The Hit

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘Your words, not mine, Detective.’

  Why had nobody mentioned Davide Stasio? Scamarcio had visited two major production houses and Proietti’s secretary, but Stasio’s name had never come up. Neither had any of Scamarcio’s colleagues come across him in their trawl of the other companies Proietti did business with. That had to be significant.

  Sartori rang as he was heading for Proietti’s office.

  ‘You getting anywhere?’ Scamarcio asked.

  ‘That driver who was assaulted doesn’t remember shit and, like you thought, there’s no CCTV for miles.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I’ve been round a couple of bars in Trastevere that Proietti likes to frequent, but they didn’t really give me anything.’

  ‘Anyone mentioned the name Davide Stasio to you?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘He’s Micky’s brother-in-law, runs a production company here in Rome, but everyone’s being strangely tight-lipped about him.’

  ‘I’ll ask around.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Base. Listen, I’m calling because we think we’ve ID’d the ambulance. The tech guys have grabbed a still lifted from a camera on the SS637, where it joins the coast road.’

  ‘What makes them think it’s the right vehicle?’

  ‘The timing matches, and it’s got a wide scrape down one side. You don’t usually see working ambulances with unrepaired scrapes.’

  ‘Can they read the plates?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s nice work.’

  ‘Yeah, if they haven’t switched them by now.’

  ‘Will you have someone email me the still and the plate ID?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Next steps?’

  ‘One of the barmen at Eclipse on Via della Pelliccia where Micky likes to hang has suggested I come back later. Another guy is due back on shift who knows Micky better.’

  ‘Remember to ask about Davide Stasio.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Scamarcio hung up. As soon as he received the email with the picture of the ambulance, he’d be back on to dispatch to ask them for the contact who dealt with out-of-service vehicles.

  His taxi drew up outside the Channel One offices in Saxa Rubra, and he hunted around in his jacket pockets trying to find his wallet. That Proietti’s office was completely the other side of town from Police HQ was beginning to grate. Scamarcio hoped he wouldn’t be in and that he could question the secretary in peace. He was in luck.

  ‘Any news?’ she asked warily.

  ‘Not much. You spoken to Micky?’

  ‘Only to pass on messages. He sounds really stressed.’ She bit down on her bottom lip. ‘Obviously.’

  Scamarcio put a hand on her desk. ‘You didn’t mention Davide Stasio to me.’

  ‘Davide who?’

  If she was acting, she was doing a much better job of it today.

  ‘Micky’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘He’s never mentioned him.’

  ‘Any ideas who might know more about him?’

  She shrugged, then frowned. ‘Micky?’

  ‘Besides Micky?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  Scamarcio sighed, then said: ‘Remember, I can always haul you in …’

  ‘For obstructing a police inquiry,’ she snapped. ‘I know, and I’m telling you I’ve never heard of Davide Stasio.’

  Unfortunately, he believed her.

  By the time he made his way back outside, the sun had emerged from behind the clouds. It felt like 25 degrees already. Who would have background on Stasio? he asked himself. His thoughts quickly came to rest on the Calabrian producer Francesco Bruno — it takes one to know one.

  When he arrived at the Matrix offices, Bruno was holding a meeting. Scamarcio spied him through a glass partition addressing a small group who looked half his age, bar one man covered in tattoos and piercings who seemed at least fifty. Scamarcio took a seat on a sofa in reception, and ran another Google search for ‘Davide Stasio TV production’, but yet again got nothing. Strange. When he tried ‘Davide Stasio company Rome’, the results ranged from plumbers to hairdressers; but, again, there was no mention of TV.

  After a few minutes he heard chairs scraping and the chatter of voices, and when he looked up, Bruno was standing in the hallway, looking down at him. ‘Detective, I’m surprised to see you again so soon.’

  ‘Can we pop into your office?’

  Bruno checked his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting on Via dei Gracchi in half an hour. But yes, if it’s quick.’

  When they were seated, Scamarcio said: ‘Have you heard of someone called Davide Stasio?’

  ‘The porn producer?’

  ‘What?’

  Bruno just stared at him, confused. Scamarcio tried to unscramble his brain. ‘Proietti’s brother-in-law?’

  Bruno leaned forward across his desk. It was his turn to be surprised. ‘What? Is he?’

  Scamarcio tried to take stock. Were they even talking about the same man? Some instinct told him they were. ‘This Davide Stasio, the porn producer — what do you know about him?’

  ‘He’s not someone you’d want to mess with — he’s well connected.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘People from my part of the country.’ Bruno coughed. ‘And yours, perhaps?’

  Scamarcio chose not to confirm it. ’Ndrangheta?’

  Bruno nodded, and Scamarcio felt something die inside him. Was he doomed to forever remain the trapped fly, always trying to find a break in the web?

  ‘So Stasio’s doing business with them?’

  ‘That’s what I heard,’ said Bruno, rubbing his nose. ‘I can’t believe he’s Proietti’s brother-in-law. You couldn’t get two more different types.’

  ‘So you’ve met him?’

  ‘Just the once. He’s a yob — pretty much what you’d expect.’

  ‘Is he successful?’

  ‘He’s one of the biggest players in the porn industry. He’s branching out now into TV — trying his hand at one of those reality shows on the lives of the porn stars. Total rubbish, but they rate well for the satellite networks. I met him at a drinks do for the Party! channel. We’d been doing some work for them.’

  ‘It seems strange that nobody knows about the connection to Proietti.’

  Bruno shrugged. ‘Maybe Micky told him to keep it quiet. Who can blame him? You wouldn’t want that getting around.’

  Did Micky’s bosses at Channel One know? Scamarcio wondered. Did Monaci at the lodge even realise the true nature of Stasio’s work?

  ‘What kind of porn are we talking about?’ asked Scamarcio.

  Bruno started rubbing his chin. ‘As far as I know, just the usual run-of-the-mill stuff for online and TV. Nothing weird, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  Scamarcio nodded, his mind still turning.

  Bruno looked at his watch once more. ‘Is that all, Detective? I really need to get to that meeting.’

  Bruno had told him that Stasio’s company was called Sizzle and that they were based on an industrial estate to the west of the city. When he eventually found the place, Scamarcio saw that Stasio seemed to run his business out of a large warehouse that Scamarcio guessed probably housed a studio. He buzzed the entry panel, and a female voice with a strong Calabrian accent told him to take the stairs to the third floor.

  After he’d made the climb, Scamarcio pressed another buzzer to the right of two wide glass doors, above some rather tired-looking pot plants. The place could have passed for an accountancy or legal practice; there was nothing to suggest that this was the heart of a porn empire. The effect continued on the inside. A rather plain-looking woman wearing spectacles and a mud-brown cardigan sat behind a computer, the faded red Sizzle logo mounted tir
edly on the wall behind her.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she asked. Scamarcio noted the slight Catanzaro twang. He felt sure she must be a relative of Stasio. No doubt he was following tradition, and keeping it all in the family.

  Scamarcio showed her his badge. ‘I’m here in connection with the disappearance of Davide Stasio’s sister and nephew.’

  The woman slapped a hand across her heart, taking Scamarcio by surprise. ‘What? Has something happened to Maia and Antonio?’

  ‘You weren’t aware?’

  The woman’s hand was trembling. ‘No. My God. Why didn’t someone tell us?’

  ‘Do you know Maia?’

  ‘She’s my cousin. What the hell happened? Where are they?’

  Scamarcio filled her in on the fake ambulance, watching for her reaction. All he saw was shock. After he was finished, she opened her eyes wide and said: ‘But does Davide even realise? I don’t think he does — he would have mentioned it.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No, he’s away on holiday down south. But I spoke to him just half an hour ago. He sounded chipper — he can’t know. Why the hell hasn’t someone told him?’

  Indeed, thought Scamarcio. What was Micky Proietti playing at?

  ‘Listen,’ said Scamarcio. ‘I’m trying to find out all I can about Maia’s background, her family, her life. Could I have a quick look around? It might help me get a handle on things.’

  The woman nodded and got up from behind her computer. She led him through another set of glass doors into a wide open-plan office. Scamarcio saw about ten young people tapping away at computers or talking on the phone. There were quite a few empty desks between them.

  ‘I need a truck and three Harleys,’ one was saying. ‘For one day’s shooting on the 22nd.’ He waited for the answer, then whistled softly. ‘Seems steep.’

  The wall was covered with various posters that Scamarcio guessed were blown-up DVD covers from Stasio’s films. All of them had the word hot in the title — hot teachers, hot biker babes, hot holiday. All of the women were predictably tanned and predictably blonde.

  ‘This is the main production office,’ said the secretary, ‘where we organise the shoots. Davide has his office through there.’ She pointed to a cabin at the back, a small glass window to its left.

  ‘Where do you do the filming?’

  ‘There’s a studio here on the complex. We use that most of the time — Davide owns it, but he rents it out to other companies sometimes.’

  Scamarcio nodded. ‘How’s business?’

  The woman seemed distracted, impatient. ‘You’d have to ask Davide — I don’t have the details, but I know that we have a lot of new contracts coming through.’

  Her attention drifted to a TV playing on the desk in front of them. Sky News was on, and they were showing the picture of Proietti’s wife and son that Scamarcio had taken from the apartment. The image cut to footage of the stretch of motorway where the family had gone missing. The secretary placed her hand across her heart once more, and whispered something Scamarcio couldn’t quite comprehend. She crossed herself and took a breath.

  The ringing of a nearby phone broke her concentration. A smart young man a few metres away answered. He was dressed in a blue-checked shirt, chinos, and brogues, and wore serious-looking, thin-framed spectacles. To Scamarcio, he seemed like the very last person you’d expect to find in a porn production office.

  The young man’s expression became solemn, and he nodded a few times, saying nothing, then started tapping his right knee nervously with his free hand. After a few more moments of silence, he cradled the phone in both hands and turned to where Scamarcio was standing with the secretary. ‘Giovanna, Micky wants to talk to you.’ He replaced the phone and punched a button. The secretary scratched at the back of her ear nervously before picking up the phone nearest to them.

  She said nothing for a few moments, then the colour rose in her cheeks once more. Eventually she muttered: ‘Of course, Micky, right away.’ She handed the phone to Scamarcio. ‘Mr Proietti wants a word.’

  Scamarcio took the phone, his expression neutral. ‘Mr Proietti.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to me about Davide? Why are you creeping around behind my back, wasting your time on matters that aren’t relevant?’

  ‘I couldn’t get hold of you,’ Scamarcio lied.

  ‘You should have tried harder. I don’t want you going around asking my suppliers about Davide.’ Proietti’s voice was shaky with panic. He was trying to disguise it, but he wasn’t quite managing. The pitch rose with every word.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I haven’t got time for this,’ hissed Proietti. ‘You want to know about Davide, you come to me.’ The line went dead.

  Scamarcio carefully replaced the phone. He pinched his nose and thought for a moment.

  ‘What does that guy over there do?’ He pointed to the young man in the checked shirt, who was now hunched over his computer, typing out an email.

  ‘That’s Sandro, the chief accountant,’ said the secretary.

  Interesting that Proietti had called him first, thought Scamarcio.

  10

  ONLY THE THINNEST WISP of red remained in the sky as Scamarcio made his way back to Parioli and Micky Proietti’s apartment. The guy who dealt with selling old ambulances had called, saying that the ID on the ambulance captured by CCTV matched one they’d sold to a film and TV prop house two years before. Scamarcio had deemed the TV connection interesting, until the guy told him that 80 per cent of their vehicles got sold on to prop houses.

  Unfortunately, when Scamarcio had called Garramone, he’d learnt that they’d lost all trace of the vehicle after a last sighting from a camera on the main dual carriageway to Sperlonga. Garramone figured the kidnappers had changed the plates and repainted the scrape. Or switched vehicles. The freemason Monaci had it right — they were now looking for a needle in a haystack. Last-known triangulations for the mobile phones belonging to Proietti’s wife and son matched the area of the kidnapping — the kidnappers must have switched off the phones as soon as they were inside the ambulance. Scamarcio knew that none of this was going to improve Proietti’s mood.

  When Scamarcio walked in, Proietti was sprawled across one of his huge white armchairs, his eyes fixed on Sky News, a cut-glass tumbler of what looked like whisky swinging precariously in his hand. The TV was showing the same stretch of motorway Scamarcio had seen on the news earlier.

  ‘You shouldn’t watch that,’ Scamarcio said. ‘It will just add to your anxiety. You’ll get the most up-to-date information from us, not them.’

  ‘What have you got for me then?’ asked Proietti, his gaze still fixed on the screen.

  Scamarcio talked him through the latest dead ends. When he was done, Proietti muttered: ‘Brilliant.’

  Scamarcio took a seat on the sofa and tried to make eye contact. ‘Listen, we’re doing all we can. But you need to be straight with me — how can I find your family if you keep me in the dark?’

  ‘You talking about Stasio now?’ Proietti still wasn’t looking at him.

  ‘Among other things.’

  Proietti sighed and took a large swig of his whisky. ‘I didn’t tell you about Davide because it didn’t even enter my mind. He has no connection to this.’

  Scamarcio watched as Proietti tightened his jaw, and felt doubly sure the man was lying.

  ‘If that’s the case, why were you so spooked when I visited his offices then?’

  Proietti shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t believe he had to deal with such a simpleton. ‘It’s not that. I just don’t want word getting around about my connection to him.’

  ‘But you’re members of the same lodge. Your bosses must know already.’

  Proietti sighed again. ‘They don’t really understand Davide at the lodge. They think he makes wildlife docum
entaries.’

  Scamarcio frowned. ‘I find that hard to believe. Francesco Bruno at Matrix knows,’ he said, hoping to unsettle him.

  Micky shrugged, his eyes glassy. ‘I have no idea how. Davide wouldn’t have told him.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He knows to keep it quiet.’

  Scamarcio cupped his chin in his hand. ‘Why did you call Stasio’s chief accountant before you asked to be put through to me?’

  ‘What?’ Proietti looked up, surprised.

  ‘You heard me.’

  Proietti scratched behind an ear, recrossed his legs, and took another gulp of the whisky. Eventually, he said: ‘Detective, stop reaching.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  Proietti rubbed his nose and sniffed, then blinked a few times. He was taking too long to come up with an answer, and he knew it. ‘I’ve commissioned a drama from Davide. It’s a bio on the life of La Cicciolina. I thought he’d be a good person to make it. I was discussing some budget issues with the accountant.’

  ‘You don’t have someone to do that for you?’

  ‘No, I like to be on top of the line items myself.’

  ‘Has Stasio ever made dramas?’

  ‘No, but I think he would have brought a new touch that I wouldn’t have got from anyone else.’

  ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ asked Scamarcio, rising from the sofa.

  Proietti nodded absently and returned his attention to the TV. Scamarcio used the opportunity to swipe Proietti’s mobile from the table as he passed.

  When he was in the kitchen, he scrolled through the contacts and came across a number for Sizzle. He dialled it, hoping that the secretary was still in.

  She sounded breathless when she picked up. ‘I was just leaving, Detective.’

  ‘You on top of all the recent commissions?’

  She said nothing for a beat, then: ‘Sure, I need to be across all the stuff that’s coming in.’

  ‘Are you guys making a drama on La Cicciolina?’ He decided not to mention that it was for Micky — that would shut her up.

  ‘Er, no, I’ve never heard about that. We don’t do drama.’

  ‘Is there anyone there you can ask, just to be sure?’