“Jealousy. Or to stop him from doing something with these. The likeness is remarkable.” The detective pulled two photocopies from a white envelope and passed them to Anna. There she was, smiling, head and arms propped up on a linen pillow, without a stitch of clothing, boldly looking into the camera, like Goya’s Maja Desnuda. The next photo showed her and Sergio, naked from the waist up, embracing. How had he taken these pictures without her knowing?
Biondi sat back and smirked. “We got the originals from him when we opened the mail today.”
Anna shrank in her seat. She was now the laughingstock or the pinup of the Venice police department. She could barely raise her head.
But why would Sergio give up the photographs he was using to threaten her? And where was the third one? Biondi’s theory didn’t hold water. “Detective Biondi, Sergio did not send these.”
“Wrong. He could have mailed them Saturday, before the gala. They are picked up on Monday, the postal worker takes many espresso breaks, and they arrive today.”
“Why would he have done that?”
“Leave who and why to us. Maybe he got a death threat from you.”
“Him, scared of me? That’s absurd.”
“Or, these come from an anonymous citizen wanting to help us catch the killer, just like in olden times. We perform a new test on all the evidence, called a DNA test. We see if it finds anything.”
Anna swallowed. She had touched the Polaroids, along with Sergio’s hand. A strand of her hair might have landed on him. What might these tests show?
“I want to speak to the American consulate. They should have been contacted by my office.”
“I ask.” Biondi used the intercom to relay the request to his staff. “Now, let’s get to the murder scene.” He unfurled an immense architectural plan and placed it on the table.
“What’s this?”
“The plans of the Hotel Belvedere, including all the outdoor, public spaces and the dock. You will show me the location of every single place you walked, circle areas where you stopped, along with what time it was at each spot. If you make a mistake or lie again, I will give no mercy.”
Anna struggled to concentrate, banishing any thoughts on the prospect of failure as she studied the rendering. “May I write on it?” Biondi passed her a pencil.
She traced her path carefully from the dock to the back of the hotel, through the hallways, into the ladies room, up the garden steps, and down to the boat again. Shimmering slivers of that night’s sights and sounds, as if ruptured by strobe light, accompanied her mental journey. She paused to review her work, mulling it over before deliberating about the times.
“Most of these are estimates,” she said as she finished. “It’s not like I consulted my watch every time I moved.”
Biondi pored over the drawing and then jabbed one spot with his forefinger. “Ecco. Here. You stood here, at the beginning of the raised garden, just to the left side of the top of the stairs.”
“Yes.”
“This is where you ambushed him.”
“No. That’s where I let him pass, where I lost my nerve instead of trying to speak with him, to beg him for the photos. He didn’t see me, because I was next to some bushes.”
“How tall were the bushes?”
“Over my head.”
Biondi jotted a note on his little pad. “You see him coming, alone, no one else around, you surprise him with a weapon, and force him further into the garden. You kill him there.”
“What? Do you think he would just go along with me, like a lamb?”
“You could have tricked him and attack him when he is expecting a kiss from you. Instead, he gets a kiss from death.”
“For all I knew, a crowd of people were not far behind him. Why would I take that chance?”
“You seethe with jealousy. You don’t think clearly.”
“I didn’t even have a knife.”
Biondi straightened. “We did not disclose that.”
“I heard it.”
“Where and how?”
“From Agatha Filbert, at her party. Someone named Kitty told her.”
“Is that her real name or a cat? Kitty who? What is the family name?”
“It’s a nickname, I assume. You’d have to ask Agatha.”
“Merda,” Biondi swore. “So why did you run down the steps?”
“To get out of there as quickly as possible. I was embarrassed and didn’t want him to spot me. I knew a boat would be leaving any minute.”
“You want me to believe that after going to all that trouble—leaving Zürich one day early, meeting him, following him, taking the skiff to the Belvedere, hiding in the garden, desperate to see him again—you change your mind and flee? That does not make sense.”
“It’s what happened.”
“Where do you claim to be at midnight? Still at the hotel?”
“On the boat back to St. Mark’s.” She pointed to the drawing. “I show my estimate at 11:55 p.m. The campanile was tolling when we were in the middle of the bacino. You’d know that already if you interviewed the boatman from the hotel.”
“Times of death are not precise, Signora Lottol.” A vein on Biondi’s right temple began pulsating. “If you are innocent of Sergio Corrin’s murder, why did you lie in the first place? You better tell me the truth, if you still remember what that is.”
“I was terrified. Totally humiliated about what I fell into with him, afraid you wouldn’t believe me if you knew I saw Sergio when I came to Venice, my connection to him, afraid of losing my job. So in a weak moment, I lied. I’m very sorry.”
“You made many bad choices. By the way, I did speak at length to your office yesterday, to your boss, a Miss . . .” he looked into his notebook, “Leslie Tanner, who sounded very concerned. Why would you lose your job?”
Leslie would be only too happy to add to his ammunition, Anna suspected. “It’s against the department’s ethics rules.” And common sense, she thought.
“Having affairs? Or ‘flings,’ you call them?”
“Being associated with money launderers, Detective Biondi.” Biondi let out a whistle. “So now you accuse a dead man of a crime. A man who can no longer defend himself.”
“I had begun researching his financial transactions on my own, when he threatened me. In the spring, I asked him to give me back the pictures. After refusing, he called me last week and I told him about coming here on vacation. He asked me to meet him on Saturday. He didn’t say why. I hoped for the best, but I had my suspicions, so I analyzed his US bank accounts. I spotted some questionable transfers of funds, not necessarily money laundering, but unlikely to be something else.”
Biondi narrowed his eyes. “Your boss said nothing of this.”
He would inform Leslie in their next conversation, of course. Anna would be lucky if she had a job as a file clerk when this was over. But what was more important, her job or her freedom?
Anna had run her algorithms against the US dollar accounts of Sergio and his bank, sorting through tens of thousands of transactions. Eventually, she had come to the painful conclusion that nothing with Sergio had been real. He had likely pursued her from the beginning in order to manipulate her. Her bona fides, photograph, and current position at Treasury were well publicized in advance of that seminar for European banking and finance professionals. It had attracted at least one member of the wrong crowd.
“Is he under investigation in the United States then?”
“Not for the moment, as far as I know. But he should be. I work in detection—the nerdy area—not in enforcement.”
“Why didn’t you tell your boss what you found?”
When Anna had tried to tell Leslie about another potential money launderer, Leslie had accused her of jumping the gun, of wasting her precious time when it went nowhere. Anna could still hear her condescending tone, making her feel like a schoolgirl getting her knuckles rapped by the headmistress. She had resolved never to go forward again unless she was supremely conf
ident of her data.
“My information was preliminary. I wasn’t completely convinced.”
“What did he ask of you when you met him here?”
“He wanted me to tip him off and find out what the Italian authorities had on him. He said he’d give me the photos in return—afterward. He’d use them against me if I failed or didn’t cooperate.”
“Maybe he just cheated on taxes, like many others.”
“Oh, no—it was much, much more. That’s why he never would have surrendered those photos to you. They were his leverage over me.”
“So what were his underlying crimes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Count Corrin is held in high regard in Venice. You are attacking the man’s reputation. He is still presumed innocent. You make claims and give me no proof. So far, all what you have told me has been a lie, maybe this, too. I will see if your new story holds any truth. Even if it does, it would not prove you innocent. Just adds more . . . intrigue.”
“You’re wrong. During the past few days, I’ve been in contact with my office in San Francisco about him. If I’m guilty of his murder, why would I be trying to find out more?”
Biondi sneered. “Elementary. To throw us off the scent. By means of this wild tale, you try to broaden the suspect list and take yourself out of the spotlight. Again, your boss did not mention anything. Now we are supposed to look around the world for drug dealers, smugglers, or others engaged in criminal activity with Count Corrin based on your word alone?”
Anna sighed. He was single-minded. “I even asked my friend, Margo, to help.”
“The one who swore you were in Zürich? You expect me to believe her about anything?”
“She didn’t know I had—”
“Now we talk about what to do with you. What to charge you with.”
A firm knock came at the door. “Avanti,” Biondi said.
When a female assistant came forward, holding out a cell phone, Biondi excused himself. Anna heard him just outside the room, muttering, raising his voice with a “No, no,” before growling, “Fatti i cazzi tuoi!” She recognized this as a rough, profanity-laced version of “Mind your own damn business.”
Anna sensed she was in free fall, not knowing where she would land or how hard the surface would be. When the lives of Count Sergio Corrin and Anna Lucia Lottol were weighed by the system, she knew that the scales of justice in Venice would tip in his direction. Her lying to the police would be an open-and-shut case for Biondi to make. Envisioning a dank, windowless cell with a hole in the floor for a toilet, she imagined more questions from Biondi and others, practiced in the art of breaking people. They’d employ a wide range of tactics: bullying, threats, and worse. They’d figure out where her demons hid and feed them. How long would it take before they’d discover her Achilles’ heel, her terror of being immersed in dark water? Her heart palpitated.
The wooden door creaked open, making her jump. “The American consulate tells us they know nothing about you,” Biondi announced.
Why am I not surprised, she thought.
“I keep your passport for now. You can leave.” He turned abruptly, the door swinging closed behind him.
La Biblioteca Marciana
Wednesday, late morning
On the way to meet Margo, Biondi’s threats diminished as she surmised that someone was protecting her, presumably Count Alessandro Favier. How long that could last was anyone’s guess. As Margo had said, Alessandro could not stop the police, only slow them. If they were lucky, she and Margo might find a clue to the murder in old newspapers stored in the renowned Marciana Library. Housed in a handsome colonnaded building, the library, which required the first copy of every book printed in Venice, was akin to the Library of Congress, only it had opened in 1560.
Anna had always reveled in the smell of old books, the mustier the better. Libraries were like churches to her. At UC Berkeley, she’d wandered the Bancroft Library, its ancient maps, astronomical manuscripts, and rare volumes waiting to be rediscovered. When she closed her eyes and fanned the pages of a faded book, she heard taffeta skimming across a ballroom floor. She pictured the filigreed metal arches and curved ceiling trusses soaring to infinity in Paris’s Bibliothèque Nationale. Sometimes she gazed back wistfully, recalling the day she’d forsaken an academic career and all the knowledge she would never gain.
Knowing she was tardy, she resisted the urge to look at paintings by Tintoretto, Titian, Veronese, and other important Venetian artists, and hurried to meet Margo in the cavernous reading room. Watched by a bust of Petrarch, Margo was in a corner, hunched over several thick, spread-eagled volumes. Despite her sometimes scattered ways, Margo had a nimble mind. When she was working on a story, she slept little, speed reading through three or four books at once, working prodigiously, vanquishing deadlines, and turning out enviable pieces.
Tapping her on the shoulder, Anna asked, “Find anything yet?”
“These are for my real article.”
Anna glanced at books by Veronica Franco, Coryat, Casanova.
“I’ve been searching for a story hook.” Margo’s voice grew animated. “Europeans love the past but Americans won’t relate to the life of Venetian courtesans four centuries ago when the events of four years ago have already faded into the mist. How can I make it compelling? Skip the poetry of well-educated prostitutes and add sketches of risqué fashion? That would make eyeballs bulge. Or maybe feature puttanesca recipes, prostitute favorites? You know, meals from ingredients gathered between the last customer and the market’s close. I could try to write a fictional diary and drag it into a series. Or what about a ‘then and now’ contrast with a twist: how times have changed the business of prostitution, or have they? Whaddya think?”
“I think we’ve got to find something about Sergio’s murder pronto or Biondi is going to lock me up. I’m late because he grabbed me while I was having coffee with Dudley—I ran into him near the pensione—and took me to the police station for more questions. He’s put the pieces together; he knows about Sergio and me and when I actually arrived in Venice. He’s going to try to pin the murder on me, I just know it.” Anna felt a tightening in her chest. “The goddamn Polaroids even showed up in his office. The only good thing is, I don’t have to worry about him finding out any more of my lies. There aren’t any.”
“And he released you?”
“Disappointed?”
“Don’t be silly. Why, do you think?”
“He got a phone call from someone who forced his hand. Somebody he could curse at in Italian. Alessandro?”
“Hmm,” Margo said, gathering up her things. “Did Dudley have anything useful to say?”
“Not much. He’s touchy about being an accountant and not entirely an artiste. And he thinks Sergio might have frequented prostitutes.”
“Well, that would fit right into my story idea. Any details?”
“Nope. Sort of heard it on the street. Another thing I need to tell you—I went up to his study during the party and rooted around in his desk.”
“You didn’t.”
“I was desperate. But I came away with nothing. Well, I did see a torn photograph of a woman in profile from years ago. And I managed to forget my glasses on Dudley’s desk, which he found, of course. He didn’t accuse me of anything, but do you think he’s figured out it was me?”
“How’d he act this morning?”
“Matter-of-fact. I was wearing my other pair.”
“There were so many party guests I wouldn’t worry about it. But he’s a sly one.” Margo straightened her pile of books. “We do owe him big-time for getting us in here. He even had the head librarian select books in advance for me. I’ll plug his latest work to the Chronicle book editor when I get home.”
“Where do they keep the newspapers?” Anna asked.
“In the microfilm room and only going back to 1960. The space is probably tiny and airless, and we’ll slog through everything and come away with squat.”
&n
bsp; “Can’t we wait till we’re done to be negative?”
When Margo pushed open the door to the microfilm room, they were overcome by stale air. Her face held the hint of a smile. “See?”
Anna took a second glance at the old microfilm reader, resembling the ones they’d used at college; they’d have to load each reel of film and turn a crank to advance the pages. File drawers held heavy boxes of microfilmed pages of all the local and national newspapers. Margo threaded the reader and started cranking. “I feel as if I’m churning butter back on the farm.”
Five reels resulted in blurred nothingness. National politics dominated. For a time, tangenti, Bettino Craxi, and his Socialist Party were all the news. Then Umberto Bossi and the Lega Lombarda anti-political-establishment, anti-immigration separatists, followed by Antonio Di Pietro, the prosecutor for the “Mani Pulite” investigations of political corruption.
“My muscles are aching. How my mother at the age of sixty-two is running the Chicago Marathon in a few weeks is beyond me.”
“Save your arms,” Anna said. “I’ll take over.”
In the Gazzettino, a picture of a festive Dudley and Agatha during a 1988 Cultural Council celebration at their grand palazzo crawled across the screen. The caption noted that they had just purchased the residence.
In April 1987, a short article lauded Dudley as an expert in international accounting. He’d won some kind of investment-advisor award shaped like the Rialto Bridge. The accompanying photograph showed him accepting the award onstage, with Alessandro in the first row.
“Seems he didn’t quit finance as long ago as I’d thought,” Anna said, changing reels and speeding through more footage.
“Hold on, I see Sergio’s name,” Margo said, as a Fanfarone byline from January 1986 came into focus. “Let me translate what he says. ‘Exemplary of his art patronage, Count Sergio Corrin is hosting two artists at his sumptuous home for the entire year: Andrew McMullan, from Scotland, along with Azizi Sabodo from Tanzania. Oil painting and wood carving are their respective specialties. An exclusive, joint exhibition at Count Corrin’s palazzo is scheduled for October.’”
Venetian Blood Page 14
