Dante's Numbers (5 page)

T
HEY SAT IN THE BACK OF THE LANCIA, WITH a plainclothes female driver at the wheel.

“Sir,” Costa said, as they slowly negotiated the bickering snarl of vehicles arguing for space in the Piazza Venezia. “Miss Flavier…I don't understand why she should be here.”

The woman by his side gave him a puzzled look but for once remained silent.

Falcone sighed, then turned round from the passenger seat and extended his long tanned hand. Maggie Flavier took it. She was more composed now and had wiped away the stray makeup from her face. She looked younger, more ordinary. Prettier, Costa realized.

“My name is Leo Falcone. I'm an inspector. His inspector.”

“Nice to meet you. Why am I here?”

The inspector gave her his most gracious and charming of smiles. “For reasons that are both practical and political. You were the victim of some strange kind of attack. Perhaps a joke. But a very poor one, it seems to me. Allan Prime…Maybe it was a joke in his case, too. I don't know and I would like to. One man is dead. Prime is missing. The Carabinieri, meanwhile, are wandering around preening themselves while trying to work out which day it is. We have no need of further complications. Would you rather they were in charge of your safety? Or us? The choice is yours, naturally.”

“My safety?”

“Just in case.”

“What's going on here?” she demanded. “I was supposed to be at a movie premiere tonight. People shooting blanks. Fake death masks.” Her bright, animated face fell. “Someone getting killed.” She looked at Costa. “Why would they shoot him? The uniformed man on the horse?”

“Because they thought he was dangerous. They didn't know any better. Whoever he was…”

“Not Carabinieri, that's for sure,” Falcone intervened.

“Whoever he was,” Costa continued, “this is now a real case and it's not ours.” He caught the dismay in the inspector's eye. “I'm sorry. That's a fact, sir. The Carabinieri were given the job of security tonight. Also, there's the question of jurisdiction. Allan Prime is an American citizen. If he's missing, someone has to inform the U.S. Embassy and allow them a role in the investigation. We all know the rules when a foreign citizen's involved. We can't just drive away with a key witness and hope it's all ours. I should never have left the scene in the first place, or taken that weapon.”

The car came to a halt in the traffic in Vittorio Emanuele. He didn't understand why they were taking this route. There were quicker ways through the tangle of alleys behind the Campo dei Fiori. A good police driver should have known about them.

The woman at the wheel turned and smiled at them. “The U.S. authorities are involved already,” she said. “So don't worry about that. Captain Catherine Bianchi. San Francisco Police Department. Is there a better route than this? I don't drive much in Rome usually. I lack the balls.”

She was about forty, slim, with a pleasant, bright face, Italian-looking, he would have said until he looked at her hair. That was straight and coal-coloured, with a henna sheen, tied back behind her head in a severe way that would have been rare on a Roman woman. She spoke good Italian, though with an American inflection. This was the woman he'd heard about, the one who'd caught Falcone's eye.

The inspector outlined a faster route to the Via Giulia, with a degree of patience he would never have used on one of his officers.

“Can I hit the siren?” Captain Catherine Bianchi asked.

“No,” Falcone replied. “That will just give them warning.”

“Give who warning?” Maggie Flavier asked.

“The Carabinieri, of course,” he answered.

Costa looked out the window, at the swarming people and the tangled cars, the familiar crush of humanity in his native city.

He understood why Maggie Flavier was in the car. A man had died in the gardens of the Villa Borghese. Some strange, gruesome caricature of a human head had been substituted for the precious death mask of Dante which they were supposed to be guarding. A world-famous actor was missing, and his co-star had been the victim of an attack that seemed to be some kind of prank.

There were crimes here, perhaps serious, perhaps less so. Leo Falcone had clearly had no desire to try to go near the shooting. It would have been pointless. The man who attacked them had been killed by the Carabinieri. Only they could investigate themselves. What Falcone was quietly attempting to do was position himself to steal any broader case concerning the death mask and, more important, the fate of Allan Prime. The two principal national law-enforcement agencies in Italy usually managed to avoid turf wars over who handled what. In theory they were equals, one civilian, one military, both capable of handling serious crimes. Often the decision about which organisation handled a case came down to the simplest of questions: Who got there first?

“We will have to offer them a statement,” Costa insisted. “Miss Flavier and I. We were witnesses.”

“There's no hurry,” the inspector observed. “Neither of you knows this man, do you? Nor did you see how he died. It's better that Miss Flavier remains in our company. For her own sake.”

“Absolutely,” the American policewoman insisted from the front seat. “No question about it.”

Maggie Flavier leaned back in the deep leather of Falcone's Lancia, flung her arms behind her head, and sighed, “I love Italy.”

She gazed at Costa, smiling wanly, resigned. He found himself briefly mesmerised by her actor's skill, the ability she possessed to turn her gaze upon someone, seize his attention, to look at him with her bright green eyes and hold his interest, make him wonder what came next. This was the way she stared into the camera lens. For reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint, he found that thought vaguely disturbing.

“Why's that?” he asked.

“Here I am being kidnapped by two charming Roman cops. And why? So you can steal some case you don't understand right from under the noses of the opposition.”

At the wheel of the Lancia as they negotiated the narrow, choked lanes of the
centro storico
, Catherine Bianchi chuckled and said, “You got it.”

Costa didn't laugh, however. Nor did Leo Falcone. The inspector was on his mobile phone, engaged in a long, low discussion he clearly didn't want anyone else to hear.

They rounded one more corner, past a house, Costa recalled, that was once supposed to have belonged to the mistress of a Borgia pope, Alexander VI. An image flashed through his head: Bartolomeo Veneziano's subtly erotic portrait of Alexander's bewitching daughter Lucrezia, ginger hair braided, a single breast bared, catching the artist's eye with an unsmiling sideways glance, just exactly as Maggie Flavier regarded Roberto Tonti's camera, and through it the prurient world at large. It was a strange memory, yet apposite. Lucrezia, like Beatrice, the character Maggie played in Tonti's movie, was an enigma, never quite fully understood.

The Lancia turned into the Via Giulia, one of the smartest streets in Rome, a place of palatial apartments and expensive antiques stores. A sea of blue state police cars stood motionless ahead of them. There were dark blue vans of the Carabinieri in among them. Traffic was backed up on the Lungotevere by the river which ran above the street. A battle was looming.

Maggie nodded at a house in the centre of the tangle of the vehicles. “It's that one there.”

“You know it well?” Costa asked.

“Allan threw parties,” she said with a shrug. “A lot.” She looked at him, her smile gone. “Everyone likes a party from time to time, don't they?” She paused and looked, for a moment, very vulnerable.

“You don't want me to come in, do you?” she said, and the question was asked of Falcone.

The inspector seemed puzzled. “Would you rather stay here?”

“If that's OK.” She put a hand to her close-cropped hair, tousled it nervously, the way a child did. “You'll think I'm crazy but I get a feeling for things sometimes. I've got one now. It's not good. Don't make me go in there. Not unless you know it's all right. I need the bathroom. I need a drink.”

“Soverintendente Costa,” Falcone ordered.

“Sir.”

“Find two women officers who can take Miss Flavier to the wine bar round the corner. Then you come with me.”

G
IANNI PERONI HAD ENJOYED STANDOFFS WITH the Carabinieri before. Just never over a dummy's head with an apparently genuine death mask attached to it. He had four plainclothes state police officers with him to form a physical barrier between the evidence and the grumbling crowd of smart uniforms and surly faces getting angrier by the moment. The small police forensic crew had, meanwhile, gathered what passed for some of the strangest evidence Peroni had ever seen.

What really took his breath away were the movie people. Roberto Tonti, storming at anyone within earshot, grey hair flying as his gaunt frame hobbled around the stage. The producer Dino Bonetti, who'd pass for a mob boss any day, stabbing his finger at anyone who'd listen, demanding that the evening proceed. And, more subtly, some quiet American publicity man backing the two of them up during the rare moments either paused for breath. Even the Carabinieri balked at the idea everything could go off as planned. While the arguments ensued, Teresa and her small team worked quietly and swiftly, placing items very quickly into evidence bags and containers, trying to stay out of the melee. Peroni hadn't told her they didn't have long. He hadn't needed to.

“There's been a death,” Peroni pointed out when Tonti began threatening to call some politicians he knew. “And…” He gestured at the bloodied fake head. “… this. The entertainment is over, sir. Surely you appreciate what I'm talking about?”

The publicist took him by the arm and requested a private word. Glad to have an excuse to escape the director's furious bellows, Peroni ordered the plainclothesmen not to move an inch and went with the man to the back of the stage.

He had seen Simon Harvey on their visits to Cinecittà to discuss arrangements for the exhibition. The American seemed professional, obsessed with the job as much as the rest of them, but, perhaps, with some rare degree of perspective. Peroni recalled that, on one occasion, the man had even given them a brief lecture on Dante and the origins of
Inferno
, as if somehow needing to justify the intellectual rationale behind the movie. He'd even declared, “This will be art, promise.” This had struck him as odd and unnecessary at the time. But then the movie industry was rarely predictable, for ordinary human beings anyway. That day in the film studios he'd watched hideously disfigured ghouls sipping Coke, smoking cigarettes, and filling in crosswords during their time off camera. After that, he'd been glad to get out into the dull suburb surrounding the studio and breathe the fume-filled air.

“Listen,” Harvey went on. “Forget about Roberto and Bonetti bawling you out. That's how they work. The point is this. There's big money at stake here.
Italian
money.”

Peroni stared at the man, wondering what to make of this strange comment. “Italian money?” he asked. “What does that mean?”

Harvey cast a backwards glance to make sure no one was listening. “Do I need to spell it out?”

“For me you do.”

The publicist placed a conspiratorial hand on Peroni's arm. “You're a cop,” he said with a sigh. “Please don't act the innocent. And God knows it's been in the papers anyway. Bonetti has all kind of friends. Government friends.” He winced. “Other… friends. There's more than a hundred and fifty million dollars running on this horse. Money like that creates debts that need paying. This is your country…not mine, Officer. We both know there are people neither of us want to piss off, not for a three-hour private screening in front of a handful of self-important jerks in evening dress, anyway. All I ask is you give us a break. Then we're done. It won't get in the way. I'll make sure. That's a promise.”

Peroni couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Someone's been shot. They heard it. We all did. There's also the question of a death mask which, in case you've forgotten, is not only a national treasure. It also seems to resemble your missing movie star.”

He pointed at the head, which was now on a plastic mat on the podium table, being prodded and poked by Teresa and her deputy, Silvio Di Capua. She caught Peroni's eye; he got the message instantly. It was time to get the evidence out of there as soon as possible, before the Carabinieri grabbed it. The dark blue uniforms seemed to be breeding around them, and some of them had fancy stripes and medals on their jackets that denoted the arrival of more-senior ranks.

“Ever heard the saying ‘The show must go on'?” Harvey retorted.

“Don't tell me: it's what this missing star of yours would have wanted.”

“Precisely. Imagine. All these people can go tell their friends tomorrow they still got to the premiere, even after all this mess. This is the world I live in, friend. It's about status and money and one-upmanship.
Inferno
is the biggest release of this summer, worldwide. They get to say they saw it first. We get to keep our backers happy. You escape the phone calls from on high. Please.”

“This is a police investigation—”

“No, it's not,” Harvey interrupted. “Let's speak frankly. I oversaw those security arrangements. By rights, this belongs to the Carabinieri. Not you. All you guys had to look after was the stuff.”

“The stuff,” Peroni repeated.

“No fun doing the menial work while others get to stand in the spotlight, is it?” The American smiled. “I forget your name, Officer.”

“Gianni Peroni,” he answered. “Like the beer.”

Harvey stuck out his hand. Peroni took it.

“Simon Harvey. Like the sherry. Here's the deal. You let this little show go on tonight. I'll do what I can to ensure this investigation comes your way. The Carabinieri won't argue. Not until they've phoned home, and by then you and your friends will be away with the goods.”

Peroni thought about this. Harvey had no idea how these matters worked. The probability was that the Carabinieri would get the investigation in any case, however hard Falcone tried to steal the job. The men from the military had been given cast and crew security from the beginning. Murder or no murder, this was their call.

“Why would you want to give me a deal like that?”

The American nodded in the direction of the dark blue uniforms. “Because I've had a bellyful of those stuck-up bastards for the past few months and they won't cut me a deal on anything. Is that good enough?”

Peroni discreetly eyed the opposition. Some boss figure had emerged and was now bravely taking on the police forensic team, not even blinking at Teresa's increasingly desperate attempts to shout him down. There was strength in numbers, particularly when it came backed up by medals and rank. It was definitely time to leave.

“You must have seen that film a million times,” Peroni observed.

“A million times is not enough,” Harvey replied. “Roberto Tonti's a genius. I'd watch it a million times more if I could.
Inferno
is the finest piece of cinema I've ever worked on. I doubt I'll ever have the privilege to get my name attached to anything better. What's your point?”

“My point, Signor Harvey, is I'm willing to let you have your little show. Provided you can help us get out of here the moment my colleagues are ready.”

“It's done,” Harvey said immediately. “You have my word.”

“And I want someone to come along with us. Someone from the studio. Bonetti, Tonti…”

The man waved his hand in front of Peroni's face. “Don't even think about it. They don't
do
menial.”

“In that case, you. Seen inside many police stations?”

Harvey's pleasant demeanour failed him for a moment. “Can't say I have. Is this relevant?”

“Not at all.”

“Then what am I supposed to talk about? Dante? I've got a degree in classics.” Harvey caught Peroni's eye and nodded at the fake severed head. “That
… thing.
It's about Dante, you know. The line they wrote on the skull… ‘Abandon all hope, you who enter here.'”

Teresa had what she wanted. He could see the boxes and bags ready to go. The pathologist took a break from bawling out an entire line of Carabinieri officers to issue a sly nod in his direction.

Harvey wriggled, a little nervous. “You know something, Officer Peroni? We've been getting strange anonymous e-mails. For months. It happens a lot when you're making a movie. I never thought too much about it.”

“Strange?”

“They quoted that line, always. And they said…” Harvey tugged at his long hair. “… they said we were living in limbo. I never took it literally.”

“What do you mean?”

The American grimaced. “I mean
literally.
The way it appears in Dante.” He sighed. “Limbo is the first circle of Hell. The place the story begins.”

Just the mention of the film revived some memories Gianni Peroni hoped had been lost. Things seemed to be happening from the very opening moment in Tonti's version of the tale. Not good things either.

“And then?” Peroni asked. “After limbo?”

“Then you're on the road to Hell.”