In a Heartbeat (24 page)

Hmm. ‘I threw everything away. I didn’t want Monica to find out. My suspicions were wrong, of course.’

‘That’s not relevant to this case. How did you get in contact with the Poirot Agency?’

‘The Yellow Pages. I just liked the name, you know, from Agatha Christie … ’

‘So you entrusted a complete stranger that you chose at random to investigate a delicate matter in your private life just because you liked murder mysteries?’

I’ve never read one in my life, but the culprit is always caught.

‘For certain things it’s better to hire someone you don’t know rather than someone who you know, don’t you think?’

‘What I think is irrelevant. Please respond.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever ask Signor Manzi to investigate the private life of the late Signor Roveda?’

Mayday! Code red!

‘My client has already answered the question,’ Valentina said.

‘I’m aware of that; I want to hear it again.’

‘No. Why would I have my boss investigated? It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘We’ll find the sense.’

They tried to nail me into a corner, but I held my position for over three hours. The judge didn’t believe a word I said and he let me know how he felt again and again. But they had nothing on me. Either Spillo was nowhere to be found, or he wouldn’t talk. I didn’t come out unscathed, however. The old chimp warned me that from that moment I was officially considered a suspect. He then gave me an official document with an official letterhead. (Learn:
Indictment.
)

My position had changed. I wasn’t a witness anymore. Officially I was a suspect even if we didn’t understand exactly how. From that moment I couldn’t leave the country. The man who was typing stamped my Italian ID (learn:
Not Valid for Travel Abroad.
) and asked me to hand in my passport. I didn’t know where it was.

‘A warrant will be issued to search the domicile and property as well as the person, Signor Santo Denti, to be followed within the parameters … ’ dictated the public prosecutor to the man typing.

Valentina protested, but she could do nothing. They exchanged documents, I signed my statement in five copies, and we waited for the cops to come and take us to my apartment.

We were escorted to the car as if I were Al Capone. As we walked through the hallways of the courthouse, a paparazzo took some pictures of me. I gave him the finger. I’d see that photo on the cover of every newspaper the next day.

*

You can watch them while they search your place, but you can’t touch anything. You can ask them not to make a mess, but they’ll make one anyway. I wasn’t happy while I watched about ten cops ransack my apartment. Also, I didn’t have the time to check the rest of the apartment. I only knew that there weren’t any bombs or phone records. For the rest, I’d only hoped that there were no more surprises in store for me. They looked stupefied when they saw the destroyed plasma TV screen, but I didn’t have to explain. They asked me where the computer was; I told them that it was broken and that I had thrown it away. Where? They asked. ‘I left it on the pavement, go and check the city dump.’ I said.

‘Maybe we will,’ said the cop in charge.

‘Let me know when so I can watch the show.’

They found the safe easily. I was the only one who hadn’t noticed it. Valentina turned white when they opened it. She really didn’t trust me.

They went through the basement and the car as well as the clothes in my wardrobe and through all I was wearing. They finished about midnight. Before leaving, I gave them my passport, which had turned up during the search.

I collapsed on the sofa; I could still feel their paws all over me. ‘Do you want something to drink?’ I asked my lawyer.

‘Yes.’ I poured some cognac without ice for her and a double for me.

‘You were very good, especially with the one about your girlfriend.’

‘I couldn’t think of anything else. How did they find out about the Poirot Agency?’

‘I don’t know, but I guess Manzi didn’t say anything about you yet; otherwise they’d have used the phone records. Let’s hope that he keeps his mouth shut.’

‘Talk to you tomorrow?’

‘Only if they arrest you.’

‘Oh, fun. What’s the probability?’

‘I’d say fifty-fifty and the day after tomorrow seventy. So, tell me what you know.’

‘Can you guarantee to keep me out of jail?

‘If I couldn’t before, how can I now?’

‘So it’s better if I don’t.’

I waited for her to leave and poured another glass and then I fetched the envelope. I opened the empty pool room with my own key. Half an hour later I went into a call centre a few minutes from my apartment. I was the only white guy there. I called the numbers circled in red on Roveda’s phone list. At the second try, a man answered.

Day Six

1

Morning traffic in Milan is a molasses of grumbling travellers and infinite lines of trams. Traffic crawled for about an hour, and I turned randomly here and there. I went through traffic lights while I stared in the rear-view mirror. When I was sure no one was tailing me I got onto the motorway. I was well dressed and wearing a tie. I had even shaved and had cleaned the dead bugs off the windshield.

I smiled. I tried to look like a businessman and not a criminal on the run. It was the only way of making it across the border into Switzerland. A random check would have sent me back, and I don’t think the public prosecutor would have taken it lightly. I just hoped the border patrol hadn’t read the newspapers. I made sure that I had before I left. My lawyer was mistaken when she gave me the odds of staying out of jail. There was the photo of me flipping off the photographer, not a very smart thing to do. It was in all the papers. There were long articles regarding my statement. It was as if I had given an interview on national television. What ever happened to the meaning of a ‘confidential hearing’?

Knowing what I had told the prosecutor, the journalists went crazy. The nicest article said that I was a disgraced executive with an alcohol problem and a jealous streak. I was plainly obsessed with the daughter of the owner of B&M. Monica didn’t appreciate my remarks and had called me crying. ‘How could you, you,
sob
, you son of a bitch,
sob sob
.’ Pause. Then with a silky voice she asked, ‘Are you really that jealous?’ The other articles caught me out on my lies and said that I had gone to Spillo with totally different motives. The cops knew about Roveda’s phone records, and I wasn’t in jail only because Spillo was nowhere to be found. No one knew who had the phone records.

The list of Spillo’s clients was as long as the list of my lies. The phone records that he had bought and sold during his career as a busybody were in the thousands. He’d trailed businessmen like Roveda, as well as politicians, judges and even football players. It would have gone on for years if the postal authorities hadn’t caught his accomplice. He was an employee at Telecom who went in and out of the company’s computer system whenever he pleased. He had sold the information to half the private investigators in Italy. They were both in deep trouble, especially Spillo. That’s why he had been in such a rush when we last met. It wasn’t about Roveda’s death, which had only hit the news later that evening.

Beagle & Manetti took on an almost dirtier role in this whole affair. Another article entitled ‘Den of Vipers’ listed the problems of the near-bankrupt Bonanno as well as those of his partners. From Roveda’s happy home life, to my alcoholism, from the phone records to the revelations of an anonymous source within the agency …
B&M is completely out of control!
The article went on, concluding that it would not have been much of a surprise if they’d found bodies in the agency’s corridors.

Some important B&M clients, including Ustoni, were considering cancelling their contracts. Ustoni yelled at journalists from his factory in Emilia Romagna whilst waving a pork chop. His comments were deemed ‘unrepeatable.’ Despite the insults that flew back and forth there were no further developments in the case. The only certain things were that Roveda had drowned and that one of his eyes had been blasted out; the chlorine in the pool had made it impossible to gather evidence useful to the investigation. (Learn:
Forensics.
Learn:
DNA.
Learn:
CSI.
)

There were no witnesses. Roveda had received no calls before the murder. There were no compromising pieces of paper or words written in blood on the wall. He had opened the door to his killer. He had offered him or her something to drink. But the glass had been wiped of prints, just like the chair where the killer had probably sat. He had even hosed down the edge of the pool. A butler who had arrived later to prepare dinner had helped make a mess of the murder scene as he walked around the house before discovering Roveda’s floating body. He had even jumped into the pool to see if his master was still alive, which was hard to believe considering that he was floating face down. It was only because his body was too heavy that he left him there.

Roveda’s nightlife consisted of scouring clubs looking for very young men (Learn:
Swingers.
Learn:
Underground Club
). This opened the investigation to include the gay scene. There was a possible jealous gay lover, an unpaid male prostitute and stuff like that. Roveda was a man of particular tastes and he enjoyed changing the menu. This made the investigation rather complicated. Before indicting me the public prosecutor had questioned about twenty men who were intimately involved with him, and according to what I read that was only the beginning. There were also accounts in the Cayman Islands that the government were trying to sink their teeth into. Roveda had made more money than he had declared, and the money didn’t just come from B&M.

The killer didn’t steal a thing. After the murder he left, locking the door behind him (no prints, see ya!). The cops thought that the killer had arrived with his own car. The tyre tracks in the courtyard and the area surrounding the villa, built on the Sant’Ilario hillside (rich area), were too numerous for investigators to be able to determine the car’s make. Apart from male prostitutes, the most popular candidate was me. A journalist, however, noted that the search of my house ‘did not result in findings that would impact on the case,’ Yeah, screw you!

I got to the border after ninety minutes of driving. I kept carefully within the speed limit while trying not to look at the scary electronic signs that listed deaths as a result of drunk driving and falling asleep at the wheel (Learn:
Points on Driving Licence.
Learn:
Don’t Use a Phone While Driving
).

A long queue of cars moved slowly towards the Italian Border Patrol booths. I got in line with a fixed smile. A patrolman waved me down; I almost had a heart attack but it was for the car in front of me. I passed them. The Swiss Border Patrol let me go by without even looking at me. Phase One complete. Maybe on the way back I’d bring in a few cartons of cigarettes?

The only way that you could tell that it was Switzerland was by the strange names on the road signs. As for the rest, it looked just like lower Lombardy. I didn’t have the blue permit to use the Swiss motorway (the signs said a permit was mandatory), so I drove on other roads until I got to Lugano. There, I asked directions from a passer-by. I’d never been there before. The city was exactly as I had imagined. It was clean and ordered, with cute little houses. It didn’t look much like a crazy fun place to live. It was slightly warmer than Milan; this was probably because of the lake. I drove along its shore before parking a few metres from the Piazza della Riforma, the same piazza I had seen in the photos in my safe. It was square and paved with light-coloured stone.

On one side was City Hall, with police headquarters right next to it. Oh, Jesus! On the other side were banks with pretentious façades and elegant cafés. At the centre stood an enormous Christmas tree covered with lights. The lake was covered in mist.

I walked towards Bar Vanini, which had small tables and white chairs closed in a heated gazebo. At one of the tables sat the bald guy who had shaken hands with Roveda. He was staring into nothingness in front of a porcelain cup with an indifferent expression on his face. He was older than his picture. He was one of those men whose age was hard to tell. Light-coloured eyes, crow’s feet and thin lips. He wore a grey three-piece suit and a slightly darker tie. When I sat in front of him he didn’t move a muscle. He just looked me up and down.

‘We weren’t supposed to meet,’ he said, speaking perfectly, without the slightest trace of accent or dialect. For this reason I imagined he wasn’t a native Italian speaker.

‘I’d have avoided it if I could.’

He nodded. ‘Do you see the man at the table behind me?’ I looked. He was a blond guy in his thirties with broad shoulders. ‘Go over to him and do what he asks.’

‘What the hell for?’

‘It’s called security,’ he said, with a smile. ‘You’ll appreciate it.’

‘Not even a coffee first?’