He coughed and shook his head. I was trying his patience. “Goldoni couldn’t pay what he owed, so they killed him. Just like they killed Calvi.”
“Right. Dead men always pay their debts. Makes a whole lot of sense.”
“More than you’ll ever know.” He slapped his hands on the table, pushed himself back and stood up. “I need a smoke,” he said, and walked out.
I carried the trays to the garbage and followed him outside. Red yapped and wagged himself silly. I gathered he was happy to see me. I loosed the leash from the tree, stood and turned back to Johnny. “I still don’t see where Calvi comes in.”
He dug out a pack of matches and lit up a toscano. “You haven’t been listening.” A cough tore through his lungs. “Calvi was a Mason. A card-carrying member of the secret P2 lodge. Member number one six two four.”
“Which proves?”
“Goldoni was too, Pete.”
“A Mason? Since when?”
“He should never have screwed with them.”
“Them?”
“The Vatican. The Mafia. The Masons.”
“Don’t forget the Secret Service.”
“Of course.” He nodded, oblivious. “Your friends, the CIA.”
“My friends.” I felt the anger rise and explode. “Porca puttana. You go chasing conspiracies, you’re immune to reason. You go blind to the facts.”
Red started yapping, agitated by the noise. I gave him some slack and let him sniff up a tree while I hissed at Johnny. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? Babble on about conspiracies. That way you don’t have to deal with the truth. Facts, Johnny. It’s the facts that are dangerous.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Am I. So do me a favor. Enlighten me.”
Johnny sucked in smoke and held it, his face a mask of pleasure. For Johnny, smoking was better than sex. He blew it out slowly, enjoying the moment. Finally he said, “Conspiracies sell newspapers.”
Enough, already. “Come on, dog. Time to go.” I yanked the leash and walked off, whirled and went back to him. “The CIA didn’t kill Eva, Johnny. The Masons didn’t kill my wife. It was an accident. That’s all it was.”
“Are you sure?”
“Bastardo.” I could feel the heat rising and roasting my face. “But it’s all the same to you, isn’t it? Calvi, Eva, Marco, Gigi—you don’t know what happened, but who cares? The Masons did it.”
“Follow the money, Pete. See where it takes you.”
“I’m trying.”
“Good. Let’s go for a walk.” Johnny threw an arm around my shoulder and steered us into the Parco Sempione. The air was colder in the park and I began to calm down. But there were too many things going on at once. Red jerked at the leash and yipped at the birds while I ran Johnny through the briefcase story and told him what the problem was.
“I’ll speak to Anastasia tomorrow,” he said. “For the lock on the briefcase you can talk to Mario. He’s out at San Siro this afternoon, but he should be back right after the game. Meantime you can write up the story.”
“Swiss Masons in Vatican Murder Plot?”
“Just get me the facts, Pete. I can handle the headline.”
I picked up the dog and stepped into the elevator after Johnny. He punched a button and we rode the beautiful black machine up the shaft to CNI.
“What about the web site,” I said. “I need something for Stazz.”
Johnny let us in. “She paying you?”
“Are you kidding?” I set Red on the floor. “Sit,” I said. He sniffed at my shoes and wandered off.
“So relax,” said Johnny. “Throw her something on the lab in Locarno.”
I tried to picture the place. “Like what, atmosphere? A mood piece? Marble slab, hacksaw, cadavers in the icebox?”
Johnny smiled. I tracked down Red and dragged him down the hall to the hack room and looped the leash around a chair. A couple other writers were bent over computers, tapping out rewrites of yesterday’s news. I waved hello and sat down.
Twelve
The hack room. Stale cigar smoke, sweat, newsprint. Shelves crammed with books on all the walls. Magazines rising in jagged stacks from steel gray file cabinets. I opened a blank screen and began typing the words that showed up in my head. That took me nowhere. I got up and took a long look out the window over the road and the wall to the barracks. Every once in a while a couple of Carabinieri opened the gates and rode out on their horses, heading for the park just up the road. With the windows open on a summer day you could hear them clopping along the pavement.
Summer. A memory rose to the surface and popped. Sicily. Swimming in the sea with Eva. Gigi had a villa in Sicily. Did they go there together? I saw them again, leaning into each other, his hand on her arm, whispering in her ear. I tore myself away from the scene and slumped back down in front of the computer.
The pathology lab in Locarno had a web site the color of flesh and innards. I found a page that talked about autopsies. Bodies due for an autopsy were to be delivered by an undertaker. No mention of the Italian connection, nothing about Varese. Maybe the Swiss resented the suggestion they couldn’t handle it themselves. I put in a call to a friend who taught at a med school in Milan, a man named Bruno Vittadini.
The Swiss were perfectly capable, he said. Had I heard about digital autopsies? No, I said, so he told me about some place in Zurich that used 3D photographs, CAT and MRI scans in place of scalpels, rib-cutters and vibrating saws. It made for a lot less blood, he said, and the results were spectacular.
“So you figure they go digital for Gigi?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “I know the doc who goes up there from Varese. Old school, hates high tech.”
“So it’s slice and dice?”
“I expect so, Pete. You want me to find out? I know someone up at the lab in Locarno.”
“That would be cool.”
He promised to call me and hung up.
I typed some more words but they took me in circles so I dragged the dog out from under the table and let him loose. He nosed around, peed on a bookcase and loped off down the hall to where Anastasia had her desk and files. I went to look for a mop and came back with a roll of paper towels, cleaned up after Red and chased him around the office for a while. Johnny stuck his head out the door and yelled, so I tackled the pup and tied him up again.
Back at the screen it didn’t take long to find the place in Zurich. The web site had plenty of explanations and a photo of a mannequin wired up and ready to slide through a scanner. That gave me a headline—TOO SOON, TOO LATE. Then I typed up a graf with the usual slant. It’s a weekend in Switzerland, but the victim’s body is under the knife and results are expected by Sunday night. Which raises the question: what’s the rush? The answer is all too obvious. If the autopsy verdict is “suicide” we can expect a funeral within a few days. The case will be closed and the evidence tossed in the grave with the body—too soon for the truth, too late for justice for Gigi Goldoni.
I printed it out and carried it down the hall to Johnny. The door was closed, but I could hear him hammering on the old Olivetti. I knocked, opened up and stepped into the haze.
Johnny snatched the sheet from my hand, read it and said, “Terrible headline. Makes no sense at all.”
“Headlines are your job.”
Johnny heaved a theatrical sigh. “Send it to Stazz. She’ll think of something.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Go do something useful and get me the good stuff. Get me the Masons.”
“Right.” I shut the door and traipsed back down the hall to the hack room. I dropped to a crouch and gave Red a good scratch behind the ears, sent the draft to Anastasia and sat down to go through my notes again. I read for a while and fell asleep.
Red woke me with a yelp and scrambled to his feet, yanking at the leash still looped to my chair. Mario bounded in the door wearing a black and blue striped scarf and a grin that would never grow old. FC Inter had whipped cross-to
wn rivals AC Milan. “My man, Mario.” I stood, yawned and held up a flat hand. He slapped it and dropped to a crouch beside Red.
“Tell me we killed them.”
“We killed them,” he said and his grin broke open and he gave me the playback, reliving the shuddering chills and thrills with slow, shivering pleasure. I made him run through the goals a few times until finally it seemed like he’d had enough, then pitched him the favor.
“There’s this briefcase, it’s locked. I can’t get it open.“
“Yeah, my dad told me. Can I see it?”
“Not right now.”
“OK.” Mario finally got Red to lie down again and took a seat at the computer. “Can you describe it?”
“Black. Looks like a regular briefcase.” I gave him the dimensions, more or less, and said it was heavy.
“How heavy? Like, gold bricks?”
I flicked at look at his face and shook my head. “No, just solid, well-made. There’s a little glass plate right under the handle, size of a postage stamp, more or less.”
His fingers flew and the screen in front of him filled with pictures of briefcases. “Does it look like any of these?”
None of them fit the bill, not exactly, but there was one with a glass plate set in the surface beside the handle. “Sort of like this one,” I said. I jabbed a finger at the photo on the screen.
“Biometrics.” Mario smiled. “How much do you know?”
“Less than zero.”
“OK. You’ve got a scanner and software. The scanner takes a photograph and the software makes a map. Fingerprints, iris, maybe your hand. They use it for security systems. Spy stuff, banks, prisons.”
“It’s just a briefcase, Mario. We’re not talking Alcatraz.”
Mario seemed puzzled, so I tried again. “It’s not like we’re trying to break out of jail.”
He gave me a sigh and a put-upon look of infinite patience. “You want to break into a briefcase, correct?”
I thought about it. “You could put it that way.”
“Same as a prison or a bank. It’s all software.” A faint smile. “Logic, dude.” He explained how it worked. The software made a map of the finger scan, encrypted the map and copied it to the memory chip sealed in the briefcase. “The briefcase belonged to the dead guy, right? So it’s likely to be his print on the chip.”
“Good thinking.”
“And there’s no way to get a fresh print from his fingers?”
“He’s dead, Mario.” But I thought about it. The kid was smart. I could see where he was going. “Which makes it difficult.”
“But not impossible.” He fingers flew over the keyboard again. “What’s in the briefcase?”
“I don’t know, Mario. I have to open it first.”
“Without blowing yourself up.” A smile.
“Good point.”
The smile spread to his eyes. He was enjoying himself. Mario Buttafuoco, fifteen year old detective.
A cough drifted in from down the hall. Closer.
“You’re a smart kid, Mario,” I said. “You must take after your mother.”
“I heard that.” A hacking laugh and a cough at my back. “Go on, Mario. We’re listening.”
The kid looked up at his father, grinned, looked back at me and said, “You could run it through a scanner like they have at the airport. You got one?”
I flicked a look at his face again. Nothing, but I had the feeling he was rattling my chain. I shook my head.
“Right. So you have to crack the code and re-program the lock.”
“Great.” I stood up. “Easiest thing in the world.” I gave him a big smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a genius, Mario.”
“No, no,” he said, the smile lighting up his face again. “It’s not that simple.”
“What’s the problem?” Johnny pulled up a chair and lowered himself into it.
Mario explained that he could scan my finger and map the print but that the map would then have to be zapped to the case.
Johnny frowned. “How?”
“Bluetooth,” said Mario. “It’s like Wi-Fi. Radio waves.”
“Ah. So—” I was quiet for a moment while I worked it out. “So Mr Bluetooth zaps the map to the case and replaces Goldoni’s fingerprint with mine. Is that it?”
“You got it.” Mario grinned and raised an open palm. I slapped it and did a little dance around the table. Then he said, “Can I see your phone?”
“Sure thing.” I handed it over.
He laughed, shook his head, punched a few buttons. “Vintage,” he said. “Antique.” He played with it some more. “But looks like it has Bluetooth.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” I said. “I guess.”
Johnny sucked on his cigar, exhaled and said, “Sounds like a long shot.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Should work,” said Mario, handing me the phone. “If you’re lucky.”
“Terrific,” I said. “All we need is the software, right?”
Mario aimed a slow look up at his dad. “It’s expensive,” he said. “Unless—”
Johnny frowned. “Don’t ask.”
Mario said nothing.
“Come on, Johnny,” I said. “Get with the program. Information wants to be free.”
He was having none of it. “I cannot allow a child of mine to engage in criminal behavior.”
Mario rolled his eyes for me. Johnny stood up, shaking his head. “I don’t want to know.”
“OK,” I said. “It’s my responsibility. And if it ever comes up, this conversation never took place.”
Mario laughed. Johnny looked at his shoes and muttered, “Just this one time.”
“Great.” I clapped a hand on Mario’s shoulder. “Call me when you need me.” I marched out.
“Pete.” Johnny’s voice stopped me at the door. I turned. He pointed a fat finger at Red. “Your responsibility.”
“Forgot,” I said. I stepped back into the room. Mario handed me the leash. I waved, spun and led the dog down the hall.
Johnny rumbled along behind, called and caught up with us at the front door. “The Masons, Pete. When do I see a draft?”
I bent and picked up the dog, shifted my weight and held him under one arm. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you, boss.”
Johnny struck a match, lit up and said, “Shoot.”
“Why are you so obsessed with deadlines?”
I watched his face, laughed and left him there sputtering obscenities and trundled down the stairs with the dog.
Thirteen
The Number 1 tram was running late and it took me an hour to get the dog home. I set him on the doormat and rang the bell. He yipped and whimpered and wagged his butt. A chain rattled and the door creaked open.
“Peter?”
“Buona sera, signora,” I said. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Oh, my darling,” she said. She didn’t mean me. She lifted Red from the mat into her arms, planted a big wet kiss on his nose and sighed, “I’ve missed you, my sweet.” She rocked him and damn near squeezed him to death. “Please, Peter, come in.”
I took her up on it and shut the door behind me. I followed her down the hall to the kitchen and found her setting out water and dog food. “Are you hungry?”
I eyed Red’s dish on the counter. “Uhh ...”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll make pasta.”
“Terrific,” I said.
“Why don’t you open a bottle of wine?” She nodded at a rack jammed up against a wall. I chose a Marzemino from a winery I liked, rummaged in the drawers until I found a corkscrew and rounded up a couple of glasses. I poured and told her Red was a very fine hound.
“You’re welcome to walk him, whenever you like,” she said. “He seems so happy to be with you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We get along.”
“Good.” She got water going in a pot on the stove, set a paring knife and a fistful of garlic on the table and settled in
to a chair.
I raised my glass. “To Red,” I said.
“To Red.”
The wine wasn’t bad. It needed some air. I set the glass down and said, “How was your day?”
A slow, sad smile washed over her face. “I spoke to Marco.”
“Mmn.” Marco had been dead for more than four years, but he and his mother still spoke to each other, once in a blue moon or so. The signal was strong on his birthday, she’d said, but certain factors could interfere. Stress. Static on the airwaves. Unspecified events beyond the pale. But I’d been thinking about him, about Marco and Eva and the night they died. Together. “And what did he say?”
“He wants you to look at his files.”
A rush of adrenaline. “Files?”
Marco Romano. He’d had his fifteen minutes of fame when a piece he wrote made a lot of noise. It was all about Swiss bank accounts in the years just after World War II. Some had been opened before the war by people the bank hadn’t heard from since, missing persons whose last known place of residence had been a concentration camp. The accounts were dormant. When a relative showed up to claim the deposits, the bank asked to see a death certificate.
Marco made it personal. He’d gone to a bank in Basel one day to inquire about the money his grandfather had left there in 1934. The answer was delivered with polite regret: If you can’t prove he’s dead, my dear boy, how can we possibly provide information? We are bound by Swiss law to secrecy. I myself would be thrown in jail if I told you anything at all. And just think what would happen if your grandfather returned and asked what we’d done with his money? What would we say to him? ‘So sorry, we gave it away?’ Please understand, we act in your best interests, too.
Johnny splashed the story all over the paper and the foreign press picked it up from there. The Swiss played it down but the papers in Israel jumped all over it and the next day it made the New York Times.
Fifteen minutes goes by fast. Or maybe somebody got to him, said it was time he took a vacation. He disappeared for a while. When he showed up again he was writing under another name for a paper all the Milanese bankers read. He took up forensic accounting at night and got to the point he could do to the books what pathologists did to cadavers. He’d slice them open, take them apart, examine the entrails and write a report: in lucid prose he spelled out where the cash had gone and where to look for what was left.
Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Page 10