Lust, Money & Murder (27 page)

“Yes, he did,” Elaine said, giving a little shiver.

“Sadly,” Cattoretti said, “Sforza was eventually assassinated. His body was dragged through the streets of Milan by an enraged mob.” Cattoretti added, with a sigh, “It’s a pity. The man was a great contributor to the Italian culture, a noble patron of art, the theater, music...”

Elaine had the distinct feeling Cattoretti was talking about himself.

Tony entered with his arms full of small plates. He spread them precisely around the table, making sure each one was positioned so that the presentation of the food was oriented their way. He pointed to one and said, “This we call-a
fontina
tartlet
, it has-a fontina cheese and—”

“Please leave us, Tony. We do not need an explanation of every ingredient you used.”

“
Si
, boss.” Looking a little hurt, Tony gave a little bow and disappeared out the door.

Cattoretti dipped a piece of bread in olive oil, and he gazed again at the portrait of Sforza. “You know, sometimes it amazes me the lengths that some men will go to for love.” Raising an eyebrow at Elaine, he said, “Did you know everything Gene Lassiter has done is for the sake of a lover?”

Elaine was shocked. “No, I didn’t.”

“It is true. The Russians told me.”

“Who is she?”

Cattoretti gave an odd smile. “German. Goes by the name of Gypsy. The Russians know very little—the two lovebirds are very careful about communicating with each other. They do know that Gypsy is much younger than Lassiter is.
Much
younger. And lives in Berlin. Nothing more.”

Very interesting
, Elaine thought. It explained a lot—no wonder Lassiter was always going to Berlin to visit “family.” The man had always seemed sexually neuter to Elaine—he had never looked at her the way many men did, or shown any interest in any other women. She’d heard he was married once, long ago, and had been through a terrible divorce.

Elaine wondered what this Gypsy looked like. She imagined some fresh, Heidi-like 16 year old that Lassiter bounced on his knee. Probably with long blonde pigtails with a frilly white frock. Probably called him “Papa.”

“Apparently, his darling ‘Gypsy’ is very beautiful,” Cattoretti said, as if reading Elaine’s thoughts. “Or at least Lassiter thinks so. Dark eyes...thick curly black hair, tall, with long legs...”

So much for Elaine’s idea of her appearance. “How do you know what she looks like?”

“Lassiter’s messages to her. Apparently he is quite the Casanova. The Russians have enjoyed reading his correspondence to her.”

Elaine felt disgusted by the thought of Lassiter with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter, and the thought that he would ruin Elaine’s life on account of her.

All the more reason Elaine would enjoy taking his money away from him.

She wished she could see the look on his face when he found out.

CHAPTER 2.16

The opening of
Madame Butterfly
at La Scala, with Andrea Bocelli, was a gala event. It brought out the media in droves.

When Cattoretti’s silver Rolls Royce pulled up to the theatre entrance, there was a rope line set up that led from the sidewalk to the front doors, with reporters and TV crews swelling up against it.

Elaine watched as camera flashes popped—a celebrity couple was climbing out of a limo in front of them. When Elaine and Cattoretti emerged from the Rolls, no one paid much attention, though a few photographers snapped off pictures just in case they turned out to be famous. It seemed to Elaine that Giorgio Cattoretti was virtually anonymous.

That changed when they went to the private reception for the theater sponsors. It was held in a large, elegant room with inlaid teak floors framed with beautiful cream pillars. There were shouts of “Giorgio!” and “The Cat!” as people caught sight of him entering the room. He blossomed into full form, hugging his friends, kissing them on both cheeks Italian style, shaking hands, squeezing shoulders—he seemed to know everyone in the room.

He could not introduce Elaine under her real name, of course. On the way to the theater, they had come up with the alias “Marie De La Fontaine,” and decided that she would be French, but educated in the USA, at Stanford. Elaine wasn’t sure she liked the name—Marie De La Fontaine either sounded like a countess or a stripper, she couldn’t decide which.

In any case, Marie De La Fontaine was introduced to government ministers, pop stars, ambassadors, business magnates, artists, writers, and politicians. Elaine could tell by the way that people looked at her that Giorgio Cattoretti went about town with a different lady on his arm every night. Even the older women who looked like inveterate gossips regarded Elaine with little more than mild curiosity and soon moved on to scrutinize more interesting specimens.

One thing puzzled her—Cattoretti introduced her to two world-famous fashion designers, and both of them seemed to be good buddies with Cattoretti. Didn’t they know what he was doing in the basement of DayPrinto?

By the time curtain call was announced, she had downed three glasses of Dom Perignon and her head was spinning. They stepped inside Cattoretti’s private box, and Elaine went to the railing, taking in the La Scala theater. It was breathtaking. The seats were covered in plush red velvet, the stage framed by ornate gold-gilded carvings. There were no walls, but multi-storied rows of boxes that formed a semicircle up to the stage. A majestic three-tiered crystal chandelier descended from the ceiling.

Elaine felt overjoyed, like a little girl living out a fantasy. Only this wasn’t a daydream—this was real.

“Did you notice the fireplace?” Cattoretti said, touching her on the shoulder. There was a bricked rectangle cut into the back of the box.

“This was the personal box of Giuseppe Piermarini,” Cattoretti said, “the architect of this magnificent theater. There was no central heat back then, of course, so fireplaces were necessary in winter. Also, at that time, operas were full day events—food was often cooked in between acts to keep the audience happy.” Cattoretti looked down at the stage and chuckled. “There is nothing actors fear more than a cold, hungry audience.”

Elaine sat down on one of the velvet seats and peered down over the railing at the handsomely-dressed crowd beneath them. The air was rich with the smell of expensive perfumes and colognes. She could see directly into the orchestra pit—the musicians were all warming up, the mishmash of violin and flute notes charging the atmosphere with excitement.

Directly across from them in a box on the second tier sat yet another one of Milan’s top fashion designers. The man gave Cattoretti a nod and a knowing smile. Cattoretti smiled back.

“I don’t understand,” Elaine whispered.

“What do you not understand?”

“Why are all these designers so friendly with you?”

Cattoretti smiled. “Are you not familiar with the old adage, ‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery’?”

“Yes, but still, your knockoffs cost them money. Don’t they?”

“
Cost
them money?” Cattoretti laughed. “My dear, my knockoffs
make
them money.”

“How—do you give them a cut or something?”

“Elaine, you do not understand marketing and consumer psychology. Every time someone buys one of my knockoffs, it is a free advertisement for the genuine article. My customers cannot afford the real thing...yet.” He raised his hands. “I do not sell knockoffs, Elaine—I sell
dreams
.”

He looked over the audience and smiled at another famous designer, who smiled back. “My business is not only good for the designers, but good for society as a whole. My clients feel a profound longing to own the real product, not a mere ‘knockoff.’ Nobody in their right mind believes they are buying a genuine five-hundred-dollar Gucci handbag for fifty dollars. The very idea is absurd. Their heartfelt desire to own the authentic product motivates them to work harder and to make more money, which is good for everybody.” He motioned to her. “Surely you can appreciate that. Is it not the American way?”

“Yes, of course it is,” Elaine admitted. She was beginning to admire Giorgio Cattoretti. She could learn a lot from him.

Taking her hand, he said, “The curtain is about to go up.”

Book 3

Murder

CHAPTER 3.1

About the time the opera started, Gene Lassiter’s flight was just touching down at the Milan Airport. He was flying under false ID, which he used to rent a car.

Using the many secure resources he had at his disposal, he had already traced the location of the GPS to a castle east of Milan, and he already knew a good deal about the owner, a Mr. Giorgio Cattoretti. One of the things he had learned was that Mr. Cattoretti was one of the benefactors at La Scala, and he also learned there was a premiere at the theater tonight.

As soon as he was on the outskirts of Milan, he pulled over and called Gypsy. He was supposed to be in Berlin yesterday, and Gypsy was probably mad.

* * *

When the cellphone rang, Gypsy was luxuriously reclined on a canopied bed in an expensive apartment in Berlin, reading a German copy of
Cosmopolitan
.

“Where have you been?” Gypsy said. “I’ve been waiting for your message for twenty-four hours.”

“I had a snag,” Lassiter said. “But I’m almost finished with my little project. Please be patient, my love.”

“I think I’ve been patient enough,” Gypsy said, gazing out the window at the depressing weather. The city was engulfed by low-hanging gray clouds, the streets wet with a tedious drizzle that had been going on for a week. “You aren’t the only fish in the sea, you know.”

“Please don’t be like that, my darling. You know that no one cares for you as much as I do. If all goes well, we can meet tomorrow.”

“Where?” Gypsy said skeptically.

“How does Milan sound?”

“Italy?”

“Yes, my darling.”

“Well...” This was sounding better. “Why don’t I just come now? I can do some shopping and—”

“No!” Lassiter said. “I’ll let you know exactly when and where in a few hours.” He made some disgusting kissing noises in the phone. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Yeah,” Gypsy said. “Don’t call me anymore—only send text messages. Dieter is getting suspicious.”

“Of course. I just had to hear your voice, my precious.”

“I understand,” Gypsy said.

Dieter entered the bedroom. Gypsy quickly cut the connection.

“Who was that?”

“None of your business,” Gypsy snapped.

Dieter just stood there in his stupid PROST! apron, gazing like a hurt puppy.

“When will dinner be ready?” Gypsy said.

“Soon,
schatz
.”

“I hope we are not having Koenigsberger Klopse again. I’m tired of that.”

“No,
schatz
! I am making Schweinshaxe tonight.” He smiled. “Your favorite.”

Gypsy grimaced. German food was such a bore, and so were German men. It was high time for a change. Dieter’s coffers had been drained dry. He had spent every last Euro he had on expensive clothes and jewelry. It was time for Gypsy to find a new benefactor. Gene Lassiter promised to deliver a long and fruitful run. The aging American had agreed to buy a beautiful house in Switzerland, no strings attached, where Gypsy could live in a fitting lifestyle. Gene Lassiter planned to keep his job at the U.S. Treasury for a few more years, which meant he wouldn’t be around much. That would leave plenty of time for Gypsy to find more appealing—and financially generous—lovers.

Dieter was just standing there in his apron, pouting.

Gypsy rose from the bed and sat down at the Louis XV vanity, a birthday present from Dieter. The robe split, revealing Gypsy’s smooth, freshly waxed legs.

Dieter stared.

“Call me when dinner is ready,” Gypsy ordered. “I think I’ll do my nails.”

* * *

Half an hour later, a nondescript sedan pulled up at the guard house at Castello Fontanella.

The driver’s window rolled down as the guard on duty came out to the car.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Cattoretti,” the man said in English.

The guard peered into the car—no one else was inside. The man looked fairly old, in his sixties. A cane lay across the front seat, the handle in the shape of a horse’s head. It looked expensive.

“
Signore
Cattoretti not here, sir.”

“I know that. He’s at the opera right now, but he told me to come here and wait for him.”

“What is your name,
signore
?”

“Malcolm Price. I am one of DayPrinto’s best customers, a personal friend of Giorgio’s.”

“
Un momento
.”

The guard went back into the building and looked at his list. There was no Malcolm Price on it. Glancing back at the car, he called Luigi.