The Hit

by Nadia Dalbuono

  It seemed no more than a couple of minutes before the culture secretary bustled in. He was red-faced, and several wisps of his thin, grey hair were standing on end. Scamarcio noticed a small envelope of paunch protruding over his well-cut suit trousers. Manfredi was an unremarkable-looking man. The thought of him with di Bondi was somehow unsettling.

  ‘Ah, Gianluca, so glad you could join us,’ said Romano, glancing up from his laptop, and stubbing out his cigarette.

  Manfredi said nothing. He was looking at Scamarcio, waiting for some kind of explanation.

  ‘Detective Scamarcio here is part of the team investigating Micky Proietti’s wife and son. He wanted to have a quick chat.’

  Manfredi nodded, and shook Scamarcio’s hand before collapsing into the other chair. ‘I understand the rush now. Terrible business. I’ve got children myself. Micky must be going through hell.’

  The words seemed genuine, and Scamarcio decided that Manfredi was perhaps not quite as much of an arsehole as he’d first imagined. ‘You know Micky well?’ he asked.

  ‘Just in passing. We attend the same parties, move in similar circles,’ said Manfredi, patting down his hair.

  ‘You’re members of the same lodge, I gather?’

  Scamarcio watched the colour slowly rise in Manfredi’s already red cheeks. ‘How is that relevant?’ The geniality of before vanished in an instant. The minister was surveying Romano with contempt now.

  ‘I’m not saying it is.’

  Manfredi coughed, but kept his eyes on Romano. The spin doctor just stared him out and said nothing. They reminded Scamarcio of two dogs sizing each other up for a fight.

  ‘You also share another connection, I believe,’ tried Scamarcio.

  Manfredi rubbed his nose and adjusted his right cufflink. It was a gold stud with an emerald inlay.

  After several seconds of silence, Scamarcio wondered if Manfredi was ever going to respond, but eventually Romano said,‘Come on, Gianluca. He already knows about Fiammetta. You might as well tell him the rest.’

  Manfredi finally tore his gaze away from the spin doctor. Scamarcio wondered what ‘the rest’ was, then wondered how good Manfredi was at controlling his rages.

  The culture secretary rubbed his round chin and turned to face Scamarcio. Scamarcio had expected some kind of preamble, but Manfredi cut straight to it. ‘Fiammetta and I are in love. I’m about to leave my wife, and Fiammetta was about to finish things with Micky. She didn’t think he’d take it too well. As it happens, she never had a chance to tell him, because he never rang her back before the kidnapping. She hasn’t the heart to break it to him now, given all he’s going through. She’s just waiting for things to resolve.’

  Scamarcio looked at Romano. The fact that Manfredi and Fiammetta were ‘in love’ actually seemed to have taken the spin doctor by surprise. His forehead was pocked with disbelief or confusion — perhaps both.

  ‘If they get resolved,’ said Scamarcio.

  ‘Indeed.’ Manfredi’s expression became solemn, and he glanced into his lap for a moment.

  ‘Do you have any idea who could have been behind the kidnapping? Could it have any connection to your lodge?’

  The mention of his lodge seemed to stir the rage in Manfredi once more. Scamarcio watched a bunched fist turn red in his lap.

  After a few seconds, Manfredi said tightly: ‘I doubt it. We don’t have any disputes going on, any arguments I can think of. It’s a happy ship.’

  In Scamarcio’s experience, there was no such thing. Human beings weren’t made to get along. There was something naïve and childlike about Manfredi, he realised. Even his face was slightly babyish, with his round cheeks and wide-set blue eyes. Manfredi was a man who needed to believe that everything would turn out fine because he wasn’t equipped to deal with the alternative; life had always been kind to him. Scamarcio imagined him growing up to rich, doting parents — the spoiled only son, perhaps. Did Manfredi have any inkling that Fiammetta was leading him a dance? Would the thought even enter his mind? How would he cope if he lost her and his job?

  ‘Obviously, you’re on my initial list of suspects,’ said Scamarcio, trying to regain focus.

  Manfredi shrugged. ‘Like I say, Fiammetta and I were about to move in together. I had no grudge with Micky. If anything, he’s the aggrieved party here.’

  Scamarcio thought he detected a note of pride. He’d have to check back with di Bondi as to whether she’d really led Manfredi to believe they had a future.

  ‘What about the footballer?’ asked Scamarcio.

  ‘What footballer?’ asked Manfredi.

  ‘The one Fiammetta is supposed to be seeing.’

  ‘Aconi?’ asked Romano, a smile playing on his lips.

  He exchanged amused glances with Manfredi, and the tension between them seemed to dissipate for a moment.

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ asked Romano, chuckling now.

  ‘Know what?’ asked Scamarcio, peeved.

  Manfredi rested an elbow on his seatback and crossed a leg. The mention of Aconi seemed to have relaxed him considerably; Scamarcio sensed that Manfredi felt they’d moved to safer ground, that they’d avoided triggering the mines. Why? Scamarcio wondered. What had he missed?

  ‘Aconi plays for the other side,’ said Romano.

  ‘What? He’s with Roma, isn’t he?’

  Manfredi and Romano started laughing. When he’d regained his composure, Manfredi said: ‘No, Detective. “The other side.”’ He inclined his eyes to the right, to an imaginary spot beyond Scamarcio’s chair.

  Scamarcio rubbed at his eyes. He felt tired again. ‘You mean he’s gay?’

  ‘Completely. Fiammetta has an arrangement with his manager. She gets paid for being his “cover”. She and Aconi get on, though — she says he’s a nice guy.’

  ‘Why’s he hiding it?’ As soon as Scamarcio asked the question, he knew the answer. Italians would accept homosexuality in the worlds of fashion and art, but the country still wasn’t ready for a gay footballer. The soccer culture remained pure macho, the testosterone undiluted. He couldn’t imagine the diehard Napoli or Catania fans welcoming a gay player, however much of a star striker he might prove to be. Would the environment ever evolve, Scamarcio wondered? Something more pertinent was bothering him now, though.

  ‘But if you and Fiammetta move in together, what’s going to happen to Aconi?’

  ‘Oh, his agent will just find him another girl, and say that he and Fiammetta broke up.’

  ‘And your wife?’

  ‘I’m getting a divorce.’

  Again, the news seemed to come as something of a surprise to the spin doctor. He shifted in his seat and studied Manfredi with concern, much like a shrink observing a problem patient.

  ‘What’s the name of your lodge?’ asked Scamarcio.

  Manfredi turned in surprise. He clearly wasn’t expecting the conversation to come back around to this.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to pay them a visit.’

  Manfredi pinched his nose. ‘The Sword and the Serpent. But I’m sure Micky will tell you it’s a worthless line of inquiry.’

  ‘It’s not for Mr Proietti to make value judgements about my investigation.’ Scamarcio wanted to wind things up. He had enough to be getting on with, and he didn’t want to rattle Manfredi any further. He rose from the seat. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, for your time.’

  Manfredi was too slow to disguise the relief in his eyes.

  ‘Good luck with your inquiry,’ said Romano. ‘I hope you find them quickly.’

  Scamarcio thought he actually detected a hint of empathy there, but when he scanned the desk he couldn’t find any family pictures. Would a workaholic like Romano waste time reproducing?

  Scamarcio shook hands with the pair of them, and made his way out. But once he was the other side of the door, h
e waited for a few seconds, avoiding the secretary’s prissy stare for as long as he could.

  ‘You fucking bastard,’ hissed Manfredi, just as Scamarcio knew he would.

  ‘Oh come on, what could I do? They’re the police.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s bloody convenient, isn’t it? I bet they had no idea about the lodge.’

  The spin doctor said nothing.

  ‘You just couldn’t resist hammering another nail into my coffin.’

  ‘Manfredi, you’ve been digging your own grave for months. And all that shit about Fiammetta being in love with you? My God, man, you’re pathetic; you’re a liability.’

  ‘We are in love.’

  Romano sighed. ‘It’s like talking to a teenager.’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday; I know what I’m doing.’

  Romano sighed again. ‘Whatever. You’re yesterday’s man, Manfredi.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  The secretary had risen from her desk now, and had a hand on Scamarcio’s arm. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘No, I’m finished here,’ said Scamarcio.

  9

  SCAMARCIO WAS FEELING QUITE pleased with himself as he walked away from the parliament, even though he knew that Romano had thrown him the freemason tip deliberately.

  It didn’t matter, though — it was another line of inquiry, and one he wanted to follow up as soon as possible. He decided that Aconi the footballer could be put on the back burner, although he’d need to corroborate the claims about his sexuality.

  Scamarcio’s phone rang, and he hoped it would be Sartori with new leads from his probe into Proietti’s social life or the team investigating the other TV companies, but instead he was greeted with Piocosta’s growl. Scamarcio’s mood switched in an instant.

  ‘You’re a hard man to get hold of,’ said the old man.

  ‘I’m working a case — the first forty-eight hours are crucial.’

  ‘A kidnapping?’

  Scamarcio sighed. You couldn’t get anything past Piocosta.

  ‘I guess you know why I’m ringing.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Scamarcio, feeling the need to sit down, to throw himself into the Tiber and quietly drown. ‘Can you call me back?’

  It was their code for Ring me back on the other phone. Scamarcio had recently purchased a pay-as-you-go to deal with the new troublesome development in his relationship with Piocosta. His father’s old lieutenant was still digging his claws in, still trying to get Scamarcio to work for him, to become his agent inside the force.

  The line went dead, and then the little blue Nokia in Scamarcio’s jacket pocket began to buzz. He held it at a distance for a moment, flipping it open with the tip of his index finger, barely wanting to touch it.

  ‘So you said it was Detective Negri?’ said Piocosta.

  ‘He’s the one heading up the inquiry.’

  ‘And that’s confirmed now, is it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And how’s the prosecutor feeling?’

  ‘Confident.’

  ‘Motherfuckers,’ spat Piocosta.

  Scamarcio said nothing.

  ‘Where’s the footage?’

  ‘Where they keep all the evidence — in the store at HQ. I wouldn’t suggest you try to break in.’ As soon as Scamarcio said the words, he felt a slick of pool of acid forming in his stomach.

  ‘We’re not going to be the ones doing the break-in,’ said Piocosta.

  Scamarcio closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. When Piocosta said no more, he hung up.

  The head of Rome’s Sword and Serpent lodge had asked to meet in a café near the Spanish Steps. Scamarcio would have preferred to visit the villa where the meetings were held, but he hadn’t pushed the point. It would be a case of little by little with these guys and, besides, he didn’t have the energy for a fight. Ever since his call from Piocosta, the anxiety had been building. He imagined he looked quite beaten, and the beads of sweat across his forehead would not do much to create an impression of competence and command before the lodge’s Grand Master.

  Matteo Monaci was extremely tall, at least 6 ft 3. He had close-cropped grey hair, a tanned complexion, and piercing grey-green eyes. He was immaculately turned out in a light-grey suit and pink tie. A beige Burberry raincoat was folded across one arm, exactly as he’d told Scamarcio it would be.

  Scamarcio raised a weary hand in his direction.

  ‘Good morning, Detective,’ said Monaci as he approached. ‘Beautiful April weather today.’ The man was the personification of vim and vigour. ‘Spry’ was the word for a man like Monaci, thought Scamarcio.

  He took his hand. ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me at such short notice.’

  ‘But of course. A family goes missing? One does what one can.’ Monaci seemed quite the smooth operator. He took a seat, draping his raincoat across his lap. He ordered a cappuccino from the waitress, and Scamarcio settled for a glass of water, deciding that it was probably the only thing his acid stomach could handle.

  When the waitress had gone, Monaci asked: ‘So do you have any idea where the kidnappers might be holding them?’

  ‘We think we’ve picked up the ambulance on CCTV heading out towards the coast near Sperlonga. But we still can’t be sure we’ve got the right vehicle. Unfortunately, that stretch of road is not well covered by cameras.’

  ‘Needle in a haystack then,’ said Monaci drily.

  ‘Pretty much at this stage,’ conceded Scamarcio, deciding to grant him some sense of superiority.

  ‘And you want to talk to me in case there’s some connection to the lodge.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Monaci sniffed and eased back in his chair, his arms folded, his legs crossed. He seemed perfectly relaxed.

  ‘Micky has been a member for about ten years now. He’s one of those people you either love or loathe.’

  Scamarcio was surprised that Monaci was being so open so early. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He doesn’t suffer fools; he doesn’t bother with social niceties. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll make it plain.’

  Scamarcio frowned. ‘Isn’t that rather an impediment to networking?’

  ‘Actually, I think some people rather appreciate it — it’s a breath of fresh air.’

  ‘With an attitude like that, I’m surprised Proietti has managed to rise so high.’

  Monaci held up a finger to stop him. ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Detective. You can say what you like about nepotism in this country, but in my opinion Proietti has made his way up on merit alone. He’s highly intelligent, and his bosses tell me that he has a real nose for what will make a hit. They say he has cast-iron intuition and an astounding ability to get the best.’ Monaci took a sip of the coffee the waitress had placed before him.

  ‘You know his bosses?’

  ‘Yes, Paolo Ricolfi is an old schoolfriend of mine.’

  ‘And Ricolfi is?’

  ‘Head of television at Micky’s network. Paolo tells me Micky has a superb knack for keeping budgets low and quality high. He says he’s got no idea how he does it sometimes — you can’t see the savings on screen.’

  ‘Proietti must be a real asset.’

  ‘Oh, he is,’ said Monaci, smoothing down his trousers. ‘Paolo says it’s rare they find someone like him.’

  ‘So getting back to the lodge, you were saying that some people hate Proietti.’

  ‘Well, it’s the rudeness really. Often he doesn’t bother to pay other members the time of day — it’s like he’s in his own world. Or if you say something he disagrees with, he’ll call you a cretin to your face. Obviously, some people don’t know how to handle that.’

  Scamarcio rubbed his hand across his mouth. ‘Has he always been this way?’

  ‘Always, ever since I’ve kn
own him, at least.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Well, I was discussing it with my wife once after a dinner party at which Micky had badly upset another guest. My wife and I were talking about how brilliant people say Micky is. And he is brilliant — I’ve seen him do the cryptic crossword in under five minutes. But my wife made the point that perhaps Micky is slightly autistic. You know that combination you see in people who are highly intelligent, but can’t read social cues? Ever since my wife suggested it, I’ve always wondered.’

  It was an interesting thought, but Scamarcio wasn’t sure it brought him any further.

  ‘Has he ever badly upset any of your members?’

  Monaci shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think there was anyone who really held a grudge. I mean that’s Micky, you know — sure, people dislike him, but they’ve decided to live with their dislike.’

  Scamarcio was having difficulty making sense of it. ‘Your lodge seems an odd place for someone like Micky Proietti. If you say he was doing well on his own merit, if he didn’t thrive in social situations …’

  Monaci interrupted him. ‘You’re astute. The lodge wasn’t and isn’t the right place for Proietti. I’d actually quite like him to leave. He certainly doesn’t need us, and I’m not sure we really need him. But it was his brother-in-law who got him into it, and he’s a stubborn son of a b — ’

  ‘I didn’t know he had a brother-in-law.’

  Monaci raised an eyebrow. ‘His wife’s brother — Davide Stasio? Runs a TV company here in Rome.’

  Why hadn’t Scamarcio heard about Davide Stasio? ‘And he’s one of your members?’

  Monaci wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘I’m being very indiscreet, but Stasio is a bit of a rough neck — worth a fortune, but most definitely arriviste. He’s more polite than Micky, but there’s an air about him I don’t much like.’ He inclined his head. ‘Grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, I suspect. From down south, Calabria.’

  Scamarcio’s mouth turned dry. ‘Mafioso?’