“Ummmm…” was all that came out of her mouth and she cursed her inability say anything else.
She felt his hand trail across her back as he withdrew it, and nodding toward her arm where she’d been hit by the backpack, he asked, “Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m fine.” She shook her head and took a step back from him. “Merci.”
“Okay, mademoiselle.” The policeman had arrived at her elbow. “What’s your name, and what did you see?” His pen was already jotting notes.
“It’s Madame Giselle Verona, and I saw a teenager shove the old gentleman, grab his briefcase, and run away with it.”
“Race?”
“What? Oh…sorry. White.”
“What did he look like?”
“Medium height, wearing a camouflage bandana as a headband, and a grey tank top. And he had tattoos down both arms.”
“Can you give me a description of any of the tattoos?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Hair color?”
“Dark.”
“Pants? Shoes?”
“Jeans and white high-tops.”
“Anything else?”
“He ran up those stairs.” She pointed to the stairs on the opposite end of the platform, then put her hand on the blonde suspect’s shoulder. “This gentleman broke the old man’s fall and then ran to stop the mugger. You have the wrong person.”
“What’s in the briefcase?” The cop was staring at her.
“Uh, what? I wouldn’t know. I don’t know the victim.”
“My granddaughter saw the whole thing!” The colorful old woman had been watching the paramedics carry the old man from the station, and now she stomped over, bulldozing her way into the conversation. “That blonde skinhead Slav pushed the old man and stole his briefcase!”
Giselle snapped her head around. “No, he didn’t.”
“My granddaughter doesn’t lie!” She drew in a dramatic breath, and yelled up at Giselle, “Are you saying she’s lying?”
“No. I’m saying she’s mistaken.”
The female officer drew the irate woman off to the side. “Oui, madame. Let me take down your phone number.”
The policeman flipped his notebook shut and studied her. “You’re Countess Giselle Verona, the artist?”
“Oui…” She looked at his name badge, “…Officer Bretton, I am.”
“Which is it? Countess or contessa? I see it both ways in the papers.”
“Both are correct, they’re just French or Italian for the same title.”
“Your husband is Italian royalty, so why are you in le Metro?”
“I just came from the museum and was going to my husband’s office at Pont Marie.”
He furrowed his brows in apparent disbelief. “Hrmphf,” he exhaled peevishly. “We’ll need to get a signed statement from you. Let’s take this to headquarters before the next train arrives.”
Giselle nodded. The female officer had dismissed the old woman, unlocked the blonde suspect from the handrail, and was now guiding him up the stairs and out of the station. Giselle followed along with Bretton, who hauled himself upward with the aid of the railing while sneaking glances at her. “Have you ever modeled, Giselle?”
“No.”
“You should.”
He seemed to be expecting a response to this career advice, so she replied faintly, “Mmm, I should check into that.” She stepped past him and moved quickly up the stairs to see what was happening to the Good Samaritan.
Two police cars were parked side-by-side on the sidewalk. The suspect was being put into one car by the female officer, who was speaking loudly into her radio. “Suspect is thirty years of age, last name is Shevchenko.”
Bretton pointed to the other car. “We’re over here.” He opened the door for Giselle, and then glanced back over his shoulder at the suspect, his distaste apparent on his face. He turned back to her. “Sorry for the inconvenience, but a statement won’t take long.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m happy to help. That man is to be thanked, not handcuffed.” Sliding into the back seat, Giselle caught her breath in the confined space. Bretton’s last suspect must have been busted for marijuana. She looked out her window and into the other car. The blonde was looking at her. Meeting his eyes, she mouthed, “It’ll be okay.” He gave her a little smile, but she could see that he was nervous.
Officer Bretton flopped into the driver’s seat, causing the vehicle to sag. He started the engine and drove off the curb with a bump. Giselle made eye contact with Bretton in the rearview mirror.
“What’s going to happen to him?”
Salvio Scortini cruised at a stately pace along Venice’s Rio Apostoli Canal enjoying the admiring looks that his new Riva Iseo speedboat received. The Pope had just stood him up, but he was still in a good mood. Supposedly the Pope’s busy schedule prevented him from attending Salvio’s presentation, but the Vatican advisors who had been present were impressed by his plans to rebuild and gentrify Venice’s crumbling Verdu Mer neighborhood. He knew his vision for the Pope’s pet project was ambitious, but the Vatican housed the world’s richest treasury, so money wasn’t going to be an issue.
Gliding up to the formal entrance of his home, Salvio throttled the engine back and disappeared into his palazzo’s water garage just as a tour boat came by. The automatic gate of the garage swung closed behind him, and he killed the engine so the prow of his boat just kissed the foam buoys on the indoor dock. The sleek race boat bobbed violently as the wakes from the big tourist boat sloshed their way into the stone garage. Hidden from view of the gawking tourists and their cameras, Salvio ignored the shouting loudspeaker.
“And here is the mysterious Scortini Palazzo with its unique black stonework, the second-oldest palazzo in Venice…even older than the Doge’s Palace. What you see here is the relatively new entrance to the palace, added as part of the 1902 renovation. It replaced the entrance around to the left at Il ponte Diamanti, the Diamond Bridge, which dates back to the sixteen hundreds. But farther along is the original entrance at Il ponte di Smeraldi, the Emerald Bridge. You can see that it’s actually green from the moss covering every inch of it...”
As the tour moved down the canal, taking its turbulence and noise pollution with it, Salvio emerged from the garage and climbed the stone steps to his front door. He passed under the marble arches with their carved motifs of boats and horses, and hauled the great door open. His elderly butler met him in the foyer. He had always looked to Salvio as if he’d just stepped off one of the pedestals set along the palace’s foyer—just another marble statue, rigid and lifeless.
“As instructed, I have put Signor Tosca in your office.”
Salvio waved the servant off and marched down the wide corridor. Instead of going to greet his guest, he went to the music room at the far-west corner of the palace to watch the sunset. Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, he admired his city from the very spot his family had chosen to found Venice and establish their seat of power. The historic palace had been added onto and renovated every hundred years or so, and as a result had become a sprawling maze with secret areas no one, not even Salvio, had knowledge of.
Once twilight reduced his city to shadow, his mind returned to this afternoon’s meeting. If it had been Salvio’s father or grandfather giving the presentation, the Pope would have been there. They had always enjoyed a close relationship with the Holy See, but for some reason Salvio didn’t enjoy the same access...yet. With the recent death of his father, Salvio was the only living Scortini, and he was ready to step forward to receive the Vatican’s respect, as was his birthright.
Salvio ran his palms over the coarse material of his suit jacket. He’d always been disappointed that his body lacked the sturdy frame and strong edges that his mind possessed, but he’d devised a solution. He had his tailor construct all of his clothing from sturdy material that masked his rounded shoulders, sloped neck, thick hips, and flat backside, creating the illusion of an imposing physical s
tructure. When he was wearing one of his suits, he was visually impressive.
He glanced down at his watch and decided it was time to see what his visitor wanted. Genero Tosca represented the Venetian Brotherhood of Ironworkers, and this was the first time he’d requested a meeting with Salvio. Tosca had been a frequent visitor of his father’s, but this was a new era.
Salvio did an about-face, exited the music room, and turned down several dark hallways. Moving unseen, he grazed his fingertips along a heavy wall tapestry, lifted a section of it, and disappeared into a secret passageway. He slipped out from behind another panel in his office and silently approached his guest from behind. When he suddenly appeared, as if being revealed in a magic trick, Tosca startled out of his chair and dropped his hat onto the black rug. As Tosca stooped to retrieve it, Salvio was tickled to greet a man who was kneeling before him in his best suit. An appropriate way to begin our working relationship.
“Bunoasera, Tosca. Please sit down.”
Looking embarrassed, Tosca jumped to his feet and moved back to the chair.
“I’ve just come from a Vatican meeting on Verdu Mer, but I’m never too busy for the Brotherhood.”
“Forgive me for such short notice, signore.”
“Call me Salvio. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, grazie.”
“Well then, Genero… May I use your Christian name?”
“Oh, sì.”
“So Genero, what brings you here?” Salvio settled behind his desk. “How can I help the Brotherhood?”
Genero’s brows knit in consternation. “I thought you knew…I came for our patents, signore…er, Salvio.”
“Oh? Now that is disappointing Genero. I assumed you’d come to pledge your commitment to working with me on the Verdu Mer project, just as you and the building establishment have always worked with the House of Scortini.”
“Well, no…you know which documents I’m referring to…”
“My iron casting patents? I inherited them from my father as part of my family’s estate.”
“No, that is a mistake…they belong to the Brotherhood of Ironworkers.”
“No. They belong to me.”
“Your father was our patron, and he—”
“He was entrusted with them for the benefit of all of the Venetian building associations, and that is how they are being used…by me.”
“Ah, well, no. That’s not the agreement we had with your father.” Tosca started to worry the edge of his hat with a fingernail.
Who does this little man think he is? How did my father ever tolerate such an imbecile? Salvio took a breath, and attempted the paternal tone his father would have adopted under these circumstances.
“Don’t give this matter another thought, Genero. I’m using every tool at my disposal to grow your businesses.”
“We thank you for your family’s continued patronage. But the Brotherhood assigned those patents to your father for the sole purpose of safeguarding them for the duration of the Mafia trial. To ensure that the new Mafia-owned building concerns couldn’t get their hands on them.”
“There’s no danger of the patents being exploited by anyone now that they are my property, so your constituents can rest easy.”
“But your father agreed to revert them back to us at the end of the trial, and that date has passed.” Tosca was crushing his hat brim now. “My instructions are to not leave here without our patents. Your father was a man of honor. He gave his word to the Brotherhood in front of the entire membership, with every intention of giving them back…”
Salvio lost the paternal tone, but still fought to keep his voice calm. “I can’t think what I’ve done to cause this mistrust. I don’t have to remind you that my family founded Venice—”
“Mi scusi—”
“Stop interrupting me, Genero!” Salvio snapped. “You dare come into my home and intimate that the Brotherhood has been scheming behind my back to steal my patents from me? Me! Your benefactor! Patents that have been legally deeded to my family—”
“No, sorry, it isn’t like that—”
Salvio sprang from his chair, slamming both palms on the desk. Leaning toward Tosca, he roared, “To be used by ME in concert with THE POPE for VERDU MER! The single biggest building project Venice has ever known!” He was shaking, the heat rising from his armpits, and he felt his face flush. “If you and the rest of the Venetian building community can’t pull yourselves out of the last century and embrace the future that I’m trying to realize on your behalf, you will jeopardize this project and deeply regret your short-sightedness! Now, get out of my home!”
Tosca was out of his chair and out the door as fast as he could manage without breaking into a run.
Count Vincenzo Verona sat behind the medieval carved-oak desk in his Paris office suite, signing what seemed like an endless river of papers. The elegant space was silent except for the sound of papers shuffling and his fountain pen repeatedly scratching out his signature. His accountant, Leonardo, hovered over him, alternately pointing where to initial or sign, and then whisking documents away.
Vincenzo knew that many businessmen had little patience for the mountains of paperwork and documentation global banking required, but he had always felt a deep satisfaction personally completing the contracts and transfers for his charitable deals. He’d grasped his life’s purpose before he was out of diapers. A born philanthropist, what started out as his penchant for sharing his cookies with those who had none was now the part of his character that drove him to donate on a global level.
The silence was unexpectedly broken by his wife’s ringtone, George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun.” He smiled as he reached for his cell phone. “Ciao, Gigi. How was the museum?”
“Ciao, V. Would you mind coming to get me at the police station on Rue Pierre Lescot? I don’t want to call for my driver, and I need to be with you after the evening I’ve just had.”
“What? The police station?” He set his phone down on the desk and tapped the speaker output as he stood up and began putting files into his briefcase. “Of course. Are you all right? What happened?”
“I’m fine. I witnessed a crime and came down to sign a statement.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Grazie.”
“Prego.” Vincenzo glanced at Leonardo and saw the concern on his face.
“V, I’ll finish here. You get going. But don’t leave me in suspense. Call me on speaker when she tells you what happened so I can hear, too.”
“The transfer’s been initiated, so we don’t have anything to do until the bank accepts the funds. Why don’t you come along and hear her story for yourself?”
“I thought you’d never ask!”
Vincenzo called his driver to bring the car around, and within minutes they pulled up to the Commissariat de Police. Waiting for his bodyguard, Petro, to perform his customary visual sweep and open the door for him, Vincenzo saw Giselle stride out of the building with two men attempting to keep up with her. A man in a suit with an air of authority moved along at her elbow, and an officer in uniform hovered at her heels while undressing her with his eyes.
Leonardo scoffed, “Reactions to Giselle never cease to amaze me. It’s actually getting worse as she gets older. These French are completely obsessed with her. It looks like that police officer is about to proposition her. Helpless libertino.”
“She does look spectacular in that dress. And if possible, she’s even more beautiful with her hair coming undone than when it was perfectly coiffed at lunch this afternoon.” Vincenzo felt a familiar protectiveness as he watched the uniformed officer leering at his wife.
“There’s something so creepy about a policeman being a lecher.” Leonardo’s face showed his disgust.
“Okay, that’s it. Now he’s letting his tongue hang out.”
As if on cue, Petro swung the rear door open. Vincenzo got out of the car and walked over to the cop.
“Leave something on my wife. She might
catch cold.”
The officer pretended he hadn’t heard him and whipped out a handkerchief to hide behind as he mopped his face. The man in the suit reached out and gave Vincenzo’s hand a firm shake.
“Count Verona, I’m Commissioner Laurent. Please excuse this imposition, but your wife has done a great civic service. She was eyewitness to a murder, and she has given us a statement.”
“A murder? Dio mio!” He reached out to Giselle, who moved into his arms. He hugged her protectively as the commissioner continued to explain.
“Sadly, we’ve just learned that the victim of the robbery she witnessed has died.” He cleared his throat. “So as I say, this is now a murder investigation and we’re looking for the perpetrator.”
“I hope you find the man responsible.” Returning his attention to his wife, Vincenzo gently cupped her face with a palm. “Oh Gigi, I’m sorry this happened.” He turned at the unexpected sound of a shutter clicking.
“Damn paparazzi,” the commissioner growled, and pointed at the man taking pictures. “Bretton, get rid of that idiot.” The officer began waving his handkerchief at the photographers as he ran at them.
Petro expertly blocked the paparazzi’s line of sight as Vincenzo helped Giselle into the car. Once everyone was inside, the driver neatly cut into traffic, barely missing an approaching photographer on a scooter. Thanks to the car’s black windows, he wouldn’t be getting a shot for his gossip rag.
Giselle kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs across Vincenzo’s lap. Squeezing her leg reassuringly, he asked, “So, what happened?” and then both he and Leonardo listened intently as Giselle told them the events of the crime. She ended with a shake of her head.
“The police told me they’ve released the Good Samaritan. The way he moved was unreal! You wouldn’t have believed how he closed the distance to catch the old man. Then he ran so fast up the station stairs, he even got the briefcase back.”
Stealing Venice Page 2
