David Hewson - The Lizard's Bite

“And I regret to say I don’t have a single piece of evidence to help you,” he added with a scowl. “I wish I had. It’s all spent. Useless. There’s nothing close that’s fresh. If it was there, I’d be nailing this man tomorrow. Leo or no Leo.”

They had something to say, and it made them uncomfortable. A part of Luca Zecchini was beginning to wish he’d stayed in Milan.

Costa took a sip of his mineral water.

“You asked us what Leo would be doing in these circumstances. Let me tell you. He’d be turning on the heat. He’d be making moves that put Massiter in an uncomfortable position. A place where he was likely to make mistakes from which we could profit.”

Zecchini had seen enough of the police inspector’s methods to understand this was probably an accurate interpretation. He still didn’t see where it got them.

“Two lone cops on enforced vacation aren’t going to be putting the heat on anyone,” he objected.

Peroni smiled. “No, Luca. But you could. You could pick up the phone, call the Questura in Venice and ask if they’d mind letting you talk to Commissario Randazzo for a bit. Just to see if he knew anything about art theft.”

Zecchini snorted. This was absurd.

“I’m serious,” Peroni persisted, giving him a quick, icy look that Zecchini didn’t like at all. “We’ve taken a peek inside Randazzo’s house in the Lido. It’s empty. He’s gone. The wife’s gone. It’s an expensive place for someone on his salary. And all kinds of fancy stuff in there. Paintings. Ceramics. Silverware. We sort of found the door open . . .”

“No!” Zecchini waved his hand in the big man’s face, demanding silence. “I don’t want to hear this. Breaking into houses. Jesus . . . Are you insane?”

“You could just make a call,” Costa repeated. “Ask for a simple interview. See how they respond. You could also run up a search warrant on his place. You’ll find something there. Look.”

Costa reached into his shoulder bag and took out a folder of photos. They showed antiques and paintings inside an airy, elegant house filled with potted plants and small palms, not the sort of place most police officers favoured.

“There are a couple of Serbian icons in there,” Costa observed. “Genuine, I think. Probably fifteenth century.”

“And this Randazzo would be stupid enough to keep illicit material around in his own home?” Zecchini demanded.

Peroni let loose a low grunt of a laugh. “Honest answer, Luca? Yes. As far as he’s concerned, they’re just gifts. Trophies. From some rich and very influential Englishman. Maybe he didn’t even know how deeply he was involved until it was too late. When he saw shooting Bracci as a way out. A debt repaid. Massiter off the hook for the murders, and a clear way through for him to buy the island. Two birds with one stone. Neat, don’t you think?”

Zecchini couldn’t argue there. It was neat, if it was true.

“And maybe,” Costa added, “Massiter liked to give the commissario stolen objects just to cement the bond. So that if Randazzo did turn awkward, he’d have some extra hold on him.”

These two were smart. Zecchini recalled a case where the Carabinieri suspected Massiter had played a very similar trick on a magistrate called to investigate a minion of his, caught bringing in contraband through Trieste.

“I could do these things,” he acknowledged. “But why? What do I get in return?”

“Massiter,” Costa answered quietly. “We get you details of transactions, perhaps. Or storage locations. Routes. Vessels. An inventory of objects. We don’t care who puts this man in jail. You. Us. The DIA if they like. He just has to go.”

“Like cancer,” Peroni echoed.

Zecchini laughed. The authorities had been trying to get that information for years. No one talked about Hugo Massiter. No one had the nerve.

“Now you’re playing games with me,” he said, and looked at his cold food, wondering when he’d feel minded to sit at an outside table at Sergio’s again. “Let’s just have a couple of beers, huh? Then say a few prayers for Leo. I don’t think there’s many doing that.”

They didn’t budge. Luca Zecchini looked at this odd, stubborn pair and thought again about some of the stories Leo Falcone had told him. Stories he hadn’t quite believed at that time. No one could be that unbending, that resolute about seeing an issue through to the bitter end.

Then it dawned.

“You’ve access from inside?” Zecchini murmured, amazed, and more than a little disconcerted.

Costa and Peroni glanced at each other and didn’t say a word.

Luca Zecchini tried to think what that meant. Just the effort sent a shiver down his spine. If the Carabinieri’s meagre intelligence was right, Massiter now relied solely on the Balkan gangs for street-level muscle, men who were loyal to the end, did what they were told as long as the money kept coming, and never broke the code of loyalty and silence. It was inconceivable one of them would betray their capo . There was too much at stake. The punishment, if one was discovered, would be unimaginable. He’d seen the results of a gang punishment killing in Florence. It would have turned the stomach of the toughest of Italian mobsters.

“You’ve put someone in?” he asked, incredulous, and got no pleasure at all in seeing the dismay on their faces when his words connected.

“Jesus,” he murmured, then ordered three beers, a big one for himself. “I hope to God you know what you’re doing.”

Costa reached into his pocket, pulled out a mobile phone, and replied, “We hope so too. Now will you make that call?”

THE WEATHER HAD LOST ITS TEMPER. IT WAS A WARM, bright evening, with a sweet salty breeze blowing in from the Adriatic. In Verona, Costa and Peroni were slowly working their way into the confidences of a small specialist Carabinieri team, praying the scraps of information they owned would persuade Luca Zecchini and his colleagues to first order a search of Randazzo’s house, and then pull in the man himself for questioning. In a small apartment in Castello, Teresa Lupo and her assistant Silvio Di Capua now pored over the results of the first tests they’d run on the meagre material they’d found, scanning arcane reports and charts on Costa’s notebook computer, puzzled by the results coming in from the private labs they were using, both in Mestre and Rome, to try to extract some answers from the sparse debris and clothing they had. And in the Ospedale Civile the unconscious Leo Falcone, unaware of Raffaella Arcangelo by his bed, continued to dream, locked in a private world, part fantasy, part remembrance, a place he feared to leave, not knowing what would take its place.

“Leo,” said a voice from outside his world, a female voice, warm, attractive, one that possessed a name, though it escaped him at that moment, since he was the child-Leo, not his older self. “Please.”

The mechanism on the wall whirred. The cuckoo’s artificial bellows roared, the old chime tolled.

“I need you to live,” she pleaded. “Leo . . .”

As if it were a matter of choice. Both Leos—the child and the man—knew nothing was quite that simple. In order to live, he had to look, which was the last thing he wanted to do. Ever.

AS LEO FALCONE DREAMED, SOME UNCONSCIOUS PART of him listening to his own inner voices and the caring tones of Raffaella Arcangelo penetrating from the world beyond, a sleek white speedboat crossed the wide canal between the hospital and San Michele, its varnished wooden prow aimed towards the open northern lagoon. The bright day was dying now, the last of the sun turning the water into a lake of burnt gold. Hugo Massiter sat in the back of the vessel opening a bottle of vintage champagne with a familiar ease. Emily Deacon remained opposite on the soft calfskin seats, weary after a fruitless day spent on the private yacht moored by the Riva degli Schiavoni, trying to recall more details of her training back in Langley.