The Devil

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘No, I’ll need Garramone to fast-track us another warrant, then I’ll head straight down there.’

  ‘Why the hell were Zenox Pharmaceuticals paying Andrea Borghese? What was the money for?’ Scamarcio pulled the last Marlboro from its box. The cigarette was dented, with a tear in the filter paper. He’d sat on the pack by mistake. He tried to straighten out the tip so it was smokable, but then he just gave up and lit it. He closed his eyes.

  ‘The answer to that is probably the answer to the entire investigation,’ said Sartori, turning from the computer.

  Scamarcio exhaled and watched the smoke wind its way to the office ceiling, scarred brown and yellow from years of similar abuse. ‘I could kick myself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I should have checked the boy’s bank account to begin with. I did the parents, but not him.’

  ‘Well, it’s not the first thing that springs to mind. He wasn’t exactly leading an independent life.’

  ‘Yeah, I just wrote him off as a minor — but he was eighteen, an adult.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He was receiving payments for the past eight years, at least.’

  ‘Yeah, but I should have thought it through.’

  Sartori frowned and started pulling on his jacket. ‘Don’t sweat it. We’re here now, and this smells like progress.’

  ‘As soon as the warrant’s in, call and tell me how much he’s holding.’

  Sartori made a silent salute then headed for the boss’s office.

  Scamarcio took another long drag and let the smoke escape through his nostrils. ‘Assets,’ he said out loud, causing a colleague at the next desk to turn and stare. Scamarcio scrolled through the contacts on his mobile and dialled the number for Dino De Blasi, an old university friend who had helped him on a case the previous year.

  Once the pleasantries were out of the way, Scamarcio said, ‘Dino, if I want to find out if someone’s holding shares in a particular company, what’s the quickest way to do it?’

  ‘Maybe just ring around the big brokers — there are only a handful. If you don’t get lucky with that you could try the asset services firms, they’re the guys who administer the shares on behalf of the companies themselves. Again, there are only a few.’

  ‘How much time would I be looking at?’

  ‘A few hours, probably. Unless your guy’s right under the radar.’

  ‘Could you give me the names and numbers of these firms?’

  ‘No worries — hang on a minute.’

  As Scamarcio was waiting for Dino to return, he spotted Lovoti making his way to the coffee machine. ‘Lovoti, come here,’ he hollered. Lovoti did not look pleased to be summoned.

  ‘What’s the matter? I was on a break.’

  ‘Not anymore.’

  Lovoti just rolled his eyes at no one in particular.

  ‘Stand by. I’m about to give you something important to do.’

  Lovoti threw him a look which said, ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  Dino De Blasi came back on the line, and Scamarcio jotted down the information. He thanked him and said goodbye.

  ‘It’s your lucky day, Lovoti. If you crack this, I’ll stick a big gold star on your report card.’

  ‘I’m not your performing monkey, Scamarcio.’

  ‘Whatever. I need to find out if the boy, Andrea Borghese, held shares in any companies. According to a contact of mine at the exchange, if you call these brokerage firms, they’ll tell you if he did. If you don’t get anywhere with them, try these asset services firms below. You should have it done and dusted by tea time. Then you can go get yourself a nice coffee.’

  ‘Warrant?’ Lovoti cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘See where you get without it. If they get shirty, Garramone will have one ready.’

  ‘Is Judge Garibaldi still giving him a lap dance?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Everyone knows about Garibaldi.’

  It was the first time Scamarcio had heard someone other than Garramone mention the name, and it riled him deeply that it had come from Lovoti. The prick always had to be one up on everyone else.

  ‘Good luck, Lovoti. I’m counting on you.’

  Scamarcio saw a look of confusion cross his brow.

  The MD of Zenox Italia poured himself a large measure of Scotch, then placed it next to his blotter and stared at it.

  ‘I’m not going to drink it,’ he said, almost as if he was trying to convince himself.

  ‘You’re not?’ Scamarcio shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He pulled a fresh pack of Marlboros from his pocket. ‘But I am going to smoke these — that’s if it’s all right with you.’

  Burrone waved the courtesy away. ‘I used to be an alcoholic. I’ve been on the wagon for ten years. I stopped when it started to interfere with my work.’

  Scamarcio felt wrong-footed by the candour, but tried not to show it.

  ‘But you still pour yourself a Scotch?’

  ‘I pour it at the same time every day. It’s an act that I could not give up, a part of the routine I’ve allowed myself to keep.’

  ‘But then what do you do with it? It looks like an expensive make.’

  ‘It is — it costs sixty euros a bottle. I study the colour of it, the texture, the trace on the glass, and, most importantly …’ Burrone picked up the tumbler and brought it to his nose, ‘… the aroma. The smell is everything.’

  ‘I thought alcoholics did all they could to avoid the smell of alcohol.’

  ‘Not this one.’ Burrone set down the glass, then rose and took it into the bathroom next to his office. Scamarcio heard a tap running, then the quick suck of air as it closed. Burrone returned with the empty glass. Was it just a show? Had he drunk it? Scamarcio wondered.

  Burrone sat back behind his desk, folded his arms across the blotter, and looked at Scamarcio expectantly. Scamarcio rested his cigarette in a chunky glass ashtray and coughed. ‘Sir, why are you confiding in me?’

  Burrone stared at him hard. ‘Because I’m an honest person. Because I believe in telling the truth …’ He let the words hang heavy on the air, as if they bore some secondary meaning — some hidden message. Scamarcio just held his gaze. It was starting to feel like the OK Corral of stare-outs. Scamarcio wondered whether they’d make it to thirty seconds.

  Burrone finally broke the silence. ‘… And I want you to know that neither myself nor my finance manager have any idea why our company was paying that boy.’ He steepled his hands in front of his chest and began rotating his long fingers.

  ‘I would have thought the finance guy would have been on top of all that stuff.’

  ‘Marco has an enormous quantity of names and data to deal with — not just employees, but consultants, vendors, etc. It runs into the thousands. He can’t be expected to know every entry in the system.’

  Scamarcio tried not to frown. ‘This payment that was stipulated by the States, didn’t you notice the money was missing every month — if it came out of your budget?’

  Burrone raised a finger. ‘That’s a good question, Detective, and that was the question that was bothering me. I asked Marco to explain it, and he’s just found that the US had set aside a contingency — a kind of permanent fund for the boy’s payments that we were holding. Debora knew about its existence, but doesn’t recall who told her or who set it up in the first place.’

  ‘And you believe her?’

  ‘Of course. Why would she lie?’

  ‘But you’ve been here all these years …’

  Burrone shook his head slowly. ‘Like I just told you, I had no idea. The fund could have been set up remotely. It’s not impossible that the IT team in the States created it without us being initially aware.’

  ‘But surely when they moved the money in …?’

  ‘Marco has a vague memory
of questioning HQ about a large sum that had appeared some years ago from America and being told not to worry about it. He was instructed to leave it where it was until asked — it wasn’t to be touched or entered onto any balance sheet. Phantom cash, as it were. He says he had too much else going on to ever chase it up again.’

  ‘So he took no further action?’

  ‘He was just obeying orders.’ Burrone shrugged.

  ‘How curious.’

  ‘I must admit that I also find it curious.’

  Again, the emphasis he put on the word ‘curious’ made Scamarcio glance up from his notepad, as if he was supposed to pick up on some secret sign. But Burrone’s expression remained inscrutable, the tan glowing. Scamarcio wondered if he visited a salon. ‘Have you spoken to anyone in America about this?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve tried to call Mike McCain — my counterpart over there — but I’ve been told he’s on the golf course entertaining clients. I’m expecting him to ring back in the next few hours.’

  ‘You know what?’ said Scamarcio, extinguishing the spent cigarette and patting his pocket to check the pack was still there. ‘I think I’ll talk to him myself. If he doesn’t call you back, don’t chase him.’

  ‘With respect, Detective, I’ll do what the bloody hell I like. I run this company in Italy, and I need to understand what’s going on.’

  Scamarcio smiled and rose tiredly to his feet. ‘Right you are, Mr Burrone — as you wish.’

  ‘Fuckers.’ Scamarcio slammed his mobile onto the plastic tabletop and took a long swig of chilled Ichnusa. He hadn’t wanted to go back to the office and figured he could call the States just as well from the bar at the end of his road. He studied the frosty sheen on the neck of the bottle and thought of Burrone and his strange addiction story — thought of the weird, unidentifiable something that niggled at him about the MD. He pressed redial for the fifth time.

  ‘Detective, as I just told you, there’s no one here to deal with your enquiry at this time,’ said the whiny, nasal East Coast voice, slightly shriller and higher than last time.

  ‘I find that difficult to believe. It’s 11.00 am there — the office must be full.’

  ‘But the people you need are out with clients. And, as I’ve now informed you many times, I will make sure they give you a call as soon as they’re back.’

  ‘Don’t they have mobiles?’

  ‘I can’t disturb them at this time.’

  ‘Not even for important enquiries?’

  ‘I believe their mobiles are switched off.’

  ‘You believe? Why don’t you try to call them while I’m on the line? I have no problem holding.’

  ‘I can’t do that, sir.’

  ‘Why on earth not? This relates to a murder inquiry, for God’s sake.’

  He heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’ve been given strict instructions not to disturb them.’

  ‘I think they’d want to know about this.’

  Another dramatically laboured breath. ‘I’ve sent an email message; they will call you back promptly, I’m sure.’

  ‘Listen …’ But she’d hung up on him. Would she have hung up on the US cops, he wondered?

  He laid his cell phone gently on the table and studied the passers-by. A beautiful woman with short brown hair hurried past, and he thought of Aurelia. The thought started in his head, but inevitably ended up in his groin. He took another long drink of beer and was about to leave and head home to Fiammetta, when Lovoti’s name flashed up on his mobile.

  ‘I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky,’ sang Lovoti down the line, loud and cocksure. Scamarcio wouldn’t have taken him for a Kylie fan. He looked up at the violet sky and decided to let him enjoy his moment.

  ‘One million euros,’ whispered Lovoti smugly.

  ‘Is that what the hookers on Via Ostiense charge you for a hand job these days? Is there a penalty for syphilis?’

  ‘Very funny. One million euros is the value of the shares held by your vic, Andrea Borghese.’

  Scamarcio fell silent.

  ‘Various companies, quite a few pharmaceuticals — including several US firms, which he traded on the exchanges over there.’

  ‘He traded them himself?’

  ‘According to the brokers, the dad did it for him.’

  ‘Gennaro. Was this all money invested or did they turn a big profit?’

  ‘Steady accumulation, according to the brokers — there were no fantastic investments with miracle returns, but the money was being invested regularly, and then allowed to grow.’

  ‘Really good work,’ said Scamarcio before he’d even realised he was about to say it.

  ‘Gee, thanks, Scamarcio — a thank you from you is high praise indeed.’

  ‘Credit where credit’s due.’

  ‘Sartori wants a word.’

  He heard the phone being handed across and then someone mutter, ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘There’s half a million in the bank account. Can’t find any other accounts,’ said Sartori as he took a loud slurp of something. Scamarcio guessed it wasn’t an organic smoothie.

  ‘Our victim seems to have been pretty rich for an eighteen-year-old,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘Pretty rich for a forty-year-old …’

  ‘Any other money coming into Andrea’s account other than the Zenox payments?’

  ‘Nope — just Zenox.’

  ‘To have all that wealth in shares, those payments from Zenox must have been going on for years.’

  ‘Yeah. You can ask Lovoti, but he told me that some of the shares were bought when Andrea was just a young kid — probably six or seven years old.’

  ‘Six or seven years old,’ Scamarcio echoed, his mind sticking on something, but he wasn’t sure what. There was something about the age. How old was Andrea when his parents first noticed a change in his behaviour? He’d need to ask Mrs Borghese again. Maybe it wasn’t even important, but, on the other hand, perhaps there was a connection here, a symmetry he didn’t yet understand. He’d need a word with both Borgheses first thing tomorrow.

  31

  FIAMMETTA WAS DOING BREATHING exercises when he walked in, the enormous bulk of his child resting on her thighs. There was something almost obscene about it; it didn’t even look natural anymore.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, wondering for the thousandth time how women could put up with this.

  She stopped the strange breathing and shifted around on the parquet to face him. ‘It’s getting a bit much. It’s starting to feel too heavy, now. My ribs are killing me.’

  He bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Fiammetta. I wish there was something I could do to help.’

  ‘You could get me some fries and a burger.’

  ‘Do we have any?’

  ‘Would you mind popping out?’

  ‘I’ve only just got in.’

  ‘You just said you’d do anything to help.’

  Scamarcio supressed a sigh. He just wanted to flop down on the sofa and relax. ‘What kind of burger?’

  ‘Double cheese with extra-large fries and ketchup.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit greasy?’

  ‘I’m the one carrying our child, so I’m the one who decides what I eat.’

  Scamarcio put his jacket back on and cast his eyes to the ceiling so he didn’t have to look at her. Sometimes he noticed a new imperiousness to Fiammetta, a hardness he didn’t recognise. He hoped it would pass once the baby was born.

  The air was bitingly cold as he stepped back out onto the street. He felt a wetness against his cheek and realised too late that it was raining, but he couldn’t be bothered going back inside for an umbrella. The nearest burger joint was fifteen minutes’ walk, but on the plus side, at least it would give him the chance to smoke. The traffic on Via Venti Settembre sounded like it was
tuning up for a fight. The rain was making people impatient. He watched as a rusty white truck rear-ended a black people-carrier. The drivers poured out onto the pavement and an ‘in your face’ argument ensued. He looked the other way.

  He felt his mobile vibrate, and, through the raindrops, he saw Katia Borghese’s name appear on the screen.

  ‘Detective, you’ve got to help.’ She sounded choked, as if she was fighting back tears.

  ‘Has something happened?’ He stepped into a small alleyway, where several pigeons were rooting around in an overturned dustbin. The arrival of two stray cats quickly saw them off.

  ‘It’s Gennaro — he came home briefly last night, but then he disappeared again.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘He said he was going to work — he said he wanted to go to the office because he needed the distraction. But I called him there as I couldn’t reach him on his mobile, and they said he hadn’t been in all day.’

  Scamarcio cleared his throat then swallowed. ‘Katia, I don’t know how to put this, but …’

  ‘Oh, save yourself the trouble. I already called her, and she hasn’t seen him either.’

  ‘Was she expecting to?’

  ‘She claims that he hasn’t been answering her calls and that she hasn’t heard from him in hours.’ She paused for a beat. ‘Unusual, apparently,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘And his mother?’

  ‘She phoned me about an hour ago, wondering where he was — he’d promised to pop in on his way back from work.’

  Scamarcio let out a quiet sigh. He noticed that one of the cats was making good progress with a chicken carcass. For a moment, Scamarcio felt like the one being mercilessly picked over.

  ‘Where do you think he might be, Katia?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but I’ve got an awful feeling that it could be connected with this secret plan of his. I think he might be in trouble.’

  Scamarcio held the phone away from his ear for a moment and tried to ease out a sudden crick in his neck. ‘Listen, Katia, try to stay calm. One of my detectives is going to call you — you’re going to need to give him Gennaro’s mobile phone number and the service provider he uses.’