Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1)

by Pete Pescatore

  “Good,” she said. “Because that’s what Sarge and I told the police.” The smile warmed up. She seemed pleased with herself, and leaned down over me, a strange look in her eye. Concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Heart attack,” I said, and slapped my hand on my chest. “You just about killed me.”

  “Come on. Let’s have a drink.” She whirled away and slammed into the hard little tattooed man who stood blocking the doorway. He clamped his hands on her, spun her around and locked her in place, hands behind her back.

  “No thanks, Miss.” Joe cracked a tight smile. “I never drink on the job.”

  “Pete?” She was pale now, the stone face crumbling into dust.

  “It’s over, Jules.” I extracted the phone from my pocket.

  “I was joking.” In her eyes a light flickered, sputtered and was gone. “You know that, don’t you? It was suicide, Pete. That’s what everyone says.”

  Joe released her and clamped a hand on her arm. “Come along now, Miss—”

  “Witherspoon,” I said, and looked up at him. “You get it? Everything?”

  He nodded.

  I took the phone from my pocket, tapped the screen and ended the call.

  “Pete. Please.”

  I shook my head. “Couple things, Jules. The yellow bricks? Where did you get them?”

  She lowered her head. “Sarge. They were meant for his children. It was Tommy’s idea to leave them on the body.”

  “Right. And the briefcase? Why did you take it back to the Villa?”

  A smile flickered. “I told you, Pete. He’s a terrible, terrible man. I wanted nothing more to do with him.”

  “Tommy?”

  She shook her head. Joe led her away. I wandered down the hall to the living room, retrieved the whisky and poured myself a drink.

  About a half hour later the call of a whippoorwill broke the silence. I picked up my phone and peered at the screen. Johnny.

  “I got a message from Joe, said I should call you.”

  “I got good news and bad news, Johnny. What do you want first?”

  “Bad.”

  “It wasn’t the Masons.”

  “Porca miseria. Rome will be disappointed.”

  “Tough.”

  “And the good news?”

  “You were right.” I let him hang for a moment. “Goldoni was murdered.”

  “Fantastic! What happened?”

  I picked up the glass, drank, and let him have it.

  Thirty seven

  I slept on the floor in Gigi’s house and let myself out the next morning. Joe came to get me and we took a long walk along the shore. He said they’d been working with Dr. Kirsch and the crime lab up in Bellinzona. They’d delivered everything to the prosecutor’s office and felt certain they would get a conviction. Julia wasn’t going back to England. She wouldn’t be going anywhere, not for a few years yet.

  “Tommy O’Sullivan?”

  “Disappeared.”

  “Just like that.”

  A shrug from Joe. “Perhaps you should ask your friend, the American.”

  “He’s not a friend.” Never had been. Not Billy-Bob. “And the rest of it? The laundry?”

  His eyes darkened as he stared out over the water. “Back in business. More of it coming in now than ever.”

  “I wish I could say I’m surprised.” I dropped a hand to his arm. “Listen, Joe. Can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “I need to see somebody.”

  “Here in Lugano?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where she is. The place that burned down—“

  “Ungaretti. Renata. We picked up her husband this morning.”

  “Again? What for?”

  “He delivered the gun to Witherspoon.”

  “Right, but …”

  “It’s a serious offence.”

  “Sergio could help you. He knows a lot. About the business, I mean.”

  “I know.” We were back at the taxi. The doors clicked open. “He’s cooperating. He won’t serve any time.”

  I climbed in. Joe wedged in behind the wheel. “You want to see her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  He pulled away from the curb into traffic, wound his way down to the lakefront road and turned south. I caught a glimpse of the casino across the water. A little piece of Italy.

  “The casino,” said Joe. “It was her husband, you know.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was the one who drove Goldoni to Campione every week.”

  Sarge. Driving Gigi into debt. “How much did he lose?”

  Joe shook his head. “Goldoni wasn’t gambling. He was carrying. Cash.”

  “From the casino?”

  “They’d pick up the take and drive it straight to the Villa.”

  “So that’s where it came from.”

  “Some of it. A piece of the business. But most of the money came in from down south.”

  “Milan.”

  We rolled into Morcote. By day it was a dead little town, nothing more. Joe killed the engine and turned his eyes on me. “Pescatore.”

  “Wait here, will you? I won’t be long.”

  Thirty eight

  She was walking towards me, hands in her pockets, looked up and stopped when she saw me. I kept on going, walked right up to her, bent and took her in my arms. She broke away, eyes gone dark, her face as gray as the lake. A fresh bruise had bloomed around an eye and turned a pale and sickly yellow. I had a good long look at her. She held my gaze.

  “I hope they lock him up,” I said. “And throw away the key.”

  “So do I.”

  She turned, took my arm and walked us back down the road, past the burnt-out ruin of the B&B.

  “Don’t ask,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “You’re wanting to know about the fire.”

  “Yeah. It crossed my mind you might have set it yourself.”

  She took a slow breath and leaned into me. “It was an accident. It’s official.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I suppose.” She looked away. “Sometimes the darkness seems better than this—”

  I could have said that I knew what she felt like, but in truth I had no idea. I had my demons, she had hers. I lifted my gaze to the lake and the mountains on the other side. “The phone call,” I said. “The night Gigi was killed. “Did you answer it or did Sarge?”

  “I did.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Julia.” She was silent for a moment. “Sarge wants me to say it was Gigi. He thinks it will help his case.”

  “Is that why he hit you?”

  She didn’t want to answer that, so I took her arm and turned back to the road. “What will you do?”

  A soft shrug. “I won’t lie anymore.”

  “Good. Piece of advice?”

  “Mmn.”

  “Take the insurance money and run. Take the money and the kids, go somewhere else.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come with me?”

  I let silence and the lake stand in for an answer. She didn’t ask me again.

  We turned around and walked back along the shore. She kept her thoughts to herself for a while, then leaned in again and told me she’d seen him. Gigi. “A couple of weeks before he died. He came by one evening, in a wonderful mood. He was off to Milan the next day. To see you.”

  “We had coffee,” I said. “He told me the streets were paved with gold.”

  “Paradise, just around the corner.” She stopped, swung around and stood on tip-toes, put a finger on my lips, shut me up. “I should be getting back.”

  I kissed her on the cheek, below the bruise around her eye. “You can’t let him slap you around.”

  “I know. I won’t.”

  “Good,” I said, and walked away.

  “Pet
e—” She called after me.

  I stopped, looked back.

  “Did he give you the earrings?”

  “What—” The ground opened up beneath my feet. “What earrings?”

  “Eva’s. I found them in a drawer, in your old room. I knew Gigi was going to see you, so I asked him to give them to you.”

  I sank my hand in a pocket, found the earrings and fingered them. Relief, chagrin, a flicker of happiness. Whatever it was, Renata saw it and walked up and wrapped her arms around me. “Eva must have left them. One night when she came up to see you.”

  “Yes. Eva did that every once in a while.”

  “I remember.” She took a deep breath. “I remember those nights.”

  We held each other for a while, broke apart and turned away.

  Thirty nine

  The taxi rolled to a stop out front of the station. “Thanks for the help, Joe.” I had the door half open. “If you’re ever in Milan, give me a call.”

  “Sure.” A nod. “Uh, one more thing, Mr Pescatore.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The night with Miss Witherspoon? You’re a witness. You must testify.”

  “No problem.” I hauled myself up and out, let the door fall shut and waved as he drove away.

  I trudged up the steps.

  The station kiosk had a couple of copies of the International Herald Tribune. A headline jumped out at me. BANK SECRECY DEAD: SWISS RELEASE 5,000 NAMES

  I snatched the paper from the stand and read: A spokesperson for the Swiss government confirmed yesterday that the names of some five thousand American citizens, holders of secret accounts in Swiss banks, had been turned over to the United States Government. Few details were provided. A statement the Swiss government indicated that in future they intended to cooperate fully with the United States in the fight against money-laundering by criminals, terrorists and tax-evaders.

  I dug out my phone. Two missed calls. The first from Milan. I called back.

  “Pescatore,” she said. “Why you don’t answer your phone?”

  “Caller ID,” I said.

  A snort from Anastasia. “Dumb, Pescatore. Dumb as doorknob.”

  “What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

  “Johnny,” she said. “Pulling his hair. Yelling. No happy camper.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “No money.”

  “What?”

  “Investor disappear.”

  “The Arab?”

  “He never send money. Nothing. Not one cent.” She seemed pleased with the news.

  “Sorry to hear,” I said.

  “Sorry nothing. We go back to work. You come here, now. You must write.”

  “Write.” I climbed on the train. “About what?”

  “Johnny says we publish story. Interview with Tex, deal with Bellomo, everything.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolute.”

  I found a seat, and sat back. “What about the Masons?”

  “Screw Masons,” she said. “Bor-ing.”

  “Listen, Stazz. I’m on a train. I’ll call you.”

  “When?”

  “Later.” I hung up.

  The other missed call was from Heidi.

  Couple days later, late morning after a long night out. I got up and made breakfast for two and carried it back to bed. Coffee, hot milk and toast with jam. A little later that morning there was a knock. I got up, padded out and down the hall and opened the door. And there she was.

  “Pescatore,” she said. “I won’t go away.”

  “Hello, Stazz.” I made no move to invite her in. “What can I do you for?”

  “You owe me story.” She pushed in past me and off down the hall.

  I sighed and shut the door and called out after her. “Coffee’s in the kitchen, Stazz.”

  She stopped outside the bathroom door, cocked her head, smiled. The sound of water running. Someone in the shower. I took her by the arm and steered her to the kitchen and sat her down. She jumped up again and opened my fridge. In the freezer compartment she found a bottle of Stolichnaya, snatched glasses from the cupboard and poured a couple of shots. “Drink, Pescatore.”

  So we did.

  “Swiss miss? Or is she German?”

  “Mind your own business. Tell me what happened. The investor?”

  “Disappear.” She let a smile flicker over her lips. A light in her eyes, alive, thinking, waiting.

  A few minutes later Heidi made her appearance, wrapped in my bathrobe, padding barefoot across the floor. It was a little too casual, a little too cool, the way she walked up and sat down with us.

  Anastasia giggled, got up, found a glass in the cupboard, sat back down and poured her a drink. “You must be Hildegard,” she said. “No? Helga? I can’t remember. He always get them mixed up.”

  “Porca puttana.” I poured myself another shot. “Heidi, this is Anastasia. She runs the online edition of CNI.”

  “Nice to meet you, finally,” said Heidi. “I feel I know all about you already.”

  Anastasia raised an eyebrow.

  Heidi paused, took a sip of vodka, smiled and said, “He talks in his sleep.”

  “I know,” said Anastasia. “He told me all about you.” She frowned. “I mean, I think it was you.”

  “Time to go, Stazz.” I stood up and escorted Anastasia to the door, ran back to the kitchen and dragged the doctor back to bed.

  Later that day I knocked on Clementina’s door. I heard a yip-yip and yelping and when she opened up he charged out past her onto the landing, damn near knocked me over. When I got him calmed down I introduced Dr. Kirsch to the dog and its owner.

  “Molto lieto,” said Tina. “I am happy to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” said Heidi.

  “Red,” I said, dropped to a crouch and took his head in my hands. “How about you and me take a walk?” I looked up at Tina. “Ok with you? I’ll have him back in an hour.”

  “I’ll have coffee ready.” She smiled, ran a hand through her hair, stepped away from the door and came out from behind it with a long leather leash. “I’ve had a message from Marco,” she said. “I’ll tell you about it when you’re back.”

  “Great,” I said, clipped on the leash and handed it to Heidi. She waved, turned away and led Red down the stairs.

  I gave Tina a wink and trundled down after them into the day. In the street Heidi stopped and turned back to me. “What was that all about?”

  “Tina talks to the dead,” I said. “Her son, mostly.”

  “And your wife?”

  “I never asked.”

  “Maybe you should. I talk to dead people all the time.”

  “What do they tell you?”

  “You’d be surprised. Sometimes they tell me what killed them.”

  “You think Eva was killed?”

  “I have no idea. I just think you should ask her.”

  I slipped an arm around her waist, leaned in and whispered, “Maybe I will. Someday.”

  “Good.” She bent and unhooked Red from his leash. He scampered away, stopped to sniff up a lamp-post and bounded off down the road. “Call me if you need any help.”

  Somehow that sounded like goodbye. “Sure,” I said. Shades of regret tinged the pleasure lingering from the night before. I took the leash from her hands. “I’m sorry to see you go, Doc. Can I get you a taxi?”

  “I drove, Pete.”

  “Right. I knew that.”

  A smile in her eyes and on her lips. “I’ll call you.”

  Credits

  Pete Pescatore lives in Milan, Italy, where he writes about crime, wine and watches.

  To sign up for an occasional email newsletter, click here.

  Every month Pete writes a wine column for The American; look for Pete Pescatore in the Food section.

  He’s on Facebook and can also be reached at petepescatore@gmail.com

  If you feel so inclined, he’d appreciate if you’d write a review on the Amazon
.com site.

  Thanks & compliments go to Giovanni Auriemma for the great cover art for this edition. You can contact Giovanni at info@giovanniauriemma.it. The cover makes use of a photo of the Milan Central Station taken January 1, 2007 by Giovanni Dall’Orto, who holds the copyright for the image.

  A number of people read and commented on the manuscript at various stages: Gregory Burns, Mark Campbell, Nancy Feyen, Gadi Geiger, Madeleine Johnson, Robert Morley, Andrea Smith, Eleanor Shannon and Thomas Thornton. Heartfelt thanks to all.

  For S. Love always.

  Pete