Dante's Numbers

by David Hewson

  Teresa read the details and tried to recall what little she knew about investing for the future. Money was never one of her strong points, which was probably why the true tontine appeared eminently sensible. Each member made a contribution to the fund. The total was then invested in legitimate enterprises. Any dividends from those holdings were shared equally among the members of the scheme, until the penultimate one died, at which point the entire sum, dividends and capital, fell to the ownership of the last in the group.

  The only flaw she could see was the obvious one: there was a substantial incentive on the part of tontine members to murder one another in order to ensure they claimed the richest prize. Ac cording to the documents Hank found, this had happened, and not just in fiction either. Tontines were made illegal in most countries by the nineteenth century, and passed on as fodder for novelists.

  “Fine…” she said quietly. “The connection being?”

  Hank found another article, one from the Financial Times the previous year.

  “I remembered this one because it made me think. Take a look.”

  It was a long and very serious piece about the nature of life insurance.

  “You see the author's point?” Hank said. “If you leave out the temptation-to-murder part, what old Lorenzo actually invented was the very first pension scheme. The only difference is he didn't let newcomers in, so that big final payout remained. In practical terms it's not much different from what happens today.” He nodded at his brother. “We get a fire department pension. The pot for that depends on the stock market or something magical, I guess. When one of our colleagues bites the dust, that's one less mouth to feed. We all profit from each other's deaths. We always have. Lorenzo just said all that out loud, and put it in a way that tempted a few people to bring on some of those deaths a little earlier than might otherwise have happened.”

  “So there was a tontine,” Teresa suggested. “And the people who were trying to hype Inferno were all in it.”

  “That's a possibility. Plus Josh Jonah and Tom Black, and Jimmy Gaines. Jimmy wasn't the most sophisticated of creatures. I doubt anyone could have sold him on a tontine. But if they said it was some kind of fancy insurance, one that might give him and Tom Black a tidy return each…?”

  “What did Jimmy Gaines have to put into a movie?” Frank asked.

  Hank shrugged. “A little muscle, maybe, like that photographer guy. What you have is what you contribute. And what you take out is…”

  There he was struggling. Frank looked sceptical.

  “Imagine this is true,” he said. “Why would they do it? They're making a movie. What these people need is money. Money pays people. You don't pay people, you don't get the job done.”

  “They didn't pay people,” Teresa interjected. “That's the point. The money wasn't there. Nic told me Maggie is still owed most of her salary. Lots of other people, too.”

  “I still don't see it…” Frank sighed.

  But she did. Or at least she thought she might.

  “Imagine you're Allan Prime. They come to you. The movie's nearly finished. You've been working for six months but the big reward is still down the line, when it comes out. They say there's no money left to pay you what's owed. But if you're willing to exchange your fee for something else…”

  “Insurance?” Hank suggested.

  Frank shook his big, tired head. “Prime would tell them to take a hike! It's the movie business. Getting paid's the first thing any of them would want.”

  “But if you won't get paid anyway?” she persisted. “If they say you take this deal or the whole thing collapses? And everything with it? The merchandise cut, the residuals from the TV and DVD rights, the cosy promotional tour around the world? If there's no movie, Allan Prime loses a lot more than his fee. He loses everything that might come after.”

  Frank still wasn't happy. “I still don't see how someone like Jimmy would get mixed up in something like that. What the hell would he know about the movie business?”

  Barkev came in with some more coffee. Teresa gulped hers down quickly.

  “They weren't dealing with the movie business,” she said resolutely after Barkev left the room.

  The two brothers watched her and didn't utter a word.

  “The movie people were dealing with Lukatmi. Don't you see? We've been asking the wrong question all along. When Roberto Tonti needed real money, he went to the mob. They stumped up enough to keep the production alive, barely, but it still couldn't be finished. We're pretty sure of that. Dino Bonetti has been taking finance from criminals for years. You don't need to be a genius to understand they'll certainly be expecting their return. Lukatmi was different. They came in later, when Tonti saw the whole project collapsing. Everyone's turned him down. He's desperate. And Lukatmi turn up offering…”

  What? It was clear there was precious little money behind the doors of their hangars at Fort Mason by that stage. Josh Jonah and Tom Black hadn't bailed out Inferno. They didn't have the cash.

  Frank—practical, logical, rational Frank—got there first, naturally.

  “I know what I'd do. I'd go quietly to all the people I owe money, not just the big guys like Allan Prime. I'd say, skip your salary and we'll give you something else. Something that might be worth a whole lot more than some risky horror flick if you play along.”

  She wanted to pinch herself. It was so obvious.

  “This wasn't about investing in a movie,” Teresa said. “It was about cutting your losses. About keeping Inferno alive and getting a chunk of the next big dotcom float coming round the corner. One that could make you richer than you could ever dream of, even in Hollywood. Josh Jonah and Tom Black were paper billionaires. Allan Prime couldn't even contemplate money like that, and he was a huge movie star. So you put together a secret little scheme to hype Inferno to the heavens and make Lukatmi even more lucrative at the same time.”

  Frank was scribbling down some notes. “Whatever paperwork's involved is squirreled away in one of these funny-money places in the Caribbean,” he said. “A limited number of members with the payout based on status. Obviously it can't be equal. Allan Prime's going to expect a whole lot more than poor little Jimmy Gaines, that's for sure. Martin Vogel thought his efforts merited a bigger cut and started blackmailing Josh Jonah. But it's still a fund. A secret one. It has to be. You can't invite in more members, or you go to jail. You get it?”

  Not quite yet, she thought.

  “It's a tontine by default as much as by design,” Frank explained. “When the numbers start to fall because people are dying, where else can the money go except to the original members? Tonti could have sold the whole thing to these people without saying the word ‘tontine' once. It was exactly what he said it was. What Jimmy got told. Insurance.”

  Hank put down his coffee cup. He had a sour expression on his face. “This world sickens me. All these people screwing one another. Jonah and Black thinking they were robbing the movie crowd so's they could keep their tin-pot company afloat. The movie people kidding themselves they'd all get rich on some dumb kids' dotcom dream. Yuck…”

  He looked at the door and yelled, “Barkev! I need a beer!”

  The dark face appeared. “Hank,” the man said, “this is a café. If you want a beer, go find a bar.”

  “That I shall. Someone going to join me?”

  Teresa stared at him in astonishment. “We are about to get some insight into this case, finally, and you want to go to a bar?”

  “You can think of a better time? What's there left to talk about? Half these people are dead. Josh and Tom and Jimmy. That photographer. Allan Prime. Anyone else who's involved… why would they do anything now? What for? The money's gone. Lukatmi's worthless. Their grubby little deal won't get them a penny. That's as much justice as any of us can expect.”

  She caught his arm. “You're missing the point. This is offshore. It can't be part of Lukatmi anymore, otherwise they'd be able to find it. From what Catherine Bianchi told me, even t
he federal people think they'll never trace where the company's assets really ended up.” She needed to get this clear in her own head, too. “That part of things is not dead. It's very much alive, out there somewhere. Just reversed. Lukatmi's the turkey and Inferno's the golden goose. One that's in the names of a diminishing group of people, who, between them, now own a chunk of the biggest movie in decades.”

  “Do the math,” Frank suggested. “Say there's four of them still alive. One dies. Your share just went from…” He paused to do the sums in his head. “ Twenty-five percent to thirty-three.”

  “Two left and you just doubled your money,” Teresa added, pulling out her phone. “Winner takes all. It's worth killing for now more than it ever was.”

  THE CALL CAME THROUGH AS KELLY WAS driving him through the foot of the Presidio. Costa got dropped off on Chestnut and met Teresa and the Boynton brothers in a tiny café he'd never even noticed before. Outside the grubby windows the light was changing. Fog was reaching the city, bringing with it a filmy haze that dimmed the bright blue sky.

  Teresa and the two somewhat eccentric twins spoke of what they'd discovered. Costa listened.

  When they were finished, Teresa said, “We thought you ought to know.”

  He took a deep breath, smiled, and said, “It's a good theory.”

  “That's it?” Teresa asked, incensed. “That's all you have to say?”

  “You can't base a case on some information you've picked up on Google.”

  “Nothing else fits,” insisted one of the brothers. “Does it?”

  “Just because it fits doesn't make it true. Without some evidence. Or a confession, which seems just as unlikely, we've nothing.”

  “A confession of murder,” the other brother said. “Sure. No one's going to own up to that easily. But…am I really the only one who sees this?”

  “Yes, Hank,” Teresa said. “I believe you are.”

  “You don't need to get someone to own up to killing one of these people,” Hank said. “All you need is to get them to own up to the deal. The insurance scheme. The tontine. If he—or she-does that and gives you the names of the members, you've got a short list. Someone on it has to be your man.”

  Teresa stared at him. “Why on earth would anyone confess to that?”

  “Because they can't all be murdering bastards. This was an accidental tontine, right?” Hank looked at Costa. “Tom Black told you that himself, didn't he? They surely didn't start out to kill people. Why would they? Just to get a movie made? Someone somewhere's got to have a conscience. Even in the movie business. Either that or they've got to be scared. Looking around at the others wondering, ‘Was it him? Am I next?' No sane human being's happy in that kind of situation.”

  “Know anyone who fits the bill?” Teresa asked Costa.

  “I'm not sure,” he replied. “Thanks for your time.”

  Then he threw some money on the table and left.

  COSTA WALKED OUT ONTO CHESTNUT AND LOOKED west, towards the flat green that fronted Fort Mason. The temperature seemed to have fallen a few degrees in the brief time he'd been inside the café. Gerald Kelly was right about the weather.

  In the early days after they'd arrived in San Francisco, he'd checked the whereabouts of everyone involved in Inferno. Everyone except Maggie, since that felt somehow prurient. Roberto Tonti lived just a few hundred yards away in his bleached white mansion opposite the Palace of Fine Arts. Dino Bonetti usually took a suite in the Four Seasons on Market.

  And Simon Harvey had a rented apartment on Marina Boulevard, not far from the Lukatmi building.

  Someone somewhere's got to have a conscience.

  So how do you prick it?

  He phoned Maggie. She was trying on some clothes for the premiere in a downtown store, surrounded, she complained, by plainclothes police. The two of them made small talk, then she asked, “Why did you really call, Nic? It wasn't to check what I was going to wear tonight, was it?”

  “I need to know something. A straight answer, Maggie. It's important and it's not what it sounds.”

  “That has an ominous ring to it.” He heard her move somewhere more private.

  “Was your relationship with Simon Harvey ever more than professional? If so, is it over? And if it is, how does he feel about that?”

  He could hear the sharp, disappointed intake of breath down the phone. He could imagine the pain this question caused.

  “Oh, Nic. You're not going to do this to me all the time, are you? Ask about the past? There are a lot of questions and not many answers you're going to like.”

  “It's never going to happen again. And I wish I didn't have to ask now. But I do. It's important.”

  “To you?”

  “In the sense that it concerns your safety…yes. Someone tried to harm you.”

  “Not Simon, never Simon. That's ludicrous…”

  He hesitated. He really didn't want to know. “You're certain of that?”

  “Yes. I am. We had an affair five years ago while we were filming that pirate nonsense. It lasted a few months. Then he joined the long line of ex-lovers who couldn't take my behaviour any longer. I hurt him, Nic. A lot. I know because he's told me more than once. He thought…Simon thought he could save me from myself. Some men do. It still pains him. From time to time he tries to pick up the pieces. Why do you think he was there in the sanatorium that day? Why do you think he gets so awkward when you're around?”

  “I'm sorry I had to ask.”

  “I'm sorry, too. Don't ever do it again.”

  The phone went dead.

  SIMON HARVEY'S APARTMENT WAS ON THE ground floor of a Spanish-style block close to the yacht moorings that adjoined the eastern face of Fort Mason. The fog was now rolling in from the Bay with a steady momentum. There were three uniformed SFPD cops outside the door. They didn't give him any trouble once they saw Costa's ID. Kelly must have put round the word.

  Harvey didn't answer the bell straightaway. When he did, he didn't look like a man preparing for the movie event of his career.

  “What the hell did I do to deserve this?” He kept the door half open, blocking Costa's way.

  “I thought perhaps I'd need a publicist, now you're setting the paparazzi on me.”

  Harvey's hair was shorter, freshly cut. The vaguely hip, student-like appearance was gone. He was trying on a tuxedo over a pair of jeans and a white dress shirt.

  “Does this look like a good time to you? I'm getting dressed.”

  “It's a good time for me…” Costa began.

  Harvey swore and began to close the door. Costa slipped his foot in the gap and his arm up against the wood.

  “What the hell is this?” Harvey yelled. “Some Roman punk can't just come here and start harassing me.” He glared at the three uniforms by the front gate, beyond the small, immaculate lawn of the garden. “Hey. Hey. Do I get some protection here? Well? Do I?”

  One of the men turned briefly and shrugged.

  Costa leaned forward and said, “Just a minute of your time, sir…”

  “You don't deserve a second of my time—”

  “Simon,” Costa interrupted, “I know.”

  The pressure on the door relaxed a little. Harvey's bright, intelligent eyes narrowed. “What's that supposed to mean? You know what?”

  “I know about the scam. The tontine that Roberto Tonti had you and Dino Bonetti run up. The one that got Inferno made even though you didn't have the money. Just a treasure chest offshore, one part Lukatmi, one part Inferno. All under-the-counter, half of it worthless, half—”

  “—worth what? Worth killing for? That's crap.” Harvey scowled at him. “You really are something else. You mess with one of my stars. You almost get her killed. And now you stand on my doorstep accusing me of murder. Get the hell out of here.”

  Costa launched himself forward, pushed Simon Harvey hard back through the entrance, kicked the door shut behind, and held him tight against the wall, elbow to his throat. This close he could smell some rank,
harsh spirit on Harvey's breath. It seemed rather early in the day for vodka.

  “I don't care about you,” Costa murmured. “Not for one moment. I don't care who it was turned murderous. Or that he may still have your name on the list of people standing between him and the pot of gold waiting in Grand Cayman.”

  “Get out of my home—” Harvey began. Then he shut up.

  Costa had never done this before but there were lots of things he'd never done until San Francisco. He had the service revolver hard against Simon Harvey's right temple. He was looking into the publicist's terrified face, searching for something.

  “Do you know what it feels like? To get shot? I do. It hurts. Not the way you think. It's a big hurt. It aches and aches. Long after the blood's gone. Long after the scars. It's not like the movies. Life isn't. It's real and cold and hard. If you lose someone you love, the taste of it stays with you forever.”

  “Don't threaten me. I could make one phone call…”

  Costa stood back, breathing hard. Then he holstered the weapon.

  “Make the call. Didn't you hear me? I know. I know you didn't just cut yourself in on this deal. Somehow you got between Maggie and her agent and put some part of her fee into that grubby little scheme of yours. That's why she's wondering where the money is now. What's she going to think when she finds she got robbed by some…” He waited to let the words have some power. “…old boyfriend? One who still won't let go?”

  “You're remarkably out of your depth.”

  “Maybe,” Costa admitted. “Doesn't it bother you, though? The idea that this isn't over?”