Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1)

by Pete Pescatore

  “Stazz.” I wrapped a scarf around my neck and reached for my coat. “Come on, baby. Let's go.”

  Twenty five

  It was cold and dark on the road that morning, me and Anastasia on the Harley, her long arms locked around my waist and the briefcase jammed up between us. A half hour into the drive I slowed and turned into a road heading south that would take us to the clinic the long way around.

  An hour or so later we rolled into town, most of the tourists still in their beds. Later they would fall out into the streets, heading for the slopes or maybe the races at the old Olympic bobsled run that dropped from St. Moritz to the town below. I kept an eye on the mirrors and scanned the streets for a silver SUV. Nothing. If we were lucky the boys were still chasing the phone that Sarge had tossed down the mountain.

  About ten minutes later we arrived at the clinic, a two-story villa set back from the street amid dark pines and larches heavy with snow. Anastasia swung off the Harley and stamped with the briefcase to the barred iron gate. I parked and climbed off. A brass plaque bolted to the wall had a black button and a speaker grill. I pushed the button.

  A voice crackled in the morning air. What did I want.

  “Here to see a resident, Aida Goldoni.”

  A pause, then the voice, firm. “Signora Goldoni does not receive guests. No visitors. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s important.”

  “No visitors. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Let me speak to the doctor.”

  “Your name?”

  “Pescatore.”

  A long pause. “Pescatore. First name Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  “One moment.”

  A loud metallic click as the gate lock sprang open. I pushed in, Anastasia crowding me, briefcase in hand. A clump of snow fell at my feet. I looked up into the trees and beyond to the mountains rising into gray skies.

  Another door, another black button. A click and the door slid into the wall.

  “This way please.” Tall blond fellow, slim. I’d seen him before. At the church. Yes. Anastasia at my side as he led the way down a long hall to an elevator and up two floors. Out. The air smelled of roses. We passed a door with a printed panel: Aroma Therapy. Anastasia sneezed.

  Our host made a left, ducked into a room and padded to the window. He drew back the curtain. Gray alpine light fell across the bed and the woman’s slender limbs beneath a light wool blanket. “This is Mr. Pescatore, Aida.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I know him.”

  I stepped up to the bed, “Hello, Aida.”

  The old woman held out her hand. Older now than I remembered her. She was always older. Older than Gigi, older than all of us.

  “I saw you at the funeral,” she said. The voice low, strong. “Thank you for coming.”

  “No trouble.”

  “Gigi always spoke highly of you, Mr Pescatore. He was very fond of you.”

  “Thank you, Signora.” I took her hand and squeezed it. “I remember him well. He was a friend.”

  She shifted her gaze to Anastasia, smiled. “And you are?”

  “A friend of Pete’s,” she said. “Anastasia.”

  “Mr Pescatore—” The doc stepped in between us. “I must ask you to keep your visit brief. Mrs Goldoni is not accustomed to visitors. She is … frail.”

  “You think?” said Anastasia. “Her spirit is strong. I can see in her eyes.”

  “Even so,” he said. “I shall be back in ten minutes.”

  Aida pushed herself up to a sitting position. Anastasia moved around to the side of the bed, fluffed a pillow and tucked it in behind the old woman.

  “Thank you, my dear.” She turned back to me. “I expect you’ve come wanting to talk about Gigi.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “You’ve not been to visit me before.”

  “I was told you were kept here against your will, and that you were—”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I’m perfectly healthy. I simply prefer to be left alone. Staff are under orders to send everyone away.”

  “So I’m lucky to see you—”

  “Perhaps. I’ve been expecting you.” A faint smile. “Gigi said you would come, if … if anything happened. He trusted you.”

  “Yes. It was a terrible shock. The news.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Signora Aida,” said Anastasia, lifting the leather case to the bed. “You know what is in the briefcase, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Gigi told me. He confessed.” Her eyes went black. “He was always confessing. I was sick of it. I told him to be quiet. I didn’t want to hear about Julia anymore. Always Julia, his little English tart. Puttana, puttana, maledetta puttana.”

  The word was a whip with a hundred tails. I had the feeling she’d been using it on herself for years.

  “Shh. Quiet now.” Anastasia reached out and took her hand.

  “Did your husband try to sell his secrets?”

  “Perhaps.” Her face grew dark with slow, subterranean pain.

  I leaned in again, “Who wanted to buy them, Aida? One of his Italian friends, an investor, perhaps?”

  She considered the possibility. “There are so many.”

  “Or someone from the bank?” said Anastasia.

  No response.

  “What about the casino? I understand he owed them a lot of money.”

  “You must ask Arturo.” A faint smile crossed her face. “Arturo is the gambler.”

  “Bellomo? Arturo Bellomo?” I leaned in close to her. “Do you know him?”

  “Of course. Who doesn’t know Arturo? He is a vault himself, all the secrets are there.”

  The morning light made her look older still. She drew up her knees, wrapped her arms around them and hugged herself.

  Anastasia captured Aida’s hands and folded them around a glass of water. “Drink, my dear.”

  The widow’s eyes sought out the shadows in the pale light of the curtained room. “Will you poison me, Julia? Is that what you want? Kill me, keep my husband all to yourself?”

  Anastasia caught my hand with a gentle squeeze. Pay no attention.

  “She tried to steal him.” A broken smile fell through her face and disappeared in the abyss below. “Thought she’d take him away from me.”

  “Julia?”

  “Maledetta puttana.”

  “Was Julia going away with Gigi?”

  “She thought so.”

  “Where to?”

  “He wouldn’t say. It was all a big secret.” Aida drank, thrust out her arm and dropped the glass. It shattered on the floor. “But it was we who were going away. Gigi and I.”

  Her chest rose and fell, a wave rolling through her. I swept the broken glass into a pile with my shoe, waiting for the pain to wash away.

  “She discovered the truth, you know.”

  “What?” Anastasia again. “What is truth?”

  “That Gigi was going away with me. With me.”

  Anastasia sent a hand to the old woman’s face, brushed the hair away with a gentle caress. “Of course he was going away with you.”

  The widow’s hand fell to the briefcase. She pressed a forefinger to the little glass plate and held it there. Bzzt. Then she lifted the case, brought the glass up close to one eye and held it. Bzzt. Bzzt. Click. Open. I took a sharp breath. Anastasia reached and swept the case quickly to the foot of the bed.

  My hands shook as I lifted the lid. Papers. Loose. I began to shuffle through them, snatched one and peered at it. A share certificate. Another one. Dozens of them. Bearer shares.

  “Porca puttana,” I breathed.

  Anastasia took my arm. “What?”

  No names, no accounts. No list of members in some secret lodge. No Ali Baba, no forty thieves. Just paper. “Worthless. Completely useless.”

  “Let me see.” She reached into the case, took the shares in hand.

  Aida had begun to sing, softly. Somewhere over the rainbow.

  The case was empty.
Nothing else. I ran my fingers over green felt lining. Smooth. Nothing.

  “Look. Look at this,” said Anastasia. “What is this?” She flipped a share certificate over. A drawing on the back. Black and white stripes. Thin stripes, thick stripes, broad white spaces in between. Like stickers on food at a grocery store, or an airline luggage label. A band of vertical black and white stripes, drawn by hand on the back of every share certificate. Black ink on white paper.

  “Wait a minute. Here.” Bound up with the shares was a bright blue folder. I opened it. A sheaf of papers, bound with a black metal clip. Each of the pages had a series of columns drawn in black ink: Account Holder. Bank. Account number. Balance. Two more columns. Beneficial Owner. Address. I ran down the list of names. Johns. Franken. Morris. Harrison. Torres. Beside each a street address, in New York. New Jersey. Texas. California. A long, long list. Page after page.

  Anastasia said something in Russian, wonder and triumph in her voice.

  I shrugged. “A thousand? A thousand names.”

  Gigi’s widow lifted her voice. “Way up high. There’s a land that I heard of—“

  “Once in a lullaby,” I said, and looked up at her. A smile.

  Anastasia whispered, “Treasure.”

  “Dynamite.” I handed her the folder and set the shares on the bed. My fingers ran over the lining once again.

  “Go, now.” The old woman shivered and hugged herself. “It is cold. You must go now.”

  I picked up the case and carried it to the window. And there, in the early morning light, I saw it. A shadow drew a short, slim line along the green felt floor of the case. Something was there, beneath the surface.

  “Anastasia.” I took her hand. “See that? Can you feel it?” I pressed her finger lightly to the rise in the felt lining.

  “Wait.” She whirled away and was back in a moment, pressing a nail file into my hands. “That’s all I have.”

  I jabbed a tiny hole with the tip of the file and slowly sawed through the felt. An inch, no more. I slid a fingernail in the tear and eased out a slim, rectangular wafer. Blue plastic, shiny brass tabs. A memory card.

  I carried the briefcase back to the bed and set it beside the old woman. I held up the tiny card in front of her eyes. “I’ve found something, Aida. What is it?”

  “Ahh, yes,” she whispered. “Our ticket to paradise.” She caressed the leather case with her fingers, reached for the shares, slipped them into the case and slapped the lid shut. Click. Bzzt. A green light blinked, turned red for a moment and went out.

  “Aida! Open the case. Please. Aida.”

  “You have everything you need.”

  The doc was at the door. “Time’s up.”

  “Get out,” said Aida. “Go! Now!”

  I reached for the briefcase, slid a hand in under the grip and eased it gently from her grasp.

  Anastasia grabbed my hand and pulled me away. We slipped out and down the hall to a staircase, down and out a side door into the frozen morning. A paved stone path wound back under the trees to the iron gate and the road. I pushed out the gate and stomped to the Harley.

  “The camera,” said Anastasia, wrapping herself up in her Siberian wolves. “We must document.”

  I slapped my pockets, one after another. The camera. There. Inside pocket. I dug it out.

  Anastasia grabbed it, turned and took a shot of the clinic through the trees, then one of the iron gate and the long stone wall, the brass plate with the name of the clinic and the street number.

  “Done?” I took it from her, flipped it over and removed the memory card from the slot, took the card I’d snatched from the briefcase, and snapped it into the camera.

  “Let me see.” Anastasia took it from me, pressed a couple of buttons. Nothing.

  “Take it with you.”

  The Harley made a noise like a dog getting sick. I tried again. Finally. Sputtering.

  Anastasia gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. I whirled and saw it—a SUV, silver, roaring toward us. Think, Pescatore. Fast. I climbed off, grabbed her by the waist and flew her up on the bike. “Go! Now!”

  I turned, slowly, made sure they saw the briefcase in my hands, and dived from the road down into the trees. My boots crunched over the snow into a clearing and a street and through a hedge. There. Run. The bobsled run. Briefcase first, up and over.

  I scrambled up and over the fence and dropped to the other side and rolled and slipped and fell. Up again. And there. A small sled hung upright on a concrete wall. I tore it from the rack and slapped it to the ice, slammed the briefcase to the sled and thumped up after it, jamming my heels, frog legged, pushing off.

  Down, down, head first into a tunnel of ice. Faster, faster — Ohhh, shshsh — dropping down, down, whipping around, fear slicing through me, tearing me up. Fighting to see through the roaring ice, the sled rumbling beneath my chest and riding up high, hauling me up and out, higher and higher, whipping round the curve and back into the chute. Pain in my hands, ice hammering my skull. Will it never end, no never, never, white light flashing and flooding my brain, my body one with the sled, hurtling round the curves, dropping down, down, hugging a black leather briefcase to my chest, a voice looping over and over in my head, droning this is the end, the end, the end.

  Blackout.

  Twenty six

  Head pounding, blood in my eyes, pain shooting through me. Somehow walking, in the road, briefcase hanging at the end of an arm, the other clamped against my chest. I hear a car creep up at my back, engine purring. It pulls up beside me. A window slides down. “Pete.”

  I turn to look at him, force a tight smile, push my lines across bloody split lips, “Tommy, old man, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Hop in, Pete.”

  I tossed the briefcase in the back of the fern gray Jag, eased into the seat and pulled the door shut.

  “You look like you could use a drink.”

  “Or three,” I said. Pain roared through me, calling up darkness all around, the sickening stench of the sauna, my face splayed flat on the tiles, puking, belching up slimy, sulfurous water.

  Tommy O began to whistle.

  I settled back into the leather seat for the ride, waiting for the pain to fade.

  I slept for a while and woke when I felt the car roll to a stop. Tommy O clambered out to fill the tank. I grabbed the briefcase from the back seat, hauled myself up and out and hobbled from the gas pumps to the edge of the road. Cold gray skies.

  Thirty yards back sat a silver SUV, idling. The goons. Max riding shotgun, Freddie at the wheel, hunters zeroing in on their prey. No surprise there.

  An image of Anastasia came to mind, roaring off on the Harley. I smiled, flipped a bird to the boys and humped back to the Jag. Tommy O slid in, turned the key and pulled out into the road.

  I sat with the case on my knees and began to drum the lid.

  “What do you have for us, Pete?”

  “Dunno,” I said. “Can’t figure out how to open it.”

  Tommy O shook his head. “You need a fingerprint.”

  A flash of Gigi’s frozen fingers. “For what? For the briefcase?”

  “Don’t push it, Pete. I’m not stupid.”

  Pain in my shoulder twisted my face. I moaned. “Man, that hurts.”

  Tommy O shot me a sideways glance. “The boys tell me you had quite a ride. Bobsleigh champion of the world.”

  “It wasn't so bad. Beats Disneyland.”

  “However did you manage to hang onto it?”

  “My arms froze.”

  Tommy O released a quiet laugh. “I’ve had a word with Arturo. He’s delighted.”

  “Good to know.” I let him drive for a while. “Just so you know, Tommy. I want to be clear. I’m not in the business anymore.”

  “No?”

  “No. Pete Pescatore. Freelance journalist, retired.” I drummed the briefcase again. “And this is my pension.”

  “Excellent.” He nodded. “No more lies for CNI?”

  �
�I never lied.”

  His gaze fell back to the briefcase. “Where was it?”

  “Aida had it.”

  “Aida?” Tommy O took the exit, easing the Jag down the ramp to the streets of Lugano under snow. “Not so mad after all.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “You’ve spoken to her?”

  “I saw her,” I said. “I don’t think she was home, if you know what I mean.”

  “But she had the briefcase?”

  “Under the bed.”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “I did try to see her. Buggers wouldn’t let me in.”

  “House orders from Gigi. He gave her the briefcase, told her he’d send me and nobody else.”

  “You.” He ran a pink hand over his pate, swallowed. Dry. “Pete Pescatore.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When was this?”

  I had him. On the hook. I let him run with it, then jerked the rod, pulled him up short. “I saw Gigi in Milan a couple weeks before he died. He wanted me to call in the press. The FT, no less. You believe it?”

  Tommy O pursed his lips. “Big story?

  “Same old, same old. Fresh money coming in soon, enough to put him back in play.”

  “The Arabs?”

  “No details, Tommy. But he told me where to find the docs. Just in case something happened.”

  “Right. I thought he might have.” Tommy O ‘s pudgy, pink hands gripped the wheel. “And you were prepared to do that?”

  “Of course.” I counted to ten, shot him a look sideways and said, “But I received another offer.”

  Tommy O nodded. A cool smile crawled into his face. “Arturo can be very persuasive.”

  “One way to put it.” I heaved a slow, theatrical sigh. “So what happened, Tommy? What happened to Gigi?”

  He let me wait for a while, then took up the tale. “Arturo caught wind of Gigi’s plan—Briefcase for sale, to the highest bidder.”

  “Ah.” I’d been right about that. “Not so good.”

  “So we picked him up, had a word with him.”

  “In the sauna, I take it.”

  Tommy O kept his eyes on the road.

  “Water, water, everywhere,” I said. “I figure Gigi drank a lot of it, just before he died.”