Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (22 page)

“Shoot.” Anastasia sat back and stared at him, her eyes hard and cold.

“Rome called me this morning.”

I sat back and folded my arms. “And?”

“We’ve got an investor coming in this afternoon.” He puffed for a moment. “Wants to buy a piece of
CNI
.”

I took a moment to absorb the news, let it sink in through the holes in my head.

Anastasia jammed her hands to her knees and said, “How big this piece?”

“Big,” said Johnny.

I stared at him. “Controlling interest?”

“Don't know yet. Could be.”

Anastasia was up on her feet. Not a happy camper.

“I’m on a plane for Rome,” said Johnny. He checked his watch. “Couple hours.”

“And just what is your position, Johnny?” I felt the anger rising from my gut. “Because I just about got myself killed for this story.”

“I understand.”

“What—what do you understand, Johnny? Nobody gives you a dime for years, and suddenly they’re crawling out of the woodwork, throwing money at
CNI
? Why now?”

“Let's not get paranoid, Pete.”

“Oh, that's rich.” I was heating up, sweating. “Coming from you.”

“Not paranoia.” Anastasia slammed a hand on the table. “Correct analysis by Peter Pescatore.” There was fire in her eyes.

“Six months ago,” I said, “Stazz bought a piece of the business. In cash.”

Johnny studied the floor.

“She bought it from you, Johnny, not from Rome. They bring in somebody else, she’s screwed. We all are.”

“Maybe.” He got up and began to pace, trailing smoke to the door. “But we’re dead in a month without fresh money.”

“I’ll work for free,” I said.

“Get serious,” said Johnny. “You already do.”

Anastasia raked her fingers through her hair. “Who is investor?”

Johnny shrugged. “Some Arab.”

“Porca puttana
.” I spat a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“He doesn’t care what we publish. Wants to help grow the business.”

“Fairy tale,” said Anastasia. “You know.”

“So? I like fairy tales.” Johnny pushed out the door and rolled away. From down the hall he called over his shoulder. “Work up the story and call me in Rome. We can push the button when I get back tonight.”

Anastasia was on her feet, wrapping herself in Siberian furs. “I need air.” She stalked out, leaving me alone with the dog.

I spent the rest of the morning working through the printouts from the memory card. Johnny was right. We could start with the names. High-profile dodgers, tax thieves and con men from all over the country. I put a call in to Sarge in Lugano, let him whine about life and his wife for a while and then read off the numbers. He confirmed they were accounts at the BGSB. Then I gave him the names and amounts in each account.

He couldn't verify the names, he said. That was privileged information, he had no access.

Sure.

“But I can tell you this. The amounts are all wrong,” said Sarge. “There's practically nothing in the current accounts. No more than ten thousand. ”

“Right. Let me get this straight. Take the fashion guy. Gigi has him on the books for two hundred million. You tell me he's only got ten thousand in the bank?”

“Correct.”

“So where's the rest?”

“It's parked, Pete. The rest is parked.”

“Where?”

“Good question.”

“That's all you got for me, Sarge? I’m looking for answers.”

“I can't say more.”

“Why not?”

“Sorry, Pete. I just can't.”

“Won't.”

“Can't. It's part of the agreement.”

“What agreement?”

“You'll find out soon enough.” He hung up.

Great. Another deal in the works.

Anastasia was back at noon with a couple of sandwiches and beer. She'd been out for a walk and a think, she said. “We publish the names. All of them.”

“I can't verify them.”

“Not necessary. We publish documents from briefcase of dead money man. If documents not good, why he is dead?”

She had a point. “Johnny won't like it.”

She made a show of looking around. “I don’t see Johnny. You see Johnny?” She was back in action, moving fast. She handed me the list. “I need short paragraph. Introduction. You say
here are names in possession of dead Goldoni. All have secret accounts in Switzerland. Money from Italy. Millions and millions, no tax paid
.”

“But we don't know that. We don't know where it's from.”

“If clean, why hide in secret account?” 

“Good point,” I said. “So what's the angle?”

“Tax robbers steal from people of Italy, hide loot in Swiss banks.”

“Good for a paragraph at most.”

“Is all I need. I prepare list of names, how much in accounts.”

I could feel a smile spreading over my face. “Good. And we could show a few photos of the stuff that's parked.”

“Park?” She looked puzzled.

“Ferraris, hand-made mechanical watches, mansions in Paris, London, Manhattan. Stuff you can swap in return for clean cash.”

“Good. We publish for
CNI
Online
. See what happen.”

“I told you what happened. I just about drowned.”

“I know, but what is worry now? Police take them away, no?”

I sighed. “Ali Baba's disappeared. That's all I know.”

“So what is problem?”

“You don't want to call Johnny?”

“No.” Her eyes were burning, alive with fire and fight. No way to stop her.

“OK,” I said. “So we kick the hornet's nest with the names. Then what?”

“I put up story with names from Italy. You write about laundry, money-washing machine. How it work. Money come from Italy, where money go? Hospitals, roads, schools?”

“That’s the last place it goes.”

“Exactly.” A dry smile. “Money buy private villa, private guards, private bank,  private clinic. Nothing for people of Italy.”

“You’re a commie, Stazz. A bloody Bolshevik.”

“Comrade Pescatore. Welcome to revolution.” And suddenly she cracked and was laughing, cackling, tears in her eyes.

It was catching. Everything was hilarious. It went on forever. I went off to the kitchen and came back with a couple of paper towels. She took one, wiped her eyes and blew her nose and was quiet again.

“Sorry, is stress.”

“Quite all right, Comrade.”

She went back to her desk. I pulled out a chair, sat down and wrote up everything I knew about Gigi Goldoni and his Magic Laundry.

Gigi Goldoni. For years he runs a low-profile op, peddling shares in high tech start-ups. In the dot-com rush the shares all rise and the suckers with money to burn come running. He takes one of the start-ups to an IPO and wakes up with his face all over the news. Gigi Goldoni, billionaire.

Couple years later the market crashes, the dot-coms tank, Gigi Goldoni’s left holding the bag. He hangs on for a while, hitting up everyone he knows for cash. Even Eva. Her friend Marco works up a feature, threatens to blow the lid on some secret Masonic money-laundering racket up over the border in Lugano. Gigi agrees to an interview, but before he can talk, Marco dies and Eva with him. Gigi fires me but he’s hemorrhaging cash. He plays the casinos on the lake for a while but ends up deeper in debt than ever, over his head and sinking fast.

Old friend Ali Baba shows up one day, says Listen, Gigi, here's the deal. I'll send you a customer every once in a while. You take his money, no questions asked. You work with my man and the BGSB and you run the deposit through the pinball machine. Bounce it around from one bank to the next, through London and Paris to the Virgin Islands, Vanuatu, the Caymans, London again, round and round and back to Lugano.     

And then what?

You buy assets. You park them. You wait. And then you sell them.

Gigi wants to know what’s in it for him.

You’re back in business, says Baba, no more debt. And you get a percentage on every deal.

No brainer, says Gigi. When do we start?

Anastasia walked in and dropped a stack of pages on the desk.

“Parking lot.”

I picked them up. Photographs. A Ferrari
testarossa
, a pair of Lamborghinis, a vintage Bentley. I flipped through the rest. Lakefront villas and garden estates, properties in Paris, London, Milan. And art. Marilyn, Mao, bloody red Lenin. Rauschenberg, the moody Rothkos, and Roy
Bang! Bang!
Lichtenstein.

I whistled. “Perfect.”

“What?” Anastasia pulled out a chair and sat down beside me. “What is perfect?"

“It all fits. The parking lot is part of the process, the wash cycle.”

“Write up story to explain.” No smile. Nothing. “Write fast, we push button tonight.”

“What about Johnny?” I searched her eyes.

She tilted her head, put a sweet little smile on her face and said, “Cats away, mice play.”

I turned back to the keyboard.

Sarge had confirmed there wasn't much cash in the name accounts, nowhere near the numbers on Gigi’s charts. The difference had to be in the parking lot—in assets he’d purchased with laundered cash: collectible cars, yachts, art. And real estate all over the world. Finally, at the back end of the cycle, the assets were sold and the cash returned to the customer, minus a fee for services rendered.

The data was all from one account, the one Marco Romano had called “
AB”
.   

Things were falling into place. The makings of a deal. Gigi gives him a look at the docs, says
This is what I know. What’s it worth to you, Baba?

About six that evening a call came in from Heidi Kirsch. Anastasia picked up and passed her through to me. I was still on the phone when she strolled into the hack room, picked up my pages and began to read. I wrapped up the call and sat down beside her.

“AB is who?”

“Arturo Bellomo. Antonio Bonasera. Ali Baba.”

“Ali Baba.” A smile now. “We use that.”

I picked out a couple of the photographs—Warhol’s Mao and the red Ferrari—to add a little splash to my side of the story. Then she handed me hers. She had gone through the names in Gigi’s files and picked out the ones everybody knew—a handful of big-name politicos, a couple of lawyers and a Milanese real estate mogul. The headline:
They Took the Money and Ran.
She had photos of a Roman soccer star, an ex cabinet minister, an opera diva past her prime.

“Nice,” I said, took a deep breath and looked up at Anastasia.

“Are you ready, Mr Pescatore?”

“When you are.”

“Out of my way.”

I stood up. She took my place at the computer, hit a few a keys and said, “Three. Two. One.”

“Ignition.”

She hit the key. Gone.

“Now the wash machine, Peter.”

“Go ahead.”

“No. You write, you publish.”

“I don't know how.”

“Bolshie help you.”

She got up. I sat down. She told me what keys to hit and in what order. I tapped them out.

“Three, two, one.” I hit the last key.

Anastasia clapped her hands and called out “Boom!”

Ten minutes later we got a call from Rome. Anastasia came running, hauled me to her office and punched up the call on the speaker phone. A voice, angry, crackled in the air. “Take them down, Stazz. Take the stories down now.”

“Too late,” she said. 

“
Porca miseria
. Where's Pescatore?”

“Right here, boss.” I bent closer to the phone. “What can I do for you?”

“Get that crap off the site. You’ll get us all killed.”

“I can't. Don't know how.”

“Figure it out.”

“Sorry, Johnny. No can do.”

“Not good enough, Pescatore—”

Anastasia sent a long arm to the phone and punched him into silence.

“Congratulations.” I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Can I buy you a drink?”

A soft smile. “You have date already, no?”

I studied her smile. It was a wonderful thing.

“Miss Heidi,” she said. “German?”

“Swiss, I think.”

“Be careful. She is a doctor, good with knife.”

Place around the corner, a block or so east of where Johnny lived. Upscale, quiet, white linen on the tables and a long black bar. I sat there with a glass of
prosecco
, checking my watch every once in a while.

Some time after nine she walked in. Had to be her, no mistake. I slid off the bar stool, weak in the knees. The head waiter hustled up. She peeled off her gloves and let him take her coat.

“Mr Pescatore?” She extended a hand. I took it and we traded smiles. I asked if she’d had a good trip down, if she'd driven or taken the train to Milan.

“I drove,” she said. “I like to drive.”

“Me, too.”

“And what do you drive?”

I had to think. “Long story,” I said. “You like pizza?”

“No.”

The conversation went downhill from there and didn't pick up until we'd polished off half a bottle of wine. I couldn’t take my eyes off her—her hands, her eyes, the way her face lit up when she talked about her work. She used scanners, cameras and computers, she said, to put dead bodies up on screen, then stripped away the surface, layer by layer, until she found what she was looking for and sometimes something she wasn’t.

“Cutting edge technology,” I said.

Her laugh delivered a rush of pleasure. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. “So what did you find?”

A flicker in her eyes. “Did you not get my envelope?”

“I did,” I said. “And your note, thanks, but there was nothing about water on the lungs in the report.”

“No.” A slow smile.

“So, Dr. Kirsch. Are you telling me Mr Goldoni drowned?”

“No, no. The cause of death was the gunshot wound.”

I reached for the wine, filled my glass and sat staring into it, running all the stories through my head. I took another sip. “Any chance he was shot at some other location and the body moved to his home?” 

She brushed a slim hand through her hair, shook her head, adjusted her glasses. “The crime scene people did a blood spatter scan. Walls, floor, furniture.”

“Right. I’ve been meaning to ask about that.”
Sure you have, Pescatore.
“And?”

“Mr Goldoni was shot in his kitchen.”

“Ah.” I sat back, nodding, like I’d expected it. “One more question, Doctor. The head shot—is it possible someone else pulled the trigger? Someone other than Mr Goldoni?”

“There’s no way to tell.”

What? I tensed up. “I thought you could tell from the gunpowder, or whatever.”

She was shaking her head. “You watch too much television, Mr Pescatore. Miss Witherspoon was close to the victim when the gun was fired, but the residue can tell us nothing more.”

It took me a moment to get it. “Gunshot residue on her clothes?”

“Face, arms.”

“You’re well informed.” I was starting to feel stupid.

“Of course,” she said. “It is my job.”

Residue. What else had Joe forgotten to tell me? “What about fingerprints on the gun?”

“Inconclusive. Too many.”

“So we still don’t know if it was suicide or murder?”

“Not on the basis of the autopsy. The findings are compatible with both.” She was looking at me in a funny way. Curious. “Any other questions? You can ask me anything, you know.”

I took a moment to think about that. There was something else in there, something more than professional courtesy. An offer of some kind.

“So… water in the lungs. Tell me about it.”

Dr. Heidi Kirsch took a deep breath, aimed her gray-green eyes at mine—over the top of her glasses—and said, “The official autopsy was performed the old way, by Dr. Cassano, from the hospital in Italy.”

“The one in Varese.”

She nodded. “He’s not familiar with the new technology, but Dr. Cassano is a competent pathologist. It is unthinkable that he could have overlooked the presence of water in Mr Goldoni's lungs.”

“You mean he found it?”

“Of course he did. As had I.”

It had been a long day. “I don’t get it.”

“The body was delivered to our lab on Friday. Dr. Cassano arrived from Varese on Sunday. That left me all Saturday to work. I ran several scans and took many photographs of the body. I also took blood and tissue samples.”

“Why?”

“It's my job, Mr Pescatore.” She took a deep breath. “I was hired to implement the new methods.”

“Fine. So why call in Cassano for another autopsy? Why do two?”

“We don’t see many murders in this part of Switzerland. When it happens, we call in the Italians. Don’t ask me why.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“It is perhaps because the new methods are not yet accepted by the courts. Not entirely. We must still use the knives.”

“Got it.” I downed the rest of my wine. “So who signed the report?”

“Dr. Cassano. That is the point.”

Fog on the brain. It wasn’t the wine. “Say that again?”

“As you said yourself, his report makes no mention of water in the lungs.”

“Right.” There was nothing about water in what I’d read. “Why not?"

Her eyes. Somewhere on the border between blue and green. There was a smile in there now. She’d been waiting for the question.

“I have no answer.” She dipped a hand into her purse, rummaged and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. “I have been thinking, Mr Pescatore. You are a journalist. You live in Italy. You understand the country.”

“Up to a point.”

“I do not believe it was a mistake. Dr. Cassano did not forget what he found.”

I let that sink in. “Maybe he was in a hurry to go home.”

She considered the possibilities. “Dr. Cassano is not a careless man. He is very precise. His reports are always very detailed.” She peeled the cellophane from the pack.

“So, no mistake?”

She had a cigarette on her lip. “No. It was not a mistake.”

“You can’t smoke in here.”

“I’m aware of that. I thought perhaps we could go for a walk.”

I sat back and looked at her. Another smile strayed from her eyes to her lips. She took off her glasses and put them away. My brain ground to a halt. 

I waved the waiter over and asked for the check. He gave a little bow, snatched the bottle and carried it away. All that was left was a glass of water. I stared at it. “What kind of water?”

She looked up. “Excuse me?”

“Let’s say you find a body in the sea, but the water in the lungs isn’t salty?”

“It’s not—”

“Or you fish it from a lake, and the water in the lungs doesn’t come from the lake—”

“I understand the question.” She stowed the cigarette behind an ear and looked into my eyes. “It’s not so simple.”

No kidding. I forced myself to concentrate. “So what did you find? With Mr Goldoni. The water in his lungs.”

“Neither one. Not salty, not fresh.”

“Which means what? He died where?”

“In his kitchen. He was shot. That’s what killed him.”

“Sorry. Let me put that another way. You found water in the lungs. Where is the water from?”

“I have no idea.” She frowned. “It had a high chlorine content.”

“Swimming pool?"

“It’s possible.” Her eyes narrowed. “The water had a high sulfur content as well.”

It took a moment to register. Then I knew, without doubt, what they’d done to him. I sat back, sickened, flagged the waiter and ordered a whisky. A double.

“Something to drink, Miss Kirsch?”

“My name is Heidi.” Another slow smile. “Cognac, thank you.”

The waiter nodded and faded away.

“So, Heidi. Mr Goldoni didn't drown.”

“Correct, Mr Pescatore.”

I lowered a hand to hers. She didn’t flinch. Cool hand under mine. “Call me Pete.”

“All right.” She held my gaze. “Pete.”

“Mr Goldoni shot himself in the head?”

“I would assume so. I see no reason to believe otherwise.” She withdrew her hand as the waiter returned.

“And before he did that,” I said, “we don’t know how, but he almost drowned. Is that saying too much?”

She reached for the cognac, swirled it, drew the aroma into her brain, smiled and took a sip. “You could say that,” she said. “You are guessing, but it’s a reasonable guess.”

“Good. One more thing.”

“Yes.”

“Mr Goldoni spent some time, in the hours before he died, at the Prince Albert hotel in Lugano. High-end spa, bungalows, golf. You familiar with the place?”

“I know the name.” She extracted a phone from her purse and tapped in a note. “I will see what I can do.”

“Terrific.” I stood up. “I’m very sorry, Miss Kirsch, we’ll have to take a walk another time. I’m on deadline.”

She reached for the cognac, drank it down. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

I drained the whisky and stood, took her arm and chaperoned the young lady to the door. “Would you like me to call a taxi?”

She pulled on her gloves and wrapped herself up against the cold. “I have my own car.”

“That’s right. You drove.”

“I like to drive.”

“So we’ll have to go for a drive sometime.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “Soon?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Where are you staying?”

A smile. “I’m not,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

“Is that a promise?”

“No.” Her face grew dark, her eyes narrow. “It’s a threat.”

I laughed, and liked her for that, for making me laugh. “Thanks for the help, Heidi. See you tomorrow.”

She plucked the cigarette from behind her ear, lit it, turned and walked away.

Midnight had me back in the office, writing up the double-autopsy story. The Swiss method was high-tech, sexy, three-dimensional. Once you got the body up on screen you could flip it every which way, slice and dice it, peel away the layers down to the bone. The Italian, Cassano, was a man of the past. He’d used the traditional tools of the trade to cut Gigi open, take him apart and stitch him up again at the seams. It made no difference in the end. The result was the same: water in the lungs and a fatal head shot.

I tried to picture what happened, saw Cassano drive up to the lab in Locarno on a Sunday afternoon.
He finds the body laid out for him, performs the autopsy and writes his report, forgetting to mention the water in the lungs. Or maybe it’s an oversight—he’s tired, and it’s only one line. It’s there in his draft but somehow he deletes it.

Not much of a story. Unless—

I turned to the screen and the stories Anastasia had posted on
Crime News Italy Online
. The big names from Gigi’s list were up there, the politicians and celebrities. They would all fire back, no doubt, set loose their dogs to howl and sue, run us out of business by the end of the day.

Nothing new there.

I got up and walked down the hall, dug through the papers in Anastasia’s office, sat and worked my way down the list of names. I knew some from the talk and reality shows, from the movies and the gossip rags. There was a judge or two, and lawyers, of course, and bankers and comedians and a low-rent purveyor of miracle cures. And near the bottom of the page at the end of the list—
Cassano, Dr. Massimo
. I ran a finger along the row and found a street address in Varese.

A rush of adrenalin. Dr. Cassano had a name account at the
Banca del Gran San Bernardo
? How much in the account? I tracked my finger to the end of the row. Five thousand francs. Not much. Not enough to risk your career. I picked up the phone and called Sarge. No answer, so I left a message.

A sigh lifted my chest and let it fall. That would do it. That was the hook, I could hang the whole story on the missing words.
In the end it doesn’t matter what you say. What matters is what you leave out. Water in the lungs, for example.

High sulfur content. The stench of rotten eggs, reeking, leaking from my pores. I stood up and trudged out and down the hall to Johnny’s office, stretched out on the old leather sofa and closed my eyes. And there she was. I felt a smile spread over my face.
Hello, Heidi
.

The whippoorwill called me back to earth. I rolled off the sofa onto the floor, scrambled to my feet and picked up.

“Pete.”

“Hey, Sarge. You’re up late.”

“Nerves. Can’t sleep.” He was silent for a moment. “Listen, that account you were asking about? Cassano?”

“Yeah.”

“You hit the jackpot. Fresh deposit, couple days after Gigi died. Fifty thousand Swiss francs.”

“You’re kidding. Fifty thousand?” Not bad for a typo. One sentence gone missing. Accidental deletion. “Thanks, Sarge. I owe you. The phone and all the other night. Saved my life.”

“I’ll count on you to remember that. In case anybody asks.”