Dante's Numbers nc-7

by David Hewson

  “Mea culpa. Mea culpa.”

  His hands fell to his sides, and he bowed low before the audience.

  “I am the director. All you have seen of late, on screen and off, is my creation. From Allan Prime dead in the Farnesina to some pretty little clotheshorse choking for life from a poisoned apple. This is my doing, my direction. Listen to me now …”

  He coughed again, and it was raw and dry and rasping.

  “No man gets a better final scene than this. Better than any I gave any of these two-bit hacks. See …”

  He indicated the cameras, following his every moment. “See! This is the last of Roberto Tonti. Greater than any of you. Any of them.”

  Kelly had nodded to his men. They were starting to make their way onto the stage. Tonti knew what was coming, surely.

  “Not Dante Alighieri, though,” the old man added. “Listen to me, children. Listen to the final words of Inferno, that I never gave you on the screen, for they are beyond your comprehension.”

  He drew himself up, closed his eyes, and began to recite, slowly, in a sonorous, theatrical tone.

  “The Guide and I into that hidden road

  Now entered, to return to the bright world;

  And without care of having any rest

  We mounted up, he first and I the second,

  Till I beheld through a round aperture

  Some of the beauteous things that Heaven doth bear;

  Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars.”

  Roberto Tonti paused and gazed at the rapt, still, silent crowd in front of him.

  He was shaking with laughter, and his eyes, now open and dark and alert, glistened with moisture as they fixed on the camera lenses ravenously following his every move.

  “ ‘Through a round aperture … to rebehold the stars,’ ” Roberto Tonti repeated, and swept his arm along the rows of glitterati and celebrities before him. “Such as they are.”

  Simon Harvey was getting closer, hands out, pleading for the gun.

  “Yet,” Tonti continued, “each and every story deserves a twist, some small epiphany at its close.”

  Without warning he swung to face Harvey. The publicist froze, looked at the director, and asked, “Roberto?”

  “Traitor.”

  The word, the final key in the ninth circle, the last of Dante’s Numbers, came out in a flat, unemotional tone.

  He began to fire, repeatedly, deliberately, into the torso of the flailing, tumbling publicist.

  A woman screamed behind Costa.

  When the gun clicked on empty, Roberto Tonti stopped and took one last disgusted glance at the shattered body on the stage.

  Then, seizing the microphone, he gazed up at the cameras.

  In a calm, disinterested voice, he ordered, “And … cut.”

  PART 7

  1

  It was Saturday morning. The weather was warmer. August beckoned. Costa woke in Maggie Flavier’s apartment, then drove to Greenwich Street to help the rest of them pack. Their flight home would be late that afternoon. He would travel to Barbados the following Monday. There were still some private business events on Maggie’s calendar. The job never seemed to disappear completely. Simon Harvey’s death continued to stand between them like some unspoken obstacle. Perhaps time would deal with that, time and a move to a different place, one with no connections, no memories. He was unsure.

  But at least the case appeared to be, if not closed, at least partly resolved, probably as much as it ever would be. Roberto Tonti had scarcely ceased speaking to Gerald Kelly and his team since he was taken into custody. The SFPD had passed on the details to Falcone, since Gianluca Quattrocchi had been recalled to Rome with his officers to face an internal inquiry. Quattrocchi’s private approach on the night of the premiere was only one of the revelations the director was now minded to disclose. He had also confessed to being the originator of the tontine scheme to save the troubled movie in Rome, and to diverting Harvey’s secret publicity scam about fictitious threats to the production into a real and murderous conspiracy. His motive, he said with no apparent shame, was purely selfish. Inferno was by no means a guaranteed success, even with Harvey’s incessant hype. Something else was needed and, as Tonti knew this was the last movie he would ever make, he was prepared to go to any lengths in order to find it.

  He had named Josh Jonah, the photographer Martin Vogel, and the Lukatmi security guard Jimmy Gaines as the principals in the plot to murder Allan Prime. Vogel had arranged the poison for Maggie Flavier. Jonah had then approached the photographer after being blackmailed over his involvement in the plot. Tonti had promised them Prime would be the only victim. He had hoped that would be the case, and that the halfhearted attempt on Maggie Flavier’s life, which he had not expected to be successful, would merely gain yet more publicity to keep the movie in the headlines. The deaths of Jonah and Vogel he regarded as accidental, if fortuitous. He claimed to have shot Tom Black — who had never understood the true nature of the scheme — himself, from a viewpoint near the Embarcadero, and then disposed of the weapon.

  Dino Bonetti’s role remained unclear. The producer had disappeared the night of the premiere and was now the subject of arrest warrants for fraud and attempted murder. Tonti, however, steadfastly refused to discuss his involvement in the conspiracy, dismissing it as minor. The credit, as he saw it, was to be his.

  In spite of the man’s age and frailty, he remained in custody, though Kelly was minded to waive any objections to bail provided Tonti surrendered his passport and reported to the police on a daily basis. The medical reports indicated that he had, at most, a few months to live, and would never face trial. There was no question, either, that the man would wish to flee to Italy, in spite of Gianluca Quattrocchi’s promises. The truth, Kelly felt, was that Roberto Tonti had achieved what he wanted.

  The SFPD phone lines had burned with calls from TV networks and newspapers pleading with Tonti to go on air or give lengthy press interviews. From the major newspapers to the prime-time celebrity shows, he was, suddenly, in demand. This, it seemed, was worth a succession of lives, none of which the dying man deemed of any great value. Only his own reputation, his legacy, mattered, and by force of circumstance, that would always be tied to a single movie, Roberto Tonti’s Inferno.

  Hank and Frank Boynton had been round for breakfast when Falcone returned from Bryant Street to brief them on what he’d heard from Gerald Kelly. All of them at the table — the Boyntons, Teresa, Peroni, and Costa — listened intently, and then the Italians stayed silent.

  Hank, however, raised a forefinger and said, by way of objection, “But just a minute—”

  “Not now, Hank,” Teresa stopped him, mid-sentence. “We’re finished here.”

  “But—”

  “Not now.”

  “The movie business,” Frank grumbled. “He couldn’t take being behind that camera all his life, watching others get the fame. What was that line from Dante he spouted after he killed that poor bastard in front of everyone?”

  “ ‘Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars,’ ” Costa said.

  “Envy. Greed. This insane craving for fame.” Frank Boynton shook his head then got up from the table. “Come on, brother. These people have things to do.” He looked at Teresa. “That invitation to Rome still stands?”

  “Whenever you boys want it.”

  “Good. Have a safe journey home. All of you.”

  They watched the two men leave. Ten minutes later Catherine Bianchi arrived and offered them one last drive round the city before a farewell lunch in the Marina.

  2

  Costa almost fell asleep in the minivan as it wound through a city landscape he felt he now knew well. The views across to Marin County, the great bridge, the hulking island of Alcatraz … It would be hard to shake San Francisco from the memory for many reasons, good and bad. Then he remembered he had something to return. It was sitting in a plastic grocery bag he’d brought along for the purpose. When they stopped at a light
, he reached forward and placed it on the console between the front seats.

  “That belongs to Gerald Kelly. Tell him thanks but I didn’t need it.”

  Catherine Bianchi took a look at the handgun in its leather holster. “Lucky you.”

  Her dark eyes wandered to the tall lean figure in the passenger seat. Something had changed between these two. Falcone sat next to her looking relaxed and perhaps a little bored. He was no longer the ardent pursuer and had already talked wistfully that morning of work back in Rome. Yet, as his eagerness waned, Catherine Bianchi’s, it seemed to Costa, was beginning to surface, rather too late in the day.

  “Is everything good?” she asked with a brittle, edgy ease.

  The question was principally aimed at the man next to her. He scarcely seemed to notice.

  They were travelling along Union towards Russian Hill, trying to make a left turn, when, after her third attempt to start a conversation, Catherine finally lost patience.

  “Listen,” she snapped. “I may never see any of you guys again. Ever. And all you can do is sit there moping. What the hell is the matter now? What did I do wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Falcone remarked, turning to look at her.

  “Then why are you … all of you …”

  She muttered something beneath her breath, then added, “You might at least look a little grateful this mess is over. That someone’s in custody, admitting to the whole damned thing. Loose ends all tied up. Case closed.” She glanced at Falcone. “Tickets home all booked.”

  The Italians squirmed uncomfortably on their seats.

  “The loose ends aren’t all tied up, Catherine, and you know that as well as the rest of us,” Teresa said before anyone else could. “All that’s happened is that Tonti’s stuck up his hand and said, ‘Send it all my way.’ Which is very convenient in the circumstances. But …”

  “But what?”

  She was too late. The dam had burst. Peroni got in next, aware, perhaps, that there was likely to be a queue.

  “I was under the impression we weren’t going to talk about this. But since we are, let me say just one thing. Tom Black was shot from a considerable distance by someone using a hunting rifle. Either Roberto Tonti is quite a marksman or he got very lucky. Have you seen his eyes? How he shakes? I don’t believe he could do that. Not for one moment.”

  He was getting into his stride. “Also … how did he know Tom Black was in that car with Nic in the first place?”

  “He says Black called him beforehand asking for help,” she snapped.

  “But why?” Peroni asked. “If Tom Black knew Tonti was behind the whole thing … Oh, I give up.”

  Falcone smiled pleasantly in the passenger seat and said nothing.

  “Carlotta Valdes,” Costa added abruptly. “Who was she? Where is she now?”

  Catherine Bianchi turned around, looking cross. “He won’t tell us, Nic. The guy’s just confessed everything and that’s that. Are we supposed to lose sleep over it? Whoever that woman was, she didn’t do much. Maybe roped in Allan Prime and brought Tonti a gun on-stage at the Palace of Fine Arts. One more fake ID among many. Trust me. Kelly’s people have checked. They could spend a lifetime chasing someone who was nothing more than some two-bit courier. And they even will, for a little while. But not for long. Do you blame them? Don’t you have priorities in Rome, too?”

  “It’s the name,” Costa emphasised, not quite knowing what he meant, struggling to place a memory. “Why that name?”

  “Because of Hitchcock,” Teresa insisted. “As I’ve been trying to tell you all along. Tonti worked with him. It was all here …”

  The vehicle came to an abrupt halt by a busy junction. Catherine Bianchi slammed her hands angrily on the steering wheel.

  “You people make me want to scream. Why, in God’s name, do you have to make everything so complicated?”

  Falcone finally took his gaze off the ocean horizon. “We didn’t. We never had the chance. The fact that film was made here—”

  “This is San Francisco! Movie central!” she yelled. “Haven’t you noticed? Watch.”

  She jerked out into the street, cut left onto another road, then bore right again.

  “Dirty Harry,” she chanted. “Bullitt. Mrs. Doubtfire, The Joy Luck Club …”

  “Eastwood and McQueen—” Teresa cut in.

  “Shut up! Harold and Maude, Freebie and the Bean, Pal Joey … Am I making my point here? It’s not all dark and bloody. Remember The Love Bug?”

  The Italians stiffened and glanced at each other.

  “The Love Bug?” Teresa asked eventually. “You mean the kids’ movie?” She winced. “The Disney one?”

  “The Disney one.”

  “Like Bambi,” Costa murmured, still trying to place the recollection that was haunting him, one that was buried somehow in that dark night that had ended in bloodshed outside the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero.

  He was amazed to see that the road they had entered bore the name Lombard, just like the broad highway that became Route 101 as it swept towards the Golden Gate Bridge. Here, however, it was narrow and residential. Then they crossed a broad cross street and Lombard became a one-lane road that turned into a crazed series of steep switchbacks winding downhill past grand Victorian mansions and newer apartment blocks.

  “Tourist time,” Catherine announced as she wheeled the big Dodge easily around the tight hairpins, the vehicle grumbling over the brick road. “America’s crookedest street. Architecturally speaking, of course. Most of the people around here are upstanding citizens, with plenty of cash, too.”

  The street straightened and became smooth asphalt once more. She pulled in by the junction at Leavenworth and looked back over her shoulder at the winding lane behind.

  “Recognise anything?” she asked. “That little Beetle Herbie came down here. Lots of movies came down here. After L.A., this city is the biggest movie stage in the world. So what’s the big deal if someone steals the name of a movie character now and again?”

  Costa wasn’t looking back. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, seeing something he recognised. There was a city map in the seat back; Costa took it out, scanned the index, found what he wanted, ran his finger across the ganglion of streets that crisscrossed the crowded, confined peninsula of San Francisco, a complex patchwork of neighbourhoods, each running into the next, overlapping, obscuring the obvious.

  “Drive on, please,” he said. “Ahead. Indulge me.”

  The view ahead changed shape, becoming more like the one he expected. Costa asked her to stop at the next junction. Opposite was a plain two-storey house with scaffolding along the side obscuring the long windows of what must have been some kind of living room. The curtains were closed. A builder was working on the exterior, setting up a cement mixing machine.

  Tom Black’s words kept coming back to him.

  They screw you up … they screw everyone. Scottie. Me … I never thought this’d happen. Not when we went to Jones …

  There was a scene in the movie … Jimmy Stewart’s character stared out from his living room window towards the Bay Bridge, admiring this very view fifty years before from the building across the road. This was Scottie’s old home on Lombard, the very building Hitchcock had used. The front, with its long living room window, was on a street called Jones. Someone who didn’t know might think that was its real address.

  Tom Black hadn’t been talking about a man, Costa realised, cursing his own stupidity. He’d been remembering a place. Somewhere he’d met a movie-obsessed individual who’d stolen his name from Vertigo.

  He climbed out of the car and walked across the road. The builder was a big man, his hands smeared with plaster, his face wary, full of suspicion.

  “I was wondering if Scottie was in,” Costa asked as if it were the most natural question in the world. “I heard the lucky bastard got some nice old car from somewhere. He promised to show it to me when I was in the neighbourhood.”

  The man looked him up and do
wn carefully. “Only his friends call him that. Never seen you before.”

  “Been a while.”

  “Mr. Ferguson went out this morning. I don’t expect him back while I’m here, and I’m here all day.”

  “The car?”

  “Remind me …?”

  “Green. Jaguar. Nineteen fifties? Scottie said it was a beauty.”

  That broke the ice.

  “Oh, it’s a beauty, all right. I guess that’s why it hardly ever gets out of the garage. Bad luck, though — it’s not here today.”

  “Where …?”

  “I don’t know.” He took off his hard hat and scratched his head. “Maybe it’s at that theatre of his. Don’t know …”

  “The theatre?” Costa asked.

  “That weird little dump on Chestnut, down the Marina. The one with the tower. How the hell Scottie manages to make a cent out of that …”

  Costa picked up a steel-headed mallet from the side of the concrete mixer.

  “Now,” the builder said, “let’s not do anything hasty …”

  The door looked so old he felt sure Jimmy Stewart had touched it. People made things well back then. It needed three swings to smash through the hardwood slab.

  3

  The package arrived at ten, along with the man from the movie festival offering to give her a ride to the event. Maggie Flavier glanced at the box in his hands and asked, “Costume?”

  He was in his early thirties, sturdy and very clean-shaven, with soft, pale skin that belied his heavy, calloused hands, worn jeans, and white T-shirt. A pair of thickset black plastic sunglasses sat on his face.

  “The festival people said …” he began.

  “They didn’t mention anything about a costume to me.”

  She didn’t know what they’d said. She couldn’t remember. This engagement had been on her schedule for weeks. Her agent had arranged it while she was filming in Rome.

  He took off the glasses. Bright blue eyes. Too blue. She wondered if they were coloured contacts. Hangers-on at the fringes of the business sometimes had affectations, too.