Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (4 page)

I froze for a moment, felt the blood drain from my face, shook my head and looked down at my hands.

He swore under his breath and said, “Hey, I’m sorry, Pete. I forgot. How long has it been?”

I took a deep breath. “Five years.”

He was silent for a moment before he recovered, said, “So, who’s this, uh, Stazz?”

I took a breath or two and looked up at him. “Anastasia. Works for
CNI
in Milan.”

“
CNI
?”

“
Cronaca Nera Italiana.
It’s the paper I write for.”

“Oh, right,” like he already knew. “Stazz.” He drew the name out. “Ann-ah-stay-zhah. Not your average home-girl name.”

“Are you kidding?” I shook my head. “She’s Russian, man. A bomb. Babe has legs to die for.” Like Eva. What had she called him?
Billy the Lech
.

His eyes lit up. “You two a number?”

I made a show of regret. “I wish.”

He did his best to look sympathetic. “Nobody in your life these days?”

I let him wait. “My neighbor has a dog.”

It got a laugh. He was loosening up, but he still had both hands flat on the briefcase. Another gin and tonic arrived, along with a fresh
prosecco
for me.

“So, tell me about the lady. Russian, huh. Legs?”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t want you to miss your flight.”

He leaned forward. “Tell me more.”

I leaned in and lowered my voice. “She’s on her way here now.”

“What, like here, here? Now?”

“That’s right.” I leaned in closer and whispered, “She’s hot, Billy. And she likes big Yanks.”

He straightened up, ran a hand through his hair. “Where is she?”

“On the train from Milan. I’m supposed to pick her up at the station in, uh—“ I pulled up my sleeve and squinted at my watch. A fake Patek Philippe. “A half hour.”

“What’s she up here for?”

“Boss wants the car back.”

He frowned. “I don’t get it. Can’t you just drive it back tonight?”

“I’m staying over. Got a couple more people I need to see.” I sighed. “So, what do you think? You want to join us for dinner?”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil your chances, Pete.”

“No way, Billy. Anybody got a chance, it’s you.”

The Lech
pulled a lopsided grin through his face. “You think so?”

“Come on.” I stood up. “Let’s find out.”

He was up on his feet and heading for the bar and the mirror behind it. He stopped, set the briefcase on the floor and held it clamped between his feet while he pulled out a comb and set to work on his hair. I settled the bill and took him by the arm and walked him and the briefcase back outside.

The hotel valet drove up in the Shark and jumped out. I pressed a coin into his hand, opened the door on the passenger side and swept out an arm. “Dude.”

Billy Bob gave the Shark a long, shady look before he climbed in.

I went on around the hood, opened up and slid in behind the wheel. “Just as a matter of interest, Billy.”

He slammed the door shut. “What.”

I let the Shark roll down the drive, wheeled around the corner and on up the hill. “Who were the boys in the BMW?” I shot a look sideways.

He erased the expression on his face. “No clue, Pete.” He knew nothing. “Why?”

“Just checking,” I said. “Looked to me like you knew them.”

“Nah.”

“So?”

“Cops? Security? How should I know?” He settled back in the seat and closed his eyes, looking a little green around the gills. That didn’t stop him from talking.

Billy Bob Decker. He’d had one too many at the Hotel Royale and was babbling on now about Gigi’s investors. “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” he said. “Company policy. You remember. You were there.”

“If you say so.” Time had punched holes in my memory.

“The sports bag, Pete. Half a million bucks in small bills.”

“Sports bag?” The damn thing popped up into my head. Blue canvas, a thin white stripe, a zipper. “I remember you telling me all about it. You explained that I’d never seen what I saw.”

“That was then. This is now. Think about it.”

I thought about it all the way to the station. We found Anastasia pacing out front. I climbed out and skipped up to her, gave her a kiss on the cheek and looked her over. Taller now in spike heels, short black leather skirt, long blonde hair swept back to a knot, blue eyes hungry as a wolf on the steppes. “Spectacular, sweetheart. All set?”

“Your friend will lose the briefcase.” She narrowed her eyes. “Important briefcase.”

“Correct.”

“He will find it again?” She peered over my shoulder, eyeing her target.

“Depends what’s in it.”

“Is worth it,” she said, her eyes icing over, “or you’re dead.”

“Is worth, is worth,” I said. “It was Gigi Goldoni’s. He said if anything happened, I should go get it. Our friend here stole it this morning.”

“I understand.”

“Good girl.”

She slipped a hand in her purse and came up with something. “This is for you.”   

“What is it?” I took it. A soft black velvet bag about the size of a pack of cigarettes.

“Point and shoot, Pete. Put away now.”

I stuffed it in my pocket and hustled back to the Shark. Billy Bob stood waiting, licking his lips. Anastasia sauntered up and I said, “Stazz, this fellow is a friend of mine. Billy Bob Decker, from Texas. Billy Bob, meet Anastasia.”

“How are you,” she said, with a slow smile and that sexy, shadowy Slavic lilt that crept into her voice when she laid on the charm. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

The Lech
bowed and gushed, “And what a lovely little lady you are, my dear. Absolutely stunning.”

She took a good long look at him, her gaze slowing for a moment as she took in the dirt-green stains on his suit, souvenirs from the Villa Sofia. 

Billy Bob picked up on it and swiped a hand across his trousers, but his eyes never left her, checking her out, up and down. She extended her hand, took his and held on a little too long.

“Make room for the lady, Billy.” I opened the door on the passenger side. Anastasia slipped into the seat and dug her heels into the briefcase.

Billy Bob elbowed me aside, slid a long arm down and grabbed the case by the handle. “Let me get that out of your way,” he said, laying his other hand on her thigh.

Anastasia threw me a sly, silky look and winked as I sank in behind the wheel. A smile was playing on her crimson lips and a wicked light flickered in her eyes. She was having fun.

Billy Bob separated the case from her legs, shut the door and scrambled into the back. “So,” he said, leaning forward and spreading his arms along the back of the seat. “What brings you to Lugano?”

“Peter said dinner by lake.”

“Did I?” I grunted and nudged the Shark into the road. “I suppose I did.”

“Sounds wonderful. Is it a private party, or can I come along?”

“Well, my dear,” said Anastasia, lowering a long-fingered hand to my arm, “we make it for three?”

Two minutes gone and she’s reeling him in. “Three’s a crowd,” I said. “But I’m expecting Sarge, so that makes four.”

“Ungaretti? Terrific,” said Billy Bob, falling back in the seat. “I haven’t seen Sarge in years. I understand he’s doing well.”

“Works in a bank now, he tell you that?” I found his face in the rearview mirror.

“So I hear, so I hear.”

The Villa Sofia was just up the hill. “What you driving these days, Billy?”

“Mercedes. Maroon.” He grabbed the back of the seat and pulled himself forward, pointing. “Up there on the right.”

I let the Shark belly up to a halt in the street beside the Mercedes. “Listen, Billy,” I said. “Stazz needs the car, but she can drop you off at your hotel. I’ll take the Merc and we can meet for dinner at Sarge’s place. Eight, eight-thirty sound good?”

I shot a quick look at Anastasia and raised an eyebrow.

“Is good for me,” she said.

Billy Bob hesitated. He didn’t trust me, but she was giving him the eye. “I’ll drive,” he said.

Anastasia shook her head. “Too much drink, Mister Billy. Come with me.” She planted a big, wet kiss on his cheek. Smack!

A slow grin lit his face and Billy Bob said, “Sounds like a plan.” He leaned in behind me and slurred, “So, Pete, can you drive a stick?”

A wolfish grin flashed up in the mirror behind a set of keys. I reached back and snatched them. “You want me to lock that thing in the trunk?” I tossed a nod at the briefcase on the seat beside him.

“No.” He hooked a big hand in the black leather grip.

“See you later.” I popped the trunk, got out and grabbed my overnight bag. Anastasia slipped in behind the wheel, gunned the Shark’s engine and let out the clutch. Billy Bob raised a hand and waved.

I dug out my phone, dialed and began to pace while it rang. Sarge picked up. He didn’t sound happy. Something was up at the bank, he said, but Renata was expecting me. He would join us later at the B&B.

I hung up and punched in the number for Julia. I let it ring for a good long while, gave up and climbed into Billy Bob’s Merc. The lakefront road took me south through a part of town called
Paradiso
. Gigi's place was just up the hill. Julia had found his body there, let herself in.
Gigi? Anybody home?

Across the gray water I could see the casino, the facade changing colors, looping from red to white and green. It was a monument to dreams of instant fortunes, nine stories full of slot machines, video poker and gaming tables: roulette, baccarat, blackjack, poker. Gigi and I had been there a few times, and it was there in the private lounge that night that I waited for Eva to show up at the party.

They found her body a couple days later, and Marco Romano the day after that. Two floaters, no clues. In time their deaths were ruled accidental.

Cops never did find my Alfa Romeo. Lying in the weeds at the bottom of the lake. 

The whippoorwill hauled me back from the deep. I punched a key and heard a cough I recognized. “Good to hear from you, Johnny.”

“Where are you, Pescatore?”

“Mars.”

He snorted. “And the Shark?”

“Anastasia has it.”

“Good. What you got?”

“A line in the water, Bolshie for bait. All we can do now is wait, and pray.”

“Speak English.”

I played the day back for him. Over lunch the accountant had pushed the suicide theory and suggested I talk to the dead man’s girlfriend who wasn’t, however, answering her phone. In Goldoni’s office at the Villa Sofia I’d met his lawyer Billy Bob Decker who’d filched a briefcase I was hoping to lay hands on later that evening.

Johnny listened, hacked out a few lines on the Olivetti and said, “Why do you want the briefcase?”

“Two reasons. One, Goldoni wanted me to have it. When I saw him a couple of weeks ago he told me where it was and gave me a key to the Villa.” I waited while he typed. “Two, because Billy Bob said it was none of my business.”

“Got it. What’s in the briefcase?” He sucked in a little more death and coughed. “Sorry, dumb question.” He hammered out another line. “So what’s the plan?”

I laid out the fish story one more time.

“You get your hands on the briefcase,” he said, “with the help of our lady of Vladivostok. Is that it?”

“Correct.”

“Let me know what happens.”

“Sure, boss.” A road sign indicated I had entered Morcote, the village on the lake where Sarge and his family ran a B&B. “Hang on.” I set the phone on the seat beside me.

Evening falling over the lake had darkened the buildings by the side of the road. I slowed, looking for the old familiar sign. There. I nosed the Merc through a gate to a row of cars on gravel and grass and rolled up to a house set back from the road, parked and cut the engine.

Rough-cut timbers propped up a roof that sloped over a portico and pale plaster walls. I climbed out and stretched. It was good to be back. It felt in some strange way like home. I reached back into the car and grabbed the phone. “Sorry, boss. You still there?”

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “What do you need?”

“The autopsy. You hear anything?”

“The body’s on the way to Locarno right now.”

“Locarno? What, they can’t do it in Lugano?”

I leaned back against the Merc while Johnny gave me the story: there were too few murders to justify running a pathology lab, so odd bodies in need of an autopsy were shipped to the ICP in Locarno, the
Istituto Cantonale di Patologia
.

“That's what, an hour away?”

“More or less. But listen, it gets better,” he said. “Soon as the dead guy gets to Locarno, some doc in Varese gets a call from the Swiss,
please come and cut up this body
.”

“Varese?” Just over the border in Italy. “The hospital, or what?”

“Head man there is a world class mortician.”

“Pathologist,” I said. “A mortician is a make-up artist.”

“Whatever. You get shot in Lugano, the cops call Italy.” Johnny lit up and coughed down the line.

“Bizarre,” I said. “Must be a story there somewhere. What say we give it to Anastasia? Get it up on the site, make it sound ominous and dark.”

“Done,” said Johnny. “I’ll work something up. Any bright ideas?”

I thought for a moment and shifted my voice into headline mode. “
THE KNIVES ARE OUT. SWISS CALL IN ITALIANS FOR SUICIDE PROBE
.”

“The knives are out.” The Olivetti clattered at the end of the line. “I like it.” More typing. “Uh, sorry about the Shark, Pete, but they want me in Rome. Budget meeting.”

“You coulda taken the train,” I said. “You love trains.”

Johnny hung up.

Something in my pocket. The black bag from Stazz.
Point and shoot, Pete
. I  slipped it out, took a couple of photos of the B&B and grabbed the overnighter from the trunk of the car.

There was time for another long look at the lake. I let my eyes roam the surface for a while. Darkness on the other side. Another deep breath to still my nerves before I turned and walked to the door.