Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1)

by Pete Pescatore

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Come on, Tommy. I’m family now, you said so yourself.”

  He bit his lip, eyes on the road approaching Lugano. “Gigi agreed to hand over the briefcase.”

  “He had a choice?”

  A shrug. “We took him to the Villa Sofia to get it.”

  “And?”

  “He couldn’t find it. Gone.”

  “So you drove him home.”

  A nod. “We took a little detour.”

  “The sauna again?”

  “Mmn.” He was quiet for a moment, cleared his throat and went on. “Then we took him home, gave him a few minutes alone with Julia.”

  “Why? Why leave him alone with her?”

  A shrug. “He asked.”

  “And then what?”

  “The boys found Sarge snooping around out back, and then we all went in.”

  Tommy nosed the Jag toward the exit for Lugano. “Gigi gave us a drink, said he had the briefcase just down the hall.”

  I waited.

  “That was it. He disappeared, and a few seconds later we heard the shot.” Tommy O was chewing his lip again. “Tragic, Pete. A tragic loss. That’s all it was.”

  “You think so?”

  “He shot himself. The autopsy proved it.”

  “No.” I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “No, Tommy. The autopsy report just says he was shot. It doesn’t say who pulled the trigger.”

  “Maybe not, but—” He fell silent for a moment. “In the end, it doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Wrong answer, Pete.” Tommy O flicked a sharp look my way, wheeled and turned in the drive. “Word to the wise?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Don’t mention the water. Boss might get the wrong idea.”

  The Jag crunched to a stop on the pebbled drive outside the Prince Albert Hotel. I climbed out, had a stretch and a look around. Max and Freddie rolled up in the silver SUV and crawled out into the gray afternoon.

  I snagged the briefcase from the back seat, gave the door a soft shove and called after him, “Tommy.”

  He turned, waiting for me to catch up to him. “Pete.”

  “That fancy new phone you gave me? Can’t seem to find it.”

  “Bugger. Cost a fortune.”

  “Borrow yours? Need to make a quick call.”

  “Sorry, Pete.” Steel fingers closed on my arm, sent a jab of pain through me. My knees gave way. Max and Freddie appeared at my side, took me by the arms and hauled me down the drive to the entrance. A doorman in uniform opened up.

  Twenty seven

  I pulled up short, set the briefcase at my feet. Something in the air. The faint smell of sulfur, a sickening memory of pain.

  Tommy O sent the goons away, leaned in and oozed in my ear, “Come along, Pete. Let’s not keep the boss waiting.”

  I picked up the briefcase and followed him to the reception desk. He signed me in, pocketed a key card and led me down a long hall where the dank air gave way to a mist of cologne.

  “You’re lucky, Pete. Arturo likes you.” Tommy O swiped the card, pushed in and showed me around. Three rooms, thick beige carpets, Rauschenberg and Rothko prints on the walls. “Executive suite. Best in the house.”

  “Terrific,” I said. “Do I get a key?”

  “No.” He pushed into the bedroom, had a quick look around, checked the minibar.

  I sat on the bed and set the briefcase on the floor. He took a step toward it, “Shall I take that for you?”

  “Don’t think so, Tommy.” I grabbed it. “Not just yet.”

  “Suit yourself.” He padded to the door. “Lunch at one. You might want a shower.”

  My eyes followed him. “I could do with a trip to the sauna, Tommy.”

  He stopped. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s my nerves. Thought a dip in the pool might do me some good.”

  He wasn’t in the mood. “Keep it up and I’m sure we can oblige you.” The door fell shut with a soft, heavy thud.

  I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. Darth Vader popped up, looking a little worse for wear, and muttered through his grill. Welcome to the dark side, Pescatore. I flipped him the bird. He whirled and lumbered off into the night. A stab of pain in my shoulder shot me back to the snow and the forest and my flight through the trees to the high wire fence and up over. I flew down the chute again, riding the case around a curve without end and then up, up, over the edge and into the trees. Whiteout. I remembered dragging myself to the road, getting up and gimping along. I did good, too, when Tommy O crept up in the Jag and I made like I was happy to see him.

  So now I had the briefcase. All I had to do was hand it over. As promised, boss. And hope that Anastasia was back in Milan, home safe with the docs on the memory card.

  I got up, stripped and limped to the shower, soaped myself down and let the hot water seep into my bones. Five minutes, ten. I stepped out, shaved and pulled on a change of clothes from the closet. Nice duds. Tailor-made wool suit, linen shirt, tie by Ferragamo. And clean. Cleaner than I felt.

  A phone jangled. I picked up. “Mr Pescatore? This is reception. Mr Bellomo will see you shortly.”

  “Excellent.” Nerves, jittery. “Did he say where?”

  “Please wait in your suite.”

  Back to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and said hello to the man in the mirror. Cleaned up all right, but dead pale.

  Something about the tie. The knot was all wrong. I tore it off and tried again.

  A knock. They’re here. I ran my fingers through my hair, picked up the briefcase and walked to the door. Open.

  Freddie. Max. “Time for your swim, Mr Pescatore.” Mirthless smiles. Max took me by the arm, pulled me into the hall. Fred pushed me on ahead of him. The smell of sulfur hung in their clothes.

  Tommy O stood waiting at the end of the hall. He fell in beside me. “All set, Pete?”

  “Got the jitters. First day on the job.” I showed him a hand, fingers splayed and quivering, and leaned in close to him. “Get these goons off my back?”

  “Of course.” He jerked a thumb at the boys. They dropped away.

  We turned a corner. Granite wall, steel door.

  Tommy O stepped up and called out his name, “O’Sullivan”.

  The door swung open. Low light, carpets, walls that drowned sound.

  Black leather armchairs framed a black leather sofa facing lemon-haired Marilyn on the wall. But something was different. The furniture.

  The man himself sat off to one side behind a massive dark mahogany desk.

  I straightened up, took a deep breath, limped over and laid the briefcase in front of him.

  “Nice to see you, Piero.” He offered his hand without getting up. “I see your memory has improved.”

  “You could say that.” I took the hand. Cold. Limp. “I had some help.”

  “I know.” Bellomo peered at the briefcase. “Have you opened it?”

  I shook my head. “Fancy lock, didn’t have the right finger.”

  A bushy eyebrow rose. “No? That’s unfortunate, Piero. I would have thought you more resourceful.” He stroked the leather case, back and forth, pulled up his cuff and took a look at his watch. A frown. Back to me. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “Anything but water.”

  A smile lit his face and faded. “Tea? Coffee?”

  “Espresso, corretto.”

  A nod from the boss sent Freddie scuttling off, Max on his heels. I tracked them past Marilyn, on past the Mao and bloody red Lenin.

  No one had much to say. Bellomo examined the briefcase, pressed a finger to the glass. Nothing. He sat back and built a church with his fingers, raised a steeple.

  “Hey, boss,” I said. “Aren’t you going to ask me what’s in it?”

  Bellomo flicked a look at me, dark eyes gone darker. “You just told me you had no idea.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said I couldn’t
open it.”

  Tommy O tore off a shred of fingernail, spat it out, lifted his gaze to me and said, “What’s in the briefcase, Pete?”

  “Documents no one will ever see.”

  Bellomo stiffened. “And why is that?”

  “We all know what Gigi was doing. If we destroy the evidence, then it never happened. There was never any filthy money to launder. No profits and no crime. Nothing. Zilch.”

  Bellomo put his elbows on the case and sank his jaw to his hands. “Go on.”

  “And seeing how Goldoni’s dead, there’s no one left to resurrect the crime.” I looked up into his eyes. “Suicide cures all.”

  A smile curled the lip of Arturo Bellomo. “Very good,” he said.

  “I like that,” said Tommy O. “Life goes on. Life after Gigi.”

  “Unless,” said Bellomo, “there is something you wish to tell me, Piero.”

  I shook my head. Left, right, back again. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Bellomo bored holes in my skull with his stare. “And you won’t have made a copy of the documents, will you. Since you haven’t opened the briefcase.”

  “Correct.” I retreated to a chair, sat back and closed my eyes. Darth Vader emerged from a choking fog. Second thoughts, Pescatore? I clapped my eyes wide open, coughed and sat up straight.

  Freddie appeared with coffee and grappa, Max on his tail with a set of tall glasses and a bottle of Krug on ice.

  I took the grappa, poured a shot in the coffee and drank it down.

  A voice crackled in from a speaker somewhere. “Mr Bellomo, your guest has arrived.”

  Bellomo pushed himself to his feet. Tommy O stepped up beside him.

  And there, darkening the door—

  What the—?

  Shiny black cowboy boots with pointy toes and two-inch heels, washed-out blue jeans under a belly roped in by a broad leather belt and brass Lone Star buckle. He wore a shiny blue jacket with smoky white rhinestones on the lapels and a black bolero with a Navajo silver clasp.

  I felt sick. In my bones I knew something was about to go down that I should have seen coming a long time ago.

  “Good afternoon, Gentlemen,” said Billy Bob.

  Bellomo made his way around the desk. “Mr Decker.”

  “Good to see you, Art.” Billy Bob cracked open a grin, broad and lazy as the Rio Grande, and stuck out his hand. “And you can call me Bill.”

  “With pleasure.” Bellomo paused, swallowed, shook the hand and said, “Bill.”

  Billy Bob shot a look my way, a beady glint in his eye.

  “Hey, Tex,” I said, and swallowed hard. “How’s Moscow?”

  “Sweet as cherry pie, bubba.” A sneer rippled his lip. “You should try her sometime.”

  Bellomo bent, took the briefcase in hand, turned and presented it to his guest. “I’m sorry it’s taken us such a long time. We had a little trouble along the way.”

  A voice in my head declared me a fool.

  Tommy O snapped his fingers.

  Max stepped up, snatched the champagne and slapped the bottle into Freddie’s hands. Freddie tore off the foil, twisted the cork, popped it and poured.

  Tommy O put a glass in the boss’s hand, gave one to Billy and one to me. Max and Freddie picked up their own.

  “To your health, sir,” said Billy Bob.

  Bellomo bowed. “To health,” he said. “And a well made deal.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Tommy O.

  We drank to our health and the well made deal.

  The deal. Of course there was a deal. What else?

  Billy settled into a black leather chair, the briefcase on his knees. He peered in under the grip at the glass, looked up and smiled. “Gentlemen. May I have your attention, please.”

  And now he’s going to open it. He knew all along. He was the one who gave it to Gigi.

  He raised his right hand, middle finger extended, and flew it to the landing zone, where it hovered for a moment and sank to the glass.

  Green light. No sound. Nothing. Billy Bob threw a snide smile my way, raised the case to eye-level, closed one eye and leaned in with the other, right up close to the glass.

  The case popped open.

  “Porca miseria.” I kept my eyes on Billy Bob’s face as he worked a big hand around the shares and lifted them from the case. He stared at the one on top for a moment, licked a thumb and began to go through them. He stopped and flipped one over. The smile died slowly on his lips as he frowned at the vertical lines in black ink and held the certificate up to the light. Nothing to see.

  He dropped the shares on the floor and turned his attention back to the case. There. A blue folder. He took it in hand, opened it and began to skim the pages. Names, charts, columns of numbers. A soft grunt as he slapped the folder shut.

  Tommy O, unctuous, servile, “You have everything you need now, Mr Decker?”

  Billy Bob turned a slow eye on the crowd, bent and sent a long arm to the floor to gather up the shares. “Rustle up some change, Pete? Couple of quarters?”

  “I suppose. For what?”

  “Present for you. From Gigi.” The smile split his face open wide again as he turned and held out the shares. “This and fifty cents will get you a cup of coffee.”

  I took them from him, flicked a quick look around the room. Blank, puzzled faces. I turned back to Billy Bob, saw him running his fingertips over the green felt lining in the briefcase. He found the slit I’d cut and stuck a finger in. Empty. No memory card. The smile slipped away and he lifted a dull, hard stare to me.

  “Why am I not surprised, Pescatore.” He dropped the blue folder back in the case, shut it and hauled himself out of the chair. “Man lies for a living, what can you expect?”

  I stared back at him and folded the shares and stuffed them in a pocket.

  “Thank you, Gentlemen. And good day.” Billy Bob bowed and backed away. He padded to the door, briefcase hanging at the end of an arm, and was gone.

  I shifted my gaze from the door to Bellomo. He didn’t look happy.

  “Is there something you want to tell us, Piero?”

  Think fast, Pescatore. “Nah.” I shook my head. “The man got what he wanted.”

  “As will you,” said Tommy O. He slipped a hand around my arm, just over the elbow, and dug in. “Trip to the sauna, Pete. Time to relax.”

  I jerked away from him, exploding in pain as my elbow smashed into his face and my knee came up into his groin. He fell over, took me with him.

  The goons lunged and grabbed me, flipped me over on my belly and wrenched my arms behind my back.

  “Basta!” Bellomo’s voice. Enough.

  Max and Freddie hauled me to my feet, took one arm each and dragged me to the door.

  And there. In the back of my head I heard the call of a bugle and the sound of horses thundering over the plains. The U.S. Cavalry come to save the day. I closed my eyes, dropped my head to my chest and gave silent thanks to my guardian angel. Whoever she was. Anastasia?

  Two men in stiff brown leather jackets moved in. “Police,” said one of them. They took Freddie and Max. A third man walked away with Tommy O.

  A short, fat, red-faced little fellow in uniform helped me to my feet and led me out and down the long hall to the bar. I poured myself a drink and climbed up on a stool to watch the show.

  There must have been half a dozen cops in all, rounding up the hotel staff—the maître d’ and the sommelier, the chef and his helpers, groundskeepers, maids.

  At the bar I was joined by a group of elderly guests who asked if I knew what was going on. I couldn’t help them. A few minutes later a thin, pale man appeared with the news that drinks and room service were on the house. He suggested we all return to our rooms. Nobody moved and he went away.

  Time to go. I slipped off the stool and hobbled back down the hall to the lobby. A pale blonde stood at the desk, biting her lip, trouble in her eyes.

  “Pescatore,” I said. “I’m checking out.”

&n
bsp; “Certainly, sir. May I have your name?”

  I paused. Not worth it. “Pescatore.”

  “Room number?”

  “Executive suite, near the sauna.”

  “Thank you.” The blonde leaned at her screen, tapped a few keys.

  “Piero.” The voice spooked me. I whirled and found myself staring into Ali Baba’s cold gold smile. At his side stood a man I hadn’t seen before. Close-cropped white hair, a face scraped and furrowed, granite gray eyes.

  “Thank you for everything, Piero.” Arturo Bellomo offered his hand. “Arrivederci.”

  “Sure,” I said. We shook hands. “See you around?”

  “You never know.”

  I watched them go.

  “Mr. Pescatore?”

  I turned back to the blonde at the desk. She bent, rummaged around below the counter and handed me a large padded envelope. “For you. It just arrived.”

  I flipped the envelope over. A logo and an address in Locarno, a set of initials written beneath it. H.K. Hong Kong? No. Heidi Kirsch. I tore it open, reached in, scanned the pages. Autopsy report, photographs. In color. Gigi. I stared at one. Numb. something wrong. I flipped back to the photograph. A bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

  I leaned into the counter to steady myself, stuffed everything back in the envelope and closed it.

  The phone rang. The blonde took the call, looked up with a smile for me and said, “Your driver is here, Mr Pescatore.”

  Driver? I folded my face into a frown. “Tell him I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  She relayed the message, put down the phone and propped up her smile.

  “Mind if I make a couple of calls?”

  “Certainly, sir.” She lifted the phone and set it on the counter in front of me. I picked up and dialed Johnny, gave him the rundown of the last few hours. He listened and filled in a few blanks for me. Anastasia, he said, had made it back safely and was working up a story from the files on the card.

  “Sounds great,” I said. “I’ll catch up when I get there.”

  “Make it soon,” said Johnny. “Maybe Joe can run you up to the station.”

  “Terrific,” I said.

  I made a couple more calls. Doctor Kirsch wasn't in so I left her a message, hung up and punched in the other number. Anastasia picked up and said, “Story, Peter. You have deadline.”