Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (15 page)

About what, I wondered. “My  lips are zipped,” I said. “You want me to drive?”

She handed me the keys. I stood there, unable to move. “Tell me about Billy Bob,” I said. I did and did not want to know. “How big?”

“A big Yank, like you said.”

“I said that?” I opened the door for her.

“He said you tell him I like big Yanks.”

It was true. “Yeah, but that was just, you know, to get him interested.”

“This was not enough?” She ripped open her fur to reveal her splendid dancer’s body and, with an elegant sweep of her hand, laid out her wares. “You had to pimp?”

She looked hard at me, challenging. I shifted my gaze to the sidewalk. She slid into her seat, took a look at my face and burst out laughing.

I slammed the door and took a deep breath, worked my way around the Shark and slumped in behind the wheel. “Wipe that smirk off your face,” I said. “I’ve been calling you for days. You never answer. I was worried.”

“And I was busy.” She wriggled out of her fur and bundled it up and tossed it over her shoulder. “Worry is not productive. Worry not, write more.”

She leaned forward and sent a long, slim finger to the radio. We listened to the news while I made my way across the city to the highway heading north. Just past the prison a few miles up the road she punched the radio off and said, “So. You like to hear my report?”

“Only if you promise to leave out the good parts.”

A smile danced over her lips. “I promise.”

“Shoot.” 

“He is like Nicky. Same type,” she said.

“Nicky?”

“My husband. Ex.”

“Right. I knew that.” A groan rose up from the dark inside me. I didn’t like Billy Bob in the first place, and now she was telling me he was like her old man. A slick, handsome lawyer from Naples, Nicola “Nicky” Napolitano had moved out but was still a big part of her life. She still found him very attractive.

“I like your Tex. He is interesting man.”

A yawn crept up and pried open my jaw. “Tell me about him.”

Big yellow arrows and cones on the road funneled traffic into a single lane, slowing us down for the story. Billy Bob liked whisky, dancing and sex, she said, and was full of stories about the good old days growing up on a ranch in west Texas. He’d broken wild horses and could sing like a train, rumbling and rhythmic, buckets of sad old country songs. From the ranch he ran off to college in Austin, got a law degree and a job with a company run out of Dallas. From there he’d made his way to London, Amsterdam and Lugano.

The single lane opened up again and a black BMW roared up behind us, headlights flashing, its driver a dick-brained king of the road. I flipped him the bird in the rear view mirror and drifted over slowly, slowly into the right lane. I’d been living in Italy long enough to know what drove them crazy.

“That’s it?” I said. “That’s all you know?”

“Of course not.” A slow smile. “But you tell me leave out good parts.”

“That’s right.” I had to work to keep the mask in place, deadpan indifference to her praise of Big Yank. “You think he knows we’ve got the briefcase? Has he asked you about it?”

“I give him same story—he have too much drink and lose it.”

“Did he tell you what’s in it?

“No but I have good idea.” It was Anastasia’s turn to yawn. She retrieved her coat from the seat behind her, made a pillow and curled herself up into a furry ball. “He thinks is worth a lot.”

“What is? What’s worth a lot, Stazz?”

“We find out when you open.” She yawned again and closed her eyes. A couple minutes later she said, “Nicky tell me one thing, good for story. He know people, ask questions.”

“About Billy Bob?”

“No. Nicky ask about Ali Baba.”

I felt my hands grip the wheel and squeeze. “I’m listening.”

“Real name is Arturo Bellomo.”

“Right. Great. What about him?”

“Ka-ching! Ka-ching!”

I threw her a sidelong glance. “Cash register?”

“Russian slot machine. Three bears in row.”

“Terrific. What did I win?”

Turned out Nicky’s anonymous friends considered Bellomo above reproach. He played no favorites and did not care where the cash came from, asked very few questions and answered none.

“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“Nicky says good policy.”  

“Maybe. It didn’t save Gigi.”

“Because your friend Goldoni was not very smart.”

I saw no reason to insult the dead. “Why do you say that?”

“Blackmail Bellomo. You think smart?” 

“Blackmail?”

“When you dig up Arturo Bellomo secrets, tell him price of your silence.”

“Is that what he did? Says who?”

“Billy Bob think is possible. I think so also, no? Secrets kill.”

“Sometimes,” I said. “If you don’t keep them.” Anastasia had a point. Secrets had killed her sister in Moscow. A journalist, she’d had the guts to publish the names of untouchables and been shot in the street outside her home. But Russia was Russia. This was Switzerland. It couldn’t happen here. 

“Secrets are locked in the briefcase now. Who own the secrets?”

“Stazz, honey. I’m tired. Stop playing games and tell me what you know.”

“Guess.”

“OK. The secrets belong to Ali Baba, alias Arturo Bellomo.”

“Wrong.”

“Gigi Goldoni.”

“Dead.”

“Billy Bob?”

She shook her head and flashed a smile, dazzling and white.

“I give up.”

“Anastasia Stepanovna Napolitano.”

I fell silent. Anastasia had made her point. Whoever had the briefcase had all the good cards and could choose where to play them and when.

I shot a look sideways, caught her in profile. She was staring through the windshield into the snow. Her blank, white features betrayed no emotion. In a fleeting vision I saw Anastasia and Arturo Bellomo, squared off against each other across a green table. Faces blank, hands dead calm, no tells to give the game away.

Over the border and into Switzerland, tracking back to Bellomo and his crack about the brakes and the fire at the lake and the fire in the night that destroyed my car. Maybe Billy was right. Anastasia and I were in over our heads.

“You remember I told you about Marco Romano?”

“Journalist, friend of your wife—“

“Right. Years ago, just before he died, Marco published an article on the banks in Lugano. He talked about lawyers and accountants and the mules that carry cash up from Italy. He mentioned a man he called Ali Baba—“

“Real name Arturo Bellomo?”

“Correct. And last night Bellomo warned me. He said the brakes on Italian cars don’t work.”

“Means what?”

“That Bellomo thought Marco was dangerous, that somehow he got to my Alfa Romeo, fooled with the brakes so they failed and—“

Anastasia was shaking her head. “He must think you are stupid.”

On the left was the long, narrow arm of a lake and snow on the mountains sloping down to the shore. “Why?”

“Think, Pescatore. If target was journalist, how they know he will be in your car?”

I gave it some thought. Marco and Eva had come up from Milan by train that evening. On the spur of the moment I’d told Eva to take the car, and it was Eva offered Marco a ride to the casino. So. “Good point.”

“And if true they fool with brakes—“

“Then it wasn’t an accident.”

“Yes but that is no point. Car belong to who? To Marco? No. Your car. They fool your brakes, so target not Marco—is you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Ostrich, Pescatore. Head in dark place.”

“Thanks.”

“So what is conclusion, Mr Pescatore?”

“You play poker, Stazz?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know what a bluff is.”

She answered with a perfect poker face.

“That’s right. Bellomo was bluffing. He had nothing to do with it.”

“Correct. And so?”

“Nothing to worry about. Two can play that game.”

“Is not game, Peter. Three bodies.”

“Three?”

She held up three fingers and counted them off. “Your wife. Her friend. Mister Goldoni.”

I nosed the Shark toward the exit and took us down a long, sloping curve into the city. Anastasia gave me directions from there. We took the lakefront road north to the center of town, turned away from the shore and nosed through narrow streets to a garage. From there she led the way down a cobbled street to a pair of steel towers thrusting up into the winter sky. A huge plate glass portal framed in white marble formed an arch between the towers. Gray lettering on glass said we’d arrived at the
Banca del Gran San Bernardo
.

I laid a hand on her arm. “Sarge works here.”

“Sarge?”

“Sergio Ungaretti. Gigi Goldoni’s accountant, once upon a time.”

“I know who is Sergio Ungaretti.”

“Are we here to see Sarge?”

She shook her head, impatient. “Safe box.”

“You have a safe deposit box?”

“Nicky.” She paused. “Husband. Ex.”

“I knew that.”

The glass doors slid back to admit us. An armed guard stood watching, wary. Clerks in black suits, white shirts and black ties zipped through the atrium like robots on rails. From shadowy silhouettes behind smoked glass partitions rose mumbled talk of markets, portfolios, rates of exchange. I felt like shouting. Anastasia spoke to a silver-haired gentleman who led us away over slick marble tiles to a sealed glass cage that sank to a cavern three floors below.

At the end of a long cool corridor we entered a silent, windowless room. Tube steel and black leather chairs around a dark wooden table with a black speaker phone. Prints in pale wooden frames on the walls—Picasso wrestling with the Minotaur, Friends of Cezanne playing cards in a bar. Anastasia slipped out of her Siberian fur, dropped it in my arms and went away with the gentleman with silver hair.

Ten minutes later she returned with the briefcase and set it on the table in front of me.

“OK, cowboy. Do your thing.”

My heart sank. She was talking like Billy Bob.          

I reached into my jacket pocket. Earrings. Camera. Cell phone. I chose the phone and pulled it out.

Mario’s instructions were easy to follow. I hit a few keys, watched my fingerprint appear on the screen, tapped another key and zapped the print to the briefcase. From the case came beeps and whirring sounds. I pressed the tip of my forefinger to the little glass screen beneath the handle. A green light beside it began to blink. My heart jumped into my mouth.

I waited, tense.

Nothing. No sound. No lights. The green light stopped blinking and went out. Nothing more.

My fingers found the brass snaps, pushed them sideways, up, down. Nothing. I ran my hands along the seams, searching for a pressure point that would pop it open. I was sweating. Nothing. I tried again. Again nothing.

“Bellomo is right.” Anastasia pulled on her fur, lowered herself to a chair and was quiet for a moment. She raised her blue eyes and looked into mine. “You are not so smart.”

“Hey, it’s a gift.” I pushed myself to my feet, grabbed the briefcase and strode to the door. “Let’s go.”

Anastasia shook her head. I caught her gaze and felt the cold slice through me, turned away and retraced my steps down the hall to the door. A tin voice told me to key in my code. I had no code. I walked back to the room, stuck my head in the door. Anastasia was gone. I spun around, turned a corner and bumped into another door. Locked.

Sweat. Not enough air.  I called out. “Stazz?”

The silver-haired gentleman appeared, Anastasia at his side, and escorted us back to the private room. I set the briefcase on the table.

“I need this, Stazz. I’m seeing Arturo Bellomo tonight. If I show up without it I’m dead.”

She narrowed her eyes and said, “Wise man plan ahead.”

“Come on, baby. I gave it a shot, it didn’t work, that’s all.”

She shook her head. A slim hand fell to the briefcase. “Billy give to Gigi, Billy can open. I will find secret.”

“The case came from Billy? Says who?”

“Research, Mr Pescatore.”

“Field work, I take it.” I pictured the two of them, groaned and shook it off again.

“What is problem?”

“Never mind. Come on, Stazz. I need to take this with me now.”

She slipped a hand around the grip, took two steps to the wall and began to examine the Minotaur.

“On second thought, sweetheart, why don’t you hang onto it. I can manage on my own.”

I didn’t get an answer. I stuck my head out the door and whistled. Silver-hair appeared and whisked me away down the long gray corridors, up from the cavern into the light. I stepped into the street. It had started to snow. 

A glance at my watch said I had a few hours before my appointment in the lion’s den. I called Sarge and said we had to talk.

“I can’t. Not now.”

“I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Renata’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared.”

“No note, nothing. And she’s taken the kids.”

“
Porca puttana
. Have you called the police?”

He barked a laugh. “
Sei scemo,
Pescatore?” Was I an idiot or what.

I hung up on him, dialed another number.

I heard a click. “Pescatore.” The soft Irish voice of Tommy O. “I’m looking at my watch, Pete.”

“Ah, Tommy, just wanted to tell you I’m running a little late.”

“Eight hours, Pete. And counting.”

“So many meetings, so little time.”

A couple of seconds passed. “I’ll be wanting to see your invitation.”

“I’ll be sure to bring it with me.”

“Do.” He hung up.

Now what. No briefcase, no Shark. So. Johnny’s friend? Joe. I found the number and called him. He told me where and when to meet him.

I made my way from the bank to the lake, bought a couple of papers and leafed through the news. The
Corriere del Ticino
had a brief note on Luigi Goldoni, entrepreneur extraordinaire. The autopsy report had confirmed that Goldoni had died of his own hand. A funeral was set for San Lorenzo, a local church, and Mr Goldoni would be buried in Lugano.

I rang Johnny. I told him the phone trick hadn’t worked and that Anastasia had the briefcase locked up in a vault.

“So what now?”

“Dinner tonight, with Bellomo and his right-hand man.”

“What, you going in, no briefcase?”

“I have no choice.”

“You sure? You want me to call Stazz?”

“It won’t do any good. Anyhow, you said it was a no-brainer.”

“Right,” said Johnny. “You go in without the briefcase, you got no brains.” He sounded worried.

“Relax, old man. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“You could end up dead. Like Gigi.”

He had a point. “Or Eva.” An image of Anastasia counting fingers came up. One. Two. Three. Me.

“Exactly. Forget it, Pete. It’s not worth it.”

I thought about it, flipped a mental coin. It came up heads. “Listen, Johnny, Bellomo’s bluffing. I’m going in.” 

Johnny said nothing more so I told him the autopsy report was official and said the funeral was set for the following day. He knew that already and read me a piece he’d worked up for the paper:
Goldoni case closed. Swiss police have confirmed that nothing has been found to suggest foul play. Although there is undoubtedly more to the story than CNI has been able to dig up, the poor man is dead and it’s time to let him rest in peace.

“Sounds good,” I said. “When do you go live?”

“I’ll make sure it gets up on the site tonight.”

“Great. I’ll look for it.”

“What about the funeral? Can you make it?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You’re not writing for
CNI
, that’s why. There’s no reason for you to be there.”

“Gigi was a friend, Johnny. I’m there to pay my respects, tip my hat and move on. I won’t be the only one. Half Switzerland’s rushing him into the ground, the other half’s already forgotten him.”

“Rome will be sad to see the story go,” said Johnny. “Everybody loves the Vatican Lodge.”

“Too bad it’s bullshit. But if I can get the real story it’ll blow Lugano out of the water.”

“And you with it.”

“Thanks.” I sent a hand south to feel for my balls, an Italian tradition that kept bad luck at bay. “The good news is, if it all goes sideways you won’t have to pay me.”

Johnny coughed and muttered something I didn’t quite catch. A taxi rolled up to a stop beside me. I leaned down and peered in the window. “Giovanni?”

Slim, muscled, tattoos all over and a ring in his nose. And bald. “Call me Joe.”

I nodded and spoke to the phone. “Gotta run, boss. Your buddy Joe’s here. Wish me luck.”

“Luck. And call me later.”

I hung up and climbed into the taxi, gave Joe the address in Paradiso. I stared at the back of his head for a while, at a black and blue eagle spreading its wings. I decided to find out what he was good for. “What do you hear about the fire last night?”

“The one in Morcote?”

“Yeah. The B&B.”

“Arson,” he said. “No doubt about it.”

“How do you know?”

He was quiet for a moment, waiting for the lights to change. “I’m going to tell you something.” He rolled a slow, heavy glance in my direction and pulled away from the lights. “I know someone who sells insurance.”

I waited to hear if there was more. Nothing, so I said, “Fire insurance.”

“You know?” He looked worried.

“I’m guessing.” I pulled out my notebook and scribbled a few lines. “A new policy, bought and paid for in the last few days.” I waited while Joe wheeled around a corner. “Name on the policy is Sergio Ungaretti. Right?”

He rolled another glance at me and shook his head. “The wife.”   

“Renata? You think she set the fire herself? Or the husband?”

Joe shrugged.

“They can’t be that crazy,” I said. “You think they paid somebody?”

“Maybe.” He didn’t  believe it. “Sometimes people don’t need to be asked.”

“What do you mean?”

“Silent favors. Happens all the time.”

“Even in Switzerland?”

“We’re bankers. Do somebody a favor, they’re in your debt. Until they pay you back.”

We were almost there. I had him take me around a corner and told him to stop. He drifted to the curb. I reached for my wallet.

“It’s OK, Johnny pays,” he said. “Call me if you need a ride to the funeral.”

“Sure thing. See you.” I shut the door and turned away, then pulled up short. Maybe Joe could help. I whirled back around to the taxi and climbed in. His face wore a question in the rear-view mirror. “Fresh flowers and a bottle of wine,” I said. “Chilled.”