Yeah, he’s just a little bit crazy, thought Scamarcio. There was something of the mad genius about Giacometti.
Scamarcio had expected him to ask if the police knew any more, but Giacometti seemed totally uninterested in what had happened to Micky’s family. This was a man who never did as expected, who was probably incapable of conducting a normal conversation.
‘Are you surprised to hear about what’s happened to Proietti’s wife and son?’
Giacometti frowned, then shrugged. ‘Nothing in this world surprises me.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘That, Detective, is a very long story, and irrelevant to your investigation.’ He had returned his attention to the screen, and was now fiddling with the mouse.
‘Do you know of anyone who might have a grievance with Micky Proietti?’
Giacometti kept his eyes on the laptop. ‘Detective, if I wrote you a list of all the people who have a grievance with Micky Proietti, you wouldn’t be able to carry the 10-tonne brick of paper out with you.’
‘Why does he have so many enemies?’
Giacometti yawned loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth. ‘He’s an arsehole; possibly a sociopath. He has no consideration for people or their feelings. Now, if I’m honest, neither do I, but at least I make an attempt to hide it, to play the game. Micky doesn’t bother. Add to that the fact that he’ll pay you as little as he can get away with, and he’ll pay you late. Then add to that that he’s probably slept with your wife, mother, daughter — God knows, maybe your pet poodle …’
‘Has he slept with your wife?’
‘I’m a homosexual.’
Scamarcio’s mind went blank for a moment. ‘Your boyfriend?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware. My partner has good taste.’
‘Do you think any of the people with grudges against Micky would kidnap his family?’
Giacometti leant back in his chair and studied Scamarcio closely for the first time. ‘I doubt it. But, of course, I can’t be sure. I believe he owes some people money.’
‘Who?’
‘One or two production houses in Rome. Matrix is one of them. It’s run by a guy from Catanzaro, and I’ve heard he doesn’t take no for an answer.’
Catanzaro — Scamarcio’s neck of the woods.
‘And the other production company?’
‘I don’t know who they are. It’s just a rumour — I haven’t heard any names.’
Scamarcio wasn’t sure he believed him. ‘Does he owe you money?’
‘He wouldn’t dare. I run the most successful production house in the country, and he relies on our collaboration.’
‘And you had nothing to do with the kidnapping of Proietti’s family?’
Giacometti sighed. ‘Detective, do I look like I’d bother?’
Observing Giacometti now, the piles of DVDs on his desk, the next hit show cued up to play, Scamarcio had to admit that it seemed unlikely.
‘So if you were me, what would be your next port of call?’
Giacometti surprised him by smiling. ‘I’d pay Francesco Bruno at Matrix a visit. But I’d also try Fiammetta di Bondi.’
‘Fiammetta di Bondi? The showgirl?’
Giacometti seemed to enjoy his confusion. ‘Of course.’
‘And why is she relevant?’
‘From what I’ve heard, her boyfriend isn’t happy about Micky Proietti.’
‘She was sleeping with him?’
Giacometti pouted, as if to say Don’t be so slow.
‘Isn’t she with the Roma footballer, Aconi?’
‘Yeah,’ said Giacometti, his tone strangely cool and distant. ‘But it’s the secret boyfriend you need to keep an eye on.’
He winked, and pressed play on his laptop. Scamarcio heard the same dreadful piano music start up again.
‘What’s the wink for?’
Giacometti raised a hand. ‘That’s all you’re getting, Detective. You ask around, I’m sure you’ll find the answer.’
6
‘YEAH, THAT FUCKER OWES ME MONEY, but he won’t owe me for long, if you know what I mean.’
Francesco Bruno was your typical Catanzaro meathead: heavy-set, with a wide, tanned face and a thick, dark brush of hair. He would have looked more at home beating up debtors in a dark alley than running a TV company.
‘No, I don’t know,’ said Scamarcio, eyeing him closely. He wondered if they were connected somehow; whether Bruno had friends in the same dark places as Scamarcio — friends Scamarcio was still doing his best to shake off.
Bruno frowned and looked away. ‘All I’m saying is that I’ve made it pretty clear to Micky that I’m not doing any more work for him until that money comes through.’
Scamarcio guessed that had not been the gist of it. No doubt Proietti could pick and choose the companies he did business with. Judging from the size of the place and the shabby décor, Matrix did not appear to be in the same league as Giacometti’s outfit.
‘Was Proietti happy with the work he commissioned from you?’
‘Yeah, he loved it. Our shows rated really well. Just last week he told me he was going to hire us for a new series. That’s when I raised the point about the money.’
‘So Micky’s wife and son …?’
Bruno shook his head, and actually looked downcast. ‘That’s terrible. I couldn’t believe it when I heard; made me feel as if I was back down south.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘About who’s behind it?’
Scamarcio nodded.
Bruno frowned again and scratched beneath his nose. ‘I’m sure he’s got a lot of enemies, but I can’t imagine anyone in the trade doing anything like that. You’ve got to remember that work is scarce right now. You wouldn’t cut off the hand that feeds you.’
‘Besides Proietti, is there much business with the other channels?’
Bruno shook his head and pouted. ‘Practically nothing, and they pay peanuts anyway. Micky controls the lion’s share of the money that’s being spent around this town. For people like me, he’s Numero Uno.’
‘But if you felt like you had nothing to lose?’
Bruno shrugged. ‘I dunno. Who feels like that? We’re all manoeuvring for the next deal, reshuffling our decks.’
Scamarcio’s phone rang, and he raised a hand in apology. He stepped outside the tiny office to take the call.
‘Scamarcio — it’s Detective Caporaso — from the team watching Micky Proietti.’
‘Yes, go ahead, Detective.’
‘Mr Proietti has just received a package. When we opened it, it was found to contain a tooth: the tooth of a child. We’ve just sent it to the lab for DNA testing. We suspect it could belong to the son.’
Scamarcio took a breath. Bruno was right. This did not seem like the work of a bunch of disgruntled media types. It felt like the game had suddenly got a whole lot dirtier.
‘How is Mr Proietti responding?’ he asked
‘If you had the time to come down here and talk to him, I think it might help.’
‘Give me an hour.’
Scamarcio cut the call and stepped back into Bruno’s office. He tried to compose his expression; he didn’t want him picking up on any change in his demeanour.
‘Sorry, you were saying that you can’t imagine any of your colleagues being desperate enough to pull a stunt like this.’
Bruno was eyeing him carefully, as if he had noticed a change.
‘Yes, it wouldn’t make sense. I think you’re looking in the wrong place. You probably need to focus more on Micky’s love life. From what I hear, that’s a very tangled web, and I imagine there could be people there who might have scores to settle.’ He smiled thinly, and said nothing, as if there was nothing else to add. ‘I’d give you more if I could, but that’s all I know. I’m not in his t
rusted circle.’ He smiled again, and extended a hand. ‘Sorry not to have been of more help.’
From where Scamarcio was standing, he didn’t look too sorry at all.
Micky Proietti was pacing up and down his magnificent parquet when Scamarcio walked in. Seated at either side of the enormous white sofa were a distinguished-looking man of about seventy and an equally distinguished looking woman of a similar age. Both of them bore the contorted expressions of anguish, hope, and despair Scamarcio had seen on the faces of others whose loved ones had been taken. These must be the parents, he figured. He wondered why they were seated so far apart, like strangers. Why was their anxiety dividing them, rather than bringing them together?
Proietti turned when he saw him. ‘Do you have them?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The DNA results on the tooth. Are they back?’ Proietti eyes were burning with rage. He looked as if he was about to punch him.
‘They’ll be another few hours probably. Can we sit down? There’s something I want to discuss.’ He nodded to the parents. The old man rose carefully from the sofa and shook his hand. The mother just smiled wanly.
Proietti threw himself down into an armchair like a reluctant five-year-old.
‘I understand that this situation must be extremely stressful for all of you.’ Scamarcio turned to Proietti. ‘It seems like someone has gone to a lot of trouble to stage this kidnapping. We’ve found out that the guy who was supposed to chauffeur you was attacked, which means that whoever drove you into that crash was an imposter.’
He watched Proietti turn pale. ‘In the light of this and what’s just come in the post, I need to ask: have you ever crossed paths with organised crime?’
Proietti Snr jerked suddenly on the sofa as if he had received an electric shock. ‘What on earth!’
‘It’s a fair question,’ said Scamarcio. ‘It’s not uncommon in mafia kidnappings for body parts to be sent. The parcel casts this investigation in a new light.’
He switched his gaze to the mother. She remained strangely silent, her face impassive. It was as if she didn’t want to betray herself with the slightest gesture.
Micky Proietti sniffed loudly. Scamarcio wondered if he’d just snorted a line of coke. ‘Listen, Detective, I understand where you’re trying to go with this — at the end of the day you’re just doing your job — but, no, I can assure you that neither I nor my father have mafia contacts — never have done, and never will.’
Scamarcio tried to read his eyes, but he’d turned to his right and was looking at his mother for some reason.
‘Do you owe anyone money?’
Scamarcio felt the air in the room change. He sensed the Proiettis still holding themselves in, trying to inhibit the smallest movement.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Why “of course not”? It’s not uncommon to have debts.’
‘Look around you, Detective,’ said Proietti, sweeping an arm across the room. ‘Do I look like I have money troubles? I earn well at Channel One, and I’ve been fortunate in coming from a well-to-do family.’
‘Even rich boys can overstretch themselves.’
Proietti Snr crossed his legs and smoothed down his trousers. Scamarcio noticed fine blue silk socks and expensive brown brogues.
The old man coughed. ‘Detective, I made a lot of money in my career and, I’m proud to say, that money was made cleanly. Likewise my son has risen through the ranks without the need to grease palms. We have always been hard workers in the Proietti family, honest men.’
Proietti Snr’s wife toyed with the hair at the back of her neck. The gesture was slow and slight, but Scamarcio noticed it all the same.
‘Then you are to be congratulated. Unfortunately, none of this brings me any closer to finding your grandson. Do you have any thoughts on who might be responsible?’
Proietti Snr took a deep breath. ‘Right now, we are thinking that it may be someone connected to Michele’s work.’
His son snorted with contempt. ‘That bunch of bottom feeders. None of them would have the balls. It has to be something else.’
‘What then?’ asked Scamarcio.
Proietti sprung up from the chair as if something had bitten him. ‘If I knew, don’t you think I would have told you by now?’
Again Proietti looked ready to punch him. Scamarcio felt certain now that he had taken coke. He was too aggressive, too wired.
Proietti’s gaze flitted to the door as one of Scamarcio’s colleagues from the squadroom, Sartori, hurried in. The large envelope in his hand told Scamarcio that the DNA results were back.
‘Here,’ said Sartori, handing over the documents. ‘Garramone put a rush on it.’
Scamarcio nodded. The room seemed to hold its collective breath as he unfolded the single sheet of paper. He read in silence for several seconds and then looked up at Micky Proietti. ‘The tooth is from your son, sir. I’m sorry.’
Proietti just stood there, open-mouthed. He looked like a prizefighter frozen in stone; his fists were still balled, and his feet were set wide apart. What little colour remained in his face was draining away fast. However, the overriding message Scamarcio read from his expression was reaction rather than emotion; surprise rather than grief. Proietti had the look of a man who thought he was heading for A, but then discovered he was on the road to B; it was the look of a man whose plans had gone awry. The grief came later, after the surprise.
A piercing cry interrupted Scamarcio’s train of thought. Proietti’s mother was lunging towards her husband, slapping him hard across the face. ‘You bastard,’ she screamed. ‘You selfish, fucking bastard.’
Proietti Snr’s face had turned puce. Proietti Jnr had sprung up from the armchair, and was now behind his mother, trying to pull her off: ‘Mother, mother, come on. Calm down. Get a grip.’
‘I will never forgive you for this,’ she screamed at her husband as her son tried to lead her away. ‘Never.’
‘Mother,’ hissed Proietti, as he tried to pin her arms to her sides and point her towards the door.
‘You’re a murderer, a bloody murderer,’ she yelled behind her as they left.
7
‘WILL YOU GIVE ME A MOMENT? I need to check on my wife. This whole thing is taking a serious toll,’ said Proietti Snr as he rose from the sofa, his bird legs shaking. He looked like a vulnerable old man now, rather than a retired executive.
‘Of course,’ said Scamarcio, glad of the chance to collect his thoughts.
‘What the hell was that?’ asked Sartori, once the old man had left.
Scamarcio sank back into the armchair. ‘God knows. But whatever it is, we need to get to the bottom of it. Fast.’
‘I can’t believe they pulled out his tooth,’ said Sartori. ‘Poor little mite.’
Scamarcio rubbed at his neck. ‘Proietti told me that he’d asked his father if he could sell some shares held in his name, but the old man said no. I’m wondering if that’s relevant. Perhaps Proietti was in debt, and needed the money to bail himself out. When he couldn’t pay up, they took his family as a warning. Now Proietti’s mother sees her husband as responsible — if he’d given his son the money, her grandson would not have been taken.’
Sartori shrugged, noncommittal. ‘But why would he have debts?’
‘He’s got a serious coke habit, for starters.’
‘Yeah, but his salary would easily fund that.’
‘Yes, but coke often leads to other things, other vices. Maybe there are certain aspects of Micky’s life we don’t yet know about.’ Scamarcio looked up from his notepad. ‘You on this, or did Garramone just send you as messenger?’
‘No, I’m yours. I’ve just come off the Falaguerra thing.’
‘Great,’ said Scamarcio, tearing out a page from his notebook and scribbling on it. ‘Despite his claims he doesn’t have one, I want you to dig u
p what you can on Micky Proietti’s social life — the places he hangs out, the people he hangs with. Go and have a chat with his friendly secretary, for starters. And we need to pay a visit to the chauffeur who was assaulted.’
‘Madness, that. These guys don’t mess about.’
‘Can you talk to him and see if he caught a glimpse of his attacker? Find out exactly where it happened. Obviously, we could do with CCTV, but it’s probably a long shot.’ Scamarcio handed across the business card that the secretary had given him.
Sartori studied it quickly, then asked: ‘What will you be doing? Visiting the other production companies?’
‘No, there’s another team on that.’
‘Getting anywhere?’
Scamarcio shook his head and frowned. ‘While you take care of the background, I’m going to talk to Micky’s girlfriend.’
Sartori raised an eyebrow. ‘Not so happily married then?’
‘Ah, Sartori, we do things differently here. Maybe up in Rimini you stick to the straight and narrow, but down south a man can have a mistress and still be very happily married.’
Sartori rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, well, good luck with that. You’ll all burn in hell, I’m sure.’
Scamarcio smiled, and handed over the piece of paper. ‘Knock yourself out.’
‘Hmm,’ said Sartori, throwing him a sarcastic salute as he left.
Fiammetta di Bondi, the showgirl, lived in a small apartment in Trastevere. It was nicely decorated but extremely messy, filthy even. The coffee table was covered with lipstick-smeared glasses, some of which contained tarry pools of cigarette stubs. Dirty clothing littered the floor, and a pair of black lacy underpants had landed where they’d been thrown against the back of a chair. Scamarcio noticed a small stack of unwashed plates on the dusty parquet, greasy cutlery alongside it. Maybe she’d just had a party, he thought. But that wouldn’t explain the clothes. Or would it?
‘Have you had guests?’ he asked.
‘No, why?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, scratching his forehead. He hoped she wouldn’t ask him to sit down. He was worried he might catch something.
The Hit Page 4