Massiter laughed. “I’ll never quite understand the Venetian love of coarseness, you know. Emily’s a lovely thing. You shouldn’t spoil my sense of anticipation with that kind of talk. Besides . . .”
The man could turn serious in an instant. Randazzo questioned whether, in truth, he had any other mood.
“They will sign on the dotted line, won’t they? I must nail down that deal shortly or we’re all in deep trouble. You do know that, don’t you?”
Oh yes, Randazzo thought. He’d had that fact hammered home to him well enough by any number of city henchmen anxious to keep their reputations intact.
“They’ll sign. If I have to hold the pen for them myself. It just seems a little more complicated than we first suspected. It’s important they come up with something that sticks. Credibility is everything. There is, it seems . . .”—Randazzo knew he couldn’t avoid the point, awkward as it was—“ . . . the possibility that a third party was involved. The strong possibility.”
Massiter screwed up his face in a baffled grimace. “The locked door. The evidence, man. Explain that.”
“Falcone can’t,” Randazzo replied with a shrug. “Not yet. But he’s a persistent bastard. He will. One way or another. There’s a problem with the woman’s keys. They can’t find them anywhere. I don’t suppose . . . ?”
Massiter gave him a withering look. “I’m not some kind of burglar,” he growled.
“I know that,” Randazzo insisted nervously.
“Do what you’re paid for, Randazzo. Sort this mess out. And quick.”
“Of course. They will come up with the goods. In time to save your skin, Hugo.”
“Our skin.”
“If you wish to put it that way. I’m still somewhat unclear about precisely what those goods will turn out to be, though.” He hesitated. Massiter was a man with powerful friends. All the same, the question had to be asked. “I can’t help but wonder. Do you have any idea?”
Massiter’s bland face turned furious. He launched the half-full glass out over the balcony. It spun through the thin, hot air, despatching its contents, then tumbled down to the canal, falling just a metre short of a workman’s boat manoeuvring for the jetty. The man at the wheel glared back up at them, furious, then saw Massiter’s purple face at the terrace, and went back to the wheel, chastened.
“To hell with this,” Massiter cursed. “You people have bled me dry over the years. Now, when I ask for a little in return . . .”
He didn’t go on. Randazzo felt offended. He was doing his best. Risking much too.
“I think that’s deeply unfair,” he noted. “We’ve turned a blind eye to certain of your activities.”
“Not without reason,” Massiter pointed out. “Or profit.”
“True. I . . . I know I shouldn’t say this,” Randazzo stuttered. “But it’s time for some frankness between us. I want this matter closed just as much as you do. A little more disclosure on your part wouldn’t go amiss. When I bury things I like them to stay buried. No new corpses, not when they can be avoided. It’s best all round.”
“That little chalet of yours starting to feel somewhat small?” Massiter asked, icily composed now. “What is it you’re wanting this time? An apartment by the beach? Come on. You’re a Venetian. You’re not too shy to name the price.”
“It’s not always about the price.” Randazzo said it primly, feeling his temper beginning to fray. “I need the truth. Everything. Particularly about your relationship with each of the Arcangeli.”
“That’s simple,” Massiter snapped. “I give. The Arcangeli take. It’s the kind of relationship I have with most people in this godforsaken city.”
It was years since Randazzo tried to think like a cop. Being commissario was admin, management. He had detectives out there to pursue the fine detail of crimes, their commission, their solution. All the same, he’d been a detective himself once upon a time. Not a bad one, either. Not afraid to throw the odd hard, unexpected question into the conversation now and again, which was what he’d been paid for back then.
“And Bella?” Randazzo demanded, risking a guess, not caring if this went back to his bosses, because he wanted exactly what they did: closure. A part of him resented Hugo Massiter too, detested the man’s easy arrogance. “She was a good-looking woman. Everyone says that. You like women. Was Bella, perhaps, part of the deal?”
Massiter turned on him, smiling, an amused, detached look on his face that made Randazzo regret he’d ever decided to walk down this path.
“My! You are uncharacteristically curious today. What on earth’s prompting all this? Are you afraid those Romans will steal your thunder? Is your nose out of joint because there are finally some real police in Venice for a change?”
“That was uncalled for. I would like to know the truth,” the commissario repeated, unable to look Massiter directly in the eye. “It would help all of us.”
“The truth?” The blue eyes sparkled. “The trouble with the truth is it’s so damned hard to gauge. One man’s truth’s another man’s lies. I’d have thought someone like you would know that better than most.”
Gianfranco Randazzo smoothed down the lapels of his fine-weave black cotton suit. Beneath he wore a well-pressed white shirt, and the red silk tie he’d bought on vacation in Osaka the previous spring, the one marked with the pattern of his name in katakana script. He regarded himself as a dutiful man. Not perfect, but one who tried to do his job in difficult circumstances.
“Bella was having an affair,” he said sternly. “It’s possible she’d resurrected a relationship with her brother.”
Massiter’s eyebrows rose. “Strange habits they have out here.”
“Quite,” Randazzo replied. “I merely said it was possible. She was pregnant. Her husband could not be the father. So who was Bella’s lover? I need to know. Falcone and his men are shockingly good at what they do, I’m afraid. It would be for the best if I were forewarned.”
Massiter stared silently out at the teeming channel of water. “Paternity,” he murmured, looking glum. “Now, there’s a thought.”
“I can’t protect you from everything,” Randazzo snapped. “There are limits beyond which . . .”
The Englishman was laughing. His shoulders heaved. A growing chuckle emerged from behind a set of bright, shiny teeth. He came close and touched the tie.
“Japanese?” he asked. “How is your wife, by the way?”
“My wife has nothing to do with this.”
Randazzo had seen the way Massiter stared at Chieko whenever they met on social occasions. It wasn’t the curious look she normally got when the locals discovered a woman from Tokyo had married a Venetian cop. Besides, Venice was an international city these days. Marrying a foreigner, a very beautiful one, was nothing remarkable.
“This isn’t funny,” the commissario complained, aware of the whine inside his own voice. “Not at all.”
With a swift, feline ease, Massiter was next to him, whispering in Randazzo’s ear. “On the contrary,” the Englishman murmured. “It’s delightful. Let’s get straight to the point. Then I must go. There’ll be locals down below soon, and I’ll be damned if I’m leaving them alone with the valuables. So . . .”
Massiter pulled away, drew in a deep breath, certain of himself. “The last time I saw Bella Arcangelo was two weeks ago. I never bed Venetian women for more than a month. It’s a matter of principle. They cling, they paw, they grow tiresome. The bitches are best gone before the amusement begins to fade. I doubt I fathered a brat on her but you never know. No one ever will. I expect you to make sure of that.”
Randazzo swore, then asked quietly, “You weren’t here the night they died? You can prove it?”