The Hit

by Nadia Dalbuono

  Scamarcio filled him in on the connection to Micky Proietti.

  Garramone clicked his tongue and said: ‘Maybe it was the shock of being sacked. Some people can’t take it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I hope it’s just that.’

  ‘If I hear any more, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Sure.’ Scamarcio’s mind was turning on where to take this thing next. He rang Sartori. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I had a brainwave. I’m at the offices of People magazine.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, we want to get all the dirt on Micky Proietti, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Well, I figured that if anyone would know, it would be them.’

  Scamarcio smiled. ‘Don’t promise them too much in return, though.’

  ‘OK …’

  ‘Anything so far?’

  ‘I’ve only just sat down with the editor.’

  ‘Ask him about Fiammetta di Bondi and Gianluca Manfredi as well.’

  ‘Received.’

  Scamarcio cut the call. Had Manfredi killed himself because of his ruined career, or because of Fiammetta? He sensed that the answer to this question might provide the answer to a whole lot of things.

  12

  FIAMMETTA DI BONDI’S APARTMENT looked as if it had been torn apart by a team of ten blind burglars: numerous greasy pizza boxes littered the floor; the oily contents of an overturned ashtray lay strewn across the coffee table next to a stack of dirty plates, a ripped map of Rome, and one muddy running shoe. Beneath the table, a wicker wastebasket had also overturned, spilling out crumpled envelopes, used blister packs of pills, a broken purple lipstick, and a huge quantity of metallic chocolate wrappers in every colour of the rainbow. High-heeled shoes, bras, and shimmery dresses lay where they’d been tossed on the sofa. Di Bondi herself was far from immaculate this time: she was still in her dressing gown, and her blonde hair hung limply and lifelessly around her unmade-up face. Her eyes were red and swollen, and there were lines across her forehead. Despite all this, Scamarcio still found her remarkably beautiful.

  ‘You heard about Manfredi?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, tucking her legs up beneath her as she took a seat on the sofa and lit up.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  She rubbed at an eyebrow and closed her eyes as she drew the smoke in. ‘What are you, my therapist?’

  Scamarcio said nothing and sat down on the sofa opposite.

  ‘That little idiot should never have told you about Manfredi.’

  ‘We’d have found out eventually,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘But now Manfredi’s dead.’

  Scamarcio blinked. Why was she making a connection between the fact he knew about Manfredi and the fact he was dead?

  ‘But that had nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Hmmm …’

  ‘Go on.’

  She seemed to be about to speak, but then stopped. After a beat, she said: ‘Well, if you hadn’t gone to that bastard Max Romano, Manfredi wouldn’t have lost his job.’

  Scamarcio felt sure this was not the answer she’d first intended to give. ‘I had the impression Max Romano had been thinking about firing him for a while. Romano seemed worried about your decision to move in together.’

  ‘What decision to move in together?’

  ‘Manfredi said you and he were planning to get a place — that he was about to leave his wife.’

  Di Bondi’s eyes widened. ‘What? That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘You’d never discussed it?’

  She grimaced; it seemed a cold gesture, given the turn of events. ‘He’d raised it a couple of times, and I’d said something like, you know, Maybe one day, but I’d never said we were definitely going to do it.’

  ‘You didn’t want to?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You weren’t in love with him?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You seem quite upset though.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Your eyes are red. You look like you’ve been crying.’

  She touched below her right eye as if she’d forgotten it was there. ‘Oh,’ she said, apparently remembering something. ‘I have conjunctivitis.’

  Scamarcio frowned.

  She stared at him, and for a moment her face looked as if it was made of marble.

  ‘So you’re not troubled by his death?’

  She continued to stare, lifeless like a statue. ‘Of course I find it upsetting. It’s a shame for his family.’

  To Scamarcio it seemed as if she was expressing emotions she knew she was supposed to feel, but didn’t. There was something missing in this girl, thought Scamarcio, something human.

  His mobile buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  ‘My People idea was a blinder,’ said Sartori, out of breath again.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Scamarcio, rising from the sofa and mouthing an apology to di Bondi as he put some distance between them.

  ‘That editor is a treasure trove. He has a whole load of dirt on a whole load of VIPs, but chooses to publish just a small proportion.’

  Scamarcio knew why: leverage. The man was a viper.

  ‘So, according to Beppe, the editor, Micky Proietti has one big problem.’

  ‘I’d say he’s got several.’

  ‘No, but this one’s the mother lode.’

  ‘Sartori, cut to it. This is a kidnap inquiry, and there’s a kid involved.’

  ‘Proietti has a gambling habit.’

  Scamarcio fell silent. ‘Gambling?’ he repeated, letting it sink in.

  ‘He’s just lost a fortune. In debt up to his eyeballs.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Would I joke? He’s a regular visitor to the illegal dens, as well as to the casino in Venice. Apparently he’s a sucker for roulette and the slots. Until now, lady luck has been pretty forgiving, but a few months back it all turned to shit.’

  ‘What kind of amounts are we talking?’

  ‘My guy from People says it’s running past a million and a half. Proietti’s at risk of losing his house, his family — the whole shebang.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You deaf or something?’

  ‘Shit,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘Puts everything in a new light, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Scamarcio had been about to ask him for more detail when Sartori said: ‘You were right to ask about di Bondi. Apparently she’s sleeping with a whole load of people.’

  Scamarcio glanced behind him. Di Bondi was still on the sofa, sucking on her cigarette, staring into nothing. ‘That I already know.’

  ‘Yeah, but did you know that she’s only got eyes for one of them?’

  ‘Manfredi?’

  Sartori snorted. ‘No, she’s not blind. Aconi, of course.’

  ‘No, you’ve got that wrong. Aconi is gay.’

  ‘Na, nah, nah,’ said Sartori like a man who knows he’s holding the killer deck. ‘He’s what they call “bi curious” — keeps the guy side of things quiet, though, cos he doesn’t want to damage his football career. He definitely likes his women, according to Beppe.’

  Scamarcio pinched his nose. He felt as if he was struggling to keep up. After a moment, he asked: ‘How does Aconi feel about di Bondi?’

  ‘They’re very much in love, apparently.’

  Scamarcio wanted to sit down. It was as if he’d been dragged right back to the beginning.

  13

  SCAMARCIO HAD BEEN ON HIS WAY to Micky Proietti’s apartment when his phone rang. It was Detective Caporaso, calling from the unit at Proietti’s home. Scamarcio knew that the detective wouldn’t be ringing unless there’d been a develo
pment. Scamarcio felt his chest tighten; some instinct was telling him that this inquiry was about to take a major turn, and that they’d soon all be running to catch up.

  ‘We’ve received a video,’ said Caporaso, his tone grave.

  ‘From the kidnappers?’

  ‘Who else? They’ve filmed Proietti’s wife.’

  Scamarcio swallowed and let him continue.

  ‘She’s in a bad way. It looks as if she’s been beaten up — black eyes, torn clothes. She’s on the verge of hysteria. She’s begging Micky to give these guys what they want — says the little boy is in agony, that they still haven’t treated him for the tooth, that there’s a problem with his arm.’

  ‘And what do the kidnappers want from Proietti?’

  ‘They’re going to call with their demands in half an hour.’

  Scamarcio upped his pace. ‘I was on my way to you anyway.’

  When Scamarcio arrived, the envelope containing the USB key with the video was being packaged up for analysis.

  ‘How was it delivered?’ he asked Caporaso.

  ‘Courier company. They say it was handed to them outside Termini by a guy in motorbike gear — they couldn’t see his face.’

  ‘Did he have to sign anything?’

  ‘Yeah, but we’ve drawn a blank on the name.’

  ‘Paid cash?’

  Caporaso shrugged and said: ‘Of course,’ as if Scamarcio was living in cloud-cuckoo land to hope for anything different.

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’ He led Scamarcio to a laptop open on the kitchen table. Where was Proietti, Scamarcio wondered. But he was too keen to see the film to ask.

  Caporaso pressed play, and a head-and-shoulders image of Maia Proietti came into view. She looked nothing like the woman in the photo Scamarcio had taken from the Proietti’s living room. Her make-up had gone, and there was a large black bruise beneath her right eye. The top of her dress was torn, revealing a large portion of her pale chest and shoulder, and when she raised her hand to rub her eyes he saw that she was shaking.

  ‘Please, Micky,’ she was saying. ‘Just do what they ask — if not for me, then for Antonio. He’s in a bad way. His tooth and arm are killing him, they won’t get us medical help; he can’t sleep; he can’t eat. I’m so worried.’ She broke down in sobs. ‘I don’t think he’ll ever be the same,’ she murmured through the tears. ‘They’ve ruined his childhood.’

  There was a buzzing in Scamarcio’s head. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He bit down onto his lip in frustration, and tasted blood. Focus, he told himself, just focus. But he wasn’t getting it; it was still out of reach.

  ‘They’ll call you at 5.00 pm on the landline. Make sure you’re by the phone. They’ll tell you everything then,’ continued Maia Proietti.

  ‘Where is Proietti?’ asked Scamarcio, pressing pause.

  ‘Throwing up,’ said Caporaso.

  ‘This really got to him?’

  ‘That, or he’s been taking a little too much of the hard stuff.’

  ‘There much more to see?’ said Scamarcio, pressing play once more.

  ‘No, it stops here.’

  When the screen went black, Scamarcio spun back through the film looking for details, trying to work out what was troubling him, but he couldn’t get any clarity. How could he, if he didn’t even know what he was looking for?

  Caporaso and his men took up their positions by the phones. Micky Proietti was resting against the sofa, still in his pyjamas. His face was so white that Scamarcio wondered if he should see a doctor.

  Proietti was cradling his usual tumbler of scotch. Scamarcio carefully extracted it from his hand, expecting an outburst, but Proietti remained strangely passive, like a feral dog that had been beaten into submission.

  ‘It might be best if we leave that until after the call, Mr Proietti.’

  Proietti just nodded absently. Was the man having some kind of breakdown, Scamarcio wondered. He took a seat next to him and placed a hand on his forearm. He had the sense that Proietti might do something unexpected, that the pressure might prove too much.

  Caporaso checked his watch. ‘The call should be coming through in the next thirty seconds.’

  The room fell silent, the phone team making last-minute adjustments to their laptops and headsets.

  Scamarcio counted to thirty in his head. The silence was shattered just as he finished. Even though he knew it was coming, the ringing still startled him.

  Proietti leant forward and shakily picked up the receiver, as though he were afraid it might detonate on touch.

  ‘Yes,’ he said softly. His voice was raspy, as if he had flu.

  ‘You know who I am?’ The words had been deliberately distorted.

  Scamarcio noticed one of Caporaso’s men tapping at his keyboard, preparing to send the number through to the phone company for tracing. Scamarcio had no idea if the caller was using a mobile phone or a landline, but either way they’d be able to pinpoint a location from it. And, indeed, after several seconds a triangle appeared on Caporaso’s screen somewhere to the south-east of the city. Scamarcio was sitting too far away to see properly, but it looked like it might be out near Prenestino. Caporaso was speaking into his mobile, no doubt alerting Garramone to dispatch a team to the location.

  What were the chances the kidnappers and their victims would be there when they arrived? Less than zero, Scamarcio told himself. Sometimes he wondered why the squad even bothered with this charade. At times it felt as if they had to go through the motions, tick all the boxes, rather than focus on getting a real result.

  ‘Who are you?’ whispered Proietti into the phone, his hand trembling.

  ‘Well, if you’re too stupid to work it out, I’m not going to tell you.’

  Proietti sighed and looked down into his lap, defeated. ‘What do you want?’ he asked after a beat.

  ‘Again, if you’re too much of a cretin to work …’

  ‘Cut the crap,’ screamed Proietti. His entire demeanour seemed to transform in an instant: he sat up bolt upright, his shoulders stiffened, his jaw protruded. The feral dog had returned. ‘You do anything to harm my wife and son, you’re dead.’

  Scamarcio tightened his grip on Proietti’s arm. He was not following the advice he’d been given before the call.

  ‘It’s too late for that, Micky boy.’

  ‘Just tell me where to bring the bloody money, you cunt.’

  Scamarcio rubbed his forehead, and forgot to breathe.

  ‘I’m not the cunt here. You don’t understand any of this, do you? You’re a long way from the genius everyone thinks you are, Micky.’

  ‘Tell me where to bring it!’ hollered Proietti.

  ‘Fuck you!’ shouted the caller before the line went dead.

  Scamarcio finally remembered to exhale. Why hadn’t Proietti asked how much they wanted? was his first thought. His second was why the caller seemed so emotional. In his experience, most kidnappers displayed more sangfroid.

  ‘Money, money, money,’ mumbled Scamarcio under his breath. Could it be that this case had nothing do with it?

  14

  JUST AS SCAMARCIO HAD EXPECTED, when they reached the location near Prenestino, there was no sign of the kidnappers or Proietti’s family. Proietti had insisted on coming along, and Scamarcio was glad, because from the moment they entered the warehouse complex, Proietti seemed to relax considerably. Scamarcio watched as his shoulders dropped, his forehead softened, and his hands ceased shaking. Finally, his breathing evened out, and he sank back against the leather of the backseat and closed his eyes.

  ‘You OK, Mr Proietti?’ Scamarcio asked, expecting some kind of explanation for the change.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does this place mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’ Proietti didn’t bother to open
his eyes.

  Scamarcio suddenly wanted to punch his perfect jaw. If he knew something more, if he felt like the threat had passed, or that the danger wasn’t as great as he’d first feared, why the hell couldn’t he just come out with it?

  ‘Mr Proietti,’ Scamarcio said, struggling to remain calm. ‘I get the sense that you’ve been here before, that this place holds some kind of significance. You seem considerably less on edge than an hour ago, and I need to know why.’

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ said Proietti, almost whispering the words, his eyes still shut.

  Scamarcio sighed and turned his gaze to the window. They were pulling up outside a line of small warehouses, each marked with a number on the roller door. The series appeared to rise to twenty. To the left of the warehouses was a sentry box, a man in uniform hunched inside. Scamarcio stepped out of the car and approached the sentry, his badge at the ready. He tapped on the window. ‘What is this place used for?’

  The guard clocked the badge and nodded in the direction of the warehouses. ‘Studios mainly. They’re hired out for magazine shoots or TV and film work.’ He pointed to the end of the lot. ‘But the last three over there are rented by a fashion company and an artisan bakers’.’

  Scamarcio frowned. ‘You keep a logbook?’

  ‘Sure.’ The security guard pointed to a large tome in front of him.

  ‘Can I take a look?’

  The man pulled up his window to let it through, and Scamarcio scanned down the day’s arrivals. There were only ten names on the list, and of course none of them meant anything to him.

  ‘Where are these people from?’

  ‘They’re the regulars from the fashion company and the bakers’, plus a small crew of four who were using one of the studios. It’s been a quiet day.’

  ‘A film crew?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘They still here?’

  The man swung the book around and glanced down. ‘No — they left about an hour ago.’

  An hour ago. That was when the kidnapper had hung up on Proietti.

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  The man’s face was a blank. He rubbed his cheek. ‘I’m sorry — if I’m honest, I don’t remember anything about them.’