The Lizard's Bite Part 19

But he couldn't say the words this time. The pendulum never moved. Some deep, primeval fear began to wake inside little Leo Falcone's head, turn his bowels to water, make him want to sit on this old seat and pee himself out of terror.

"The past is past," the older voice said. "Trust me."

"So what do I do?" he asked, bitter, refusing to break down in tears because that always gave the adults some comfort, and would do so even when those watching, older eyes were his own.

"What you'll always do. First and last. So much it will get in the way of everything else. Think! Think!"

Leo waited and listened and tried to do as the voice said. He didn't want to be in this place. He didn't want to see behind the locked wooden door, with its crudely carved, dying heart, or use the big metal key on the table. More than anything, little Leo wished to sleep. To lay down his head on the table, close his eyes, think of nothing, embrace nothing but the dark which seemed, next to this crazed, inhospitable place, a warm and welcoming respite from the torments that were gathering around him.

"Please," the old voice said, and it sounded terrified.

MAGGIORE LUCA ZECCHINI WAS A HAPPY MAN. HE WAS back in his beloved Verona after three days at a tedious conference in Milan. There would be a premiere of back in his beloved Verona after three days at a tedious conference in Milan. There would be a premiere of Il Trovatore Il Trovatore in the Arena that evening, an event he would attend with a charming and beautiful tourist from San Diego he'd met on the train home the night before. And there was in the Arena that evening, an event he would attend with a charming and beautiful tourist from San Diego he'd met on the train home the night before. And there was pranzo pranzo in Sergio's, the little restaurant around the corner from the office, a place where a man could gather his thoughts. Lunch, for Zecchini, was a staging post for the day, a time at which one might reflect on a morning well spent, and look forward to a brisk afternoon of activity before shrugging off the dark, impeccable uniform of a major in the Carabinieri and re-entering civilian life. Few men enjoyed this small ceremony in the same way: as an ascetic exercise in self-detachment, not a quick opportunity for face-filling. Only one newcomer had, of late, entered the small circle of sympathetic friends invited to join Zecchini on occasion at Sergio's. Thinking about that unlikely individual now, Zecchini's mood became muted. Police work was never without its risks. He'd been with the Comando Carabinieri Tutela Patrimonio Culturale since its formation in 1992. The world of art theft and smuggling, which he inhabited on a daily basis, was not immune to violence. Two fellow officers had lost their lives in the last six months mixing with gangsters trying to smuggle historic artefacts from Iraq through Italy on their way to Switzerland. All the same . . . some incidents seemed odd. Unnecessary. Inexplicable. And tragic, still, a week after the dreadful affair had appeared in the papers. in Sergio's, the little restaurant around the corner from the office, a place where a man could gather his thoughts. Lunch, for Zecchini, was a staging post for the day, a time at which one might reflect on a morning well spent, and look forward to a brisk afternoon of activity before shrugging off the dark, impeccable uniform of a major in the Carabinieri and re-entering civilian life. Few men enjoyed this small ceremony in the same way: as an ascetic exercise in self-detachment, not a quick opportunity for face-filling. Only one newcomer had, of late, entered the small circle of sympathetic friends invited to join Zecchini on occasion at Sergio's. Thinking about that unlikely individual now, Zecchini's mood became muted. Police work was never without its risks. He'd been with the Comando Carabinieri Tutela Patrimonio Culturale since its formation in 1992. The world of art theft and smuggling, which he inhabited on a daily basis, was not immune to violence. Two fellow officers had lost their lives in the last six months mixing with gangsters trying to smuggle historic artefacts from Iraq through Italy on their way to Switzerland. All the same . . . some incidents seemed odd. Unnecessary. Inexplicable. And tragic, still, a week after the dreadful affair had appeared in the papers.

Zecchini stared at his plate of pork ribs with a portion of greens on the side and wondered whether they would really taste quite so good now. He should have asked Gina from San Diego to join him. Women loved the uniform. He used to joke with Falcone about their sartorial differences. The man from the state police always wore plain clothes, aware that the ugly blue wouldn't have suited him. Falcone wasn't a man who fitted in easily.

Then his eyes wandered down the street and met a sight Zecchini found both puzzling and of singular interest. Two men were walking towards him. One, tall and bulky in an ill-fitting grey suit, had a very ugly, scarred face and the physique of a boxer gone to seed. The second was an unusual foil: slight, young, short, in shirt and jeans, rather innocent-looking, except, as Zecchini saw when they got closer, in the eyes, which were determined and a little bleak.

These two were not, he decided, men to cross. And they were, somehow, recognisable too, if only he could place the memory.

Then the younger came over to his table, and asked, in a polite Roman accent, "Maggiore Zecchini?"

"Yes?"

The two men looked at one another, uncertain, it seemed to Zecchini, how to proceed. He thought about their appearance, and what they might do for a living. Then the connection clicked.

"You're just as he described," he told them. "Sit down. I'm in need of company."

The bigger one was at the table in an instant, eyeing Zecchini's ribs. The younger man pulled up a chair, close to Zecchini. There was no one else on the pavement. The young man clearly wanted to make sure they could talk in privacy.

"He mentioned us?" the elder-Peroni, he recalled the name now-asked, sounding surprised.

"There were times when he talked about very little else. I knew Leo only for a few months. We talked a lot. We became friends, I think. In spite of the different uniforms. It's not impossible, is it?" Zecchini pushed away his plate. "How is he?" he asked, a part of him not wanting to know the answer. "I thought of visiting. But it seemed such a mess over there. Such an imposition. Besides, I don't think an officer of the Carabinieri would be particularly welcome . . ."

Peroni shrugged. "He wouldn't know. He's not recovered consciousness, not in a week. The doctors say it's touch and go. Whatever happens, I don't think Leo's going to be back in the job again."

It was good news they even gave him some chance. From what Zecchini had heard, they'd thought Falcone was little more than a breathing corpse at one point.

"That's hard to believe," he said.

"I agree." It was the young one who spoke. "Nic Costa. Gianni Peroni."

Zecchini extended his hand. "Please call me Luca. I asked that of Leo. I ask it of you. We're acquaintances. Not colleagues. That makes some things easier. And eat, please. It's been a while since I bought a state policeman a meal. Too long."

He called over the waiter and listened to their orders: meat for the big man, grilled vegetables for Costa. Zecchini was slightly disturbed to discover that, through his friendship with Leo Falcone, he felt he knew these men already.

"You're looking for work?" he asked, after the waiter had gone.

The newspapers had been full of the aftermath of the incident in Venice. A commissario had been suspended pending possible manslaughter charges. Costa and Peroni were on enforced leave, which was often the precursor to disciplinary action.

"We've got plenty of work," Costa replied.

It was, Zecchini thought, just what he expected. "That doesn't sound too good. I thought you were supposed to sit at home and twiddle your thumbs."

Peroni laughed. "The problem is, once you've been under that cunning old b.a.s.t.a.r.d for a while, it gets decidedly difficult to do what you're supposed to sometimes. You mean you never noticed, Luca?"

Zecchini took a mouthful of his pork rib. It was cold. The meal was ruined, and he rather guessed it could only get worse.

"We came with a gift," Costa said. "Or rather a prize."

"It's going to cost me?" Zecchini asked.

Costa watched the waiter return with their food, then watched the man leave.

"Nothing comes for free," he said. "But, if we're right, if we get lucky . . . with your help. It's a prize I think you'd like very much."

Luca Zecchini listened to the two of them. It only took a minute to realise the last thing he'd be doing that evening would be watching Il Trovatore Il Trovatore in the company of the delightful Gina. in the company of the delightful Gina.

IT HAD BEEN MORE THAN A DECADE SINCE TERESA LUPO had abandoned medicine for what she saw as the more challenging world of working in a police morgue. Now she felt lost in a hospital. The Ospedale Civile of Venice seemed more like an entire quarter of the city than a medical inst.i.tution. It ran through a warren of historic buildings, modern accretions, and storeys of blocks that seemed like apartments, until emerging on the bare lagoon waterfront between Fondamente Nuove and Celestia. Teresa couldn't help but notice the inst.i.tution sat bang opposite another staging post on the journey of life, the cemetery island of San Michele, whose brick walls blocked-happily, she thought-the view over to the Isola degli Arcangeli on Murano. The Venetians never did like to make more effort than was absolutely necessary. had abandoned medicine for what she saw as the more challenging world of working in a police morgue. Now she felt lost in a hospital. The Ospedale Civile of Venice seemed more like an entire quarter of the city than a medical inst.i.tution. It ran through a warren of historic buildings, modern accretions, and storeys of blocks that seemed like apartments, until emerging on the bare lagoon waterfront between Fondamente Nuove and Celestia. Teresa couldn't help but notice the inst.i.tution sat bang opposite another staging post on the journey of life, the cemetery island of San Michele, whose brick walls blocked-happily, she thought-the view over to the Isola degli Arcangeli on Murano. The Venetians never did like to make more effort than was absolutely necessary.

Three things happened the night Leo Falcone was hurried to the Ospedale Civile in a speeding water ambulance, siren wailing, blue light echoing in the rapidly descending darkness.

First, she remembered how to yell at medics, good medics, people who were patently competent at their job, but just didn't understand the small matter of priorities. A man with a head wound as bad as the one Falcone had suffered wasn't in need of much a.n.a.lysis. He was a corpse in the making, screaming silently for someone to freeze the clock and keep him alive until a specialist could be got on the scene to work out if there was any way forward from this mess.

Second, she discovered she'd do anything to stop Leo Falcone from dying. Theoretically, she didn't want anyone anyone to die, ever, even if that put her out of a job. But this wasn't about theory. Whatever had happened between her and Falcone in the past, she now had some unexpected bond with this strange, distant, frequently arrogant man whose stricken body had been wheeled through the corridors of the Ospedale Civile at speed, navigating its spider's web of corridors on a journey, it seemed to her, to nowhere. to die, ever, even if that put her out of a job. But this wasn't about theory. Whatever had happened between her and Falcone in the past, she now had some unexpected bond with this strange, distant, frequently arrogant man whose stricken body had been wheeled through the corridors of the Ospedale Civile at speed, navigating its spider's web of corridors on a journey, it seemed to her, to nowhere.

And third, she found out that she, and her Roman police pathologist's card, still carried clout. When they got Falcone into pre-op and found that Venice's one and only neurosurgeon was on holiday in the Maldives, Teresa simply screeched at them to do what they could to staunch the bleeding, then wait for orders.

There was some luck in the world. Maybe a G.o.d even. Pino Ferrante had been at medical school with her all those years ago. All the way over in the racing ambulance ferry dashing across the lagoon, she had been remembering his hands, which were the most beautiful she'd ever seen on a man: long and fine and elegant, like something from a drawing by Durer. Healing hands, that much was obvious too when he'd completed the training and entered the outside world of medical practice. Pino was now a prosperous neurology consultant in his native Bologna, little more than sixty minutes away if he still drove a car the way he used to. And he was at home when she called, breathless, pleading.

Less than three hours later Falcone was in the operating room, with Pino's gentle, firm fingers trying to perform wonders she could only guess at, while the four of them, two colleagues-c.u.m-friends, two women who'd found themselves dragged unwittingly into this wounded man's life, waited on the terrace by the waterfront, swatting midges in the sticky night air, drinking endless plastic cups of bad coffee, asking themselves all manner of questions about the strange burst of violence that had torn through the Arcangeli's palazzo, and Hugo Ma.s.siter's party, that evening.

Then finally, reaching a decision, one found in anger and a mute, shared hunger for some semblance of justice. One that didn't require much effort, if they were honest with themselves. Or much discussion, because discussion just got in the way of what was needed.

There were facts before them, Nic said. Staring them in the face, taunting. Gianfranco Randazzo worked for Hugo Ma.s.siter. That had been obvious all along. Randazzo had murdered Bracci to close down the case-and Ma.s.siter's deal-wounding Leo Falcone, possibly fatally, along the way.

It was meant to be a neat, tidy package, one that no one was trying to untie, to try to see what might lie inside. Venice would, Nic predicted accurately, be determined to swallow the story Randazzo gave them of that night, even though there were so many questions. Why had the drunken Bracci come to Hugh Ma.s.siter's in the first place? What exactly had he hoped to achieve by taking Raffaella hostage while searching among the masks and the commedia dell'arte commedia dell'arte costumes for the man he wanted, who was Ma.s.siter, Nic said, surely? And why the h.e.l.l would he bring along a handy piece of evidence, the keys with their telltale ribbon, just to complete the story? costumes for the man he wanted, who was Ma.s.siter, Nic said, surely? And why the h.e.l.l would he bring along a handy piece of evidence, the keys with their telltale ribbon, just to complete the story?

None of these issues would now be addressed. The tragedies of the Isola degli Arcangeli were, for the city, closed the moment Randazzo's bullet shattered Aldo Bracci's skull. Leo Falcone was simply what a certain kind of military man would call "collateral damage," and all to crown Hugo Ma.s.siter king of the city.

They had looked at each other that night, listened to Nic carefully picking his way through the known facts, feeling a certainty grow inside them, one that didn't need to be said aloud to be understood. To the Venetians they were strangers, all of them. They'd be excluded from what swift tidying up of the facts would now ensue. If Nic was right-and it soon turned out he was-they'd be squeezed out of the Questura too, kept away from any stray difficult facts.

Which was, if only the Venetians understood it, the stupidest thing the city could do. They didn't know Costa and Peroni. They didn't understand what kind of men they were. How the two would spend days, weeks, trying to peer beneath the wrapping of that carefully presented, utterly fict.i.tious case Venice was presenting to the world, picking at the seams until everything fell apart.

Facts, Nic said at the time, acting out a fair impersonation of Falcone at his best.

Who benefited from what happened that night?

Hugo Ma.s.siter and his cronies in the council. And the Arcangeli, too, since they finally got the money they so desperately needed, even if it came with strings.

Who had a motive to kill Bella and Uriel?

There lay the lacunae. Uriel Arcangelo, from what they understood, was keen on the deal with Ma.s.siter. His death created difficult and expensive legal problems. But some motive existed. It needed to be found, and to do that, Nic said, they must follow Leo's rules. You mixed things up a little. You piled on the pressure. You got nosy and difficult and kept on chasing down the lies.

And you imagined.

Bella was carrying Ma.s.siter's child, and trying to blackmail the Englishman into keeping her, something Ma.s.siter couldn't allow, even if her death complicated his business matters.

So Ma.s.siter, or one of his henchmen, killed Bella, doctored Uriel's ap.r.o.n in some way a man with no sense of smell could never notice, sent him into the boiling hot foundry with a key that couldn't work, couldn't take him away from the scene of a crime that seemed, to the lazy, so obvious. Then fought to pin the blame for everything on Aldo Bracci, a man they murdered in public, in a way that seemed to confirm his guilt.

Teresa Lupo mistrusted the imagination deeply, instinctively. She was a scientist. She was aware of how dangerous it was to produce a theory first, then search for the facts to support it. But watching Nic that night, seeing the fury and determination on his face, understanding for the first time how close he'd grown to Falcone since the death of his own father, Teresa realized she'd do anything in her power to help him. This wasn't the Nic Costa she'd first come to know and admire when he was a green detective in the Rome Questura, a little lost in the centro storico, centro storico, the kind of peripheral figure who looked as if he might not last out the year. Events had changed him. Leo Falcone and Gianni Peroni had changed him, and been changed in return too. And part of that change reflected on each of these three very different, now very close, men. It was inconceivable that Nic and Gianni would walk away from this event. Inconceivable that she wouldn't throw in her lot with them. the kind of peripheral figure who looked as if he might not last out the year. Events had changed him. Leo Falcone and Gianni Peroni had changed him, and been changed in return too. And part of that change reflected on each of these three very different, now very close, men. It was inconceivable that Nic and Gianni would walk away from this event. Inconceivable that she wouldn't throw in her lot with them.

And Emily . . .

AFTER FOUR DAYS extracting every last sc.r.a.p of information they could from the Questura, before they got ordered on paid leave, the men left Venice, desperate to try to rustle up a few allies. Emily was gone too, on a different kind of mission, one that filled Teresa with deep misgivings because she understood how well a former FBI agent was trained for that kind of work, and the ruthless, selfless determination Emily was likely to adopt in pursuing it. extracting every last sc.r.a.p of information they could from the Questura, before they got ordered on paid leave, the men left Venice, desperate to try to rustle up a few allies. Emily was gone too, on a different kind of mission, one that filled Teresa with deep misgivings because she understood how well a former FBI agent was trained for that kind of work, and the ruthless, selfless determination Emily was likely to adopt in pursuing it.

Now she was left alone, clear about her own role. To find forensic evidence, to nail down some facts that linked Hugo Ma.s.siter with Bella and Uriel Arcangelo, could, perhaps, place him in the fornace fornace that terrible night. More than anything, they needed to provide some sort of motive for why he would endanger his own business plans by murdering the pair of them in the first place. that terrible night. More than anything, they needed to provide some sort of motive for why he would endanger his own business plans by murdering the pair of them in the first place.

She looked at the woman sitting by Falcone's bed, upright, alert, as if she truly expected Leo would wake up any second, smile and ask for a coffee and a couple of biscotti. Teresa Lupo felt a pang of guilt. She wasn't alone at all. Raffaella Arcangelo had waited at Falcone's bedside eighteen or more hours a day since he'd arrived. And by the third day Teresa had, without asking Peroni or anyone else, plucked up the courage to bring her into their confidence, just a little, just enough so that a favour was hard to refuse. Raffaella was a good, straightforward woman. She admired Leo Falcone, seeing clearly in him something that Teresa could only glimpse in the misty distance. She was an Arcangelo too, close to what had happened. She had access to the house and all the materials they needed to try to work some magic.

Teresa gazed down at the carrier bag of objects, each secure in a plastic envelope, which the two of them had a.s.sembled from the mansion and the furnace that morning while Michele and Gabriele were away, talking to the lawyers about Ma.s.siter's impending acquisition. Most important of all, some items from Bella and Uriel's bathroom that would provide DNA.

One of the devices attached to the unconscious Leo Falcone made a kind of beeping noise, then went silent. Wires and meters, CRT displays and drips. Machines designed to keep a human being alive.

"There's no need to stay around," Raffaella Arcangelo said in her calm, clear voice, shaking Teresa out of her reverie. "I thought you had things you needed to do."

"N-n-no . . ." she stuttered, surprised at being brought back into the real world.

Raffaella was in the position she'd come to adopt by the bed. Stiff-backed in the hard hospital chair next to Falcone, a book in her hand. A woman's book, Teresa noticed. An intelligent romantic tale that all the papers had been writing about of late. It seemed to her that Raffaella Arcangelo had grown a little spinsterish before her time.

"Nor do you," Teresa observed quietly.

"I know. But I can comfort myself with the thought that it's just selfish. There's nothing left for me to do on the island today. Michele's locked in with the lawyers again. Gabriele too. Once that's over . . ."

She'd reached some kind of a decision, Teresa felt. One that had, perhaps, eased some long-felt burden.

"Once that's over I'm leaving. It's not . . ." She glanced at the p.r.o.ne Falcone. " . . . what happened. It's just a decision I should have made years ago. Now there'll be a little money. Perhaps I'll go back to Paris. I liked it there. I was a student, briefly. Unless I can be of some help to Leo."

Teresa Lupo never looked over her shoulder. There was too much in the way of personal wreckage back there. And for Raffaella? Just a few dim memories. Faded, like old watercolours. It seemed a terrible time to start chasing them.

"This is an unusual thing for the likes of me to say," Teresa observed, "but I'd advise against making any rash decisions."

She shook her head. "It's not rash. I've wanted to leave for years. I just felt tied to that stupid island. To Michele's ridiculous dreams. He thinks he's some kind of a hero. Sticking to the old ways. Trying to keep some ancient craft alive when the rest of them turn out junk for the tourists. It's a delusion. I've lived here all my life and I can see what Venice is becoming. A graveyard. A beautiful one, I'll admit, but a graveyard nevertheless. It drains the life out of you in the end. That's happened with Michele already, and he'll stay here ignoring that fact until it consumes him. I won't." Her bright eyes glittered with defiance. "I won't won't. Once I've seen Leo back on his feet . . ."

There was a question there, one Teresa didn't feel able to answer at that moment.

"Once I've lost that burden from my conscience," Raffaella continued, "I'm gone."

Teresa groaned, pulled up a chair by the bed, and took her hands. "Listen, please. What happened wasn't your fault. What-"

"I was the one Bracci was threatening! If I hadn't been stupid enough to let him get hold of me-"

"Then he would have grabbed hold of someone else. And Leo and Nic and Gianni would have done exactly what they did. Don't fool yourself. They'd have done it for anyone."

Raffaella stared at the still figure beneath the single white sheet. "He will recover, won't he? That friend of yours seemed optimistic."

She couldn't lie. "There's a chance. There's a chance he won't. The brain's a curious organ. Pino knows more about it than anyone I've ever met. All the same . . ."

Raffaella Arcangelo leaned forward, earnest, suddenly intense, less in control of herself than at any time Teresa had witnessed. "He will will recover. I know it. And if there's any justice in this world, someone will pay for all this bloodshed too." recover. I know it. And if there's any justice in this world, someone will pay for all this bloodshed too."

Teresa Lupo blinked, trying to take all this in. She'd a.s.sumed Raffaella shared the opinion of the world at large. That Aldo Bracci, a man found with Bella's keys in his pocket, a man once accused of sleeping with his own sister, was responsible for the two deaths in the fornace, fornace, and had met a deserved fate. There'd even been a letter in the local paper, and had met a deserved fate. There'd even been a letter in the local paper, La Nuova, La Nuova, suggesting Commissario Randazzo deserved a promotion, not suspension, for putting Bracci down like an animal that night. suggesting Commissario Randazzo deserved a promotion, not suspension, for putting Bracci down like an animal that night.

Raffaella gently removed Teresa's hand from hers. "I'm not a fool," she said. "I know why you're asking for these things. Leo confided in me. If he could speak now, he'd confirm that. I know why you're looking at Bella's belongings. You're not part of any official police investigation. You want the man who really did this to Leo. I want the man who did this to Leo and and to my brother. And to poor Bella." The dark, earnest eyes gazed at her, pleading. "I tried to help Leo," Raffaella continued. "And I failed. I won't fail again. I promise. I owe him that." to my brother. And to poor Bella." The dark, earnest eyes gazed at her, pleading. "I tried to help Leo," Raffaella continued. "And I failed. I won't fail again. I promise. I owe him that."

"This is not . . ." Teresa's thoughts were on Silvio Di Capua, who'd called in sick at the morgue in Rome, flown to Venice the night before, and was now organising some private lab arrangements with a handful of specialist companies, places that could handle the material she needed to send them. " . . . a conversation we should be having, Raffaella. There are risks."

"What risks? They can fire you. And your police friends. What can they do to me?"

Teresa thought about some of the background material Nic and Gianni had managed to extract from the Questura's computers before getting thrown out. There were more than mere careers at stake. Hugo Ma.s.siter had all the makings of a big-time political animal. If he'd been Italian, he could have got himself a seat in Parliament and looked very comfortable there. Ma.s.siter had connections, real criminal connections. And not with the old Italian guard either. The Englishman favoured the new Mafia, men from the Balkans who rarely felt bound by old-fashioned codes of honour.

"Tell me what you require," Raffaella insisted. "I don't need to know the details."

It was, Teresa thought, worth a shot. And it would drag Raffaella away from this quiet, bright room, where the air conditioning still didn't keep out the salty tang of the lagoon and the horns of the pa.s.sing traffic. That would be a result in itself. The woman needed to remind herself there was a living world beyond these four white walls.

"Someone else was on the island that night," Teresa said. "Not Aldo Bracci. Someone who had a reason to speak to Bella, we think. Someone . . ."

It was difficult to decide how far to go. She trusted this woman. She just didn't want to get her involved too deeply. It would be wrong, too, to put ideas into her head. Although they'd done that for themselves. Perhaps her objections were ridiculous.

"I can't say any more," she admitted apologetically. "If you could look again, that would help. Anything unusual. Anything at all . . ."

Raffaella nodded. "Of course."

Teresa glanced at the still figure in the bed, wishing he'd do something. Cough. Snore. Any d.a.m.n thing.

"He will recover," Raffaella declared. "I know it."

"I'm sure you're right."

A thought occurred to her. "Did Bracci say anything that night? When he had hold of you?"