Within a few days of receipt, those same dollar amounts were sent out by the account holders to a fixed constellation of foreign parties. The sizes were not staggering, generally under five hundred thousand dollars. Anna had expected to see typical investment activity on behalf of wealthy clients involving brokerage firms or real estate companies in the United States. She wondered why the repetitive funds were not making their way to an Italian account holder or an Italian bank. The pattern did not definitely mean that Banco Saturno or its clients were perpetuating a money-laundering scheme, but it had aroused her curiosity. She wondered how Granite Bank, a colossally large correspondent bank, viewed the activity. It hadn’t reported anything suspicious to Treasury.
“I have to complete my compliance training due today, or I’ll be on the delinquent list and Her Highness will hand me my head,” Brian said. “Where and how should I send you the information?”
Anna thought it was just her luck to hit a bureaucratic speed bump when her freedom depended on resolving these questions quickly. Biondi could be preparing an arrest warrant while Brian was taking his damn course.
“Why don’t you hold onto it? I’ll call you late tomorrow. This is just between us for now, okay? If you’re comfortable with that.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks. I’ll bring you back a great bottle of wine. Did the desk clerk give you the phone number of the pensione?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Before you go, please transfer me to Leslie’s office.”
“Okay. Ciao for now.”
Feeling flushed, Anna sat down on the narrow bed. At least she didn’t have to speak to her boss face to face.
After their initial greetings, Leslie said, “I wondered when I was going to hear from you. What have you gotten yourself into?”
Transferred seven months ago from another area within the Treasury Department, Leslie Tanner had specialized in picking Anna’s brain, ordering her to produce detailed reports and slides on their program successes and algorithm production, which Leslie presented to higher-ups. With perfectly coiffed light brown hair and wide-set, cornflower-blue eyes, Leslie fit the image of an earnest, trustworthy official, not that of a calculating climber. Anna suspected that instead of keeping her as a valuable asset of the organization, Leslie would eventually find a way to eliminate her as a potential rival. She could almost hear the wheels turning in Leslie’s brain when she spoke.
“Did the police call you?” Anna asked.
“Yes, that Italian Detective Biondi. And the FBI to boot.”
“There’s been some kind of mix-up. They think I look like someone who was running from a murder scene at a fancy hotel.”
“Oh, no.”
“Didn’t they tell you that?”
“Not exactly. Just asked a lot of questions about you.”
“Well, I’ve gotten over my shock about how ridiculous this is, and now I need to find a way to prove my innocence. My word or yours is not going to carry the day.” Anna doubted that she could ever count on Leslie’s word. On one hand, as ambitious as she was, Leslie didn’t seem likely to slander Anna. On the other, she could provide information that would give Biondi a boost in putting the pieces together.
“Do you need legal representation? I could get you some names.”
Anna weighed whether lawyers with ties to Treasury or who were friends with Leslie would work to represent her or to protect Treasury’s or Leslie’s reputation. Better to pass. Count Favier’s help would be much better.
“Thanks so much. Not now. I may get recommendations from friends here. But if Detective Biondi contacts you again, please let me know. Brian has my number. Also, I’d appreciate it if you would call the consulate in Milan and vouch for me, in case I need their help later on.”
“We’ll look into it. Keep me apprised, and tell me if you need any resources going forward. I can’t have one of our employees vanish into an Italian prison.”
“I hope to avoid that as well.”
“I do need to tell you that I’ve heard a few things from Caroline.”
“Caroline—in accounting? What does she have to do with this?”
“She said the report on your Milan trip from early this year looked odd. So few expenses on food, for one thing.”
“I got treated.”
“Likely beyond the thirty-five-dollar gift ceiling, specified in our policy?”
Anna tried to keep her voice neutral. “It was approved, and I’d be happy to discuss it when I return.”
“See you in nine days.”
Anna doubted she would make it back to the office by then.
L’omicidio, The Murder
Monday, evening
The reflections of lamplights on the canal spiraled outward like luminous star trails. As Anna approached the entrance to Palazzo Favier, only the murmur of the canal lapping at the water gate broke the stillness. She pressed the bell and rushed inside once the heavy door buzzed open, revealing the black felze, mildewed and abandoned on the vestibule floor.
Greeting her on the piano nobile, Margo said, “After I called you, I found out that Angela will be here. Her gallery visit was canceled.”
“I hope to God she goes to bed early. Or you can convince her to leave us alone. Tell her we need to do some boring, intensive research for your article. I brought a newspaper with me. The murder’s just been reported.”
“Uh–oh.” Margo clicked her tongue.
They entered a spacious living room enlivened with brilliant murals. Angela sat on a velvet couch, surrounded by images of a fanciful jungle. A jaguar crouched low in the grass, mesmerized by a capybara bathing in a swollen river. A flock of green parrots circled the sun. Lavender macaws skirted over broad-canopied trees as an anaconda slithered below.
Angela’s green-striped pants transformed her abdomen into a ripe watermelon. Anna asked herself if a baby could have rescued her marriage, already in a ditch when she had gotten desperate, the year Nonno had died. Then came Jack’s surprise affair, as he prowled for a big ego boost and to hell with everyone else. Trying to convince herself it meant nothing, Anna had become numb until breaking out of her stupor in Milan.
Angela tapped a button on the portable CD player beside her and started sobbing.
“I told her not to listen to that song,” Margo said impatiently. “It makes her cry.” Stomping ahead with a “no, no,” Margo gently removed Angela’s headphones. “You’re listening to Eros Ramazzotti sing again.”
“So?” Angela looked up at her with reddened eyes.
“I made a promise to Michael that I’d bring you and the baby back safe and sound. I intend to keep it. That means you stay calm.” Margo settled in next to her.
“Dad gum it! I can’t help being a sap. After years in that ittybitty tank, those poor dolphins headed for the horizon together, finally free.”
Angela must have sat down with a dictionary and the CD notes, Anna thought. She couldn’t imagine Margo having the patience to translate lyrics, even for a cousin she tended to baby.
“Don’t get excited,” Margo said.
“You don’t care about Silver and Missie, but I do,” Angela said, sounding like a petulant teenager as she pulled her hair back into a pony tail.
“I care more about you,” Margo told her. “Here, take some.” She poured a glass of water from a crystal pitcher on the marble side table.
“Is everybody else gone?” Anna asked, shedding her backpack and taking a seat.
“Yep. It’s just us and the dog—somewhere,” Angela said. “Can I see that newspaper stickin’ out of your backpack?”
When Anna had bought the evening edition of the Gazzettino, broadcasting Sergio’s murder on page one, she had been eager to pour over the article with Margo. Alone.
“I didn’t think you read Italian,” Anna said.
“I’m tryin’ to take my mind off a few things,” Angela said. “I look at the pictures and guess at the captions.”
Anna con
sidered refusing for some reason, but that might raise suspicions when Angela heard about Sergio later. Reading the story together would be hard. Her mind felt scattered. What might be revealed about his life and affairs? Would there be any mention of her? What would she have to ad-lib and lie about?
Handing the paper to Margo as casually as she could, she asked, “Why don’t you translate?”
Stalling, Margo flipped through the pages from the back. “Always tangenti,” she said. “When will those bribes stop? This is about the Mani pulite—you know, that ‘Clean Hands’ political-corruption investigation.”
Angela looked blank and then bored.
“Okay, here’s something on the Cultural Council. Gee, they’re improving Santa Maria dei Miracoli Church. Meanwhile, the Preserve Venice Foundation is fixing up Madonna del Orto Church. Sounds like dueling organizations. There’s an article on acqua alta and MOSE—that’s the project planned to stop the flooding.”
“Stop the flooding in Venice?” Anna asked. “How? Venice is sinking. It’s already lower by ten inches this century. Sea levels are rising around the world, and when they’re done, it’ll be Atlantis here. Instead of gondola rides, tourists will scuba dive to see how beautiful it was before we ruined everything. A number of scientific journals have shown that if we do nothing, the seacoasts will flood—”
“That’s bullshit,” Angela said.
“Oh,” Margo said, turning to the front page and then blurting, “Omicidio.”
“What?” Angela raised her eyebrows.
“Mur-der of Ser-gi-o Cor-rin,” Margo translated, pronouncing the words with uncharacteristic slowness, as if she were speaking an unfamiliar language.
Angela plunked her water goblet down. Anna chewed her lip, though in a way she felt relieved. Now Sergio’s death would be one less secret to keep.
“We didn’t see him on this trip,” Margo said, “but his big Carnival festa was unforgettable. Remember that incredible art collection, Angela?”
Angela barely nodded, her gaze focused on the doorway.
“We wandered around his home for hours. Sergio had rooms adorned with priceless oil paintings and gardens filled with sculptures. It was like the Getty Museum and made this place look like a dump. And gold, all that gold—plates, tableware. . . unbelievable.”
How could he afford it? Anna wondered as she leaned toward Margo, surveying the page. “There are two write-ups?”
“Yeah. The lead story is by Marco Canavotti, the news reporter. This other guy, Filippo Fanfarone, writes the society column. Sergio made a big splash in those circles.”
Pointing an unsteady finger at the paper, Angela asked, “What do they say?”
Margo translated smoothly. “Count Sergio Corrin, bank CEO, well-known financier, and patron of the arts, was attending Saturday’s masquerade ball and society benefit on Giudecca at the Belvedere Hotel when his life was cruelly cut short by an unknown person as he was savagely murdered on a secluded, winding path. The sixty-seven-year-old count is survived by his wife, Liliana, who hurried back from a Swiss vacation with their two small children, once police located her. Other family includes two adult daughters, Marinella and Constanza, from his marriage to Arianna Pina Fasolo of Venice, his brother, Giacomo, and a cousin, Silvio Bertone.’
“The Italians are always so melodramatic,” she added.
“Sergio was murdered and you criticize the writin’?” Angela screeched. “What’s the matter with you?”
“It’s terrible, Angela,” Margo said. “We all feel bad. But let’s finish reading.”
“What’s next?” Anna asked.
“Lemme see.” Margo skipped to the next page. “Okay. It says that Sergio Corrin was born into a wealthy family and fought in the resistance in World War II. Has a law degree and that, after serving as the chairman of CONSOB in Rome for seven years, he worked for the banking giant Mediobanca in Milan before ascending to the vice-chairmanship of Banca Serenissima back here in Venice. He owned a villa in Asolo, a chalet in Cortina, vineyards of enantio grapes near Lake Garda. In 1983 he broke away from his old employer, and four years later, he formed his own successful bank, Banco Saturno, catering to the ultrawealthy.
“Remind me,” said Margo, “CONSOB is what?”
“The Italian SEC,” Anna said. “They regulate the Italian financial markets.”
“Right. Now I’ll translate the Fanfarone piece.” Turning back to the front page, Margo read, “‘This dashing man of exquisite taste opened the borders of Venice by means of his provocative tribal art gallery, welcoming art in all its forms from the four corners of the earth. His genius in selecting, exhibiting, investing, and protecting artistic endeavors is simply irreplaceable. He will be mourned worldwide.”’
“A bit over the top, don’t you think?” asked Anna.
Margo shrugged.
“I can still see those lights in the distance from our walk on Saturday night,” Angela said. “And the fireworks. A little singin’, the sounds of wooden flutes. That fancy hotel, filled with so many people all gussied up. Of all the places to be murdered. Who woulda known it?”
Anna examined Sergio’s bright smile in one picture. His shock of hair and limpid eyes were just how she remembered him in life. In a photo that must have been taken the night he was killed, he was holding the Pinocchio mask, its long nose exaggerated. Tapping her thigh, she scanned the news story for a mention of any leads the police were pursuing, like a woman with long hair and glasses, fleeing the scene. What if one of the papers published the sketch of her?
“This article has information on the Corrin family history,” Margo said. “They were originally from Spain but bribed their way into Italian nobility centuries ago.”
“Diggin’ up dirt before he’s even buried,” Angela complained. “The bunch of ’em genuflecting in front of Sergio, wantin’ his money while he was alive.”
“The story talks about his international travels and business activities,” Margo said. “Back from China, over to Russia, down to South Africa, Brazil, Peru, over to the United States. Sounds like the guy was never home.”
Anna wondered what connected it all, then felt a twinge as Margo showed them an image of Sergio embracing twin infants. Having young children certainly hadn’t inhibited his extramarital pursuits.
“Rather old to be a father of babies,” Margo said.
“You know some men,” said Angela. “They figure a young wife’ll give ’em the Fountain of Youth. He traded in the wrinkled model for the smooth-skinned one. Why, Liliana’s even younger than me. She marries Sergio because of his money and position and gets to ride the gravy train—it’s like some goddamn business transaction.” She sniffled. “But can we get back to findin’ out more about his . . . the murder?”
“There’s nothing about how he was killed, just that it was brutal,” Margo said.
“Maybe they don’t want to broadcast the murderer’s m.o.,” Anna said.
“You’ve been watchin’ too many Columbo reruns,” Margo told her. “I’d wager that the cops are keeping the details secret because they don’t want some weirdo confessing. That comes from my brief stint as a crime reporter. But murder’s so rare here. During the late seventies, maybe you remember, the Brigate Rosse, the Red Brigades, killed the Italian prime minister and stuffed his body into the trunk of a car. They were robbing banks and holding tycoons or family members for ransom. Milanese businessmen sent their kids to school here—much less danger of kidnapping in Venice. No cars. Little twisting alleys lined with windows. Harder to escape.”
“But why would someone murder Sergio?” Anna asked.
“Could’ve been anything.” Margo tugged at her earring. “Financial underworld stuff—Italian bankers have been killed before—or an unpaid artist, angry investors, hateful neighbors, a mistress, an ex-wife, a jealous wife, the Mafia. Who knows? What’s that . . . seven possibilities?”
“Eight,” Anna said. “What do you think, Angela?”
Angela was star
ing at the table. “We did some business together, met his family, but I didn’t know him well. Do the news stories mention anything about witnesses? Or people sayin’ what they might’ve seen?”
“Nope,” Anna said.
“I was askin’ Margo.”
Margo shook her head.
“How about Biondi?” asked Anna, hoping he had been taken off the case.
Margo’s gaze swept down the page. “Yes, he’s still the bigwig in charge. Quotes him as saying that he’s going to string up the murderer in the piazza, like in the good old days.”
Anna pictured herself hanging between the columns by St. Mark’s, looking down at the assembled crowd in her final moments, feet dangling in the air. Biondi’s fantasy sounded only too real.
Angela looked surprised. “How do you know the detective’s name, Anna?”
“That scary man grilled me about Sergio’s murder for more than an hour. Clearly, Biondi even thinks a woman might have done it,” Anna said.
“Why’re you callin’ him Sergio instead of his full name if you never made his acquaintance?”
“I . . . I suppose I just fell into it, hearing you and Margo talk.”
“So Biondi suspected you, even before you came to town?” Angela turned to her cousin. “Still the bigwig in charge, huh? Why didn’t you tell me? You knew!”
“But not who—he didn’t tell Anna Sergio’s name. I didn’t want to upset you about some unknown man being murdered.” Margo shot a sideways glance at Anna. “We should send some flowers to the family, don’t you think? Maybe a Mass card. Liliana must be crushed.”
“Now that she has all Sergio’s money, she’s ridin’ high,” said Angela.
“The article claims Liliana is offering a thirty-million lire reward for a tip leading to the capture of her husband’s killer,” Margo said.
“You know math’s not my strong suit,” Angela said. “How much money is that?”
Venetian Blood Page 7
