Suicide Italian Style by Pete Pescatore

Author:Pete Pescatore [Pescatore, Pete]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, International Mystery & Crime, Thrillers & Suspense, Financial
Amazon: B00R9XHGM6
Published: 2014-12-19T00:00:00+00:00

Nineteen

Over the border and into Switzerland, tracking back to Bellomo and his crack about the brakes and the fire at the lake and the fire in the night that destroyed my car. Maybe Billy was right. Anastasia and I were in over our heads.

“You remember I told you about Marco Romano?”

“Journalist, friend of your wife—“

“Right. Years ago, just before he died, Marco published an article on the banks in Lugano. He talked about lawyers and accountants and the mules that carry cash up from Italy. He mentioned a man he called Ali Baba—“

“Real name Arturo Bellomo?”

“Correct. And last night Bellomo warned me. He said the brakes on Italian cars don’t work.”

“Means what?”

“That Bellomo thought Marco was dangerous, that somehow he got to my Alfa Romeo, fooled with the brakes so they failed and—“

Anastasia was shaking her head. “He must think you are stupid.”

On the left was the long, narrow arm of a lake and snow on the mountains sloping down to the shore. “Why?”

“Think, Pescatore. If target was journalist, how they know he will be in your car?”

I gave it some thought. Marco and Eva had come up from Milan by train that evening. On the spur of the moment I’d told Eva to take the car, and it was Eva offered Marco a ride to the casino. So. “Good point.”

“And if true they fool with brakes—“

“Then it wasn’t an accident.”

“Yes but that is no point. Car belong to who? To Marco? No. Your car. They fool your brakes, so target not Marco—is you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Ostrich, Pescatore. Head in dark place.”

“Thanks.”

“So what is conclusion, Mr Pescatore?”

“You play poker, Stazz?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know what a bluff is.”

She answered with a perfect poker face.

“That’s right. Bellomo was bluffing. He had nothing to do with it.”

“Correct. And so?”

“Nothing to worry about. Two can play that game.”

“Is not game, Peter. Three bodies.”

“Three?”

She held up three fingers and counted them off. “Your wife. Her friend. Mister Goldoni.”

I nosed the Shark toward the exit and took us down a long, sloping curve into the city. Anastasia gave me directions from there. We took the lakefront road north to the center of town, turned away from the shore and nosed through narrow streets to a garage. From there she led the way down a cobbled street to a pair of steel towers thrusting up into the winter sky. A huge plate glass portal framed in white marble formed an arch between the towers. Gray lettering on glass said we’d arrived at the Banca del Gran San Bernardo.

I laid a hand on her arm. “Sarge works here.”

“Sarge?”

“Sergio Ungaretti. Gigi Goldoni’s accountant, once upon a time.”

“I know who is Sergio Ungaretti.”

“Are we here to see Sarge?”

She shook her head, impatient. “Safe box.”

“You have a safe deposit box?”

“Nicky.” She paused. “Husband. Ex.”

“I knew that.”

The glass doors slid back to admit us. An armed guard stood watching, wary. Clerks in black suits, white shirts and black ties zipped through the atrium like robots on rails.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.