Lust, Money & Murder (35 page)

But then they might find out.

The door opened. Giorgio Cattoretti entered the office, a small leather Gucci bag in one swarthy hand. He was smiling ear to ear, the scar along his jaw stretched into a white line.

“You do not know how happy I am,” he chuckled, setting the bag down. “Do you know how long I have been working on this project, Elaine? Six years! Six long
years
. First I had to perfect the paper, then the ink, then the security thread, the microprinting, and finally, the minute details only a KBA Giori press can produce, which meant snatching one. It took a year just to understand how that blasted machine worked. If not for you, the U.S. Treasury Department would be knocking me out of business as we speak.”

Elaine smiled. On the inside, she was terrified.

He opened the bag—she could smell the freshly printed bills from across the room. He pulled out one of the $100 notes and gazed at it, his eyes misty. “Behold! A veritable masterpiece!” He gazed up at the oil painting on his wall. “Our friend Rubens would be proud.”

Elaine could see the back side of the bill in his hand. She tried not to look at it. To her, it seemed that the words IN GOD WE TRUST were so far out of place that even a layman would notice it at 20 yards. But of course that was ridiculous.

He glanced back at Elaine. “Are you not happy,
cara
?”

“Yes, of course. I’m just tired.” She closed her eyes and rubbed them, mainly to avoid looking at him.

“Of course you must be exhausted,” he said sympathetically. He moved closer and tenderly caressed her neck. “You worked very hard today.”

It was well past five o’clock, and she had not seen any sign of Luigi. But she was afraid to ask about the passport—she didn’t want to risk making him suspicious.

“We must celebrate our victory,” Cattoretti said, taking her hand. “Tonight, we will dine at the best restaurant in Milan.”

CHAPTER 3.9

The restaurant, Il Luogo de Aimo e Nadia, was located in the central part of the city. Instead of being chauffeured there in the Rolls Royce, Cattoretti drove himself, in a shiny metallic-blue Porsche cabriolet.

The interior of the restaurant was styled with modern simplicity—stark white walls that were only broken by a few splashy abstract oil paintings. It looked very Italian.

Cattoretti brought along the Gucci bag and set it in one of the empty chairs.

The food was delicious, but Elaine had trouble eating. All she could think about was the counterfeit money in the bag. He had told her that every last dollar he printed would be sent to Russia and laundered there. Yet, if that was true, then what was he planning to do with this money?

Elaine’s worst fear was that he would use some of it to pay for the meal. She guessed that the bill would come to several hundred Euros—Cattoretti ordered a bottle of wine that cost over €300 alone.

As they had coffee and
tiramisù
, Cattoretti snapped his fingers at the waiter and asked for the check.

The man brought it in an elegant little tray and left them alone.

Cattoretti just sat there sipping his coffee, gazing pleasantly at Elaine. “You seem distracted,
cara
. Did you not enjoy your meal?”

“No, it was delicious.” She smiled and touched her stomach. “I just ate a little too much, that’s all.”

“Nonsense,” he said, glancing down at her figure, “you eat like a bird.”

“I—I was just wondering. Have you heard from Luigi, about the passport?”

“Oh. Yes. I am afraid I have some bad news about that.”

Elaine tensed. “Bad news?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, it will take a little longer than expected. Our contact at the ministry was taken ill today. Luigi says it will be at least two more days before it is delivered. Probably not until the end of the week.”

“That’s all right,” Elaine said, her stomach churning. The end of the week! They would discover the flaw in the counterfeits long before then.

Cattoretti’s cellphone started ringing. He pulled it out, glanced at the display. “Excuse me,” he said, and he took the call out in the lobby.

Elaine shifted uneasily in her chair—she could still see him through the doorway, talking on the phone, nodding. He was still looking at her.

Please don’t let anybody discover the error in the fakes
, she thought.
Please
?

When Cattoretti came back to the table, he smiled and sat back down. He glanced at the bill sitting on the little silver tray, and he reached for the Gucci bag.

Elaine dug her fingernails into her palms.

Cattoretti pulled his wallet from the bag, opened it, and dropped his credit card on the tray.

She breathed a great sigh of relief.

The waiter came with a portable credit card machine and Cattoretti keyed in his PIN.

“And now,” he said, rising from the table, “I have a little surprise for you.”

* * *

They were back in the Porsche, heading across the center of Milan. Elaine’s stomach was tied in knots, the coffee and dessert gurgling up every now and then.

Surprise?
she thought.
What kind of surprise?

They had been driving for several minutes. Cattoretti had not said a word.

“May I ask where we’re going?” Elaine finally said.

“
Cara
,” he said, admonishingly. “I told you—it is a surprise. You don’t want me to spoil it, do you?”

“I’ve never really liked surprises,” Elaine said weakly.

“Really? It is my experience that most women love surprises—surprise gifts, trips, and so on.”

“Well, guess I’m not like most women.”

He chuckled. “No,
cara
, but I am not like most men. You will always love my surprises.”

At a traffic light, he turned sharply to the right and sped down a narrow street, the tires burning a little rubber. He seemed relaxed, steering with only one hand on the wheel, casually shifting gears.

Elaine could feel sweat running down her side. “You’re not angry with me about anything, are you?”

“Angry?” Cattoretti reached over and squeezed her hand. “How could I be angry with you, after you so brilliantly exorcized every little error from my counterfeits?”

Elaine fought the panic that gripped her. Was there a slight sarcasm in his tone? She couldn’t tell.

He suddenly slowed the car, peering past her, out her window. He seemed to be looking into the windows of a bar. With no warning, he made a U-turn that tossed Elaine into the door.

“Sorry,” he said. “I saw a parking space down this way. They are hard to come by.”

He brought the Porsche to a stop, then expertly parallel parked between two big motorcycles.

He turned off the ignition. Smiling at her again, he took her hand. “All right, I will stop keeping you in suspense. We are going to get your money tonight. All of it.”

“My money?” she said, confused.

He motioned across the street to the bar, “In a few minutes, Gene Lassiter’s beloved Gypsy will arrive there.” He smiled with satisfaction. “We are going to trade Gypsy for the money.”

* * *

Gene Lassiter was in the throes of his fifth or sixth anxiety attack since he had made off with the money from Cattoretti’s castle.

He was sitting in front of his laptop computer in his Milan hotel room, hyperventilating, his palms sweaty, refreshing the computer screen every minute or two, hoping to find an email from Gypsy. He was terrified that he had lost his sweet love forever. If that had happened, he didn’t know what he would do.

He had no way to contact Gypsy by phone. He had not dared write down the number anywhere—the only place he’d kept it was in his cellphone, which he had evidently lost somewhere last night, possibly at Cattoretti’s. He knew that Gypsy was living in Berlin with some man named Dieter, but that was all.

He looked over at the bag full of cash he had taken from Cattoretti. What good was all that money without Gypsy? Everything he had done was for his cherished lover. Without Gypsy, all that money was nothing more than ink on paper.

The hotel room was a disgusting mess, dirty plates and cups and glasses from room service scattered everywhere. Lassiter was afraid to leave the building. He hadn’t stepped outside the room since he had checked in last night, afraid that Cattoretti’s men might somehow find him. He had a feeling Gypsy was coming to Milan that day, despite the fact that he had forbade it.

Gypsy was maddeningly impulsive. Which was part of the attraction.

Lassiter refreshed the screen again, his face twisted with anguish. The notion that Gypsy no longer was interested in him was too much to bear.

Then, a horrifying thought struck him, one that he realized had been lurking just beneath the surface of his awareness the entire day.

What if Gypsy really had found another lover?

Holding his head in his hands, Gene Lassiter began to cry like a baby.

* * *

The bar was sleek and stylish, with comfortable sofas scattered around, the walls decorated with moody impressionist paintings. It was filled with a hip, 30-something crowd, all locals, all well dressed, and was so packed it was hard to breathe.

Cattoretti greeted a few people as he led Elaine to a stand-up table in one corner. It was partially hidden by a pillar, but still afforded a good view of the front door.

A waitress came to the table. Cattoretti ordered Chianti for both of them.

On edge, Elaine glanced around the room, surveying all the people. The last thing she cared about right now was getting the money. She no longer wanted it. She only wanted to escape. Maybe she could excuse herself and go to the ladies’ room, and get out the back door.

But with no passport, and Interpol and God only knew who else looking for her, she didn’t think she would get far.

Cattoretti was watching all the people, searching for Gypsy.

Elaine looked around the room—just within her field of view, there were quite a few tall women with long, dark curly hair.

“How will you recognize her?” Elaine said.

“At nine o’clock, Greta will call the bar and ask for Gypsy.” He smiled. “When she comes to the phone, we will know her.”

* * *

As the minutes ticked by and Elaine watched all the people drinking and chattering to each other, her curiosity began to outweigh her desire to flee. She wanted to see what Gypsy looked like, what kind of girl Gene Lassiter would go to such great lengths for.

At precisely nine o’clock, there was a faint sound of a phone ringing. The bartender answered it.

“That is Greta’s call,” Cattoretti whispered, watching.

The bartender listened for a moment, then lowered the receiver and glanced around the crowd.

“
Gipsy
è qui
?” he shouted. “Gypsy?”

Elaine leaned forward, watching all the people. Nobody seemed to react.

“Gypsy!” the bartender shouted louder.

“Maybe she—” Elaine began, but then noticed the crowd parting near the bar to allow someone through.

“There she is,” Cattoretti whispered.

A tall, slim figure moved through the crowd. The young lady was only visible from behind, a thick mane of curly hair that came down to the small of her back. She was wearing a skintight pair of black leather jeans and a white sweater.

When she reached the bar and picked up the phone, Elaine glimpsed long fingernails that were painted with black or very dark blue polish. She listened for a moment, and then said a word or two and handed the phone back to the bartender.

The girl disappeared into the crowd again, now heading for the front door.

“Let’s go,” Cattoretti said, already on his feet.

* * *

They went outside and started following Gypsy down the street. She was walking purposefully along, her hips swinging haughtily. Elaine was now gripped by a strange curiosity, again wondering what Lassiter found so irresistible about her that would drive him to take such huge risks, to destroy other people’s lives.

As she approached an alley, a big black sedan turned right in front of her, cutting off her path.

Cattoretti moved quickly, pushing Gypsy into the back seat. “Get in the front,” he told Elaine.

“My name is Giorgio Cattoretti,” Elaine heard him say from the back seat, as the car pulled away. “I apologize for snatching you off the street like this.”

“Where is Gene?” a soft, German-accented voice said, almost a whisper. She sounded frightened. “I don’t understand—what is happening?”

“Do not be alarmed,” Cattoretti said reassuringly. “We will not hurt you. Gene is fine. You will see him very soon, I promise.”

Elaine couldn’t resist turning around to look.