David Hewson - The Villa of Mysteries

He had a point. Falcone understood that. Maybe Wallis was just a great actor. Maybe this show of grief was just that, a show.

“What about you, Mickey?” D’Amato asked suddenly.

“What about me?” he stuttered.

“Did you like the look of her? Was she your type?”

He glanced nervously, first at Adele, then at his father. “Nah. Too skinny. Too stuck up. She talked all the history shit he did. What’s someone like that gonna do with someone like me?”

Rachele D’Amato smiled. “So you remember her well?”

“Not much,” he murmured.

Neri waved his big arm. “Fuck this. Why are we talking about some kid who went missing ages ago? What’s this got to do with us?”

They said nothing.

“Right,” Neri continued. “Now that’s out of the way maybe you can go. This place is starting to smell bad. I want some fresh air in here.”

Rachele D’Amato smiled at Mickey. “What about Barbara Martelli, Mickey? Was she your kind of woman? Not skinny at all. Got a good job as a cop too.”

His eyes went round and round, flitting between his stepmother and Neri. “Who? Who? Dunno what the hell you’re talking about. Who?”

“The woman who was in the papers, dummy,” Neri snarled. “The cop who got killed yesterday. They say she offed someone. That right? What is it with the police force today? How’s a man supposed to trust anyone?”

“I ask the questions,” Falcone said. “Where were you yesterday, Mickey? Give me your movements, morning to night.”

“He was here with me all day,” Adele Neri insisted. “All day. And in the evening too.”

“We were all here together,” Neri added. “Apart from a little lunch outing I had with one of my employees. He can vouch for me. We can vouch for one another. You got any reason to think otherwise?”

Rachele D’Amato took two photographs out of her briefcase: Barbara Martelli in uniform and one of her old man, back in the days when he was on the force. “Her father was a cop. He was on your payroll.”

“Me?” Neri whined. “Pay cops? Don’t you think I pay enough already what with the taxes round here?”

“When did you last talk to Martelli?” Falcone asked. “When did you last speak to his daughter?”

“Don’t recall ever making their acquaintance. And I’m speaking for us all now. Understand? If you’ve got something that says otherwise you go show it to a lawyer. Except you don’t have anything. Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking like this now, would we?”

She put the photos back in her bag. “Those men downstairs,” she said.

“We were thinking of having a card game later. They’re good guys.”

“Make it last,” Falcone ordered. “Make it last a long time. I don’t want to see them on the streets. You got that?”

The big old hood was shaking his head. “So Romans don’t get to walk their own town now? Is that what you’re saying? Jesus. Here I am taking this shit. Here I am listening to your dumb threats and all this crap about things you don’t know. And that American bastard’s just walking round doing what he likes. No one’s asking him whether he was screwing that girl. No one’s asking him if he’s been paying off dumb cops to get what he wants.” He waved a fat hand at them. “You tell me. Why’s that? Are you people just plain stupid or what?”

Falcone stood up. Rachele D’Amato followed suit.

“Nice seeing you again,” Neri barked. “Don’t feel the need to rush back.”

“Do you know what tomorrow is?” Falcone asked.

“Saturday. Do I get a prize?”

“Liberalia.”

Neri screwed up his slack face in an expression of distaste. “What? This some new European holiday they’re pressing on us now? Don’t mean a thing to me.”

“It does,” Falcone said. “It means that if you know what’s good for you, you stay right here. You don’t get in my way.”

“Wow,” Neri sneered. “This is what cops do now. Make a few empty threats.”

“It’s good advice. I remember you. Years ago, when I was just a detective. I watched you, I know you.”

“Yeah? You think so?”

“And the thing is, you’ve changed. You’re older. You look weaker somehow. Let me tell you something. You’re not the man you were.”

“Bullshit!” Neri yelled, getting onto his feet, waving his big arms in the air. “Get the fuck out of here before I throw you down the stairs, cop or no cop.”

Falcone wasn’t listening. He had his phone to his ear and was engrossed in the call. There was something in his face that made them all go quiet and wait for what came next.

“I’ll be straight there,” Falcone murmured.

“Leo?” D’Amato asked. “Is something wrong?”

He looked at Emilio Neri. “Maybe. Does the name Beniamino Vercillo mean anything to you?”

“All these stupid questions—” the old man grumbled.

“Well?”

“Not a damn thing. Why d’you ask?”

“Nothing,” Falcone replied with a shrug. “He’s a stranger. Why worry? Watch the news. Pay some bent cop to tell you first. Who cares? I’ll let myself out.”

“Mickey!”

Neri pointed at the two of them. Mickey led Falcone and Rachele D’Amato downstairs, going first so that he got a chance to turn round now and again and get a good look at her long, lithe legs moving out from underneath the short skirt.

The visitors were sitting around a table in the big room on the first floor, reading papers, smoking, playing cards.

“I recognize a few familiar faces,” Falcone said. “Is this the kind of company you keep, Mickey?”

“Don’t know what you mean.” Mickey Neri continued on to the big front door, with its security cameras and multiple electronic locks.

Rachele D’Amato ducked out of the way of the lens and smiled at him. “You should be smart, Mickey. It’s important to be smart in a situation like this.”

“A situation like what?”

“Change,” she said and handed him her card. “Can’t you just feel it in the air? That’s my private number. Call if you want to talk. I could keep you out of jail. If things turn bad, I could even keep you alive.”

He glanced upstairs to make sure no one was listening.

“G-g-get out of here,” Mickey Neri mumbled.

THE SCENE-OF-CRIME MEN pulled on their white bunny suits then clambered down the iron staircase into the basement office off the Via dei Serpenti. Falcone watched them, mentally trying to work out the manpower disposition inside the Questura. With the officers already inside that brought the total contingent on the murder scene to six. It wasn’t enough. The Questura was getting desperately stretched. He’d already got people trying to persuade the sick to rise from their beds. Even with the few who complied, he was still struggling to keep every thread of the investigation—Randolph Kirk, Barbara Martelli, Eleanor Jamieson and, just possibly, the Julius girl—fully staffed. It was the spring holiday season. A quiet time of the year, or so everyone supposed. The gaps were already starting to appear. He wished he had more people to despatch to watch Neri and Wallis, make sure they didn’t develop any stupid ideas. He wished, too, he had time to think about Suzi Julius. Falcone shared some of Costa’s fears, though he was reluctant to act in the present circumstances until some hard facts emerged to link her directly to the Jamieson case. There was still no evidence to suggest this was anything other than a wayward teenager out for some fun. He couldn’t afford to waste the men he had on hypothetical crimes when there were real ones demanding his attention.

Rachele D’Amato’s black Alfa pulled up on the pavement and he watched her get out, watched the way she angled her slender legs carefully so that the tight red skirt she was wearing didn’t ride up too much. For a brief moment Falcone let other thoughts dominate his mind. She was thirty minutes behind him. She’d had to call in at the DIA office on the way. He really had no idea what was going on there behind closed doors.