Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (8 page)

Julia plopped the parts in the frying pan and assembled a salad while she talked. People say the eyes give it all away, but for me it’s always the hands.

Gigi’s lover couldn’t keep hers still.

She took a breath and led me through the story, from the early years to the high-tech start-ups and the IPO that made Gigi’s name. Word got around he could make a man rich, so people came scrambling out of the woodwork, demanding he sell them a piece of the dream. It worked for a while. He sold them shares in one start-up or another, bought them back at a higher price, sold them on to fresh investors. Then the towers came down, the markets crashed and the rushing river of cash froze over.

Gigi hung on a couple years after that, kept on betting, pouring good money in after bad, praying for the windfall that would save us all.

Then Eva died, and Marco with her, drowned in Lake Lugano.

There was nothing left for me after that. I slunk home to Milan to lick my wounds and forgot about Gigi Goldoni. And now he was dead, too.

End of story.  

Julia lowered a hand to my arm. “I felt so sorry for you, Pete. He let you go so quickly.”

“We were going down, Jules. I was the first of the rats to jump ship.”

“You didn’t jump, you were pushed. First Eva—” She hesitated, shook her head. “Then Gigi threw you overboard.”

“It’s over now. Everybody knew the good money was gone, and nobody else stayed on for long. Billy Bob, Sarge, Tommy O’Sullivan. Every last one of them ran down the ropes.”

“Not me.” A defiant, sorrowful look in her eyes.

“No. Not you.” I had to give her that. “Why didn’t you leave, Jules?”

She extracted a Swiss
pinot grigio
from the fridge. “It never occurred to me. I had everything I wanted. Almost.” She sat and sank her gaze into the past.

I twisted the cork out and filled our glasses. “What happened after I left?”

She took a while to surface, then raised her eyes again to mine. “Things got very nasty, very quickly. The investors were desperate to get something back.” Her face darkened. “Anything at all.”

“The shares?” I sampled the wine. Not bad.

“Worth nothing.” She closed her eyes. “They all had them, worthless pieces of paper they were desperate to sell back to him. He’d made so many promises, Pete, but there was nothing left. And he felt so badly about it all. He even sold the house in Sicily so he could give them three or four cents on the dollar.”

“Better than nothing.”

She shook her head. “We couldn’t even pay the rent.” She was staring down tunnels bored through time to an underground vault where Gigi Goldoni was alive and well, cracking jokes and hawking shares. “But he never gave up. You could knock him down a hundred times, he would always bounce back on his feet.”

“That’s true. It was amazing. I saw him in Milan couple weeks ago. Had some brand new deal in the works.”

A long sigh. “He was sure it would save us.”

“The Arabs? Same old story?”

“Arabs? A bitter laugh. “There were never any Arabs.”

“But he made it seem so real, Jules. We were all true believers in Arab money.”

She reached for her glass, took a sip and set it down. “It wasn’t the Arabs, but if the deal had gone through—“ Her voice trailed off.

She was staring out the window into the trees. She surfaced again and busied herself with the chicken and the salad, cut the bread and set it on the table. She sat and we ate and talked about England for a while. She would go back soon, she said, for a visit.

I said I'd thought about going home after Eva died. 

“Where’s home, Pete?”

“Good question,” I said. “I grew up in L.A.”

“Yes. I think you told me that once,” she said. “Is there nothing left for you there?”

I shrugged. “Nobody I know. No family. No friends.” 

She smiled, absently, waiting for the conversation to work its way around to Gigi again. I cleared the table. She washed. I watched. When we were done I walked her down the hall to the living room. She sank into the sofa and closed her eyes.

“What did Gigi do when you ran out of cash?”

She opened her eyes. “What he always did, Pete. He took risks.”

I followed her gaze to the window. “A gambler at heart.”

“And I loved him for that. He was reckless. In everything.”

“The casinos?”

She bit her lip, nodded.

“How much did he lose?”

“Everything we had left.”

“And then what? Somebody help him out?”

Another slow nod. “Gave him enough to cover his losses. And paid the bills.”

“Who?”

She shook  her head.

I pushed on. “What sort of bills?”

“Rent, phones, whatever it took to keep the business going.”

“What business was that, Jules?”

A flash of anger ripped through her face, leaving it flushed and blotchy. “Whatever his benefactor wanted. And please stop pretending you don’t already know. It’s insulting.”

“No offense, Jules, but what do I know? Tell me.”

A passing thought jerked her mouth into a grimace. “We had no choice but to do what he said.”

“To do what who said?”

The look in her eyes grew harder, colder. “He’s a terrible, terrible man.”

Her eyes lost their focus.

“Gigi promised me a future. A treasure house full of diamonds and gold where the two of us would live happily ever after. All he needed—” A wave rolled in. She let it pass, took a breath, swallowed and went on. “All we needed was a little more time.”

I had nothing to add.

“I have to go soon, Pete. Would you like some coffee?” She pushed herself to her feet and wobbled off down the hall.

I hauled myself up out of the sofa and followed her to the kitchen. I slid onto a bench, lowered my head to rest on my arms and shut my eyes.

When I opened them again a cup of coffee sat in front of me, and on the table a thick brown envelope. I pushed back the flap and peered inside. Something yellow. I fished it out. Plastic. Bumps on it. Studs. A little yellow brick. I peered in again. Another one. Two little yellow plastic bricks. Three, four. Seven altogether.

Julia strode into the kitchen. She’d showered and changed and was clipping on earrings. Earrings. I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket. Still there. Still burning.

I picked up a little yellow brick from the table. Lego. I picked up another and pressed them together. “What are these things?”

“Bricks. I found them in his pocket.”

“Did Gigi like to play with toys?”

Her anger flared. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She reached for a yellow plastic brick and fingered it, staring at nothing. “I just—I found him, then I called the police. And then for some reason I went through his pockets.”

“What were you looking for?” I picked up one brick after another and built a yellow chimney.

“I don’t know. I’d never seen them before. They left them here for me to find.” She swept a hand across the table. The chimney flew and crashed into the wall. Yellow bricks tumbled to the floor. “I was out of my mind, Pete. I can’t remember what I did or even what I told the police. I just—can’t.” And finally, a sob. She slumped into a chair, a broken doll. I got up, threw an arm around her shoulder and held her until she ran out of tears.

When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. “His head, it was awful. His mouth. Open.”

“The gun?”

She blinked, working her way through the question. “What do you mean?”

“Where was it?”

“I don’t remember. In his hand? Yes. I think so. Or on the floor.”

“Which side?”

She closed her eyes. Her hands grew still. “His right. To the right of him.”

“Are you sure?”

She opened her eyes and stared into mine. “Absolutely certain.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Thank you for what, Pete?”

“Gigi was left-handed.”

A soft smile appeared on her lips. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. He was indeed.” A hand on my arm, a squeeze.

“What are you thinking?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’ve made a mistake. Shot him with the wrong hand.”

“Maybe. Unless—”

The smile turned fierce. “Unless?”

“He chose the wrong hand—on purpose.”

She was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on mine. “Yes. Of course. A message. That’s it.” 

“Message for—“

“I have no idea. For me? The police? You’re the smart one, Pete. You tell me.”

“No clue.”

“It has to mean something to someone.” She shook her head. “I’ll get it.” She stood and walked out.

What, the phone? Then I heard a voice, and Julia’s answer. “He’s in the kitchen.”

Footsteps clumped down the hall. Closer. I stood up.

“Hey, hey! Look who’s here!” I shot an open hand skywards. “Gimme five, Billy-Boy!”

He slapped it away, grabbed me by the lapels and yanked my face up to his. “Where is it?” he sputtered. “Tell me. Now.”

I broke his grip and pulled away. “Have a seat, buddy. Can I offer you a drink?”

“Shut up, Pete.”

“What’s wrong, bubba? Our lady friend keep you up all night? Ho, ho, ho. Man, were you wasted, or what. You could hardly walk and you were drooling all over her. It was embarrassing.”

Dead in the water, Billy Bob Decker slumped into a chair, his belly rolling over his belt beneath a rumpled white shirt and straggly tie. I peered at the tie. Busty ladies in bunny ears and the name of a gentleman’s club in Dallas.

“I’m off,” said Julia. “Pull the door shut behind you when you leave.”

“Jules, baby. You can’t leave me here with this … Texan.”

“You’re a big boy, Pete.” She turned and walked off down the hall. “Call me.”

Billy Bob heaved a sigh.

“Coffee, Billy? Looks like you’ve had a few too many.” I clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Course, nothing like the other day. Man…” I launched a search for the coffee pot, opened cupboards and drawers and made a lot of noise while I worked up a story.

“Take a seat, Pete. You’re making me seasick.”

“What’s the matter, Billy? Too much rum in the bilge? I can hear it sloshing around in there.” I found the pot in the sink and coffee in a cupboard and set about making a good strong dose. He needed it.

“Pete. Sit down.”

I ignored him.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what, Billy? What are you talking about?”

“The briefcase. From the Villa Sofia. The one I had with me the other night.”

“In the car, bubba. Don’t you remember?”

He rubbed his temple. “Frankly, my dear, no.”

“Now there’s a surprise.” I gave silent thanks to Anastasia.
Good job, Stazz—his mind is a blank.

Another deep sigh from the Texan lady-killer. “Drop it, Pete. Just tell me where it is.”

“Right where you left it.”

“Where’s that?”

“In the car. Your car. The Merc. Man, were you wasted or what? I had to stop you from trying to drive.” I was shaking my head. “You need help, Billy. I mean—get a grip. Have you thought about twelve-step?”

Billy Bob rolled me a stony look. I set a cup of coffee in front of him. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Whatever.”

I added milk and sugar and sat there watching him drink in slow motion.

When the buzz kicked in he said, “Where is it. The Merc.”

I reached into a pocket and came up with the keys, dangled them in front of his eyes. “I parked it in town.”

He grabbed them. “Let’s go.”

I shrugged. He stood, stopped and stared at the floor, bent down and snatched up a piece of plastic. Yellow. He snorted, “Julia.” He shook his head, like he was knocking water out his ears. “She tell you her theory?”

“Found them in his pockets. That’s all she said.”

Billy Bob righted his head and held up the little yellow brick to the light. “Masons, Pete. They’re everywhere.”

“Masons?”

Billy Bob pushed a brick across the table. A little yellow brick.

A light went on. “Oh,
those
masons.”

“According to Julia, they’re the ones who killed Gigi. Secret lodge in Lugano, reporting to Rome.”

“News to me, Billy.” Wonderful news—Johnny would love it. I could give Anastasia first grabs for the net, and Johnny could write it up for print.

“She’s out of her mind, Pete. The Vatican has nothing to do with it.”

“Course not.”

Fantastic! The Masons, Rome, now the Vatican. A headline came to mind.
SWISS SUICIDE LINKED TO SECRET MASONIC LODGE IN THE VATICAN.
Nah. Too long. So what would Johnny do with it? Something about the P2, no doubt. Flashback to the 1980s: The secret
Propaganda Due
lodge is discovered by a pair of investigative magistrates. The press gets wind of it and plasters the story all over the country. The P2 has a thousand paid-up members from government, industry, the media, the parties. They have a plan, too: drag Italy back to the good old days before World War II. Exposed to the light of day, the P2 shrivels up and dies. But now …
CNI DIGS UP VATICAN PLOT TO RESURRECT P2.
 

Billy Bob clumped back down the hall, grabbed a black leather jacket from a hook on the wall and stooped to pick up a brain bucket—navy blue, silver stars on either side. Dallas Cowboys. I followed him out and pulled the door shut behind me.

In the street sat a steely black machine, gleaming in the dark. Billy Bob climbed up on it. I heard a click and the engine coughed and settled into a guttural sputter. A Harley. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

I stepped up, threw a leg over, leaned back and called out, “Hi-yo, Silver! Awaaay!” Billy Bob shook his head from side to side and we roared off into the rain.

After a while I felt the bike slow and saw the Hotel Royale float by on the left. I knifed a hand into the wind beside Billy Bob's head, shouted instructions and waved him on around and up the hill to the garage. We took the spiral ramp down to where I’d parked the Merc. He nosed the bike up beside it and lowered his boots to the concrete floor. The bike shuddered and fell silent. I pushed back, swung off and stood there, dripping wet and shivering. Billy Bob pulled his thick head from the brain bucket.

I turned to the Merc. I’d left the trunk popped. Someone had closed it. The tires had been slashed and a long, silver scratch ran along the left side from the driver-side mirror to the tail light. I dropped to a crouch and examined the damage. “Ooh, that’s bad.” 

Billy Bob swore, stomped around to the back, opened the trunk and swore again. I skipped back around to join him.

Nothing. The trunk was empty.

He lowered the lid and let it fall shut. A soft thud. He turned to me. A frown plowed furrows through his forehead. Not what you’d call a happy camper.

I took a slow breath and waited while he worked his way back around the Merc to the bike. “It’s time we had a little talk, Pete. Just you and me.”

“The Royale?”

He shook his head. “The casino. You drive.”

“Campione?”

He nodded.