"
"Soon—we could do with it soon."
"I wouldn't argue with that."
Leapman wasn't letting it pass so lightly. "We missed out on beta-blockers, salbutamol for asthma, L-dopa for Parkinson's, H2-antagonists—"
"Okay, okay," said Manny irritably. "I get the point. We staked too much on Fidoxin. That was the biggest fuckup of my career. On the other hand, we've got a clean record. No one ever sued us. I can meet my Maker knowing I never damaged anyone through negligence."
"Leaving aside environmental damage," Leapman couldn't stop himself saying.
"What do you mean?"
"We did get fined for polluting French and Italian rivers."
"Piss off, Michael."
They walked on in silence for a bit, each feeling the strain of the changed situation.
"Will you say anything to the Board while Davey's away?" Leapman eventually asked.
"About my condition? There's no need. I'll step down and then they'll find out."
"So you want me to regard it as confidential?"
"For the time being. How did I come to confide in an obstinate schmuck like you? What a mess." He turned and looked at Leapman. There was just a glimmer of amusement in the look, yet the rest of the face was sad, undeniably sad. This time, Manny Flexner wasn't kidding.
Three black limousines cruised along the stretch of Central Park West near the reservoir and presently halted and disgorged a number of large men in a motley collection of tracksuits. Enough for a football team, except that a football team would never have looked so ill at ease. They were peeking over their shoulders as if someone they knew might be spying on this freak show. The last to climb out of the front car was Massimo Gatti, a man of influence in the Italian-American community—or at least that section of it that requires round-the-clock bodyguards. Unlike them, Gatti was short and overweight, with high blood pressure, which was why he had taken up jogging.
As a preliminary, he went through a token exercise to limber up, flinging bis arms outwards like a cheerleader and simultaneously running in place. Some of the others in the party attempted sheepishly to do the same. Then Gatti moved off at a sedate jog, and with his henchmen in tow he could easily have been taken for a shorter, fatter embodiment of a recent President of the United States.
As usual in the park, New York's fitness freaks were out in force. This morning Michael Leapman was among them. He'd asked for an urgent audience with Gatti, and this was the arrangement, a refreshing variation on the working breakfast. Having spotted the group, he raised his pace and strode across to meet them. He was one of those envied beings who rarely take exercise, but succeed in keeping in shape.
"Hi, Mr. Gatti."
They had met before, through a chain of intermediaries too tedious to list. Leapman's inside knowledge of the drug industry—the legitimate drug industry—had appealed to Gatti. In the depressed world of finance, pharmaceuticals were one of the few commodities that promised good returns. Medical supplies were necessities, and as nearly recession-proof as anything could be. A stake in the industry was what Leapman had offered, and Gatti had found it irresistible.
Gatti may have nodded in response to the greeting, or the dip of the head may have been part of his running action. It wasn't in his nature to greet people, even in less demanding circumstances. After just a few minutes of slow jogging, he was moving with a spastic jerkiness and taking noisy gulps of air.
A long exchange was clearly out of the question, so Leapman drew alongside and came quickly to the point "There's a hitch in our arrangement, I'm sorry to say."
Gatti stopped jogging and turned away from Leapman, flapping his hands at his entourage to step back and give him some privacy. They reversed several paces. The procession set off again with a decent gap in the ranks.
"What are you trying to tell me?"
Leapman resumed, "Manny Flexner saw his doctor for a checkup and found that he has only a few months to live."
"So?"
"So that's the problem."
"His problem, not mine," Gatti wheezed.
"With respect, it isn't so simple as mat He says he's going to step down."
"Resign?"
"Yes."
"What's wrong with that?"
"He wants to nominate his son to replace him."
"He has a son?"
"Yes."
"You didn't tell me."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Gatti. I know I should have mentioned k before now. I didn't rate David Flexner at all. He takes no interest in the business."
"Is he on the Board?"
"Yes, but—"
"You didn't rate him, huh?"
"Well, no."
"Flexner's own son? You didn't rate him?"
The questions appeared to indict Leapman and he was becoming alarmed. "He sits through the Board meetings and says nothing," he said in his own defense.
Massimo Gatti stopped running again. The pursuers stopped, too far off to overhear anything. Leapman stood tamely, waiting for Gatti to recover his bream. "We made an agreement, Mr. Leapman," the little man eventually succeeded in saying. "You needed funds. You came to me with a proposition. Fine. My people were impressed with your scheme. So we backed you. We did as you suggested. We took out the factory in Milano. And two good men were killed."
Horrified, Leapman was quick to say, "That wasn't my suggestion, Mr. Gatti. You wanted to buy in at the lowest price. I wouldn't have recommended arson."
"Good men killed," Gatti reiterated. "For nothing."
"Not for nothing. Let's be frank—the fire achieved what you wanted. Manflex shares plunged on the news. The price recovered a little after you started buying. It
was
you, wasn't it? You and your associates, buying at rock-bottom prices?"
There was no response.
"The shareholders are losing confidence," Leapman insisted. "Manny Flexner's position as Chairman is untenable. I'm certain I could have achieved a boardroom coup. Manny has no rescue plan. The cupboard is bare."
"So what's different?"
"He's dying, and it's altered the equation. People who would have supported me are going to back his son out of sympathy or loyalty. Manny's dying wish and all that crap. There's no way I can pull this off right now."
Gatti stared at him. "Mr. Leapman, I don't give a shit who is Chairman. You enter a billion-dollar agreement with me, you deliver. You know what happens when an agreement breaks down."
Just three days after his arrival in Italy, David Flexner was installed in a temporary office suite in Milan with telephone system, fax machine, photocopier, word processor, computer and PA—whose name, fittingly, was Pia. She had short, Titian-red hair and garnet-colored eyes. Pia was so watchable that David had instantly decided she would get the female lead if he ever actually got to make a film in Italy, never mind whether she could act. The fact that she also spoke English like a BBC newscaster and could use all the hardware seemed of trifling importance when she first walked in. She was not, he hazarded from the swing of her hips, a diehard feminist Nor, for that matter, was he.
Diverting as the gorgeous Pia was, in the crisis resulting from the fire there wasn't time to observe her. Rico Villa had set up appointments with the insurers, the union representatives, the employment office and the main city newspapers, who would be the chief means of getting information to the staff. A meeting of all the Manflex Italia employees had been set for the following Saturday morning. They were to gather in a cinema southwest of the city. By then David would have something positive to offer in the way of redundancy terms. He'd spent yesterday with the accountants. Reluctant as he was to devote his life to the pharmaceuticals industry, what had happened in Italy was a problem he could handle with energy and sensitivity. Hundreds of people had lost their livelihood, and he would do his damnedest to treat them decently and fairly.
Towards the end of Thursday afternoon, Pia swanned in with two men who were definitely not on the roll. They were far too brash to be employees. They studied David with long, level looks as if mentally measuring him for his coffin. Unwilling to be intimidated, he made it obvious that he was assessing them, their off-the-rack suits and their uninteresting striped ties. One, in his forties, had his hair trimmed to about half an inch. "These gentlemen are from the police," Pia said superfluously. She turned to check on their names. They spoke no English, apparently. The short-haired one was a Commissioner, which sounded pretty senior. His name was Dordoni. The other must have been too low in rank to merit an introduction.
"Do you have any information about the fire yet?" David asked, getting in first.
Pia translated, listened and then gave the response, which was not an answer. "The Commissioner is asking for a list of all the staff employed at the plant"
"No problem. We can provide that."
"He wants a check on everybody."
"A check?"
"To know if they are still alive."
"That isn't so simple. Would you explain to him that we're not in contact with everyone. We're having this meeting Saturday and we'll take names there. What is this about? My understanding is that no one was killed in the fire."
The translation process began again. Commissioner Dor-doni spoke rapidly, as if irritated by the delays, looking directly at David with moist, black eyes that reminded him of fresh sheep droppings.
"He says a car ..." Pia stopped and checked something with Dordoni. "... an Alfa Romeo Veloce saloon, crashed on a country road three thousand meters—that's about two miles—from Manflex Italia on the evening of the fire; The petrol tank ruptured and the wreck was badly burned." She turned back to Dordoni for more of the story in Italian, and presently added, "The remains of two men were found. Badly burned. Very badly. They have not been identified."
"And he's trying to connect this with the fire at the plant?"
"He says the Alfa Romeo was coming from the direction of the Manflex plant. They can tell by the skid marks that the car was traveling at high speed when it left the road. Apparently it turned over a couple of times. Inside the trunk they found five empty gasoline containers."
David hesitated, frowning.
Pia said helpfully, "I think he's implying that these men may have started the fire at the plant, but he hasn't exactly said so yet."
"What does he want from me?"
She had another brief exchange with Dordoni before turning back to David. "He says the fire service investigators haven't ruled out the possibility of arson. He's asking if you know of anyone who might have wished to destroy the plant."
"The answer is no."
Commissioner Dordoni didn't require a translation. He countered with a frenetic outpouring of Italian.
Pia, caught in the middle and handling her role with admirable cool, lifted her eyebrows a fraction and explained, "He wants me to tell you it's unwise to refuse to cooperate with the police."
"If mat's a threat, Pia, you can tell this arrogant jerk that I resent it. I spoke the truth. I've no reason to suspect anyone we employ, or have employed." Having let rip, David had second thoughts. "No. Hold it. Tell him this. The possibility is very disturbing indeed, and he'll have our full cooperation."
This Undertaking lowered the temperature a little. Dordoni and his assistant got down to facts—the names of the two security men, the times of shifts, the number of employees and so on, all of which David supplied. They also demanded a list of the staff, with addresses, but he couldn't supply one, not before Saturday's meeting.
"If he'd describe these two men, we can make some inquiries and find out if anyone recognizes them," he told Pia.
Dordoni gave a sinister laugh when this was translated, and made a rubbing motion with his finger and thumb while speaking his reply.
Pia impassively translated, "The men were incinerated beyond recognition. It's possible that the forensic pathologists will give some information, but that is likely to take weeks or months."
"What about the car?"
Dordoni revealed that the registration plates had been removed from the Alfa Romeo. Very little that would be useful was left.
David turned to Pia. "Would you ask him a question from me? If these men haven't been identified, is there any evidence at all that connects them with our company?"
She conferred with Dordoni. "He says no."
"It's circumstantial, then."
"Is that a question?"
"Don't trouble," he told her. He wasn't scoring points. "Ask him how this crash happened."
Pia sounded reluctant to put the question. "He already told us. The car was going too fast It turned over."
"Yes, but why? Was it being chased?"
She turned back to Dordoni and succeeded in getting the unhelpful answer, "Nobody knows."
Dordoni nodded to his assistant, preparing to leave. He wasn't waiting for any more idiot questions.
"Was another vehicle involved?" David pressed him.
Pia translated quickly.
Dordoni shrugged. At the door, he appeared to decide, after all, that he would volunteer something else. He turned and delivered a couple of sentences.
Now Pia gave a shrug. "The car was traveling on a perfectly straight stretch of road. It went out of control, but they don't understand why. They can see from the tire marks that it didn't have a blowout It's an extraordinary thing to happen. They are calling it—I think you have the expression in English—an act of God."
Later in the afternoon there was an opportunity to get Rico Villa's views on the mysterious car crash. He was dismissive, scornful of the suggestion that arsonists had started the fire. "Why won't they admit mat coincidences happen? Typical of the police, always looking for the first solution that suggests itself. Two serious incidents on one evening and they have to connect them."
"Only a couple of miles from each other," commented David, slipping into Dordoni's role.
"A couple of drunks turn their car over. What's so sinister about that?"
"How do you know they were drunk?"
"You're in Lombardy now, my friend. Have you tried the
Oltrepo Pavese ?
"They did have those empty petrol cans in their trunk."
"They were probably farmers. If you have farm vehicles to keep on the move, you collect extra petrol to take back with you."
"But he said the registration plates were missing."
"Kids. Souvenir hunters. They'll help themselves to anything." David wasn't overly impressed, and said so.
"Okay," Rico lobbed one back, "in a couple of days we can take a roll call. Then we'll know if anyone from Manflex Italia is missing. Want a bet?"
"The guys in the car don't have to be Manflex employees," David said. "Like Dordoni said, they could have been sacked. Or they could simply be troublemakers from outside."
"Let it go, Dave," Rico advised, putting a hand on his shoulder. "We have more important things to do right now. The police are going to take months over this. Years, probably. And then it's quite likely they'll file it as unsolved."
For the first time in their friendship, David Flexner had a stirring of unease about Rico.