Lust, Money & Murder (22 page)

Who were these people? The buyers of the data key?

The stewardess brought the coffee and set it on the coffee table. “Sugar, cream,” she said, pointing to a couple of elegant white vessels.

“Where exactly are we going?” Elaine said. “What am I doing here?”

Luigi and the woman exchanged a glance.

“We go to Milano,” Luigi said. He glanced at his Rolex. “We will be arriving there very soon.”

“And then...?”

“Do not worry, please. My father, he very good man.” Luigi smiled. “He no hurt you.”

Luigi’s face went in and out of focus. “Where is Nick?” she said dully. “I want to go with h...”

She passed out again.

CHAPTER 2.9

Milan, Italy

If you drive east from Milan on the A4 motorway towards Verona, you will encounter an industrial area that stretches on for almost 100 kilometers. Both sides of the highway are littered with inelegant, sprawling industrial facilities—food processing plants, auto parts factories, and truck depots. Not the usual images foreigners conjure up when thinking of beautiful, romantic Italy. Yet, every country must have its industrial infrastructure, and Italy is no different.

One such establishment along this particular stretch of highway, virtually indistinguishable from all the rest, is a company called DayPrinto S.p.A. Housed in an expansive two-story turquoise building, the firm has been in business 30 years. It handles the printing of dozens of Northern Italian newspapers and magazines. The company employs 250 people and is owned, indirectly, through a complex tangle of offshore holding companies.

The sole stockholder is a very private man by the name of Giorgio Cattoretti.

* * *

This morning, Giorgio Cattoretti was standing in his elegant private bathroom that adjoined his DayPrinto office, admiring himself in the mirror. He had a bronze complexion, coal-black hair and brooding dark eyes. His face bore the imperious, hawkish look of a predator. A thick scar snaked its way down the left side of his jaw, from his ear to his sharply-defined chin. Though he was 53 years old, he still boasted the lean, aggressive figure of a boxer.

He straightened his Valentino tie, shot his cuffs out from under the sleeves of his Armani sport coat, and smiled at himself, his bleached teeth flashing pearly white.

The Cat was looking good.

His intercom buzzed.

“
Si
?” Cattoretti said.

“Signore, Luigi is about to arrive with woman from the U.S. Treasury.”

“
Bene
,” Cattoretti said. “Have her brought directly to my office.”

He was looking forward to meeting Elaine Brogan.

CHAPTER 2.10

Elaine looked anxiously out the window of the Rolls Royce as it purred down the highway. She was sitting alone in the back seat, with Luigi in the front beside the uniformed chauffeur. The posh automobile had been waiting on the tarmac when the aircraft arrived at the private airport in Milan.

They had been driving for about an hour, and were now cruising through the Italian countryside. The after-effects of the drugs had mostly worn off. She displayed a calm-appearing veneer. On the inside, she was scared to death.

Luigi had said,
My father, he very good man. He no hurt you.

Elaine hoped he was telling the truth.

The Rolls slowed down and pulled into the entrance of an industrial complex. DayPrinto, S.p.A., a blue sign said.

A printing company,
Elaine thought. That was hardly a surprise.

They rolled up to the guard house, the gate sliding open as they approached. Luigi gave a friendly wave to the man in the booth as the car passed through.

The Rolls pulled around the back of the building to a loading dock area. The chauffeur hopped out and opened the door for Elaine.

“
Signora
,” he said, giving her a little bow.

As frightened as she felt, she could not help enjoying the celebrity treatment. It was a welcome change after all she’d been through. She doubted it would last long.

Luigi led her inside the building. The corridors were dark. As they walked through the facility, their footsteps echoed on the tiled floor. All the offices were empty. Elaine only now realized that it was a Sunday, and no one was working.

Luigi stopped at an elevator, entered a code into a keypad, and they rode to the second floor. They exited and Luigi stopped in front of an unmarked door and knocked on it.

“
Prego
,” a deep voice said, from inside.

As they entered, an elegantly dressed man stepped around from behind an enormous desk. He had dark hair and a bronzed complexion. He was in his 50s, his chiseled face dignified, almost aristocratic. Had there not been a thick scar running from his ear down to his jaw, he might have been a descendant of the Italian royal family.

He looked astonished when he saw Elaine. He gazed her up and down, as if overwhelmed. “Ms. Brogan! Why...this is an unexpected pleasure.”

He gently took her hand and kissed it, then stepped back and peered at her again, as if admiring a work of art. “You could be a fashion model...”

Elaine pulled her hand away.

“Please excuse my bad manners,” he said, smiling apologetically. “My name is Giorgio Cattoretti.” He made a broad sweep of his arm. “I welcome you to DayPrinto S.p.A.”

Elaine glanced uneasily around the office. The imposing desk was made of a single slab of polished stone. Behind it sat a leather-throne chair. A sensual Ruben painting dominated one wall—an original, Elaine guessed. The floor was a cool black granite.

Luigi opened his jacket and handed his father the data key that had been planted in her suitcase.

“Ah,
grazie
,” Cattoretti said, with obvious satisfaction. He gave it back to his son.
“Prenda questo di sotto.”

Luigi left, pulling the door closed behind him.

“I must apologize for the way you were so rudely treated in Paris,” Cattoretti said to Elaine, placing his hand over his heart. With a helpless shrug, he said, “My Russian business partners can be...well, uncivilized is the word.”

“I’d like to know why you brought me here,” Elaine said.

He smiled. “Americans are always so direct.” He glanced down at her soiled, wrinkled clothes, and she saw a flicker of distaste cross his face. “Would you not prefer to freshen up before we talk?”

Elaine suddenly felt self-conscious. The man was immaculately dressed, in a tailored designer suit, decked out with gold jewelry—he looked like he could have stepped off the cover of
GQ
.

He motioned to the door beyond his desk. “Please take advantage of my private bath. It is fully equipped.” He stepped back and appraised her. “What size are you, about a...seven?”

“Thirty-six,” she said.

“
Bellissima
! I will find you some clothes that are more...” he glanced at her outfit again “...appropriate. I will also have breakfast brought in from our kitchen. You will find the food quite delicious. Our chef is from Toscana.”

* * *

A few minutes later, Elaine was sitting on an ornate brass loveseat next to the sink in Cattoretti’s stylish private bathroom, staring into space. Opera music softly emanated from speakers hidden somewhere in the molded ceiling.

Giorgio Cattoretti had made quite an impression on her. He was so charming and confident. The man radiated a personal magnetism that was almost palpable. His English was perfect. He spoke with an American accent, so Elaine assumed he must have lived in the USA for at least a few years.

She wondered who he was, exactly, and what he wanted from her.

Rising slowly from the loveseat, she wearily took off her clothes. She was too tired to fight any more, too tired to think.

As she slowly folded her blouse and skirt and set them on the loveseat, she wondered if she might be on a hidden camera somewhere.
To hell with it
, she thought. If the man was a voyeur, let him get his jollies.

Elaine gazed at her naked body in the mirror, her eyes drawn to the bandage above her hip. Grimacing, she gingerly peeled it back. There were three neatly-made black stitches in the front and back knife punctures. Someone had sewn her up while she was unconscious. She wondered who had done it. She hoped it hadn’t been Luigi.

She stepped inside the shower. The spacious stall was made of pink marble, the gold fixtures all of sensual Italian design. The stone floor felt warm against her feet—it must have been heated from underneath. She turned on the water and stood under the hot, steamy flow, careful not to get the bandage wet.

The bathroom door opened.

Elaine jumped, instinctively covering her breasts.

There was movement on the outside of the stall.

She backed against the marble, afraid to breathe. She expected the swarthy Italian to throw the stall door open any second, perhaps stark naked, with a grin on his face and an eagerly bobbing erection.

There was more movement. The fine hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

Then she heard the bathroom door quietly snap shut, and she peeked out into the room.

Her clothes were gone from the loveseat. In their place was a stack of new garments.

She finished her shower and picked up the dress, fingering the material. Cashmere and silk. It was black and short-sleeved, with a crew-neck top. She looked at the label.
Prada.
Her boots had been replaced with a pair of stilettos in 1970s green.
Fendi
. Underneath the outfit she found a new package of sheer tan hose, in her size.
Levante
. There was also a pair of panties and bra.
Valentino
.

Surely there hadn’t been time for anyone to go out and buy all these expensive things for her.

Elaine held the posh dress in her hands. This garment alone was worth more than a few months of her government salary.

My government salary
, she thought wryly. The only government salary she would ever receive now would be whatever they paid convicts to work in the prison laundry.

She tore open the package and put on the thigh-high stockings, smoothing the nylon up her legs. They made her feel better. She slipped on the rest of the underwear, telling herself not to think about the future, only the present. She strapped on the high heels, and then she began styling her hair.

The cabinet under the sink was loaded with fine cosmetics—
Kanebo
,
Estee Lauder
,
Shiseido
. She spent a few minutes applying makeup, laying it on thicker than usual.

She did not look at herself in the full-length mirror until she was fully dressed.

Her mouth dropped open. The reflection bowled her over.

Elaine Brogan was no longer there—someone else was standing behind the mirror, gazing back at her.

An elegant, ravishing someone else.

Elaine had always dreamed of owning clothes like these, ever since her days at the Rising Star Modeling Agency. She turned from one side to the other, taking herself in. She not only looked completely different, she
felt
completely different. More confident, and much more alive.

I could be on the cover of Vogue
, she thought.

She felt ready to deal with whatever Giorgio Cattoretti wanted to throw at her.

* * *

When Elaine stepped back out into Cattoretti’s office, there was a brass food cart parked in the middle of the marble floor. On it was an artful presentation of delicious-looking fruit and cheeses, freshly baked croissants, and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. A slim vase held a long-stemmed yellow rose, glistening dewdrops clinging to its petals.

As the aroma of the warm pastries hit Elaine’s nostrils, she realized she was ravenous. She picked up a warm croissant and bit into it, then strolled around the office in the slinky dress and outrageous stilettos. The heels made her legs feel ten feet long.

One wall was filled with bookshelves that were lined with leather-bound volumes. Some of them looked very old. She turned her head sideways and read some of the titles—
Machiavelli
,
Dante
,
Homer
...

She wondered if Giorgio Cattoretti had actually read all these books, or if they were just for show.

She noticed that behind his credenza, there were plaques and photographs of him with different well-dressed people. Local politicians and prominent businessmen, perhaps. The inscriptions were all in Italian, but it was clear that Cattoretti had donated a lot of money to charities.

Elaine felt a combination of dislike and intrigue towards the man. He was obviously a criminal, and yet he was so warm and charming and sophisticated, or at least appeared to be. She looked over at the door that led out to the hallway. She wondered if it was locked.