by Aaron Elkins
“She was the CFO,” Gideon said. “It probably wasn’t that hard to fudge things.”
“Right. And Vincenzo hated that part of the operation—he’d rather be out drumming up business—so he was glad to leave it to her. She’s a smart girl, so she worked out ways of putting money in her pocket, a little at a time, when transactions came through. But when the stock market went south and there weren’t so many transactions anymore, that got harder. And she was starting to get nervous anyway; the longer she did that kind of finagling, the more likely she’d make a mistake and get caught.”
“And so she set up Achille’s kidnapping?” Julie said. “Five million euros in one shot, and then no more having to play around with company finances.”
“Yup, that’s the way it looks.”
They were in armchairs arranged in front of the big picture window, and for a while they sat quietly and looked out at the view. Ordinarily you could see all the way to Vancouver Island, and sometimes to the mountains of the Canadian mainland, but today they could barely see as far as the ferry dock. If anything, the murk was getting darker, the rain heavier. It was a good day to be inside. Gideon began thinking about building a fire but was too comfortable to get up.
“What about Vincenzo?” Julie asked. “What are you going to do about him?”
“Nothing,” Phil said, seemingly surprised at the question.
“But you can’t leave him there as the padrone.”
“Who says?” Phil responded, showing some animation. “You think I want to take over? I told you, I can’t stand that place for more than a couple of days at a time. You think I want to live there? Everything’ll stay just the way it was. Vincenzo’s not perfect, but he’s been doing fine. I’ll visit once in a while, same as always, that’s all.”
“Well, what happens after Vincenzo? Who follows him?”
“Achille, same as before.” He laughed at their expressions. “Don’t look so amazed. I think this kidnap thing has sobered the kid up. He’ll be okay, trust me.”
“But is that legal?” Julie asked. “After all, Vincenzo isn’t really a de Grazia.”
“So? Who’s gonna sue over it? Me? Not likely.”
Gideon whistled softly. “Vincenzo must think you’re out of your mind.”
“Actually, he’s been pretty honorable about it. He offered to pack up and leave, but I told him a little peasant blood was good for the family.”
“I bet he loved that.”
“He’ll get over it. He’s still getting used to the idea that his father’s name is Pietro Somebody . . . or was it Pasquale Somebody, the one with the warts . . . or was it Guglielmo Somebody?” He laughed. “I happen to think this whole thing will make a better man of him.”
“I happen to think so too,” Gideon said.
Phil leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, slowly turning his mug in his hands. “Look, the main thing is, I’m the same guy I always was. I’m happy the way I am. I was okay with Emma Ungaretti as my mother, I was okay with crazy Gia as my mother, and I’m okay with this arrangement. I mean, I’m glad Emma really is my mother, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me . . . if you know what I mean.” He put down his coffee and stood up. “Thanks a lot, people. You’ve really been great. Hey, maybe we can get together—”
“Not so fast, pal,” Julie said. “Let’s get down to important matters. How do things stand with you and Lea?”
A slow, shy grin tipped up the corners of his mouth. “Not too bad. Can you believe this is happening to me? She’s been to the States and she likes it here, and with a little language training, her skills would be usable here too. She’s a kind of hotel consultant—”
“Slow down. When do you see her next?”
“Well, I’m inviting her to spend a week up in Belling-ham. You know, to see the great Pacific Northwest.” The grin spread. “From there . . . who knows what could happen?”
“Not this month, I hope,” Gideon said as a gust of wind flung a noisy spatter of rain against the window, almost like a handful of pebbles. Just below, a couple of rhododendron bushes, their leaves shiny black with water, swayed and fluttered in the storm. “She’s from sunny Italy. This could be pretty traumatic.”
“True,” Julie said. “You know, you’d better not make it January or February either.”
“Or March,” Gideon said.
“Or November or December.”
“Or—”
“I was thinking,” said Phil, “of the third week in July, three months from now.”
Gideon chewed his lip, considering. “That should work,” he said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As usual, Gideon Oliver has had to turn for advice to his real-life forensic colleagues. I am happy to thank two of America’s most eminent forensic anthropologists, Stanley J. Rhine and Walter Birkby, for making the Skeleton Detective look smarter than he would have otherwise.
My dear old friend Harvey Sherman of Salomon Smith Barney, who is probably the world’s most honest and industrious stockbroker, cheerfully instructed me in the ins and outs of funny-money-finagling. Jean Blaurock of BankAmerica filled me in on wire-transfer details.
My new friend Paola Lucentini was a treasure house of information on Italian language and culture.
The Hotel Primavera that is described in the book is real, and I owe my thanks to its friendly staff for helping to make my research time in Stresa a pleasure.
Other Titles by Aaron Elkins
Gideon Oliver Novels
SKELETON DANCE
TWENTY BLUE DEVILS
DEAD MEN’S HEARTS
MAKE NO BONES
ICY CLUTCHES
CURSES!
OLD BONES
MURDER IN THE QUEEN’S ARMES
THE DARK PLACE
FELLOWSHIP OF FEAR
Chris Norgren Novels
OLD SCORES
A GLANCING LIGHT
A DECEPTIVE CLARITY
Lee Ofsted Novels (with Charlotte Elkins)
NASTY BREAKS
ROTTEN LIES
A WICKED SLICE
Thrillers
TURNCOAT
LOOT
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