The Villa of Mysteries (26 page)

“Not gonna happen,” Neri muttered. “Never. There’s no reason for it.”

She nodded at his son. “Do we take him in too? Is he part of the family firm now?”

“You tell me. You DIA scum never give up spying on me. What do you think?”

She smiled at Mickey. He blushed a little and stared at his feet.

“I think he doesn’t look like you. Maybe he doesn’t act like you. I don’t know.”

“No,” Neri agreed. “You don’t know. Tell you what. If you want someone to keep your statistics up you can take him now. Take her too if you feel like it, so long as . . .” He took a good look at them when he said this. “. . . they get to share the same cell. She’s got more brains than him though. You might find it harder fitting her up.”

Falcone smiled. “Happy families. Don’t you love to see them?”

“My patience is wearing thin. Get to the point.”

“The point,” Falcone said immediately, “is that I want to know what you were doing sixteen years ago. I want you to tell me about Vergil Wallis and what happened to his stepdaughter.”

Neri’s bleak, reptilian eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding me. You want me to try to remember all that way back? Who’re you talking about?”

“Vergil Wallis,” D’Amato repeated. “He was your contact with the West Coast mob. Don’t try to deny it. There are intelligence photos of you two together. We know you had dealings.”

“I’m a sociable man,” Neri protested. “I meet a lot of people. You expect me to remember every one?”

“You remember this one,” Falcone said. “He nearly got you on the wrong side of the Sicilians. You screwed him over some deal. Is there still bad feeling between you? Have you spoken recently?”

“
What
?” Neri’s feigned outrage was unconvincing. He meant it that way. “Look, if you want to throw these kinds of questions at me it’s best we do it some other time, in the company of a lawyer. Not now.”

D’Amato ran her fingers through her perfect brown hair, just for Mickey’s benefit. “You don’t need a lawyer, Emilio. No one’s accusing you of anything. We just want to know what you can recall. You did meet this man. We all know that. That’s not why we’re here. His stepdaughter was murdered. Sixteen years ago. The body turned up recently.”

“You think I don’t read the papers? You think I don’t hear things?”

“So?” Falcone persisted.

Neri nodded at Mickey. “You remember some black guy way back then? Rings a bell for me. Not much more.”

“Sure,” Mickey agreed, looking more nervous than ever. “He and some kid were with us on vacation for a while. They were both history freaks or something. Couldn’t stop talking about all that crap. Museums and stuff. Turned me off.”

“And you remember his stepdaughter?” D’Amato asked.

“A little,” Mickey conceded. “I thought she was his, if you get my meaning. A black guy with a skinny blonde thing around him. What would you think?”

Falcone considered this. “Are you saying there was some relationship between Wallis and the girl?”

“No,” he replied defensively, looking at his father for guidance. “I dunno.”

“He was some jumped-up piece of work,” Neri added. “Who the fuck knew what was going on? I’ll say this, though. Met a few like him in my time. They come here, think they can do business, never have to pay nothing in the way of an entrance fee just because of who they are. Yeah, and one more thing. You ever seen a black guy with a blonde in tow he wasn’t fucking?”

D’Amato shook her head, unhappy with this idea. “She was his stepdaughter.”

“Oh right,” Neri sneered. “That makes a difference. Tell me. If you found some rich Italian guy shacked up with a teenager, smiling at her all the time like he owned her, you’d say that about him, huh? You don’t think maybe there are some double standards here? Men like that can’t keep their hands still. Can you imagine what it’d be like to get a couple at the same time? Mother and daughter? You go ask him about that. Not me.”

He had a point. Falcone understood that. Maybe Wallis was just a great actor. Maybe this show of grief was just that, a show.

“What about you, Mickey?” D’Amato asked suddenly.

“What about me?” he stuttered.

“Did you like the look of her? Was she your type?”

He glanced nervously, first at Adele, then at his father. “Nah. Too skinny. Too stuck up. She talked all the history shit he did. What’s someone like that gonna do with someone like me?”

Rachele D’Amato smiled. “So you remember her well?”

“Not much,” he murmured.

Neri waved his big arm. “Fuck this. Why are we talking about some kid who went missing ages ago? What’s this got to do with us?”

They said nothing.

“Right,” Neri continued. “Now that’s out of the way maybe you can go. This place is starting to smell bad. I want some fresh air in here.”

Rachele D’Amato smiled at Mickey. “What about Barbara Martelli, Mickey? Was she your kind of woman? Not skinny at all. Got a good job as a cop too.”

His eyes went round and round, flitting between his stepmother and Neri. “Who? Who? Dunno what the hell you’re talking about. Who?”

“The woman who was in the papers, dummy,” Neri snarled. “The cop who got killed yesterday. They say she offed someone. That right? What is it with the police force today? How’s a man supposed to trust anyone?”

“I ask the questions,” Falcone said. “Where were you yesterday, Mickey? Give me your movements, morning to night.”

“He was here with me all day,” Adele Neri insisted. “All day. And in the evening too.”

“We were all here together,” Neri added. “Apart from a little lunch outing I had with one of my employees. He can vouch for me. We can vouch for one another. You got any reason to think otherwise?”

Rachele D’Amato took two photographs out of her briefcase: Barbara Martelli in uniform and one of her old man, back in the days when he was on the force. “Her father was a cop. He was on your payroll.”

“Me?” Neri whined. “Pay cops? Don’t you think I pay enough already what with the taxes round here?”

“When did you last talk to Martelli?” Falcone asked. “When did you last speak to his daughter?”

“Don’t recall ever making their acquaintance. And I’m speaking for us all now. Understand? If you’ve got something that says otherwise you go show it to a lawyer. Except you don’t have anything. Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking like this now, would we?”

She put the photos back in her bag. “Those men downstairs,” she said.

“We were thinking of having a card game later. They’re good guys.”

“Make it last,” Falcone ordered. “Make it last a long time. I don’t want to see them on the streets. You got that?”

The big old hood was shaking his head. “So Romans don’t get to walk their own town now? Is that what you’re saying? Jesus. Here I am taking this shit. Here I am listening to your dumb threats and all this crap about things you don’t know. And that American bastard’s just walking round doing what he likes. No one’s asking him whether he was screwing that girl. No one’s asking him if he’s been paying off dumb cops to get what he wants.” He waved a fat hand at them. “You tell me. Why’s that? Are you people just plain stupid or what?”

Falcone stood up. Rachele D’Amato followed suit.

“Nice seeing you again,” Neri barked. “Don’t feel the need to rush back.”

“Do you know what tomorrow is?” Falcone asked.

“Saturday. Do I get a prize?”

“Liberalia.”

Neri screwed up his slack face in an expression of distaste. “What? This some new European holiday they’re pressing on us now? Don’t mean a thing to me.”

“It does,” Falcone said. “It means that if you know what’s good for you, you stay right here. You don’t get in my way.”

“Wow,” Neri sneered. “This is what cops do now. Make a few empty threats.”

“It’s good advice. I remember you. Years ago, when I was just a detective. I watched you, I
know
you.”

“Yeah? You think so?”

“And the thing is, you’ve changed. You’re older. You look weaker somehow. Let me tell you something. You’re not the man you were.”

“Bullshit!” Neri yelled, getting onto his feet, waving his big arms in the air. “Get the fuck out of here before I throw you down the stairs, cop or no cop.”

Falcone wasn’t listening. He had his phone to his ear and was engrossed in the call. There was something in his face that made them all go quiet and wait for what came next.

“I’ll be straight there,” Falcone murmured.

“Leo?” D’Amato asked. “Is something wrong?”

He looked at Emilio Neri. “Maybe. Does the name Beniamino Vercillo mean anything to you?”

“All these stupid questions—” the old man grumbled.

“Well?”

“Not a damn thing. Why d’you ask?”

“Nothing,” Falcone replied with a shrug. “He’s a stranger. Why worry? Watch the news. Pay some bent cop to tell you first. Who cares? I’ll let myself out.”

“Mickey!”

Neri pointed at the two of them. Mickey led Falcone and Rachele D’Amato downstairs, going first so that he got a chance to turn round now and again and get a good look at her long, lithe legs moving out from underneath the short skirt.

The visitors were sitting around a table in the big room on the first floor, reading papers, smoking, playing cards.

“I recognize a few familiar faces,” Falcone said. “Is this the kind of company you keep, Mickey?”

“Don’t know what you mean.” Mickey Neri continued on to the big front door, with its security cameras and multiple electronic locks.

Rachele D’Amato ducked out of the way of the lens and smiled at him. “You should be smart, Mickey. It’s important to be smart in a situation like this.”

“A situation like what?”

“Change,” she said and handed him her card. “Can’t you just feel it in the air? That’s my private number. Call if you want to talk. I could keep you out of jail. If things turn bad, I could even keep you alive.”

He glanced upstairs to make sure no one was listening.

“G-g-get out of here,” Mickey Neri mumbled.

THE SCENE-OF-CRIME MEN pulled on their white bunny suits then clambered down the iron staircase into the basement office off the Via dei Serpenti. Falcone watched them, mentally trying to work out the manpower disposition inside the Questura. With the officers already inside that brought the total contingent on the murder scene to six. It wasn’t enough. The Questura was getting desperately stretched. He’d already got people trying to persuade the sick to rise from their beds. Even with the few who complied, he was still struggling to keep every thread of the investigation — Randolph Kirk, Barbara Martelli, Eleanor Jamieson and, just possibly, the Julius girl — fully staffed. It was the spring holiday season. A quiet time of the year, or so everyone supposed. The gaps were already starting to appear. He wished he had more people to despatch to watch Neri and Wallis, make sure they didn’t develop any stupid ideas. He wished, too, he had time to think about Suzi Julius. Falcone shared some of Costa’s fears, though he was reluctant to act in the present circumstances until some hard facts emerged to link her directly to the Jamieson case. There was still no evidence to suggest this was anything other than a wayward teenager out for some fun. He couldn’t afford to waste the men he had on hypothetical crimes when there were real ones demanding his attention.

Rachele D’Amato’s black Alfa pulled up on the pavement and he watched her get out, watched the way she angled her slender legs carefully so that the tight red skirt she was wearing didn’t ride up too much. For a brief moment Falcone let other thoughts dominate his mind. She was thirty minutes behind him. She’d had to call in at the DIA office on the way. He really had no idea what was going on there behind closed doors.

“She doesn’t need to be here,” he reminded himself, then managed to work up a smile. “Not at all.”

She walked up, eyeing him. “Leo?”

“I don’t recall issuing an invitation, Rachele. This isn’t an open house. You don’t get to walk into every investigation we have.”

She nodded at the door. A couple of the bunny suits were coming out again, taking off their helmets to light cigarettes. The path was clear for the rest of them to go in. “Don’t I get to take a look? You really believed Neri then? You think this guy was a complete stranger?”

“According to what we know Beniamino Vercillo was an accountant. We don’t have a thing on him. He was just a little man. Lived in Paroli on his own. The safe’s open. It’s probably robbery or something.”

She eyed the men by the iron staircase, not believing a word. Falcone resented the idea that she always seemed one step ahead of him. “Is that so? I listened on the radio. I gather you have a witness.”

“You shouldn’t go near our radios,” he said. “That’s not part of the deal.”

“I’m saving time. For all of us. What happened?”

He sighed. “A girl in the optician’s saw a character in a kind of costume going in. Something theatrical. With a mask. There’s a street theatre troupe performing down at the Colosseum so she didn’t think too much of it. We checked. They’re performing Euripides.
The Bacchae
. One of their costumes is missing. I’ve got men interviewing every last one of them. The trouble is they were rehearsing at the time. Either they’re all liars or it’s someone else who stole the costume. No one saw a soul coming out. It’s—”

Everything was going wrong, heading off in different directions. It denied him the time to think, the opportunity to focus on what mattered. “It’s the last damn thing I need right now.”

D’Amato didn’t look impressed.

“Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?” Falcone sighed. “We really aren’t working together on this one, are we? Am I the problem? Do you want to liaise with someone else instead?”

Her hand went to his arm. Slim, delicate fingers. He recalled their touch. “I’m sorry, Leo. It’s not you. It’s me. You’re right. This is all . . . out of sync somehow. The DIA’s no different from you, really. We expect things to happen the way they always did. None of this fits a template.”

“You can say that again. So Vercillo wasn’t some boring little accountant?”

She laughed and it reminded him of how she once was: young, carefree. And how much that used to affect him. “You didn’t really think that, did you, Leo?”