by Nora Roberts
“Yes, I see. They don’t match in a number of departmental expenditures. Across the board. This perplexes me, signore, but I’m more perplexed by the activities attributed to the Cardianili account. Orders, shipments, breakage, salaries, expenses. All very clearly recorded.”
“Sì. In that area there is no . . . what is it? Discrepancy. The figures are correct.”
“Apparently they are. However, there is no Cardianili account. No Giambelli client or customer by that name. There’s no Cardianili warehouse in Rome at the address recorded in the files. If there’s no customer, no client, no warehouse, where do you suppose these orders, over the last three years, have been sent?”
The accountant blinked behind the lenses of wire-framed glasses. “I could not say. There is a mistake, of course.”
“Of course. There’s a mistake.” And David believed he knew who’d made it.
He swiveled in his chair and addressed the lawyer. “Signore, have you had the opportunity to study the documents I gave you yesterday?”
“I have.”
“And the name of the account executive in charge of this account?”
“Listed as Anthony Avano.”
“And the invoices, the expense chits, the correspondence relating to the account were signed by Anthony Avano?”
“They were. Until December of last year his signature appears on much of the paperwork. After that time, Margaret Bowers’s signature appears in the file.”
“We’ll need to have those signatures verified as genuine.”
“I understand.”
“And the signature who approved, and ordered, the shipments, the expenditures and signed off on the payments from the account. Donato Giambelli.”
“Signore Cutter, I will have the signatures verified, will look into this matter from a legal point of view and advise you of your position and your recourse. I will do that,” he added, “when I have the permission to do so from Signora Giambelli herself. This is a delicate matter.”
“I realize that, which is why Donato Giambelli was not informed of this meeting. I trust your discretion, signori. The Giambellis won’t wish more public scandal, as a company or as a family. If you would give me a moment, please, to contact La Signora in California and relate to her what we’ve just discussed?”
It was always tricky for an outsider to question the integrity, the honesty, of one of the core. David was neither Italian nor a Giambelli. Two strikes, he decided. The fact that he’d been brought into the organization barely four months before was the third.
He was going up against Donato Giambelli with one out already on his slate. There were two ways, in his opinion, to handle the situation. He could be aggressive and swing away. Or he could wait, with the bat on his shoulder, for the perfect pitch.
Back to sports metaphors, he thought as he stood at the window of his office, hands in his pockets, and watched the water traffic stream by. Apt enough. What was business but another game? Skill, strategy, luck were required.
Donato would assume he had home-field advantage. But the minute he walked into the office, he would be on David’s turf. That David intended to make clear.
His interoffice phone buzzed.
“Signore Giambelli is here to see you, Signore Cutter.”
“Thank you. Tell him I’ll be right with him.”
Let him sweat just a little, David decided. If the grapevine here climbed as quickly as it did in most companies, Don already knew a meeting had been held. Accountants, lawyers, questions, files. And he would wonder, he would worry.
He would, if he was smart, have some reasonable explanation in hand. Answers lined up, fall guy in place. Smartest move would be fury, outrage. And he would be counting heavily on family loyalty, on the stream of blood to carry him through the crisis.
David walked to the door himself, opened it and watched Donato pace the outer office. “Don, thanks for coming in. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“You made it sound important, so I made time.” He stepped into the office, scanned the room quickly. Relaxed a little when he found it empty. “If I’d been informed before you made your travel arrangements, I would have cleared my calendar so that I could have shown you Venice.”
“The arrangements were made quickly, but I’ve seen Venice before. I’m looking forward to seeing the castello, though, and the vineyards. Have a seat.”
“If you let me know when you plan to go, I’ll arrange to escort you. I go there myself, regularly, to make certain all is as it should be.” He sat, folded his hands. “Now, what can I do for you?”
Swing away, David decided, and took his place behind his desk. “You could explain the Cardianili account.”
Don’s face went blank. As his eyes darted from side to side, he worked up a puzzled smile. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” David said pleasantly. “That’s why I’m asking you to explain it.”
“Ah, well, David. You give my memory too much credit. I can’t remember every account, or details of it. If you’ll give me time to pull files and information—”
“Oh, I already have them.” David tapped a finger on the file on his desk. Not so smart, he decided, surprised. And not prepared. “Your signature appears on a number of expense chits, correspondence and other paperwork pertaining to this account.”
“My signature appears on many such account papers.” Don was beginning to sweat—lightly, visibly. “I can hardly remember all of them.”
“This one should stick out. As it doesn’t exist. There is no Cardianili account, Donato. There’s considerable paperwork generated for it, a great deal of money involved. Invoices and expenses, but no account. No man by the name of”—he paused, flipped open the file and drew out a sheet of Giambelli letterhead—“Giorgio Cardianili, with whom you appear to have corresponded several times over the last few years. He doesn’t exist, nor does the warehouse with an address in Rome to which several shipments of wine are listed to have been shipped. This warehouse, where you, on company expense, traveled to on business twice in the last eight months, isn’t there. How would you explain that?”
“I don’t understand.” Donato sprang to his feet. But he didn’t look outraged. He looked terrified. “What are you accusing me of ?”
“At the moment, nothing. I’m asking you to explain this file.”
“I have no explanation. I don’t know of this file, this account.”
“Then how is it your signature appears in it? How is it your expense account was charged more than ten million lire in connection to this account?”
“A mistake.” Donato moistened his lips. He snatched the letterhead from the file. “A forgery. Someone uses me to steal money from La Signora, from my family. Mia famiglia,” he said, and his hand shook as he thumped it against his heart. “I’ll look into this immediately.”
No, not smart at all, David decided. Not nearly smart enough. “You have forty-eight hours.”
“You would dare? You would dare give me such an ultimatum when someone steals from my family?”
“The ultimatum, as you call it, comes from La Signora. She requires your explanation within two days. In the meantime, all activity on this account is frozen. Two days from now, all paperwork generated from this matter is to be turned over to the police.”
“The police?” Don went white. His composure in tatters, his hands began to tremble and his voice to hitch. “This is ridiculous. It’s obviously an internal problem of some kind. We don’t want an outside investigation, the publicity—”
“La Signora wants results. Whatever the cost.”
Now he paused, struggled to think, to find a rope swinging over the pit he’d so suddenly found himself standing over. “With Tony Avano as account executive, it’s easy to see the source of the problem.”
“Indeed. But I didn’t identify Avano as the account exec.”
“Naturally I assumed . . .” Don wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “A major account.”
&nb
sp; “I didn’t qualify Cardianili as major. Take your two days,” David said quietly. “And take my advice. Think of your wife and children. La Signora will be more likely to show compassion if you stand up for what’s been done, and stand up for your family.”
“Don’t tell me what to do about my family. About my position. I’ve been with Giambelli all my life. I am Giambelli. And will be long after you’re gone. I want that file.”
“You’re welcome to it.” David ignored the imperious and outstretched hand, and closed the folder. “In forty-eight hours.”
It puzzled David that Donato Giambelli was so unprepared, so clueless. Not innocent, he thought as he crossed St. Mark’s Square. Donato had his hand in the muck up to his elbow. But he hadn’t put the scam together. He hadn’t run the show. Avano, possibly. Quite possibly, though the amount skimmed under his name was petty cash next to what Donato had raked in.
And Avano had been dead four months.
The detectives in charge of his homicide investigation would likely be interested in this new information. And how much of that dingy light would land on Pilar?
Swearing under his breath, he moved toward one of the tables spilling out on the walkway. He sat, and for a time simply watched the flood of tourists pour across the stones, in and out of the cathedral. And in and out of the shops that lined the square.
Avano had been milking the company, he thought. That was a given, and already known. But what David now carried in his briefcase took things to another level. Donato stepped it all up to fraud.
And Margaret? There was nothing to indicate she’d had knowledge of or participation in any skimming prior to her promotion. Had she turned so quickly? Or had she learned of the false account and that knowledge had led to her death?
Whatever the explanation, it didn’t answer the thorniest of questions: Who was in charge now? Who was it Donato was surely calling in panic for instructions, for help?
Would whoever that was believe, as easily as Donato had believed, that La Signora intended to take the matter to the police? Or would they be coolheaded and call the bluff?
In any case, within two days Donato Giambelli was going to be out on his ass. Which added one more layer to David’s headache. Don would have to be replaced, and quickly. The internal investigation would have to continue until all leaks were plugged.
His own time in Italy would likely be extended, and at a point in his life where he wanted and needed to be home.
He ordered a glass of wine, checked the time, then took out his cell phone. “Maria? This is David Cutter. Is Pilar available?”
“One moment, Mr. Cutter.”
He tried to imagine where she was in the house, what she was doing.
The last night they’d been together, they’d made love in his van on the edge of the vineyard. Like a couple of giddy teenagers, he remembered. So eager for each other, so desperate to touch.
And remembering brought on a painful longing.
It was easier, he found, to imagine her sitting across from him, while the light dimming toward dusk struck the dome of the cathedral like an arrow, and the air filled with the flurry of pigeons on the wing.
When all this is over, he promised himself, he would have that moment with her.
“David?”
The fact that she was a little breathless made him smile. She’d hurried. “I was just sitting here, in St. Mark’s Square.” He picked up the glass of wine the waiter brought him, sipped. “Drinking an interesting little Chianti and thinking of you.”
“Is there music?”
“A small orchestra across the plaza, playing American show tunes. Sort of spoils the moment.”
“Not at all. Not for me.”
“How are the kids?”
“They’re fine. Actually, I think Maddy and I are cautiously approaching friendship. She came out to the greenhouse yesterday after school. I got a lesson on photosynthesis, most of which was over my head. Theo broke up with the girl he’s been seeing.”
“Julie?”
“Julie was last winter, David. Keep up. Carrie. He and Carrie broke up, and he moped for about ten minutes. He’s sworn off girls and intends to dedicate his life to his music.”
“Been there. That should last maybe a day.”
“I’ll let you know. How’s everything there?”
“Better now, for talking to you. Will you tell the kids I’ll call them tonight? I’ll make it about six your time.”
“All right. I guess you don’t know when you might be coming home?”
“Not yet. There are some complications. I miss you, Pilar.”
“I miss you, too. Do me a favor?”
“You’ve got it.”
“Just sit there awhile. Drink your wine, listen to the music, watch the light change. I’ll think of you there.”
“I’ll think of you here, too. Bye.”
When he hung up, he lingered over the wine. It had been an experience to talk to a woman—to her—about his children that way. To someone who understood them, appreciated them. It connected them in a way that made them almost like family. And that, he realized, was what he wanted. He wanted a family again. All the links that made the circle.
On an unsteady breath, he set down his wine. He wanted a wife. He wanted Pilar to be his wife.
Too fast? he wondered. Too much?
No. No, it wasn’t. Any way he looked at it, it was exactly right. They were grown-ups with half their lives behind them. Why should they waste the rest of it inching along in stages?
He got to his feet, tossed some lire on the table.
Why should he waste another minute? What better place to buy a ring for the woman he loved than Venice? When he turned, and the first window to catch his eye was a jeweler’s, David considered it a sign.
It wasn’t as easy as he assumed it would be. He didn’t want a diamond. It occurred to him that Avano had probably given her one, and he discovered in himself a deep-seated aversion to giving Pilar anything Avano had.
He wanted something that spoke to the two of them, something that showed her he understood her as no one else had. Or could.
Competitive, he supposed as he wandered into yet another shop. And so what?
He climbed the stairs on the jammed Rialto bridge, where the stores were shoved cheek by jowl on that rise above the water. Eager shoppers elbowed and shoved their way through as if terrified the last souvenir would be snatched away before they could buy it.
He bumped his way past the stalls offering leather goods, T-shirts and trinkets and tried to focus on the shop windows. Each one ran like rivers with gold, gems. A dazzle that confused the eye. Discouraged, annoyed, tired from the long hike, he nearly called it a night. He could wait, ask his Venice assistant for a recommendation.
Then he turned, looked into one more window. And saw it.
The ring was set with five stones, all in delicate heart shapes that made a quiet stream of color. Like her flowers, he thought. Five stones, he thought, stepping closer. One for each of them and each of their children. He imagined the blue was sapphire, the red ruby, the green emerald. The purple and the gold stones he wasn’t as sure of. What did it matter? It was perfect.
Thirty minutes later he walked out. He had the description of the ring—amethyst and citrine for the last two stones, he reminded himself—in his pocket. The ring was tucked in his pocket as well. He’d had it engraved with the date he’d bought it.
He wanted her to know, always, that he’d found it on the evening he’d sat in Campo San Marco while the light went soft, talking to her.
His steps were lighter than they had been as he left the bridge. He wandered the narrow streets now, giving himself the treat of an aimless walk. The crowds were thinning as night fell and turned the canals a glossy black. Now and then he could hear the echo of his own footsteps or the lap of water against a bridge.
He decided not to go back to his apartment, but ducked under the awning of a sidewalk trattoria. If he went back, he
’d work and spoil the pleasure, the anticipation of the evening. He ordered the turbot, a half carafe of the house white.
He idled his way through the meal, smiling sentimentally at a couple obviously honeymooning, enjoying the little boy who escaped from his parents to charm the waiters. It was, he supposed, a typical reaction of a man in love that he’d find everyone and everything a simple delight.
He lingered over coffee and thought of what he would say, how he would say it, when he offered the ring to Pilar.
Most of the squares were empty as he headed back across the city. The shops were shut down and the sidewalk grifters had long since packed up their wares.
Now and then he saw the little beam of light from a gondola carrying tourists down a side canal or heard a voice rise and carry over the water, but for the most part, he was—at last—alone in the city.
Enjoying himself, he took his time, walked off the meal and let the stress of the day drain while he absorbed Venice after dark.
He crossed another bridge, walked through the shadows of another twisting street. He glanced up when light poured out of a window above him, and smiled as a young woman began to draw in the wash that fluttered faintly in the breeze. Her hair was dark and tumbled around her shoulders. Her arms were long and slim, with a flash of gold at her wrist. She was singing, and the cheerful bell of her voice rang into the empty street.
The moment etched itself on his brain.
The dark-haired woman who was late bringing in the day’s wash but singing nonetheless, the scent of her supper that wafted down. She caught his eye, laughed, a sound full of fun and flirtation.
David stopped, turned, intending to call a greeting up to her. And doing so, likely saved his own life.
He felt the pain, a sudden, horrendous fire in the shoulder. Heard, dimly, a kind of muffled explosion even as the woman’s face blurred.
Then he was falling, falling slowly and forever to the sounds of screams and running feet until he lay bleeding and unconscious on the cool cobbles of the Venetian street.
He wasn’t out for long. There was a moment when his world seemed washed with red, and through that dull mist voices rose and fell. The Italian slipped incomprehensibly through his numb brain.