When the phone rang, she shouted into it, “What do you want?”
Leslie’s voice answered her.
Black Hole
Thursday, evening
“Anna, I just want to say one thing. You’re fired—”
“But, but I was trying to solve—”
“For violating the law, not to mention our policies. Collecting information to help that Italian scumbag? You’ve been aiding and abetting a money launderer and his gang!”
“That’s not—”
“Shut up. You’ve been trying to clean up after yourself and your tawdry affair. We saw the photograph of the file you took to Milan. His grubby hands on our confidential file. You’ve brought shame on all of us here at FinCEN. You infiltrated the US government and fooled us all. Who are you, anyway, a Mafia princess? Maybe you’re related to that Mafia don in prison, Gotti? Nah, you’re just a low-level smurf lackey. Your underworld bosses may well snuff you out, now that your cover’s blown. We’re conducting a top-to-bottom review of your activities and will make a full report to the Justice Department. They’ll be looking into charges. At least I didn’t hire you. Diane, your first boss—what a sap—is going to be on the hot seat.”
“I was not involved with Sergio Corrin.”
“From a look at the other photos, I’d say you were closely involved with him.” Leslie snickered. “I’ve had enough of you and your air of superiority, as if you’re the only one with a big brain. Meanwhile, you’ve brought down a promising employee, playing on his loyalty to you and sabotaging him.”
“Brian? What have you done to him?”
“I don’t need to tell you.”
“No!”
“And whaddya think this does to my career? Throws it into the toilet. We’ll be sending the dismissal letter to your home. Who knows, maybe you even killed that count.”
She heard a thundering crash as Leslie slammed down the phone. Anna pictured her sitting at her abnormally tidy desk, gazing at her perfectly polished fingernails, not a hair on her head out of place. And smirking, having just ripped Anna to shreds.
She curled into a ball on her bed. An image of an astronaut, bobbing in space in a white suit, crossed her mind. Far below him lay the brilliant blue-water planet Earth, this would-be paradise, its sparkling, swirling clouds masking the conflicts and destruction fueled by infinite greed and hatred in a precarious world. Suddenly, an evil alien resembling Leslie flew by and cut the tether to his ship.
Anna recalled all the nights and weekends she had worked late, dueling with shadowy forces behind a money-laundering web until she found the right algorithm, busting the scheme open and spilling its dark secrets. Jack hadn’t seen her much then. She had traveled a lot, too. Sacrificing for the future, she had thought; instead it had brought her a kick in the teeth. Even if she ever got out of this mess with Biondi, and another, perhaps, with the Treasury or Justice Department, she could forget about a future government job, because there’d always be a black mark next to her name. The banking industry—like going back to a spot in compliance—out, too. They all knew each other. Maybe she could work for a hedge fund back in New York, building quantitative models, but Anna couldn’t get excited about money-making as her purpose in life.
Thanks to the gift package from Biondi, Leslie possessed strong photographic evidence to implicate Anna, but how could she have twisted Anna’s research to portray her as Sergio’s helper? In any case, Leslie would find a way to prosper from her setback. The firings would make her appear a strong leader, taking resolute action, and with Brian dismissed, there’d be no one to contradict her exaggerations and fabrications. If Anna were allowed to leave Italy, Leslie would make sure federal officers would be there to greet her at San Francisco International Airport, a sick welcome-home party.
Anna closed her eyes, immobilized by an immense force she felt holding her down, sucking in the light and devouring her energy before smashing all her bits of hope. What had she been thinking, running around Venice like an amateur detective, not knowing what the hell she was doing, and with nothing to show for her efforts? In a way, it would be a relief to have Biondi come and lock her up. That would at least end the torture of flailing about. A murder conviction would outrank a money-laundering charge, of course. The Italians could hold onto her for a very long time.
Anna rolled over and dialed the front desk, telling the clerk to hold all calls until the next day, before falling into a fitful slumber.
Il Gazzettino
Friday, late morning
When her phone rang, Anna gawked at her clock and realized she had slept for seventeen hours. Gingerly picking up the receiver, she was relieved to hear Margo’s cheery hello.
“Gee, you sound groggy,” Margo said. “I’m down in your lobby. I was starting to worry about you. Didn’t you get my message?”
“Yeah. You mean the note on Wednesday?”
“Huh? No, I called yesterday. Did you forget we have an appointment with Filippo Fanfarone in an hour? And I set you up to talk with Pablo. He’ll meet you at five by the bookstore across from the little Bacino Orseolo—you know, where they moor gondolas.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Pulling on a sweater and navy slacks, Anna washed up at the tiny sink, passed a brush through her hair, and rushed downstairs.
“I’m starving,” she told Margo, heading into the dining room. “Do you want some breakfast?”
“Sure.” She gave Anna a quizzical look. “I phoned you twice yesterday. But you never returned my calls.”
“I asked them not to connect any to my room, and I . . .” Anna was concentrating on heaping fruit, prosciutto and cheese, croissants and frittata on her plate, then on finding a quiet table. As soon as the waitress brought steaming coffee and hot milk, she told Margo, “It’s time I bring you up to date on a few things.”
“Such as?” Margo asked as Anna swallowed a chunk of fontina cheese.
Anna related the attack Wednesday evening after she’d set out for the count’s palazzo, as Margo had requested.
Margo seemed to have no trouble believing someone had sent the heavy cart Anna’s way. “I never left you a note. If something had happened to you, I could never have forgiven myself.” She reached across the table and clasped Anna’s hand. “Come stay at the palazzo. Alessandro can put a cot in my room, or we can share the big bed.”
“Outside the pensione is where I’ve had problems. Once we tell him about Gabriella’s diary, I won’t be very welcome.”
“Let me handle that. You’re being brave, but very foolish. Think it over.” Margo tore apart a croissant. “That note, did it look like my handwriting?”
“At first, I figured you had phoned and a clerk took it down; it was in English. Later that night, he did say a woman had come to see me.”
“So someone lured you out of the hotel with a fake message. That’s doubly threatening, because whoever it is, knows about me, too, knows we’re friends and where I’m staying. Do you still have the note?”
“I can’t find it.”
“Too bad. But after your scare, why didn’t you come straight to the count’s the next day? What did you end up doing?”
“I wanted to search for the diary in daylight. I was going to come after that, but I ended up walking around and . . . visiting a shrink,” Anna said, leaving out anything about Roberto. The encounter almost seemed as if she had dreamed it.
“You know one here?”
“I’d been given his name as a referral. I really needed to talk to someone.”
“You can always confide in me.”
“I know. I mean someone with training.” Anna sipped the strong coffee. “With everything that’s happened since I arrived, I needed to feel calm and centered, pronto, or I’ll never be able to think my way out of this.”
“Did it help?”
“Not much.”
“More than anything, you need to be careful. You shouldn’t go out of this pensione alone anymore.”
“Tell me about it. She’s been crying every night. Guess she’s really homesick.”
Anna sampled the artichoke frittata. “You know, I visited Sergio’s gallery since I saw you last, too. Kind of buried amid all the expensive art and artifacts are carvings and paintings by that artist who’s living in Sergio’s palazzo. And did you hear that Sergio was a big-game hunter, at least years ago?”
“Nope. Do you think that means anything?”
Anna shrugged.
“What ever came from the searches of everyone’s accounts and all the other information you had your assistant track down?”
“He won’t be sending anything.” Anna’s voice dropped.
“Why not?”
“I got canned yesterday. And Brian lost his job, too, thanks to me.”
“Oh, no. You always suspected your boss would be up to something, and now this on top of everything else.” She put a sympathetic hand on Anna’s shoulder.
“Yep. Leslie not only fired me, but she’s trying to twist everything I’ve researched and done to make it look as if I smuggled information to Sergio and am trying to clean things up. She might even have me arrested in San Francisco, if I ever make it out of Biondi’s clutches.” She glanced at the floor. “This is becoming hopeless.”
“Don’t say that. I’m sure we can learn lots more about Sergio from Fanfarone. And if any of this has anything to do with the Gondola Murders, the missing pieces could be right there in the Gazzettino offices. After all, you might not have been attacked if you were on the wrong trail.”
Anna pondered Margo’s words.
They headed out the door toward Calle della Mandorla, a little street pressing in on both sides. As they passed the statue of Daniele Manin, the Venetian patriot, Anna said, “Wait, I need to take a look inside,” pointing to an imposing cement-and-metal edifice. The bright letters affixed to the façade spelled out Banco Saturno.
“What are you going to find there? It’s a freaking bank, just like any other.”
Not entirely, Anna thought. “I’ll be quick.”
Dashing into the marbled entry, she noted a timbered ceiling soaring above a line of leather-topped desks on oriental carpets. Two classical sculptures of Roman gods stood against the opposite wall: one with a trident, the other with a scythe. Comely tellers sat behind ornate mahogany-and-glass counters, looking bored. Pastries and coffee on silver trays were personally served to waiting customers. Sounds were muted, as well-heeled clients spoke with advisors in hushed tones. One far wall with two rows of plush theater seats in front, was dedicated to TV screens, bringing up-to-the-minute indicators of the Borsa Italiana, the London Stock Exchange, the NYSE, the DAX, and others around the world. Video cameras blinked red from each corner. Decorum reigned.
Returning outside, Anna told Margo, “Let’s go,” as she mentally scratched any more Banco Saturno branches off her list for clues.
As they approached the newspaper office, Margo said, “The Gazzettino stores old issues back to the fifties. Fanfarone will certainly let us into the archives. You can’t believe how much I’ve been buttering him up.”
Filippo Fanfarone looked delighted to see Margo and Anna, kissing them each on the cheek, filling Anna with anticipation, a relief after the difficulties gaining building access in the lobby.
“It’s such a pleasure to visit you here, at this esteemed newspaper,” Margo said as the three went into his office. An antique desk and cushy leather sofa sat atop a thick carpet. A Murano chandelier resembled a giant multicolored crab; a shield carved with a panoply of animals filled one corner. Anna wondered if the Gazzettino had spent all the lire on luxury furnishings for his society visitors or if they were Fanfarone’s personal contribution. His looks were certainly as dramatic as the décor. A white pageboy framed almond-brown eyes overshadowed by shaggy brows. His hair accentuated pale skin drawn tightly over high cheekbones and a prominent chin.
After serving cappuccinos to his guests, Fanfarone gushed about the upcoming opera season, pulling out swatches of wondrous, silky fabrics that had been commissioned from Rubelli for the costumes. He let them know he had lifelong connections to Venetian socialites, showing off an encyclopedic knowledge of their bloodlines and histories, triumphs and failures.
Anna sipped her coffee quietly, trying to figure out what made him tick. If they approached him properly, she hoped Fanfarone would spill secrets about Sergio and others that would be invaluable.
Turning to Margo, Fanfarone asked politely, “How is your sweet cugina, Angela?”
“Enjoying her stay immensely,” Margo said.
Fanfarone raised his eyebrows a tad. “Such an art lover, that one. I remember meeting her last year at an event, when a local gallery moved to its new location.”
“The Arte e Antichità, the Corrin Gallery?” Anna asked.
“Yes, Sergio’s gallery.”
“What a shock about his murder,” Anna added.
“Venice, I am afraid, will never be the same,” Fanfarone said dolefully. “He was so loved.”
Margo informed him that she was writing articles on the city for the Chronicle back home. She mentioned her visit to the Marciana Library before asking him for help with the Gazzettino archives.
“We hope you’ll allow us to review the archives for Margo’s story, since it goes back in time,” Anna said. “I’m working with her on the financial interpretations, drawing on my banking knowledge.”
Fanfarone crossed his legs and nodded with a distant look. “I have just one question,” he said. “What is the exact subject?”
“Venetian prostitution and Sergio Corrin,” Margo said.
Fanfarone’s mouth gaped open.
“I mean to say these would be totally separate.”
“What! Prostitution? Why do you desire to smear Venice and write about muck worse than what lines our canals? And what does this have to do with Count Corrin?”
“No, no, nothing.” Margo blushed. “I told you, I’m writing more than one story. For the prostitution piece, I’m focusing on centuries ago, not the present day—on, you know, courtesans.”
“Yes, yes. I am familiar with all the paintings and poems, too. Which of those do you think you will use?”
“I’m not an art critic, but certainly, um, the painting by Carpaccio, um, and—of course poems by Veronica Franco. The second article would be my piece reflecting on the life of Count Corrin, the charity superstar.”
“Access to your archives would be critical,” Anna said.
Fanfarone squinted at her. “He was a hero, back in the forties, of the Italian Resistance and not even out of his teens. So brave. Did you know that? And later, a supremely successful businessman and investor. He helped enrich many in Venice with his advice. Do you think I could afford to decorate my office on a writer’s salary? Such a fine consigliere—”
“But some must have lost money with him,” Anna said.
“Of course. The market does not rise forever like a helium balloon. The mergers do not always yield as anticipated. But for the majority, his advice worked.”
“Then why do you think he was killed?” Anna asked. “Not because of business. Maybe pleasure? Sergio was catnip to the ladies.” Fanfarone leaned down to scratch a bare ankle. “The answer for the archives is no.”
Over the years, Gazzettino reporters may well have found plenty of dirt on Sergio, and it was not surprising that Fanfarone, as society gatekeeper and publicist, would shield him, dead or alive, from prying eyes. When the low morals of one club member were exposed, it weakened the entire bunch.
“I will take no part in helping people intent on making a sensational splash by sacrificing Venice,” he said.
“Nothing could be further from the truth about my story,” Margo said. “I lived here for a number of years, you know, and I love the city, too.”
Fanfarone leaned
forward in his chair. “I have always written about the good that happens here, not the seamy side. Only beautiful people doing beautiful things.”
“I knew Count Corrin and his wife, Liliana,” Margo said. “Such upstanding citizens. I’m not out to damage their reputations.”
Anna couldn’t bear to listen to Margo piling it on.
Fanfarone glanced at the glass wall clock. “Beside this, our building is open just half day today. Closes in one hour. I tell you a little about Sergio instead.”
“Signor Fanfarone, I’m terribly sorry, but I just realized I have an appointment,” Anna said. “I’m sure Margo will carry on well without me.” He nodded and rose to take her hand as Margo gave Anna an uncomprehending stare.
As soon as she left Fanfarone’s office, Anna asked a passing janitor where the archives were, then bolted past the newsroom and up a flight of stairs. She opened the door at the end of the hall and quickly slipped inside, unsure what she could find in one hour. Unless Margo charmed Fanfarone enough for another meeting, to which Anna gave a ten percent probability, this would be her last chance to comb the newspaper’s archives.
Massive gray cabinets covered in a film of dust filled the space, their holdings keyed to dates printed on each drawer label. A dehumidifier hummed in the corner. If she recalled correctly, Sergio had been a young, married lawyer in the fifties, not yet a force at CONSOB, or a mover-and-shaker. Anna opted for using Gabriella’s death as the central point, calculating that she had at least sixty daily newspapers to review. Diving in, she lugged thirty days’ worth of papers, beginning in mid-May, 1955, to a nearby table and plunked them down, scouring the front pages and local sections.
An article from May 27 caught her eye. A group calling itself the Pride Council had sent Alessandro letters threatening both him and his wife. The paper depicted its insignia, which resembled a trident. Anna doubted the menacing notes came from a real organization. Was the story even true? Or had it been concocted by Alessandro before he murdered Gabriella? Anna focused on the trident, hoping the proper application of logic and reason could reveal a solution to the puzzle. Remembering her mythology, Neptune, the god of the sea, carried a trident. Neptune was the son of Saturn. Why had Sergio picked that name, Saturno, for his bank? Then there was the sculpture she had just seen in the bank lobby. Was it a coincidence, or had Sergio just loved the classics? Anna took a piece of paper from her purse and sketched the insignia to compare to the logo of the bank.
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