Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (24 page)

Johnny leaned down at the phone again. “Sorry, Beppe, I’ll get back to you later.”

The call was over. “Save your breath, Johnny,” I said. “I need some fresh air.”

“So take a walk.” Johnny lit up again, puffed a while and said, “Get some rest and we’ll see you tonight.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Dinner.” He took my arm, walked me to the door. “Anastasia is bringing a date. Why don’t you?”

“Stazz? You talk to her?”

“Saw her this morning. Looks great, said she had some deal in the works.”

“Deal?”

“Ask her tonight.” Johnny gave my arm a squeeze. “Like I said, you’re welcome to bring somebody yourself.”

Somebody. Hmn. Heidi? I checked my watch. Not much time. “How about Red?”

“No.”

“Rain check, Johnny. Some other time.”

“Mario wants to see you, too. And Carla.”

It was a low blow. I hadn’t seen Rita and the kids for a while. And there was something with Mario. Tickets
. Damn
. “There’s a game tonight, right?”

“You remembered.” Johnny jacked up his eyebrows, bounced them, reached inside his jacket and came up with an envelope. “To die for.”

I took a deep breath, took it and said, “Thanks, boss. I owe you.”

He snatched it back. “Come early, Mario’s expecting you.” He rocked back, blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, smiled and walked off.

“Hey, Johnny?”

Over his shoulder, “What?”

“What are we celebrating?”

From down the hall, “Money, Pete. Fresh money. What else?” He didn’t bother to turn around, just lifted a hand and waved.

The door fell shut. I wandered back to the hack room, sat down and picked up my pages. Where were we?

EXTERIOR. NIGHT. VILLA SOFIA.

The safe is empty. Nothing there.

Gigi’s gone white, pale as the moon and the stars above. He slumps against the wall. For a long, terrible moment he is lost, without hope. Something comes to him. He fumbles for his phone, punches up a number. A sleepy voice picks up. It’s me, he says, let me talk to Sarge. Renata hands over, Sarge comes on the line. Gigi tells him what he wants, when, where, why. Hangs up.

He stays there on the terrace, watching the stars, counting down the minutes left in his life. He will not go back. He will not go back to the hotel.

But where is the briefcase? Who has taken it? The stars answer him. It is Julia, they say. It can only be Julia. A flicker of hope stirs in his belly. He will talk to her, make her see reason. Yes. He calls, gets the answering machine, hears his own voice. He calls out to her. Julia? Julia? Pick up the phone.

She picks up, furious— Where is he? She’s been waiting all night for him, worried as hell.

I’m on my way, says Gigi. Stay where you are. Don’t move.

A voice calls up to him. Freddie climbs the ladder, scrambles through the hatch and up onto the terrace.

His head rolls back, thumps against the wall. “It’s not here, Freddie. She must have taken it. Julia.”

Back on the road with Tommy O and the boys, gliding through the streets of Lugano at three o’clock in the morning. Quick stop at the hotel sauna for another dose of the water cure. Coughing, spitting up, choking. His life is over, his only hope Sarge. Is he there yet? Has he had enough time?

Tommy O and the boys haul him back to the Jag. They drive down to the lakefront, around a corner, up the hill. The Jag rolls to a stop beneath the pines. Gigi climbs out, braces himself, shuts the door.

Tommy O rolls the window down. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come along.”

Gigi’s seen death, as white as the dark side of the moon. “I’ll take care of it.”

“As you wish.” Tommy O slips a hand in his jacket, comes up with a silver flask. “Drink?”

Gigi shakes his head. “I’ve had enough.”

“Quite.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“And Gigi?” Tommy O drains the flask, wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. He and the goons climb out of the Jag. “If you’re thinking of running? Don’t.”

Gigi turns, hobbles away, unsteadily, pushes through the gate and down the path to the door. Lets himself in.

She is waiting for him. Julia.

He grabs her, shakes her. “Where is it, Julia. What did you do with it?”

She says nothing.

He slaps her.

She pulls away, says nothing.

Gigi slaps her again. “Give it to me, Julia. Don’t be a fool.”

“I’m sorry. I really do love you. I thought you knew that.”

A soft knock, fingers tapping on glass, barely audible. Gigi moves off, pads down the hall to the kitchen. A slow creak. Whispering. Two voices. A door thuds shut.

Gigi’s back. He walks up to Julia, takes her in his arms. “Where is it? Where is the briefcase?”

Her face is cut from granite. “Who were you talking to in the kitchen?”

A knock at the door. Again. Again.

Julia frees herself from his embrace, strides to the door and opens it. Tommy O is there, Max and Freddie on either side of Sarge. Tommy O pushes in, grabs Gigi, wraps a pink hand around the man’s jaw. “The fun and games are over, Gigi. Where is it?” He drops him.

Gigi sinks to the floor, crawls to a chair, lifts himself up—and he’s back! Back on his feet, the old smile on his face, working the charm. “Come in, Gentlemen. Sit down. Something to drink?”

“Gigi—”

“Nothing to worry about. I have the briefcase. It’s in the bedroom.”

Nobody moves. All eyes on Gigi. He backs away. “I’ll be right back.” He turns and pads down the hall, disappears. Julia, watching him, senses something, pales. The bedroom is the other way. He has gone to the kitchen. She leaps to her feet, plunges after him.

A shot.

Silence.

From the kitchen a blood-curdling howl rises into the night. Julia. She screams again. The screams never stop.

Johnny’s place was a ten minute walk from the
CNI
office, a big old apartment that Rita owned on the corner of
Piazzale Baracca
. It had been in her family forever. Mario and his sister had rooms of their own, and Rita had a studio looking out on a terrace paved with terracotta tiles.

I stepped out of the elevator and found her waiting at the door, brown eyes big and warm as ever. She gave me a hug and I said I was happy to see her, too. She broke away and called out, “Mario! Mario!”

She turned back to me. “I’ll be in the kitchen with Carla when you’re done.”

Mario came bounding up in a black and blue FC Inter jersey and waving an envelope in his hand. “Thanks a million, Pete.”

He scrambled on past and down the hall to his room. By the time I got there he was sitting at a bank of computers. I caught a glimpse of a calendar girl before he punched a key and she disappeared.

“Nice,” I said. “Can you send me that photo?”

“My dad always said you were a dirty old man.”

“He should talk.”

“Look at this.” Mario picked up a phone and pressed it into my hands. “Dad said you needed a new one.”

I looked at it. Black. Shiny. “A smart phone?”

“That’s right.” He looked up, a sly grin spreading over his mug. “Think you can handle it?”

“I doubt it,” I said, staring at the screen. “Too many icons.”

“I put the bird on it.“

“The whippoorwill? Great. Thanks, Mario.” I slipped the phone in my pocket. “Listen, I hear you helped out your dad this morning. With some files?”

“That’s right. Hang on. I made a copy for you.” He bit his lip, pulled open a drawer and rummaged around. “I put everything on a memory key,” he said. “If that’s all right with you.”

“Sure,” I said. Another calendar girl had popped up on screen and caught my eye. Dark hair and carmine lips and a
Body by Ferrari
.

“Here you go.” Mario slapped the key in my hand. “Thanks again for the tickets.”

“No problem. Thanks for the help. Just … couple questions before you go.”

Always light on his feet, he was on the move and at the door already.

“I’ll keep it short, Mario. You know the Bluetooth thing didn’t work.”

“Yeah, Dad told me.” He stole a look at his phone, thumbed a message. “I did the best I could.”

“Right. Thing is, I thought you said a fingerprint would do it. Turns out you need eyeball recognition too.”

Mario shrugged, his eyes still on the screen. “I could have told you—”

“If I’d let you see the briefcase. I understand that. What I don’t understand is how two other people were able to open it—aside from Gigi Goldoni, I mean. I saw two other people unlock it.”

Another shrug. “Can we do this another time? I’ll be back later, after the game.”

“Sure, just give me a quick answer. How is it possible?”

“Undocumented feature.”

“Means what?”

“They don’t always tell you, but you can program these things to work for more than one person.”

“Now you tell me.”

Mario shrugged.

“Listen, I got one more thing.” I slipped a hand in a pocket and extracted the tape I’d lifted from Julia’s purse. “Any idea what this is?”

He bounded back from the door, took it and flipped it over a couple of times. “It’s from a tape recorder.”

“That much I figured.”

“Totally obsolete. They’re called microcassettes. For secretaries, when they type letters. Dictation.”

“Right. So. I need to listen to it.”

“Hang on—” He took a call on his phone. “Be right down. I know, I know. Bye.”

“Sorry, Mario, but now would be a good time.”

A scowl on his face, he took three great strides across the room, reached up high for a shoebox and pulled it down from the shelf. “There should be a player in there somewhere.”

“Great, thanks a lot.”

He was back at the door, easing his way out.

“Go on,” I said. “Get out of here.”

He bounded off. I called out after him, “Good luck!”

“Pete?” Rita’s voice, calling from somewhere down the hall.

“Be right there.”

I lifted the lid from the shoebox and plunged my hands into a snarl of cables, plugs, antique mobile phones, chargers, memory disks… and,
bingo!
a micro recorder. I popped in the tape and pressed
PLAY
. Nothing happened. The tape didn’t move. I tried again. Nothing. 

Dead battery? I dumped the box upside down on the desk. Nothing. No battery. I slipped the recorder in a pocket, blew kisses to the calendar girls, walked down the hall and poked my head around a corner.

Rita and Carla were in a crouch at the oven, peering in through the glass. I hadn’t seen Carla in a while. Nine or ten years old by now. I threw out my arms, went down on one knee in front of her and burst into song.
“Hey, good-lookin’, whaat-cha got cookin’?”

Carla giggled, Rita laughed and rolled her eyes. Johnny thumped in and growled, “Keep it down, Pescatore. The neighbors have enough to complain about.” He helped me to my feet, threw an arm around my shoulder and marched me from the kitchen down the hall. I stopped dead at the door.

“Say hello to our guests,” said Johnny. “I believe you know Mr Decker.”

Anastasia on the couch, holding hands with Billy Bob. She lifted an eyebrow and slid me a smile as Johnny padded away.

“Don’t worry, Pescatore,” said Billy Bob. “I’ll be gone soon and you can have the little darling all to yourself.” 

Billy Bob let a big hand flop to her knee and squeezed. Anastasia yelped and said something sharp in Russian.

I caught his eye and flipped him the bird.

He snorted a laugh, “Likewise, I’m sure.”

Johnny came back with a bottle of
prosecco
and glasses on a tray. Carla trailed him with olives and parmesan cheese. Johnny popped the cork and poured, called Rita and handed out the glasses. Anastasia was on her feet beside Billy when Rita showed up, wiping her hands, took a glass and proposed a toast to our health.

“And fresh money,” I said.

Johnny shot me a black look and said, “To our health and the future of
Cronaca Nera Italiana.”
 

“Absolutely,” said Billy Bob. “But don’t forget sleaze. Where would you be without it?”

“Sleaze?” Anastasia didn’t know the word.

“Coast to coast corruption,” said Billy Bob. “Bread and butter for
CNI
.” He sank his lips to the rim of the glass, decided he had more to say. “Sleazeballs running the country now.” He threw back his head and drank.

“Takes one to know one, Billy,” I said. I set my drink on the table, snatched a couple of olives and a chunk of parmesan and shut myself up. 

Carla reached for her mother’s glass, took a sip and ran out the door, giggling. Rita decided it was time to chase her, slipped away and left us alone.

With a wave of his hand Johnny suggested we take our places. I thumped into an armchair and watched him peel the wrapping from a fresh
toscano
. He took a steel guillotine from his pocket and chopped the cigar in two. Behind him on the wall was a painting. It looked a lot like a wall, pale ochre plaster over stone, cracked and flaking. One of Rita’s, looked like. Her latest?

“Listen, Pete,” said Johnny, lighting up. “I’ve asked Mr Decker to join us for a reason.”

“I’m thrilled,” I said. “Cut to the chase.”

Johnny coughed and pointed to the sofa. “Over to you, Stazz.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Mr Decker agree to deal. He will answer all questions for
CNI
exclusive interview with important United States Government official.
CNI
guarantee no names and Mr Decker promise to tell the truth.” 

She looked satisfied, a glint in her eye. She dropped a hand to Billy’s knee and squeezed. He looked down at the hand, up at her, over to me.

I had nothing to say. I looked up at the ceiling, into the light. Strange things were dropping from the sky, falling into place. US Government official. Cutting a deal with—

“And what are we giving you—” I shifted my gaze back to Billy Bob, “in return for this exclusive?”

“The card,” said Billy Bob. “The memory card you took from the briefcase.”

I stole a look at Anastasia. She’d blabbed. Pillow talk. She reached for her glass, took it in hand and held it up to the light, looking at anything but me.

I caught Johnny’s eye. “You okay with this?”

“We’ll keep a copy.” He pulled out a shiny black phone, pushed his glasses up on his forehead and pecked at the screen, like he knew what he was doing. “Rolling,” he said, and set the phone on the table.

Billy Bob, “Card?”

Johnny dug his wallet from his pocket, fished out the tiny blue memory card and set it down beside the phone.

Billy Bob bent down to look at it, turned to me. “Is that the original?”

“It’s all there, Mr Decker,” said Johnny. “Trust me.”

“Stop,” said Billy. “Start over. Don’t mention my name.”

Johnny snagged the phone, fumbled with it for a moment and set it back on the table. “All set. Let’s go.”

Billy Bob sat up, dug out a handkerchief, blew his nose and said, “Fire away.”

Silence. Johnny coughed. Anastasia threw out a hand to me, an invitation.

“State your name and occupation,” I said.

“Daffy Duck, dickhead. Try again.”

I took a breath. Still couldn’t get over it. Should have made him for a Fed a long time ago. “OK, take two. My name is Pete Pescatore,
CNI
Milan
. I’m here with a United States government official who wishes to remain anonymous but has assured us he will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.”

“Cut the crap, Pescatore. What do you want to know?”

“Who do you work for?”

“The United States government. Department of the Treasury.”

“Doing what?”

“My job.”

“Which is?”

“Find American citizens who are in violation of the law requiring them to report and pay tax on all income worldwide. And bring them to justice.”

I let my jaw drop. “You’re a bounty hunter for the IRS?”

“I don’t get a cut.”

“Just a promotion.”

No reaction, so I pushed on. “If I remember right, Billy, you took a blue folder from the briefcase.”

“Correct. And you took a memory card.”

I flashed him a smile. “What did you find in the folder?”

Billy Bob hauled himself to his feet and began to pace.

Anastasia called him back. “Stay close to phone.”

He ignored her, stopped in front of me. “I found the names of American citizens with secret accounts in Switzerland.”

“If the accounts are anonymous, how did you identify these individuals?”

“Their names were in the folder. The beneficial owners of those accounts.”

“Anything else in the file?”

“Assorted foreign assets. Undeclared.”

“Such as?”

“Real estate, vintage automobiles, diamonds, gold... It’s a long list.”

“Watches? Art?”

“That too.”

“Hey, but… last time I looked, private property was still legal.”

“You can own whatever you like, but if it’s making you money, you better tell Uncle Sam.”

“And the people on your list failed to do so.”

“Correct.”

“So how did they hide these, uh, assets?”

“By means of a complex and sophisticated system put in place for that purpose.”

“I think it’s called
money-laundering
. Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“Right, so how did you get hold of this information?”

“From a source I prefer not to name.”

“Luigi Goldoni.”

“Wrong, Pescatore. Goldoni passed away before I was able to obtain from him the information I had requested.”

“Passed away.”

“The circumstances of his death are irrelevant. In any case, it wasn’t him.”

“No? I thought it was Gigi put everything together. All the docs. No?”

“I don’t give a flying duck, Pescatore. I didn’t get it from Gigi, I got it from Arturo Bellomo. Who got it from you.”

“And I got it from you.”

“Did you or did you not secure and deliver a briefcase containing highly sensitive information to the Hotel Prince Albert in Lugano, Switzerland?”

“I gave it to Tommy.”

“Who gave it to Bellomo, who gave it to me. You’re part of the deal, Pete, like it or not.”