No answer.
“Gigi’s wife,” I said. “The widow… locked away in a clinic, must have let her out for the funeral.”
“Where is this clinic?”
“St. Moritz. She’s been there for a while. Since before Gigi died.”
Renata stood up and walked to the window. Frosted up. Shadows closing in as the day wore down.
I lowered my voice and mumbled into the phone, “You got the briefcase, baby?”
“I am on my way.”
I told her to hurry. I was busy taking a confession of sorts. Renata, I said, was unpacking her story.
“You unpack Renata.” Anastasia let a couple of cold seconds crunch by. “I understand.” She hung up.
I set the phone on the table and reached for my drink. It got as far as my lips before I turned it around. I set it back down and raised my eyes. Renata’s face had gone dark in the failing light, darker and filled with shadows. Her eyes were black pools, mirrors of the night.
The rest of her story came slowly. Gigi was killed. She had a good idea how. They took Sarge’s gun and they shot him.
“Names, Renata. It’s time for names.”
“I don’t know their names. Sarge says they work at Bellomo’s hotel. Personal trainers. Masseurs, therapists or something. I don’t know.”
I nodded. “One’s called Freddie, the other one’s Max. You couldn’t meet two nicer guys.”
The coffee bubbled up on the stove. She poured it and sat down across from me, reached for the bottle and poured a splash of whisky into her coffee. “It’s cold up here.”
“Who else, Renata? Who was the driver? What did you see?”
“You already know.”
“I need to hear it from you.”
“Tommy O’Sullivan.”
Bingo. “And Sarge?”
She shook her head again, raised the coffee cup to her lips, sipped. “I told you. He delivered the gun to Julia and then he left.”
“To Julia?”
She nodded, looked away from me, back, defiant.
“Interesting,” I said, studying her face. “But will the police buy it?”
She held my gaze for a moment, then broke away.
“So,” I said. “Three men plus Gigi.”
“And Julia. She was there the whole time.”
“I hear you.” I tried to picture the scene. Julia waiting for Gigi.
Thursday night. Sarge at home in bed with Renata. The phone rings. He picks up, listens, hangs up and tells Renata he’ll be back in an hour. He leaves, takes the gun and ammunition with him, drives over to Gigi’s place. He circles around to the back gate, lets himself in and walks through the garden to the kitchen door, knocks, hands over the gun. To Julia. He’s on his way back out through the garden when he hears a car in the road out front. He stops, slides into the shadows, watches. The car pulls up. The driver jumps out. Two more men drag a third from the car. It’s Gigi. One on either side, they haul him down the walk from the street to the door. Tommy O knocks. Julia opens up. They carry him in. Sarge drifts around back again, hears a shot, hears Julia scream. From the garden he sees them slap her around, shut her up. He watches them leave, slips away and drives home.
“You said Gigi couldn’t walk on his own. Are you sure he was alive?”
Renata frowned. “I have no idea.”
“You didn’t see anything?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Sarge told me you were.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He told me you drove him. You were parked in the street, waiting for him.”
She said nothing. Stared at the floor.
“What time was it?”
“I don’t remember. Three or four in the morning. It was dark. I was frightened.”
“How long did it take?”
“Not long. No more than ten minutes.”
“Did you hear the shot?”
“No.” She shook her head, uncertain. “I don’t think so. No.”
“The gun. Which hand?”
“I don’t understand.”
I picked up the shot glass, drank, and filled it again. “You’re telling me Gigi was maybe already dead, but that somebody shot him anyhow. Is that right?”
Hesitant. A quick nod.
“Did they leave the gun in Gigi’s right hand or his left?”
“Sarge didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t see.”
“No.”A flash of anger in her eyes. “I was in the car, Pete.”
“Playing lookout?”
“He told me to call him if I saw anything.”
“What was he afraid of?”
“He is always afraid. There is always something.”
“Or someone,” I said. I drained the glass and made another call.
Julia picked up. She was running late, worried, tense. “What’s up, Jules?”
“There’s a car behind me. It’s been there since Lugano.”
A car. Billy Bob? Cops? “Keep an eye on it and call me when you’re closer.” I hung up.
The low rumble of a car engine drew me to the window. I rubbed the window pane with a fist and peered through. Red brake lights, a harsh white halogen light on the snow. A door opened and a woman climbed out, all wrapped up in Siberian wolf and carrying a briefcase.
I ran down the hall to the door and pulled her inside. Renata stepped out from behind me and pushed the door shut. I felt her hand fall to my shoulder. Anastasia took in the scene, tossed me a wry smile, pulled off a fur mitten and thrust out a hand for Renata to shake. I made the introductions and watched as they circled each other for a while.
Anastasia slipped out of her fur, handed it to Renata and walked off down the hall with the briefcase and a black leather purse slung over her shoulder.
“To the left, Stazz,” I called after her. “We’ll sit by the fire and have some grog.”
“Vodka?” she called back over her shoulder.
“There’s vodka in the fridge,” said Renata. “Let me get it.” She hung the fur on the wall and walked off.
I found Anastasia staring into the fire, took her hand and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Good to see you.”
She settled into the couch and lifted the briefcase to her knees. I had to ask. “Did you open it?”
“It is brilliant, my solution. Absolute brilliance.”
I took that for a no.
Renata padded in with a silver tray bearing tall frozen glasses and a frosted bottle of vodka, Swiss.
Anastasia raised an eyebrow, smiled, and said, “You have everything in Switzerland. How nice for you.”
I took the bottle and poured a round. We drank and I poured another. Renata sat down beside Anastasia and dropped a hand to the briefcase. “This is the bone, I must assume, that all the dogs are fighting over?”
Anastasia gave her a quizzical stare. “In Russia we call attaché case.” With lacquered red nails she fired a quick drum roll on the leather. “Boner something else.”
Renata colored and dropped her eyes to the floor. Stazz tossed me a mischievous little smile.
“So,” I said. “What’s this about a brilliant solution?”
“Fingerprints,” she said. “I know from Big Yank he give briefcase to Gigi. So I think if we cannot have fingerprint of Gigi then we take Billy Bob. Yes? You follow?”
I nodded. She was pushing it, enjoying herself at my expense.
“So I see he leave fingerprint in my kitchen. I take them, we open the briefcase.” She slid me another smile, turned to Renata and said, “Boner.”
“Leave her alone, Stazz.”
“Yes.” She let a slim hand drop to the purse at her feet, opened it and withdrew an envelope. “Sugar,” she said. “For decoration. You scatter on cupcake, look like snow.”
“Just what we need,” I said.
“Quiet.” Anastasia reached for my hand, took a forefinger and pressed the tip into the black leather lid of the briefcase on her lap. She rolled
a fingertip from one side to the other, released my finger and from the envelope lifted a small amount of fine white powder. “Sugar,” she said, dusting the leather where my finger had been. Then she blew very lightly across the surface, leaving a whorled white impression, a fingerprint.
“Terrific, Stazz.” I blew a low whistle and shook my head. “It’s never going to work.”
“Ahh, and you, you have big success, yes? Mr Pete?”
What could I say? Nothing.
“Much trouble to obtain Big Yank print. We must try.”
Renata leaned in. “There’s a chain saw in the tool shed.”
“Good to know,” I said. “But first let’s give Anastasia a chance.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
Next out of her purse came a pair of white gloves, followed by a cylinder wrapped in white tissue paper, and a roll of scotch tape. She pulled on the gloves and unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal a water glass. A dusting of sugar from the envelope brought a scattering of smudgy white fingerprints to light.
“Voilà,” said Anastasia. “And now. Tape, please.” She handed me the roll.
I tore off a couple of inches and, following her instructions, positioned it directly above a print on the glass. Then I lowered it to the sugar-white whorl, pressed it to the surface, and slowly pulled it away.
“Let me see,” said Anastasia.
I held it up for her to see. Definitely a fingerprint of sorts. A little fuzzy. “Yes. Good. Very good.”
I wasn’t so sure.
“Would anyone like another drink?” Renata stood up. I raised my hand, and then put a finger to my lips. She reached for the vodka and poured herself a shot.
“Briefcase,” said Anastasia.
I took it from her lap and set it on my knees. The small glass window under the grip was about the size of a postage stamp. Just enough space for a fingerprint. I lowered the tape to the window, sugar side down, and waited. A little green light came on. A buzz. A click.
“Fantastic,” I said. “You’re a genius, Stazz.”
The green light went out. A red light came on and began to blink. A long beep. Silence. The red light went out.
“Or maybe not,” I said.
“No good,” said Anastasia. “We try another.”
Renata reached for her drink and raised it. “Cheers.”
There were three more whorled prints on the water glass.
When we were done with them Anastasia sat for a moment, a dull sadness in her eyes. “Too much trouble,” she said. “Not worth.”
I let a hand fall to her knee. She slapped it away. “Vodka, Pescatore. I need a drink.”
And from the shadows of the doorway came a voice. “Make that two, would you, Pete?”
I shivered and turned to look at him. “Long time, no see, Sarge. Cops buy your story?”
Unprintable response. Tiny icicles hung from his mustache. He tore off his glasses, yanked a shirt-tail from his trousers and rubbed off the fog. When he was done he put them back on his nose, peered down at me and said, “That’s it, huh.”
He stared at the briefcase on my knees and began to rock slowly side to side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Anastasia snuggled up close to me. A long arm settled around my shoulders while the other snagged the briefcase.
A phone rang.
“That your phone, Pete?” Sarge pointed at a shiny black cell phone buzzing across the tabletop.
It was mine. My new phone. I grabbed it and took the call.
It was Julia. She was a good half hour away, she said, and the lights were still following her.
“You know where I am, right?”
“I can read a map.”
“Pull over, turn off the engine and tell me what happens. I’ll wait.”
Sarge was staring at my phone. For some reason he began to laugh. It was a sick, drunken wheeze. He reached and grabbed it from my hand. “Sei scemo, Pescatore? Where’d you get this?”
“Give it here.”
He shook his head, put the phone to his ear and said, “Julia? Sarge here. Somebody’s tracking this phone.” A pause. “Listen. In a few minutes they’re going to disappear. Wait until they’re gone, then come on up.”
“Gimme the phone, Sarge—”
“Turn off the lights.”
“What—”
“Renata? Lights out. Now!”
The house went dark.
Sarge stomped to the front door and yanked it open. I got up and ran after him, watched from the porch as he tramped across the field to the edge of the cliff that plunged to granite far below. There he stopped, wound up and hurled the damn thing out into the night.
A couple minutes later he pushed in past me. I followed him inside and pulled the door shut behind me. “What you do that for?”
He was breathing hard. “Your phone’s got a GPS beacon, Pete. Buggers are just down the road.”
“What?”
“Stay away from the windows.” He fell to his knees. “Get down, down!”
I dropped to the floor beside him. Minutes passed, maybe ten.
In the silence we heard it, tires crunching slowly through the snow. It stopped. A door slammed shut. Light footsteps on the stairs. A knock.
A thin, frail voice.
Another knock.
“Pete?”
I scrambled to my feet and rushed to the door.
“Jules, you all right?” I pulled her inside. She was shivering.
“They turned around and went back.”
Sarge appeared at my side. "They're following the phone."
I turned a puzzled look at him. “Why didn’t you just turn it off?”
He shook his head. “I want them to think you still have it. They’ll need snowshoes to get anywhere near it now.”
Renata padded to the wall switch and flipped on the lights.
“Who were they? Jules?”
A shrug lifted her shoulders. “It was a big silver SUV. I couldn’t see who was driving. I think the windows were smoked.” She took a slow look around. “What’s this, a pajama party?”
Stazz fell back on the couch, leaned forward and flicked a lighter under a cigarette.
I turned back to Julia. “You got it?”
“In here.” She tapped her purse. “Where’s the briefcase?”
“Sarge.” Gone. “Sarge?”
A faint light washed in from the kitchen at the end of the hall. I took Julia by the arm and led her to the light and found him hunched over the briefcase, peering at the dark glass plate beneath the grip. Julia set her purse on the kitchen table, opened it and pulled out a transparent freezer bag.
Sarge ran his hands along the seams of the briefcase, searching for a weak point, a button to push. I tossed a quick nod to Julia and steadied myself. I knew what was coming. She extracted the first one from the bag. It looked like a sausage, brown and raw. I felt the bile rise up in my gorge. It was a finger. Chopped off. And another one. She laid them out on the table. I counted. Four fingers and a thumb. I grabbed the edge of the table. Keep me steady.
“Which one?” said Julia.
I didn’t get it.
“Which one do you want?”
I shrugged. I remembered something Billy Bob said. Something about Gigi giving them the finger. I leaned in over the table. “Try the middle one.”
“Which one is that?”
“Never mind.” I picked up a finger, dropped it, swore, picked it up again, positioned the fingertip on the glass and pressed it. Bzzt. A red light. Beep. Beep. Beep. Silence.
I tried a few more times, ran through all the fingers and tried the thumb. Nothing.
“Interesting,” said Anastasia. “Goldoni fingers?” She was leaning in the doorway. “How did you get them?”
Julia chewed on her lower lip. “Funeral home.”
“You bite them off?”
Julia plunged a hand into her purse, retrieved her tools and handed them over. Poultry shears and a bread knife.
&nbs
p; Anastasia took them, pulled out a chair and sat down to examine them. “Interesting.” She reached for a finger, held it up to the light. “Why does not work?”
“I have no idea,” I said.
Sarge opened the fridge, then the freezer compartment. “Where’s the vodka? I swear I left a bottle.”
I flipped a slow nod toward Anastasia and said, “All gone.”
She let her head rock from side to side, stretched out a long arm and said, “Central heating.”
Renata drifted into the kitchen. Her gaze came to rest on the fingers. Her knees buckled. I caught her before she hit the floor, lifted her and carried her out and down the hall to the fire. I had Sarge on my heels, Julia right behind him with a blanket and a pillow. “I was a nurse once,” she said, to no one in particular.
I lowered Renata to the couch and left them to it, went back and sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the fingers until it hit me. I called out, “Jules?”
She came padding down the hall and stuck her head in the door. “What?”
“Which hand?”
Silence for a moment. “Oh, no.” She buried her head in her hands.
Sarge thumped in with a bottle of whisky. “What’s the matter?”
I picked up the thumb. “Wrong hand,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Gigi was a lefty.”
“Life,” said Anastasia. A sad smile rippled over her lips and died. “Tale told by idiot.”
Sarge shoved the bottle across the table. “Idiot?”
“Dostoevsky,” I said. “Or maybe Tolstoy.” I pulled out the cork, sniffed it.
Anastasia shook her head. “Shakespeare.”
I hammered the cork back into the bottle.
“Pete,” she said, remembering something.
“Da.”
“You owe me a story.” She wrapped her arms around the briefcase.
Sarge reached for the bottle, bit the cork and eased it out. He poured, and drank. From somewhere inside him came a song. An old song, whiter shade of pale. He reached into his jacket, withdrew a sleek black phone and took the call.
I leaned across the table. “What?”
His hand sliced a line across his throat. “Yes. No.” He covered the phone, jerked his thumb at the door and mouthed the word, “Run.”
I grabbed Anastasia and pulled her to her feet.
Sarge was up and pacing, waving his other arm at me, urging me out the door. “OK, Tommy. See you in a few.” He hung up. “You got two minutes, Pete. They’re just over the hill.”
Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Page 19