Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (16 page)

“No problem.” He pulled away.

“Listen, Joe. I got a couple more questions.”

A half hour later we were back at the curb with the flowers and the wine. He’d made a call and located the establishment where Gigi would be boxed and made up for the funeral. It wasn’t far from Julia’s place.

I pressed a fifty franc note into Joe’s hand, handed him the camera and sent him on his way. A birdcall startled me. I recognized it, the swooping whistle of a whippoorwill. I patted myself down, found the phone and checked the screen. A Swiss number. I picked up.

“Mister Pescatore?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Heidi Kirsch. I’ve been trying to reach you for some time now.”

“Yes, yes.” Yes! A voice, low and musical. “I understand you called my office.”

“Several times. May I ask where you are?”

“Uhh.” I had to think about it. “Lugano.”

“Oh.” Disappointment in her voice. “A pity. I am in Milan.” But what a voice.

“That is too bad.”
Damn
. “What can do I for you?”

“We need to talk.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll call you when I’m free.” The line went dead.

“Hey,” said Julia. “Look at you.” She reached up and gave me a kiss, took the flowers and the wine. “My, my. What are we celebrating?”

“Depends,” I said, pulling off my coat. “On the story you tell me.”

“I can’t wait,” she said. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

I wandered into the living room, found the couch and sank back into the cushions.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear, but I was tired of the lies. Everybody figured they could lie to me.

Sarge. He’d supplied the gun that Gigi used to shoot himself, or that somebody used to do it for him. He knew nothing about what happened that night? Sure, Sarge. I believe you. 

Billy Bob. He’d lied through his teeth from the day I found him at the Villa Sofia, had no idea what happened to Gigi or why anyone might have wanted him dead. The briefcase was his and had nothing to do with Gigi’s death. Right.

Arturo Bellomo.
Il Bugiardo
was the wine that greased the wheels. In Ali Baba’s world everybody lied, no exceptions, not even me.

And now Julia. She was looking good, curled up in the armchair across from me. She had the wine sitting in a bucket of ice and the flowers in a vase on the coffee table. We’d been sitting there talking for a while, shooting the breeze about the good old days and waiting for someone to make the first move. I reached for the bottle, wiped it dry, worked the cork up and popped it. I poured and proposed a toast.

“To Gigi,” I said, raising my glass.

She flashed a brave smile, lifted her glass and drank. I gave her a refill and she drained it again and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. I reached and took the hand, stood and pulled her to her feet, slipped an arm around her waist, leaned down and kissed her. She kissed back, opened up so fast I had to figure she’d been planning all along to tell me a bedtime story.

Sex with Jules. I’d thought about it, years before, maybe even wanted it, wondered what she was like in bed, what Gigi saw in her. And here she was, falling into my arms. We climbed into bed and made all the right moves and pretty soon we were all warmed up and racing, breathing hard and pounding down the track. She moaned and groaned every once in a while, but it wasn’t me she was riding. She had her legs locked around a memory, driving him to the finish line.

We landed hard. It took me a while to catch my breath.

She rolled away and said, “Mind if I smoke?”

“Be my guest.”

“Be a dear and get them for me. They’re in my bag.”

I threw back the sheets and padded off down the hall, found her purse on a chair and dug out the cigarettes. I slipped my hand back in for the lighter, got it. No. What was it. I walked to the window, looking for light from the stars and the moon. In my hand was a tape in a clear plastic case, an inch by maybe an inch and a half. Hmn. I popped it in the pack of cigarettes, retrieved the lighter and padded back to the bedroom.

“Did you find them?”

I tapped out a cigarette, placed it on her lip and lit it.  

“So, Jules.” I set the cigarette pack on the night table and climbed back into bed. “Question for you.”

“Mmn.”

“Eva.” She’d been dead for years, but I had to ask. “Did she. You know, she and Gigi. Did they have something going?”

“Are you sure you want to talk about this?” She took a long drag.

I swallowed. “Yes.”

“All right.” She rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows and let her eyes graze over my face. “I do know Gigi had a soft spot for Eva. But even if he slept with her, it didn’t mean anything. Gigi always came back to me. Always, and forever. To
me
.”

“Right,” I said. “So it’s true? Is that what you’re saying?”

She smoked, thinking. “It’s possible, Pete, but I don’t really know. With Eva it was different. She had money. Her family had money. You always said that.”

“He had a hard-on for money? That’s all it was?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m sure he found her delightful. Everyone loved Eva.”

“You’re not making things any better, Jules.”

“I’m sorry. You asked.”

“Forget it,” I said. Money. Still a sore point, even now. She’d left me the apartment but that was it. The rest had gone to the cats, a half-way house for ratty strays. Enough. “So, you want to tell me what happened?”

“If I must.”

I lit her another cigarette, walked her slowly through the story again. We took it step by step, from the time she locked up the office that night and drove from the Villa to Gigi’s place. From when she opened up and let herself in to preparing dinner and the long, long wait and on to the yelling and the shot she’d heard and the little yellow bricks that she found on his body.

“Before that, before the shot. You told me you heard another man’s voice. Not Gigi.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know the voice?”

“Of course. There was no mistaking it. Irish.”

“Tommy?” I sat up.

She nodded, grim, reached for the cigarettes. I got there first, shook one out. “Is that what you told the police?”

“No, no. I didn’t give them his name.” She turned her eyes on me, frightened, shaking her head. “Tommy’s a terrible, terrible man.”

“Hmn.” I flicked the lighter, cupped the flame in my hand.

“He shot Gigi, Pete.” She took the flame and drew in a long breath of smoke. “Or he made Gigi do it.”

“Why do you say that?”             

She kept herself busy with the cigarette for a while. “You remember I told you about the gun, that it was in his right hand when I found him.”

“So you said.”

“Gigi was left-handed. If the gun was in his right hand, it wasn’t a mistake. It was a message. He was telling me who did it.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Tommy is Bellomo’s right-hand man.”

“Ahh.” Interesting. A message from beyond the pale. Gigi to Earth:
Tommy O forced me to kill myself
. I watched the smoke leaking through her teeth. I shook my head.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you believe me?”

“I’m having a hard time seeing it.”

I reached for my watch on the bedside table. Time enough to run through it again.

Thursday night. The last night of his life. Julia was there at Gigi’s place, waiting with dinner, champagne on ice, candles flickering. He was late. She called him three or four times on the phone, got no answer. Worried sick, she was fretting in the bedroom when she heard Gigi’s voice, yelling, arguing with another man. She flipped off the lights. Gigi let himself in the front door. He was furious, exhausted, desperate, terrified. Gigi called out to her, but she was too scared to speak. The argument went on, louder, angrier, hysterical. Gigi kept saying he didn’t have it. He would get it. He needed time. She heard a shot. Terrified, she crawled under the bed. The man—Tommy O—came looking, turned on the lights, rummaged through the drawers. It seemed like ages before he left. When Tommy O was gone she ran to the kitchen and found Gigi there, slumped on the floor up against the wall, little yellow bricks scattered over his body. She fainted. Sometime later—she didn’t know when or how long she’d been out—she woke, covered in blood, and called the police. When they arrived she told them all she knew.

“Is that right?”

“Close enough.” Julia blew a long plume, took another drag and let the smoke leak from her nostrils.

“Tell me something else,” I said.

“If I can.” 

“You’re saying he died because of the briefcase, or whatever was in it. What’s it worth?”

“To whom?”

“I don’t know. Tommy?”

“Enough to kill for.”

Right. “So maybe names, account numbers. Anything else?”

“Photographs.”

“Good.” Progress. “Photographs of what?”

“The parking lot.”

“Don’t mess with me, Jules.”

“I’m not. That’s what they called it.” She snuffed the cigarette. “Automobiles, Pete. Vintage Ferraris, Daimlers. A Rolls Royce or two, a Jaguar.”

“Where are they?”

“I have no idea. Gigi wrote out a list and put it in the briefcase. There’s one for the property as well.”

“What sort of property?” I lit her another cigarette and handed it to her.

A shrug. “Villas on the lakes in Italy, fancy flats in London, Paris, New York—”

“Hang on—“ I stopped her. The parking lot could wait. “Gigi told me about the briefcase, Jules. He wanted me to have it. He wanted me to publish everything—the lists, the names, the photographs—whatever it was. He thought it would protect him, Jules, but it didn’t and I need to know why.”

“Is there something I can do?”

I laid it out for her. I said his body had arrived at the funeral home and she could visit him there, ask to see him in private, pay her respects.

A shudder broke over her. “I don’t want to see him. I couldn’t bear it.”

I got up and made my way to the kitchen, rummaged in the drawers until I found what I wanted. Poultry shears. I snagged them and carried them back down the hall, tossed them on the bed and told her what I wanted.

The blood drained from her face, her mouth dropped open and snapped shut. “I can’t do that, Pete. You can’t ask me to do that.”

“I just did.”

She moaned, retched, rolled out of bed and rushed to the bathroom. I followed her and held her head while she threw up everything she had.

While she cleaned herself up I pulled on my clothes, snatched the pack of cigarettes and slipped it in a pocket. Then I called Joe and said I needed a ride.

“Where are you going?” Julia handed me a glass of whisky. She’d showered and wrapped herself in a robe.

“To see somebody.” I took a quick sip and handed it back. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck.”

She walked me to the door. “I can’t do it, Pete. I just can’t.”

“Up to you, Jules. Help me out, maybe I can help you.”

Something in her eyes, out of place. The trace of a smile.

“I’ll call you,” I said. “If I don’t, call the office.” I scribbled the number for
CNI
on a card and pressed it into her hand. “Ask for Anastasia. She’ll tell you where to find me.”

I turned and walked out and down the hall. As the door shut softly behind me I slipped a hand in my pocket. Phone. Earrings. Pack of cigarettes.

A taxi stood waiting at the curb. I climbed into the back seat.

“Evening, Mr. Pescatore.” Tattoo Joe flicked me a nod in the rearview mirror. “You all right?”

“Sure,” I said. The pack of cigarettes in my hand. “The Prince Albert? I’m late.”

“Certainly.” He pulled away from the curb, stepped on the gas and sped through the streets, cutting people off and drawing honks and hard stares and the odd bird or two. I let my hand with the cigarettes fall to the seat and stuffed the pack deep in the crack at the base of the backrest, sat back and closed my eyes.

A few minutes later we rolled up to the hotel. “The funeral’s set for tomorrow at ten,” said Joe. “Call me if you need a ride.”

No sign of Tommy O or his boss. I climbed up on a bar stool, nerves gnawing ragged holes in my gut. The barman nodded and gave me a glass of fizzy white that came with a dish of salted cashews. I nibbled on a few, then finished them off, drained the wine and ordered another. I was staring at the liqueurs, bitters and whiskies, looking for something to stop me from shaking when Tommy O showed up in the mirror. He’d moved in like a cat, silent and licking his whiskers. A pink hand settled on my shoulder. I took a look at it. The man chewed his nails.

“Good evening, Mr Pescatore.”

A shiver shook me. “Evening, Tommy. How are you?” I slid off the bar stool and shook his hand.

“I’m well.” I could feel him scanning the scene for the briefcase. He tossed a quick little dip of the head to somebody over my shoulder, flicked his off-kilter gaze back to me and said, “Forget something, did we?”

“Not at all. It’s in a safe place.”

“Safe from what, Pete? Don’t you trust us?”

“I want to, Tommy, but we’re not quite there yet. I haven’t signed on the dotted line.”

Tommy O ordered champagne for himself, raised it and said, “You will.”

I reached for the cashew tray. Empty. The barkeep slid a refill over the counter and followed up with another glass of
prosecco
. “Moving up in the world, am I?”

“Sideways,” said Tommy O. “Into something of a parallel universe.”

“Tell me more.”

“It’s a bit like falling through the looking glass.”

“I can imagine.”

“No.” He was certain. “No, I don’t think you can.” He lifted a hand and ran it over his pate, smoothing the hair that was no more. His eyes went dead. “I assure you, it’s quite unlike anything you’ve ever known.”

“Is that good or bad?”

He downed the rest of his champagne and patted his lip with a napkin. “Entirely up to you, Pete.”

“I can’t wait.”

He forced a smile and let his face revert to stone. “Shall we? Mr Bellomo is expecting you.” He turned and walked off.

I watched his back for a moment, set my glass on the bar and tossed a nod to its tender. “Put that on the gentleman’s room, would you?”

The barkeep reached for a pad and scribbled.

“Thank you, and good evening.” I doffed a phantom fedora, turned away and set out after my host.

I caught up with him at the end of a long hall. We turned a corner and pulled up at a steel door set in a granite wall. Tommy O stepped up and peered into a tiny glass window beside the door. A metallic voice asked him for his name.

“O’Sullivan, Thomas.”

“And who is your friend?”

“A guest. Mr Bellomo is expecting him.”

“Pescatore, Piero.”

“Correct,” said Tommy O.

“Step back, please.”

Tommy O turned to me. “May I see your phone for a moment, Pete?”

“Why?”

He held out his hand.

I said nothing more, dug a hand in my pocket. Phone. Keys. Earrings. I came up with the phone and handed it over.

He peered at it. A slow smile blossomed in his ruddy face. “Had this for a few years, have we?”

I felt a rush of color in my face. “It works.”

“I’ll give it back to you later.” He turned it off and slipped it in a pocket.

“Hey—”

“House rules, Pete. Sorry. Let’s not keep the boss waiting.”

“As you like.” Julia said Tommy shot Gigi in the head. It was a bedtime story, but my hands were fluttering. I jammed them in my pockets. 

A low humming noise was followed by the heavy thump of bolts sliding back. The door swung open on massive steel hinges. Tommy O swept out a hand.

“Come in, come in.” The disembodied voice of Arturo Bellomo.

I walked on in.

“Good evening, Piero.” The voice floated in from somewhere offstage. “I’m delighted to see you.”

The light was low, the room silent and spooky as a candle-lit crypt. Velvet walls and spongy carpeting underfoot. I padded on in, feeling the urge to remove my shoes. A hand at my elbow led me around a corner. And there she was, a face in fuchsia framed by yellow hair. Black and blue eyes, a slow gaze made heavier with pale blue eye shadow.  Her mouth hung open with drugs or desire, a sad hunger never satisfied. A spotlight cut her from the shadows and I saw she was trapped in a gilt plaster frame. Marilyn.

I lowered my voice. “Is that the original?”

Tommy O whispered back. “Absolutely.” He stood next to me, one hand clamped around his jaw as he contemplated the masterpiece. “Produced at the factory and signed by the master, but we don’t really know how many he made.”

“Right,” I said, like I knew all about it. “The real thing.”

“Absolutely.” Tommy O’s tone was reverential. “Stunning.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Poor kid. I blew her a silent kiss and leaned in closer to my host, “What’s she worth these days?”

“She’s priceless.” Bellomo, live and in person, reached for my hand, gripped it. “But if you must know, I paid twenty-eight million.”

I took a good look at him. Gucci loafers, tailor-made suit in charcoal gray, silver hair and dark, dark eyes.

“Swiss francs?”

The eyes grew narrow and he smiled. “Dollars.”

I gave a low whistle of appreciation. “When was that?”

“Not so very long ago. A year or so before the latest collapse.”

“Ahh.” Still staring into Marilyn’s drugged eyes, “So what’s she worth now? Fifteen, twenty?”

Tommy O interrupted, excused himself and wandered off ahead of us.

Bellomo drew me closer to the painting and breathed. Heavy, sour breath. “When the markets crash, smart people move money to lasting values. I have found Warhol to be very solid, essentially a guarantee.”

“Got it,” I said. “And if you sell her, like, tomorrow?”

“We had an offer last week.” He lifted his voice. “What was it, Thomas? Thirty-five?”

“Something like that.” Tommy O appeared at my side. “One of our Arabs. Doha?”

“Terribly rich,” said Bellomo. “Spare change for the man.”

“Surely you’re not going to sell her,” I said. “How could you ever live without her?”

“Come along, Piero.” Bellomo had his hand on my arm again. “I like a man who likes Warhol.”

“Did I say I that?” I thought about it. “I like his cows.” Years before Eva had dragged me to a show in Venice where they’d papered the walls with his silk-screened cow heads in fluorescent hues. They looked terrific.

Bellomo didn’t think so. “Childish,” he said. “A rare slip of the master’s hand.”

“I think they’re great. You should get some.” He’d paid thirty million bucks for a dead movie star, why not round up some Day-Glo cows? “Perk the place up.”

Bellomo drew me on to the left. He waved a hand. Another Warhol appeared, lit from above. It was a monumental portrait of Chairman Mao, hung in another golden frame. I whistled again. “How much is this guy worth these days?”

“Less than I paid for Marilyn.”

“So, like, twenty-five?”

“I think I paid sixteen, but I couldn’t tell you what he’d bring today.”

We didn’t linger long on Mao. Bellomo led me back past lemony Marilyn, stopped and waved again. Up came Lenin, magnificent in blood red and black.

I gave him some time. “He looks kind of scary, don’t you think?”

“I rather like him,” said Bellomo. “And please don’t ask how much I paid. It's beside the point.”

I lifted a fluttering hand, swept a slow wave across the trinity. “Seems like a shrine to money to me.”

“Not to money, Piero, to power. Art is a manifestation of power. Our cathedrals are filled with art, are they not?”

“And your museum with money. Didn't Warhol paint dollar bills?”

“Indeed.” His eyes lit up. He took me by the arm and led me away. “Perhaps we can discuss this another time.”

“Sure.”

“Tell me, has Thomas showed you your quarters?”

Quarters? So the job was a live-in. “No, not yet.”

“You'll be in one of the garden bungalows.”

“Sounds great.” I turned and took a long look back at bloody red Lenin. Nothing but darkness in those eyes. Sign of the times.

“They’re very nice, the bungalows,” said Tommy O, falling in from the shadows. “Very quiet, restful.”

“Mr Pescatore will dine with me, Thomas. I’ll join him shortly.”

“Very good, sir.”

Bellomo pulled up short. Tommy O appeared at my side and led me away through the darkened rooms. Spots lit up and tossed haloes on the walls as we made our way past a blue Picasso, a
Bang! Bang!
Lichtenstein cartoon, a moody Rothko and a sculpture in bronze of a tall, skinny woman with clunky feet. “Jack, Jack—” 

“Giacometti,” said Tommy O. “No need to play the fool, Pete.”

“Boss doesn’t have a sense of humor?”

“Tell me what you find so amusing.”

“It’s just nerves, Tommy. I could use a drink.”

“Coming right up.”

I followed him through a set of double doors and on to Bellomo’s living space. The lights went up as we entered, illuminating more art on the walls. Staid Dutchmen in tights and feathered hats, sad-eyed women in velvet and lace. 

Tommy O left me with a bottle of Talisker and a glass. By the time he came back I had calmed myself down and was ready to talk. Tommy led the way to the dining room. Bellomo emerged from the shadows and we took our seats at a big, round table draped in white linen. On the wall hung a painting I’d seen before and liked a lot, one of Bacon’s screaming popes.

Tommy O went away. A white-gloved waiter appeared in his place, served up a soup and followed it with sea bass baked under salt with a crisp green salad on the side. Nice. We talked about the weather for a while and sports and where I grew up and what led me to Italy.

“My wife,” I said, and felt like I’d taken a left to the chin. “Eva.” I took a deep breath. “I met her in California and chased her back home.”

“She’s from Milan?” Bellomo sat back in his chair, satisfied.

I sucked in more air. “Eva passed away some years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.” He nodded and stuck a fork in his fish. “Forgive me.”

“She was driving an Alfa Romeo. The brakes failed.”

“As they do.”

“So you said. She and her companion ended up in the lake.”

“Como? Lugano?”

“Lugano.”

Bellomo’s eyes were as dead as the fish. “Her companion that evening, a Mr Michael Romano?”

“Marco,” I said.

“A journalist, Piero, and a thief. He’d been snooping around where he had no business, stealing private information. It was not a wise move.”

“I guess not.” I reached for my glass and drank, taking a moment to absorb the news. So Bellomo and Billy Bob were on the same page. A cough exploded in my throat and I spat wine all over my plate. I snatched a cloth table napkin, wiped myself off and took a couple more breaths. My hands were fluttering again. “Sorry.”

A tight smile cracked Bellomo’s face. He lifted a hand and let it fall on a bell. The waiter appeared, mopped up the wine and cleared the dishes from the table.

Bellomo turned to me, “Coffee?”

I nodded. He was pushing his bluff, selling the accident as a murder, a warning to bury my head in the sand.

He waited for the waiter to leave us alone, built a church with his fingers and blew through the roof. “I would like you to pay close attention to what I am about to say.”

“Shoot.” I leaned forward. “Mind if I take notes?” I reached for my notebook. No notebook. Where was it? Julia? I made a show of patting my chest and peering in under my lapels. “No pen.”

“I’m sure you can remember.”

“All right.” My hands were still trembling. I dropped them to the table and spread fingers flat on the tablecloth. Fingers. I wondered if Julia had worked up the courage to do what I’d asked.

“Thomas tells me you wish to accept my offer of employment.”

“I’m here to talk business, if that’s what you mean.”

“Excellent. You will agree, I trust, that from this moment on, nothing I say goes beyond this room.”

I stuffed a nervous laugh back down my throat. Bellomo’s face was a mask. “You will resign your position, effective immediately. You can do so by telephone. This is now yours.” He sent a mottled brown hand into a pocket and withdrew a shiny black smartphone. “Thomas has programmed the numbers you will need.”

“Fantastic. Mind if I try it?” I reached for the phone.

“Not just now, Piero.” He pushed it across the tablecloth. “Be a good man and put it away.”

I took it, stared at the screen for a moment. No signal. I slipped it in a pocket.

“For calls from the hotel you’ll find a telephone in your quarters.”

“These modern conveniences.”