Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) (7 page)

“Easy.
Risotto
.”

“I need something a little more challenging.”

“It’s not good for much else.” He poured another splash of
grappa
into my cup, shrugged and turned away to wash and dry the glasses.

I sat there sipping and reading my notes, waiting for the story to write itself. An hour or so later I gave up and walked out.

Sarge’s office was just down the street. I found the name on a metal plate screwed into the brick wall beside the door, leaned on ‘Ungaretti’ and got no answer. After a while it came to me. Sarge didn’t work there anymore. He worked at a bank.

I called his new number. He was still tied up and asked if I could wait in the bar.

Which is where she found me.

Julia was born in the north of England, somewhere up near the border with Scotland. She’d trained as a nurse in Newcastle, gone south to London and run off to Switzerland in her early twenties. Walked in off the street one day, said hello to Gigi and never left.

I met her the day I showed up to work at the Villa Sofia. She gave me the keys to the Alfa Romeo, introduced the investment guys and set me up with an office and a coffee mug. She was blonde, slim and fluttery as a bird. She sat at her desk just outside Gigi’s office, chirping on the phone and chatting with all who came her way.

Now she tore off a scarf as she pushed in the door, nodded when I waved and trudged up to the bar. She was dressed in black, her skin pale, her green eyes darker than I’d remembered. No make-up, no attempt to hide the wreckage.

“Julia.” I gave her a hug.

“Sarge told me I’d find you here.”

“I was hoping you’d call.”

“I did, Pete.”

I dug out my phone. Two missed calls. “Sorry. Deaf to the world, I guess.”

“Come on, I’m starving.” She offered a sad smile. “I’ll fix something to eat and we’ll talk.”

“Deal. Got a question for you.

”Later.”

I followed her outside and took her arm as she led the way to a spinach-colored Mini that had seen better days. I sat back and listened to the engine while she drove. Smooth, quiet, calming.

After a while I said, “Where’s home, Jules? I’ve forgotten.”

“Paradiso.”

“Not bad. Nice view?”

“Yes.” She wheeled around a corner. “You must have been round.”

A memory rose to the surface and rolled over. I was standing on a balcony, a drink in my hand, looking through a clutch of tall pines to the lake and the gray-green mountains in the distance. Eva was over in the corner with Gigi, close to him. Too close. His hand on her arm, whispering something in her ear.

“Can’t recall just now. I’ll know when I see it.” I dropped the memory back in the lake and watched it sink into the dark. “Can I ask you something?”

She wasn’t listening. “I’m sure you were there. I remember. It was Gigi’s birthday, Eva came with you.”

“Did she.” The memory rose to the surface again. I looked away.

Julia waited. I said nothing more. She was still with Gigi. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I keep hearing his voice.”

“He was always a motor-mouth, why stop now?”

“For God’s sake, Pete. Gigi’s dead. It’s a not a joke.” Jules snatched her purse. “There’s a packet of ciggies in there. Light one for me, would you?”

I took the bag, dug out the cigarettes and a lighter, lit up and held it out for her.

“Forgive me. It’s just... I don’t know what I’ll do without him.” She reached for the cigarette and placed it on her lip. After a while she crushed the butt in the ashtray, slammed it shut and said, “You can ask me that question now.”

“You sure?”

“The police have been round, I’ve had a chance to rehearse the answers.”

I felt a soft laugh erupt from my throat. “Let’s hear them.”

“It’s true, we were lovers. We were due to have dinner together that night. I stayed late at the office, then drove to his place. He didn’t answer when I rang at the door, so I let myself in, and ... “ She faltered and fell silent.

“Gigi’s place?”

She let a moment pass. “His. Ours. Gigi bought it, of course, but I was there every night.” She turned sharply into a street heading up the hill. “It’s not far from here. I used to walk, in summer.”

“So you let yourself in. Where was he?”

“Where I found him, is that what you mean? In the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Seems like a strange place—“

“For what—murder?” She mimed a request for another cigarette. “Or do you really think he killed himself?”

“No idea. But that’s the word. Newspapers, cops. I guess everybody’s waiting on the autopsy.”

“Of course, but you knew him, Pete. Would Gigi take his own life?”

I thought about it. “Doesn’t seem like the type, I’ll give you that.” I lit another cigarette and handed it to her. “But what if he did? Can you think of a reason?”

“No.”

“Have you talked to Aida?”

Julia flinched and hissed around the cigarette, “I never speak to her. Nor she to me.” She shifted down and slid around a corner. “I don’t blame her. In her shoes I’d hate me as well. But she’s gone, Pete. She lives alone, in a world all her own. Gigi put her in a clinic in St. Moritz.”

“But she knows? About you, I mean.”

“Gigi said he told her years ago.”

“How did she take it?”

“Badly, I assume.”

“Gigi didn’t say?”

“No. But what could she have done?”

I shrugged. “Leave? File for divorce?”

Julia shook her head and stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. “She’s Italian, Pete. They never let go.”

“So, what? Shoot him?”

“Is that what you think?” A thin smile creased her face. “Do you think Aida shot him?” A hard edge in her voice.

“I’m just asking.”

“Anyone can pull a trigger.”

“It helps to have a reason.” I tried to picture Aida with a gun. Nothing. I couldn’t even remember what she looked like. And Julia?

She threw me a dark look, like she’d read my mind. The car slowed out and drifted to a stop out front of a row of condos thirty yards back from the road. She killed the engine and rolled down the window, blew a long breath of smoke out into the cold.

I left her to her thoughts for a minute or so and then coughed and said, “How about a drink?”

A faint smile appeared. “Yes of course. Sorry.”

We climbed out. I followed her down a concrete walk to a set of glass doors framed in concrete and steel.

She let herself in. “You’re writing something, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. She pushed a button for the elevator.

“It’s what I do.”

The doors opened up. I followed her in. A mirror caught my attention as we rode up in silence. Looking good, Pescatore. Like a tall Al Pacino, a slim Marlon Brando, a youthful De Niro. Right. Lose your gut and ten or twelve years, call yourself a movie star.

“I write about food and wine,” I said.

“I thought someone said watches. Gigi, I think.”

“Correct, “ I said. “Watches, too.” I shot my cuff and showed her a vintage chronograph. “Nice, eh?” It was a fake. I couldn’t afford the real thing. “Patek Philippe.”

A shrug was all I got. The elevator door opened and I followed her down the hall.

“Why are you here, Pete?”

“I heard about Gigi. Couldn’t believe it.”

I took a breath, lowered my eyes and gazed at the floor as I remembered.

It was all about Julia, one of those long, bitter, drunken battles that went on forever into the night. Eva and I, yelling at each other.
Don’t lie to me, Pete. You’re screwing Julia.
But I wasn’t. Nobody fooled with Gigi’s girl, not even Billy Bob. But Eva didn’t care. She thought it was funny.
Julia?
Come on, Pete. You can do better
. She covered her mouth with one hand and laughed.
And you, Eva? Who are you screwing?
 

“Hello? It’s me, Pete—Julia.” She stopped and let a hand fall gently to my arm. “Remember?”

I snapped back into the present, a dim hallway and a dark wood door. “Of course. Sorry, Jules.”

“Come in. I’ll get us something to drink.”

I followed her in and along the hall to the living room. glass panels made a wall with a view through tall pines out over the city to the lake gone dark and the blackness beyond. 

She came back with a tray and a bottle of Sauvignon. I opened it, poured and raised my glass, “May he rest in peace.”

Julia took a sip, turned and settled on the sofa. I sat down beside her. The story spilled easily from her lips.

“We had a date for champagne and a candle-light dinner. He was a wonderful cook, and he wanted to celebrate our future.” A tremor in her voice. “Our love, and our future together.”

“Just the two of you?”

She nodded. “He was happy, Pete. The deal was done, so I was happy, too."

“The deal?”

“Hang on.” She reached for her glass, took a sip, and pushed on. “He left the villa early that night. I stayed on to finish up.”

“What was there to finish?”

“Plans.” A smile flickered and was gone.

“Tell me about them?”

She was quiet, trying to work out what to say me, or maybe how. “It was peculiar. For all the high tech, he could barely type and wrote everything out by hand. I offered to put it on the computer, but he didn’t want that. It was too sensitive, he said. So there was only one copy.”

“One copy of what?”

“The documentation.”

I dug out a pen and my notebook.

She went on. “Names, mostly.”

“What sort of names? Who?” I scribbled a note.

“Even if I told you, they wouldn’t mean anything. They were all cover names. No one knew the real names.”

“Except Gigi, I take it.” I bent over my notebook. “And you.”

“No, not me.” She reached again for her glass and looked away. “Gigi was the only one who knew.”

“Where are they now?”

“I have no idea.” She stubbed out the cigarette. “In the briefcase, I expect. Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

“What briefcase is that?”

“Please, Pete. I’m not bright, but I’m not entirely stupid, either.” A sad smile. ”It’s a long story. Shall I make us something to eat? ”

“Sure.”

She pushed herself to her feet. “I hope you like chicken, I have nothing else.”

She led the way to a tiny kitchen. Dark wood panels, gas burners, an oven set in the wall beside a built-in fridge. “I’m sorry, there’s not much room. If you sit right there I’ll give you something to do.”    

I slid onto a bench behind a table pushed back in the corner. “Tell me about the briefcase, Jules.” 

From the fridge she retrieved a lumpy packet wrapped in plastic and thumped it down in front of me. “Gigi was the only one who could open it.”

“There was only one key?”

She was shaking her head. “There was no key at all. It had a fancy lock, some sort of scanner.”

“Right.” The little glass pane beneath the handle. A fingerprint scanner. One of the start-ups in Gigi’s stable had specialized in biometric security. Fingerprint scans and voice recognition. “Where did he get it?”

A drawer beneath the sink slid open. She found what she wanted and handed it to me. Aluminum, thick blades curving in a sinister smile. Poultry shears.

“Someone gave it to him.” She paused and handed them to me, avoiding my gaze. “He never said who it was.”

I tore open the bag and peeled back the paper. Pink and white flesh. Pale red crest, beak half open, dead eyes staring. Feet, no feathers. I picked up the shears. “Nasty looking piece of equipment.”

A sigh, impatient. “Just cut it up, Pete.”

“Right.” I turned the thing over a couple of times. “Where do I start?”

“Please. Just take it apart. Do you want a knife?” She was peeling and chopping onions on a board. “There’s one in the drawer.”

I shook my head.

“Start at the joints.”

I set to work. I took the head first and placed the neck on the notch in the lower blade. Two handed grip.
Crunch. Snip
. The head was off.  

“Where was it, Jules?”
Crunch
. Left foot gone. Right foot to follow. “Where did Gigi keep the briefcase?”
Crunch.

“In the safe, up on the roof at the Villa Sofia.”

“So it’s true.”

“What?”

“There’s a safe up there?”

“Please, Pete.” She gave me a hard stare from the stove. The onions were browning in a frying pan. “The briefcase is missing. Someone’s taken it.”

I wondered who her sources were. Had she seen Billy Bob? Or was someone else taking an interest? “I hear Billy Bob had it. And then he lost it.”

“Billy Bob?” She was shaking her head. “Why would Billy Bob have it?”

“So maybe someone else took it.”

She threw another dark look my way. I ignored it.

“We know the docs are worth something to someone,” I said. I stretched the legs, snipped and separated drumsticks from thighs.

“I should think so.” She lifted her eyes and looked straight into mine.

I held her gaze. “Tell me something I don't know.”

“It isn’t much.”

I had to stand up to split the chest. I clipped it through, scooped out the guts, shuffled to the sink and dumped them in the garbage pail beneath it.