‘Well, I’d definitely know, but hang on.’ He heard the phone hit the desk, and then the sound of her shuffling away. After a minute or so, she was back.
‘I’ve spoken to a few people, including our chief accountant — he deals with all the contracts coming in, and he hasn’t heard about it, either. Who told you this?’
‘No matter,’ said Scamarcio. ‘Just someone who had their wires crossed.’
He hung up before she had a chance to reply.
Back in his flat, Scamarcio pondered his progress. He had the feeling that nobody in this inquiry was being straight with him. What was the big secret here? Why did he have the sense that the truth was right in front of him, if only he could recognise it for what it was? He wondered if he was losing his touch.
His second mobile buzzed on the kitchen table: Piocosta again. He took a breath. It was starting to feel like harassment.
‘Get your things, and be ready to leave in ten,’ growled the old man.
‘I’m not going anywhere tonight.’
‘It’s not a choice, it’s an order.’
Scamarcio swallowed. ‘I can’t free myself from a kidnap inquiry. We’re working round the clock.’
‘Well, find some excuse.’
‘No excuse. Not tonight.’
He killed the call and took a long gulp of his Nero D’Avola. Seconds later, the mobile buzzed again with a text. ‘Don’t be a stupid cunt. Cappadona will locate Aurelia soon enough. If we pull out, she’s finished.’
Scamarcio downed his glass. There was nothing subtle about Piocosta. It was carrot or stick every time. But he felt sure that the old man wouldn’t lift the protection he was providing for Aurelia quite yet. He still needed to get Scamarcio where he wanted him: namely in the evidence store at Police HQ, eliminating the tapes that would form the foundation for the prosecution case against Piocosta’s loan-sharking operation.
But what Piocosta didn’t understand or chose not to understand was that it would take very little for Scamarcio’s colleagues to work out that he was the one who had lifted the footage. The cage was wired with CCTV, there was a logbook that detailed entries and exits, and Scamarcio was still being closely monitored, despite what Garramone would have him believe.
Scamarcio pushed a palm across his cheek, rubbed at his eyes. This thing with Piocosta was becoming untenable. Night after night, he’d spun through alternative solutions in his mind. One was to tell Piocosta that he was no longer required and to arrange private security for Aurelia. But the cost would be high, and Scamarcio’s money wouldn’t last forever. The Cappadona had long memories, and it was unlikely that they would forgive and forget Aurelia’s devastating assault on their boss. After the Cappadonna had kidnapped her in connection with one of Scamarcio’s cases, Aurelia had managed to free herself by stabbing Donato Cappadona repeatedly. But her attack had confined the mob boss to a wheelchair, leaving him to run his organisation with a tilt of the head, a tap on a screen. Scamarcio knew that for a man like Donato, the sense of humiliation and impotence would be extreme. Recently, his worries about this had led Scamarcio to consider going to Cappadona direct, trying to arrange some kind of amnesty. But how? And what could he offer him in return? Piocosta, he’d wondered? Could he rid himself of the old man forever, and kill two birds with one stone? It was a crazy, high-risk strategy, and just the thought of it made him sweat.
The third scenario he’d come up with was a hybrid of the first two. He needed to find a way to get Piocosta off his case and a way to make Cappadona let go. Could he offer Donato Cappadona a cut of some kind of business? Could he promise that the police would turn a blind eye? But here he’d simply be falling back into the same trap he’d made for himself with Piocosta. Scamarcio closed his eyes and leant back against the sofa. He was stuck in a febrile nightmare. But he knew that somewhere out in the darkness lay a solution; he just needed to think harder, to bring it into focus.
The buzzer on his door sounded, and he jolted upright. When he lifted the entry phone, he heard heavy breathing on the line.
‘Scamarcio, you there?’
Sartori.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve got news. I was in your neck of the woods, so thought I’d deliver it in person.’
‘Come up, fourth floor.’
When Sartori emerged from the elevator, he was knocking back a can of Coke. His thinning hair was all over the place, and large sweat patches were visible beneath the arms of his shirt.
‘What happened?’ asked Scamarcio.
Sartori frowned, then patted down his hair. ‘Oh, nothing, I’m just a bit out of shape. Not used to walking lately.’
When they were inside, Scamarcio asked: ‘So this news?’
Sartori looked around the room approvingly. ‘Nice place. Mind if I sit down?’
‘Sure.’ Scamarcio hoped he wouldn’t stay long. He wanted to get back to his wine and his thoughts.
Sartori leant forward on the sofa, fumbling for his notebook in his pocket while depositing the Coke can unceremoniously on the floor. When he’d finally located his pad, he flicked through a few pages and then stopped to wipe his forehead with a soiled paper napkin. Scamarcio thought he spotted the Burger King logo.
‘So I spoke to that barman — you know — the one I said I was waiting to come on shift.’
‘Sure.’
‘He told me that he’s seen a lot of Micky Proietti over the years — that he’d come in at least three times a week.’
So much for not having a social life, thought Scamarcio. He nodded, hoping Sartori would cut to it.
‘This barman claims that, until last autumn, Proietti would be at a back table with Monica Brandelli.’
‘The Monica Brandelli?’
‘The very same. She’d been in a lot of his dramas. The barman thought it might have been a professional thing to start with, but then it soon became obvious they were having a relationship.’
‘Right, but I don’t get the significance — we know Proietti sleeps around.’
‘Wait.’ Sartori held up a finger. ‘Our barman overheard an argument one night. One word in particular made him prick up his ears.’
‘What word?’
‘Abortion.’
Scamarcio fell silent for a moment, trying to take it in.
‘They were in again the next night, says the barman. And it was a night he’ll never forget.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Cos Proietti was beaten to a pulp. This huge guy comes in, looks to be in his early sixties. He pulls Micky up by the collar and kicks the living shit out of him, blood everywhere, teeth missing — you get the picture. It was so bad the barman had to call an ambulance. Then the huge guy leaves with Monica Brandelli.’
‘Who was he, this guy?’
‘Our barman didn’t know at the time, but after the bust-up he googled Brandelli, and recognised the guy in a few pictures. He was Pietro Brandelli, her father.’
‘Do you have anything on him?’
‘He’s a big cheese — runs a load of gambling websites. Worth a fair bit.’
‘So he wasn’t too happy his daughter had to have an abortion?’
‘Brandelli is very devout — a big church fundraiser.’
‘How does that tally with being a gambling magnate?’
Sartori shrugged and opened his palms, as if to say, ‘You tell me.’ Then he smiled and said: ‘I’ve saved the best to last. You read People magazine, by any chance?’
Scamarcio frowned. ‘Do I look like I read People?’
Sartori shrugged again. ‘You never know — maybe on the toilet?’
Scamarcio sighed. ‘Sartori, spit it out.’
‘Well, if you did read People, you’d know that Monica Brandelli just gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. Got his daddy’s eyes, I’d say.’
&
nbsp; 11
MONICA BRANDELLI LIVED IN A large apartment in Parioli, just a few streets away from Proietti. Did he buy it for her? Scamarcio wondered.
He was greeted at the door by a Filipino maid. A baby’s cries were coming from a room further down the long, polished hallway.
He showed the maid his badge. ‘Police,’ he said.
She looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘For the lady?’
‘Yes.’
‘She busy with baby.’
‘It won’t take long.’
She nodded nervously. ‘One minute.’
She turned and retreated down the corridor, heading for a room at the very end. Scamarcio heard raised voices, and after a minute or so she was back, a confused Monica Brandelli trailing behind. Brandelli looked nothing like the woman who had graced countless magazine covers. Her blonde hair was greasy and matted, and there were deep grey rings beneath her blue eyes. Her usually tanned skin looked palid and mottled, and her lips were cracked.
‘What is it?’ she asked imperiously, clearly irritated to be seen like this.
‘This won’t take a minute. Is there somewhere we could talk?’
She sagged her shoulders and sighed ‘For God’s sake’, before shuffling into the living room and dismissing the maid with a sharp flick of the wrist.
‘What’s so important?’ She collapsed onto a huge green floral sofa and glared at him. The room was decorated in duck-egg blue with the occasional splash of white thrown in. Scamarcio decided that it worked somehow.
The baby seemed to have stopped crying now. He figured there must be a nanny back there with him.
‘You heard about Micky Proietti?’ he asked.
It was like he’d mentioned the devil. Brandelli’s face became even paler, and the light left her eyes.
‘What about him?’ she spat.
‘His family has been kidnapped.’
She rubbed at her eyes, tried to smooth out the bags beneath. ‘What?’
‘Taken away in a fake ambulance, two days ago.’
She was shaking her head in disbelief now. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Neither do we. I was hoping you could help.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘What?’
‘I know Proietti is the father of your child. It seems to me that you have good reason to hate him and his family.’
‘What?’ She almost shouted the word. ‘I’ve just given birth, for Christ’s sake. Eighteen hours of pure hell. You think I had time to organise a fucking kidnapping?’
‘Your father perhaps?’
She just looked at him, astounded, then began shaking her head. ‘I won’t lie to you. Yes, that baby is Proietti’s; yes, my father is furious with him, as am I. But neither of us would even think about touching his family. We hate him, not his wife and kid. If anything, I feel sorry for that woman — she’s married to the most unfaithful man in Rome, if not the country. Frankly, I’m hoping for better for myself.’
‘I heard your father beat up Proietti pretty bad.’
She shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t you if it was your daughter?’
Scamarcio didn’t know, but guessed that perhaps he would — it would no doubt stir something primal in him.
‘I find it surprising that you didn’t already know about all this, Miss Brandelli.’
‘Like I said, I was in labour for 18 hours — there wasn’t much time to watch TV, and there hasn’t been since.’
‘How can I get hold of your father?’
She shook her head again, exasperated now. ‘You’d be wasting your time.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll get you his number.’
Scamarcio hadn’t needed to travel to Prati to find Brandelli’s father as he’d met him on the stairs coming down. Well, he’d guessed it was him. The huge 6 ft 4 fellow with the enormous chest and tiny immaculate china doll of a wife had the same strong features as his daughter. Besides that, he was holding a massive bouquet of flowers, a huge blue rosette for the front door, and several supermarket shopping bags.
‘Mr Brandelli?’ Scamarcio asked.
The giant narrowed his eyes, tilted his head to one side. He looked like the archetypal gangster made good. ‘Who wants to know?’
Scamarcio showed him his badge.
‘This about that Micky Proietti business?’
Scamarcio nodded.
‘You haven’t been to see Monica, have you?’ His flinty eyes narrowed.
‘I’ve just come from her place.’
Brandelli set down the shopping bags. ‘I didn’t want her to know. We didn’t want to stress her.’
Scamarcio opened his palms. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m running a police inquiry. We do what we have to. There’s a little boy’s life at stake.’
Brandelli looked down for a moment. Then he glanced up and met Scamarcio’s eye. ‘Sure, I get that.’
‘Do you get why I’m here?’
‘Someone told you about the baby, obviously. There are no secrets in this town.’
Scamarcio couldn’t think of anything further from the truth.
‘I hear you were pretty angry.’
Brandelli jutted his chin forward. ‘Of course. It’s a father’s worst nightmare. That man is a total arsehole.’ The china-doll wife looked down at the floor.
‘I’m guessing you’re still pretty angry.’
‘I hate Proietti’s guts, but listen, Detective: you’ve got a job to do, and an important one. Don’t waste your time on me.’
An interesting choice of phrase, thought Scamarcio. ‘Who should I spend my time on then?’
Brandelli’s eyes were boring into him. Somehow they connected, Scamarcio didn’t know why. Maybe they were both made of the same stuff, came from the same place.
‘Proietti is the golden boy — delivers great shows on meagre budgets. His bosses couldn’t wish for more …’
‘So?’
‘So why can’t anyone else deliver the same quality on the same money?’
Scamarcio frowned, unsure where this was heading.
‘Micky’s in a class of his own for one reason, and one reason only. It’s not talent, it’s not genius — it’s simply because he bends the rules. If you had access to such a huge stash of money that nobody would notice if you borrowed a bit, what would you do? Most normal people would pocket it and buy themselves a nice holiday or a Ferrari, but not that freak. His ego is so vast that he uses it to turn himself into the miracle worker.’
‘You’re saying …’
‘I’m saying that he isn’t the genius everyone thinks he is. He tops up his own budgets with money from elsewhere, and has done for years.’
‘But what money, from where?’
Brandelli tapped the side of his nose and then lifted the shopping bags once more. ‘That, Detective, is for you to find out.’
Scamarcio had pressed Brandelli for more, but he insisted he didn’t know about the source of the money. He was just passing on what he’d heard ‘on the grapevine’. He also claimed Micky had mentioned ‘the secret stash’ to his daughter on more than one occasion.
Scamarcio took a sip of his cappuccino and wondered if Brandelli was throwing him a red herring in an attempt to damage Proietti’s reputation. It was possible, but Scamarcio felt sure that the secret money was an avenue he needed to investigate. Proietti’s call to Stasio’s accountant, and his argument with his father about selling the shares, suggested that there was a financial background to this inquiry that Scamarcio needed to understand before he could deem it relevant or otherwise. Given that the squad’s visits to the other companies Proietti did business with had failed to bear fruit, the financial angle was starting to emerge as the strongest contender.
Sky TG24 was playing on the TV in the shabby bar wh
ere Scamarcio had stopped for breakfast. They were now showing the exterior of Proietti’s apartment block in Parioli. Garramone had discussed with Proietti the options of recording a media appeal, but he had said he wanted to think it over before deciding. What was there to think over? Scamarcio wondered. The clock was ticking: they’d just passed the 48-hour mark, after which the chances of finding a missing person became considerably slimmer. Did Proietti even want to find his family?
Scamarcio asked the barman for another cappuccino and then helped himself to a second chocolate brioche from the cabinet. He was about to take a bite when he stopped, the brioche suspended in mid-air. Sky was now showing pictures of the culture secretary, Gianluca Manfredi. Scamarcio asked the barman to turn the sound up.
‘Manfredi had been a leading light in the Democratic Party for many years,’ said the announcer.
Hardly a leading light, thought Scamarcio. Perhaps they were just being kind. The past tense suggested that Romano had wasted little time in firing Manfredi. Scamarcio was reminded of the emperor Tiberius and how he had executed his subjects by having them thrown from a cliff into the sea while he watched.
The news switched to an interview with Alberto di Pietro, the education secretary. ‘It’s devastating news. I just can’t believe it, it hasn’t really sunk in yet.’
As a response it seemed a bit over the top, thought Scamarcio. Maybe everyone just felt terribly sorry for Manfredi.
‘My thoughts go out to Gianluca’s family,’ added the minister.
Scamarcio set down the brioche, carefully placing it on a napkin. He swallowed, and rubbed a tired palm across his mouth. ‘What the fuck?’ he whispered, prompting the old gent next to him to turn and frown.
The report switched back to the plastic blonde announcer in the studio. ‘At this stage, the police aren’t treating the death as suspicious.’
Scamarcio pulled out his mobile and dialled Garramone.
‘You heard about Gianluca Manfredi?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Hung himself in his bathroom.’
‘We’re sure? No signs of foul play?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. Why?’
The Hit Page 8
