Aaron Elkins: Good Blood

“Oh, is that all you want? Well, of course, what else could I possibly have to do today?”

“I know it’s an imposition-”

“I’m glad you know it,” he said, then abruptly decided he’d terrorized Gideon enough this time around. “Well, look, I don’t have a fax machine here at home, but I’ll be at the university from one o’clock on.” O’Malley was an emeritus professor at Columbia and went to his office most days. “You can fax it to me there: 212-854-1111. I’ll look at it first thing and see what I can do.”

Gideon scrambled for a pen and wrote it down. “Great, thanks a million.” One P.M., New York time, would be seven in the evening in Stresa. He’d be on the Isola de Grazia at Achille’s farewell party. “And if you come up with anything definitive, I’d really appreciate it if you’d call me right away.” He read him the villa’s phone number from a note he’d made earlier.

“You don’t expect very much, do you?” O’Malley grumbled, but Gideon heard the scratching of a pen.

“Thank you, professor.”

He was wincing even before the shouted reply: “Oliver, for crying out-”

“Bill!” Gideon quickly amended. “Bill, Bill. Thank you very much, Bill. Good-bye, Bill.”

He hung up and with his finger wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead.

Sheesh. It was as bad as being back in Paleopathology 502.

Dr. Luzzatto’s home and office were on the ground floor of one of the better-kept apartment buildings in Gignese, a few blocks from the village center. The mustard-colored paint on the outside was relatively new, the balconies had hardly any rust, and last night’s bedding had already been taken in from the upstairs windowsills. A satellite dish, not a frequent sight in Gignese, was bolted to one of the third-floor balconies. When Gideon arrived, he found Caravale sitting on the low stone wall bordering the driveway, leafing through a pocket-sized, leather-bound notebook and having his afternoon half-cigar.

“Okay if I go in?” Gideon said.

“Hm?” Barely looking up, Caravale waved his cigar in the direction of the door. “Mm.”

But Gideon stopped, caught by Caravale’s preoccupation. “Got something interesting there?”

“Perhaps, if I could figure out what it means.” With a sigh, he snapped the notebook shut and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I need to walk around a little, stretch my legs, maybe find a cup of coffee. Do you want to come, or are you in a hurry to get in there?”

“No, I’m not in a hurry. I could use some coffee myself.”

They walked half a block without speaking. Caravale was in a sport coat and blue jeans, so the curious stares they drew from the locals were no more than any strangers in this part of the village would have gotten.

“Your theory of Interconnected Monkey Business?” Caravale finally said pensively. “It looks as if it’s panning out.”

“Oh?” Gideon prompted when it appeared Caravale was going back to smoking and ruminating in silence.

Caravale tapped ash from his cigar. “The chauffeur, the bodyguard, that was killed in the kidnapping? He was a replacement. Praga, the one that was scheduled to drive the boy that day, called in just before he was due and begged off with an upset stomach, then never showed up again. You see what that means, don’t you?”

“Well… that the original guy-Praga-was part of the plan and got cold feet at the last minute?”

“That’s right. And here’s guy number two, Dellochio, who knows nothing about it-”

“-and the kidnappers haven’t heard that guy number one won’t be driving-”

“-so instead of putting up a fake resistance and letting them get away with it, the way they expected him to, the poor bastard defends Achille with his life and ends up shot to death.”

“An inside job at Aurora,” Gideon murmured. “Huh. What does that do to the theory that it has to be one of the de Grazias?”

“Nothing. The company drivers occasionally chauffeured family members around in their off-hours. They all knew Praga. Any of them could have approached him with this. Of course, it’s worth noting that several of them work at Aurora, so they’d have the easiest access to him and would probably know him best-it’s not exactly the sort of thing you ask a stranger to do.”

Gideon nodded. “Francesca is the CFO and Basilio is something in payroll.”

“And last but not least”-Caravale ran his tongue over his lips-“let’s not forget the boss man… Vincenzo.”

Gideon stopped. “You suspect Vincenzo of kidnapping his own son? Of staging the whole thing? Why would he do that?”

“The money. Five million euros is a lot of money.”

“But he’s rich as… as…” He groped.

“Croesus?” suggested Caravale around the cigar. He gestured at a bar across the street. “Let’s go get that coffee.” Using the fingers of his left hand, he carefully snuffed out the cigar and stuck the inch-and-a-half-long stub behind his ear. “I’m rationing myself,” he explained.

The Bar Lanterna, as opposed to the distinctly blue-collar Bar Ricci, where Phil and Gideon had met Franco and Gia, appeared to be the meeting place for Gignese’s with-it set. A sign advertised evening karaoke, video games, and Internet access, and one of the tables actually had two unaccompanied women at it. The air held only a thin veil of old cigarette smoke. Over a couple of espressos served with slender glasses of water, Gideon picked up where they’d left off.

“Thank you. Croesus. So why would he need the money?”

Caravale smiled tolerantly while he stirred sugar into the tiny cup. “Well, I tell you, my naive professor-friend: You’d be surprised at the things rich people do for money. Besides… Vincenzo isn’t as rich as Croesus. I’ve been doing some checking, and our Vincenzo, in fact, is having financial difficulties. The money that was raised to ransom Achille? It wasn’t his own at all. Raising it took some, shall we say, highly creative accounting practices with the books at Aurora Costruzioni.”

“I don’t get this at all. How could he need money? Look at that house he maintains. Look at that whole island. Did you see some of those paintings? The tapestries? If he needed the money, all he had to do was sell off five million euros’ worth of paintings and nobody would even notice they were gone. What would he want to rig up something as crazy as this for?”

“Ah, now, his private wealth, that’s interesting too. We’ve had a look at the provisions of the de Grazia legacy, and it turns out the bequest, which is enormous, is strictly entailed for the purpose of keeping Isola de Grazia in the family, in perpetuity. It provides for physical maintenance of the property, for household staff, for death taxes when the generations change, and for the food, clothing, and general upkeep of the family members staying there. I think there’s some kind of small allowance for them too. Beyond that, they’re expected to fend for themselves. They get nothing, not even Vincenzo.”

“Wow. You’ve been busy,” Gideon said.

Caravale touched the tip of his tongue to his espresso, then drank. “Most of them also got an inheritance from Domenico’s personal will, but it wasn’t all that much, and it’s long gone now. And as for selling the art, he can’t. It’s expressly prohibited, and the lawyers stay on him like leeches. He can have things restored or cleaned, and the bequest will pay for it, but he can’t sell anything. He’s more like the custodian of the place, really, than the owner.”

“Well, okay, I understand what you’re getting at,” Gideon agreed. “He has money problems. But to kidnap Achille… his own son? He almost got him killed!”