Nic Costa muttered a few choice insults under his breath, then returned to the house. Aldo Bracci was back at the booze again, just as miserable, a little scared now too.
“Do you have some relatives?” Costa asked him. “Maybe this would be a good time to get out of town. Just make sure we know where to contact you.”
“This is my fucking house!” Bracci screeched. “You think I’m leaving? After all these years? Just because of those morons out there?”
Costa glanced at Falcone. “We could take him into custody. I don’t like the look of this place.”
“No,” Falcone replied. “Not if he doesn’t want it. If you change your mind, Bracci . . .”
The inspector hauled himself to his feet, then marched outside and gave the three uniforms the A-grade Falcone bawl-out Costa and Peroni knew only too well.
“They won’t bother you, Aldo,” Peroni said, once the volume beyond the door had died down a little. “Not after that.”
Costa looked at the dejected, drunken shambles of a figure in front of them, shame and self-loathing written clearly on his sagging face. The mob outside was the least of Aldo Bracci’s problems.
GIANFRANCO RANDAZZO ENJOYED HIS JOB, MOSTLY. Castello was an easy station to run, with little more to do than police the tide of immigrants passing through the bars and restaurants, deal with a trickle of distraught ripped-off tourists and keep a lid on the local drug trade. It was a place where routine ruled. In the narrow rambling warren of alleys that ran from the waterfront to the dead industrial land around the Arsenale basin lived a shifting, eager population that had to be reminded, from time to time, of its place. Randazzo was third-generation Venetian and understood from an early age that a little thievery was part of the native character. The city had been working its captive trawl of visitors for centuries. It was futile to pretend the place would ever change. What he’d come to appreciate in his twenty years as a cop, steadily working his way up the ranks, was the need for balance. The locals were there to be controlled, to be kept in check, confined within accepted boundaries of behaviour, and pounced upon when some damn fool felt minded to overstep the mark. He could post a good set of statistics each month: few crimes, a cleanup rate well within acceptable levels, low staff turnover. Statistics mattered. They were the first thing the hierarchy looked at when they wanted to know if a commissario was doing his job. On paper, Castello’s Questura was in a happy state. Until the three Romans came, with their arrogance, their questions, and their ever-present attitude. Randazzo lived by the idea that it was best to leave well enough alone, to keep a lid on things unless there was a very good reason to do otherwise. The Romans just couldn’t buy that notion. From the moment they arrived they picked at every case that came their way until events fell apart at the seams. Despatching Falcone to Verona made a difference. Then circumstances had changed. The commissario hesitated over giving them the Arcangelo case, and would probably have balked at the idea had there not been such overwhelming pressure from above for a clean result. The logic seemed incontrovertible. No one could argue with the findings of a team of outside police officers, ones skilled in homicide.
All the same, if there was dirt to be uncovered on that closed, dusty island across the lagoon, the Romans would surely find it. They were fools, their own worst enemies, blind to the effects of their meddling. So now what should have been a simple, predictable investigation was growing more complex, more awkward by the minute, threatening to spread in ways that made Gianfranco Randazzo deeply uncomfortable. He’d listened in fury to the briefing Falcone had given him over the phone, explaining the request for a guard outside Aldo Bracci’s home. Randazzo had said nothing at the time. Now he stood on the terrace of Hugo Massiter’s apartment inside the Palazzo degli Arcangeli, wondering when the private boats of the partygoers would begin to arrive at the private jetty, and what he’d say to Falcone’s face in an hour or so, when the reception began. Wondering, too, whether the Romans weren’t the only fools hereabouts. Gianfranco Randazzo followed orders. His relationship with the wily, rich Englishman was not a matter of personal choice. Nevertheless, the commissario was aware of the delicacy of his position. Should the Arcangelo case fail to be closed on time as his masters demanded, and should the threatened scandal ensue, there would be scapegoats. His head would, in all probability, be on the block, for no other reason than that he’d done as he was told. It was difficult, at times, to strike the correct balance between duty and self-respect.
The young Roman’s American girlfriend walked out to join him. She was carrying a glass of spritz, with an olive alongside the slice of lemon, just as a true Venetian would have demanded.
“Hugo said you’d appreciate this,” she told him. “Seems I’m now the bartender around here as well as the architect. You’ll have to excuse me, though. I’ve got workmen to yell at downstairs. The host will be along in a moment. Then I need to change.”
“You’ll be ready in time?” Randazzo asked, enjoying being close to her. The quiet little Roman, who Randazzo suspected could well be the most awkward of the trio given half a chance, was obviously a fortunate man. “Massiter’s got quite a guest list tonight. They’ll want to be astonished. No one’s been in this place, not properly, for years.”
“They’ll be astonished,” she promised, smiling. “Wait and see.”
He let his eyes linger as she walked back into the room towards the door. Even in paint-stained overalls she was a sight to savour. Massiter passed her as she left, murmuring something Randazzo couldn’t hear, patting her shoulder in a light, intimate gesture.
Then the Englishman joined him on the terrace. He looked content, smug. Massiter had no idea of the storm clouds gathering elsewhere.
“I can’t believe a woman like that would be interested in some lowly Roman cop,” the commissario declared. “Can you?”
“No accounting for taste,” Massiter agreed, raised his own glass, then took a taste. “She makes a good spritz too.”
“Are you going to take her from him?” Randazzo asked.
The cold blue eyes shone like burnished stone. “Free will, Gianfranco. There’s no bucking it. I never take anything from anyone. I’m interested in presents, not plunder. Unless something’s freely offered, what’s it worth? A little persuasion, on the other hand . . .”
Randazzo stifled a laugh. The whole city knew what Hugo Massiter was. A man who couldn’t resist women. A man who seized what he wanted, regardless of the cost, in money and human terms. His bank balance helped, but there was more to it than just cash and power. The Englishman had a certain kind of charm. The commissario had spent some social time in the man’s company. He had seen this skill in action, had wondered at the quiet, sly talent Massiter had for understanding instantly what was required to get his way. Hugo Massiter possessed a certain aptitude for persuading others to do his will, while at the same time convincing them he was merely going along with their own wishes, not pressing some kind of reward upon them. Randazzo knew all this for another reason too. High in the Dolomites, in a remote village close to some good ski runs, was a compact, well-furnished chalet which now, through a front company based in Switzerland, was Randazzo’s own, a tiny, to Massiter insignificant, bribe for some earlier services the commissario had performed.
“Take her after this business is done, please, Hugo. It’s complicated enough as it is. Let’s just get the Romans to sign on the dotted line, as they will. Close that contract with the Arcangeli. Then let your cazzo have its fun.”