The Lizard's Bite (22 page)

“Uniform. All night if need be.”

“Would that be ten? Twenty? Any particular size or colour?”

“Just get some men here,” Costa retorted. “We don’t want a riot on our hands.”

“This is Venice, friend. We don’t have riots. What have you people been
doing
?”

Asking the right questions, Costa thought. Which was, perhaps, not a Venetian tradition.

“Three men minimum,” he snapped. “Now. If this goes wrong, it’s on your head.”

Then he walked to the door and kept his finger on the bell until a surly Enzo Bracci appeared, in jeans and a tight grubby tee-shirt. The young man was smoking a joint, eyes glazed, a familiar smell hanging round him. He looked ready for a fight.

“Get out of here,” Enzo muttered. “You’ve done enough already, haven’t you?”

Costa nodded back at the angry crowd. “You want us to leave you with this?”

Enzo spat on the ground, not far short of Costa’s feet, and glared at the approaching hulk of Gianni Peroni, followed by Falcone.

“Without you we wouldn’t have had this. Is that what cops are for these days? Spreading shit?”

“We didn’t mean for that to happen, Enzo,” Peroni said apologetically. “And I’d advise you to put that thing you’re smoking out of our sight too. Don’t tempt me. We have to talk. Inspector Falcone here says so and you wouldn’t want to go saying no to him, now, would you?”

He eyed Falcone up and down, flicked the smoke into the gutter with one bent finger, then opened the door mouthing a torrent of low curses.

ALDO BRACCI WAS in the tiny, airless front room, a dark place, illuminated by just a single lamp. He clutched a grappa bottle, swaying back and forth on a cheap wicker chair. Fredo was with him. The younger son’s eyes were full of anger and grief.

Falcone held out his hand. “My name’s Inspector Falcone. We need to talk.”

“Really,” Bracci mumbled, his voice thick and slurry.

Peroni pulled up three chairs. The cops sat down next to Bracci. Then Peroni gingerly removed the bottle from his hands.

“Not a good idea, Aldo. A man needs a clear head at times like these.”

“Jesus,” Enzo Bracci swore, shaking his head from side to side. “How could you do this to him?”

“We didn’t,” Costa said. “It happened. We’ve got some men coming to deal with those jerks outside.”

“I can deal with them!” Enzo yelled. “It’s why they’re here that pisses me off. We told you. Papa was with us all the time. We worked all through the night. You’ve got no right, no business, spreading all this crap around.”

“I can talk for myself,” Aldo muttered. “Don’t treat me like I’m a cripple.”

Falcone picked up the bottle and looked at it. “Cheap stuff,” he observed.

“We’re cheap people,” Aldo replied. “Didn’t you work that out already?”

“So was it good?” Falcone continued, as if the man hadn’t spoken. “Having Bella marry into a family like the Arcangeli? A different class.”

“Hey!” Enzo bellowed. “They’re no different from us. We just don’t bother hiding the fact.”

“
Shut up
!” the father screamed. His eyes were watery with drink. He hadn’t shaved in a while. “They’re here to talk to me. And that’s what they’ll do.”

“So how did you feel about it, Aldo?” Peroni asked. “Good? Bad? Indifferent?”

“I didn’t feel anything! Bella was… hungry for a husband. She wanted someone she could control. Always the boss, that woman.”

His dead, drunk face turned on them suddenly. “
Always
. Not that anyone believed you, once she turned on the charm.”

“You’re saying she started what went on?” Falcone asked. “You being what, four, five years older?”

Aldo’s expression was unreadable under the dim lights. “I’m saying nothing about that. Not a damn thing.”

“When did it end?” Costa asked.

“Maybe it never started.”

Peroni sighed, slapping his big hands on his knees. “Aldo, we’re trying to help you here. That’s really difficult if you’re just going to feed us bullshit. We’ve seen the reports. We know something was going on.”

“All you know is the crap morons like that…” he nodded towards the front door, and the crowd outside, “… spread around ’cause they’ve got nothing better to do with their lives.”

Costa wondered about this sad, embittered man. No money. No wife. No social life. The Braccis were outcasts in their own community. Just like the Arcangeli. Why? Because they were judged to be scum. Almost thirty years before, Aldo and Bella had proved it, by crossing the forbidden line.

“Was it her idea to let everyone know?” Costa asked. “We don’t want the details. We just need to try to understand.”

Aldo stifled a sour laugh. He grabbed the bottle back from Falcone and took a long swig.

“Bella was Bella,” he muttered. “She did what the hell she liked. She just loved being looked at. By anybody. Me? I was just one more fool on the list. It could have been anyone. She was…” He screwed his eyes shut, trying to force out the words. “… older than the rest of us. Right from the start. I know that sounds like the self-serving crap you’d get from most men, but it’s true. I was just a dumb, teenage kid. Never was very good with girls. It was a game. We didn’t do it more than three times. That wasn’t the point. She wanted the excitement. The attention. It gave her a kick, having other people stare at us—”

“Dad,” Enzo interrupted, a bleak expression of shock on his face. This wasn’t a conversation the Braccis had had before. “You don’t have to do this.”

“No?” Aldo stared at his sons. He looked almost relieved to get it off his chest finally. “Listen to me. You’re going to hear all about it anyway. Best you get the right version.
My
version. Bella was crazy. You never saw that because by the time you’d come along she was smart enough to hide it. But she had this ability to make you crazy too, to lock you in that little world of hers so tight you thought
that
was the place that was real. Not what was out there, past the door. All the day-to-day shit. Chasing work. Trying to stay alive.”

“When did it end?” Costa asked.

“Years ago,” Aldo whispered. “It ended when the police came round and told my old man it wasn’t a joke, a piece of stupid local gossip. She’d been careful to keep him in the dark. If anyone said something, Bella just called them a liar, a mischief-maker. It couldn’t last forever. When the cops arrived, she turned innocent. Blamed everything on me. Which was true maybe. In a way. I dunno. Not anymore. I don’t know a damn thing. Just that my old man took me out there…” He nodded at the back door. Through the grimy window lay a small terraced yard, full of old junk. “… and spent an hour or so beating me senseless.”

The two sons were seated by now, glassy-eyed, distraught. How many times had Aldo beaten them, Costa wondered? How often did the same old routine get passed down from generation to generation in places like this without anyone ever questioning it?

“When she died she was pregnant,” Falcone observed, getting straight to the point. “Any idea who the father might be?”

Bracci looked genuinely surprised. “Are you sure?”

“We’ve got the medical reports,” Falcone insisted. “Six weeks pregnant. Was it you?”

“No!” Bracci seemed astonished, offended too. “I told you. Bella and I stopped that years ago. It only happened a couple of times, anyway.”

“Then who?” Costa asked.

“How about her husband?” the man spat back.

Falcone shook his head. “Physically impossible. We have medical records. Uriel couldn’t father children.”

“Then I swear to God I don’t know.”

“But you knew she had affairs?” the inspector continued, pushing all the time.

“I guessed,” he replied with a shrug. “Bella liked men. She always did. Uriel was an OK guy. For an Arcangelo. But he wasn’t…”

Aldo made a gesture, a down-turned finger, unmistakable. “At least,” he added, “that’s what she said.” He glowered at the grubby carpet. “Makes you wonder what she said about me.”

“You’re sure she didn’t tell you about the pregnancy?” Costa asked.

Aldo laughed. A short, dry sound. “Are you kidding? Bella didn’t say a word. If it couldn’t have been Uriel…” He shrugged again. “What would you expect? Guess she was planning to get rid of it.”

Just like that, Costa thought. Bella was a Bracci. And an Arcangelo too. Both equally practical. Deal with the child. Deal with the husband.

“It would really help,” Costa continued, “if someone else could corroborate where you were during Wednesday morning. Families—”

“How many goddamn times do we have to tell you?” It was Enzo, furious again. “Papa was with us. All the time. Go find someone with a reason to do this.”

That was, Costa thought, an excellent suggestion, and was about to say as much when there was a resounding, violent crash from the front of the house. All six men recoiled in sudden shock. Following behind the brick that had shattered the window came a bottle, a wad of burning fabric stuttering flames at its neck.

“It’s dealt with,” Peroni said instantly, and was on his feet in a flash, snatching out the crude fuse with his hands, uttering a quick curse, then extinguishing the rag with his big feet.

“Nice neighbours you’ve got,” he noted quietly, picking up the bottle by the neck, setting it upright on the table. “We’re supposed to have some people here to make sure things don’t get out of hand.”

Costa walked to the door and opened it. The crowd looked bigger now. All men, all laughing, joking, looking as if they’d like to run up a little lynching party later on, when some more drink had been taken.

Three uniformed cops stood in front of them, arms crossed, bored, unmoved.

Incandescent, Costa walked down and confronted the biggest, a man he recognised from the Questura in Castello.

“You’re here to stop that! Do your damn job.”

“Just came out of nowhere,” the cop mumbled, with half a smile on his face.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

“Sure,” the uniform said, let loose a stupid, sarcastic smile, then wagged a finger at the mob. “You hear that! The Romans got orders for you. No more throwing bottles at the pervert. OK?”

They stood there, sniggering.

“Not while I’m looking,” the cop added.

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.

G
IANFRANCO 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.