This was not the outcome Quattrocchi sought. He had, for a while, genuinely believed that the Canadian professor, Bryan Whitcombe, who had pressed himself upon the Italian authorities with such adamant enthusiasm, might hold some insight into the case. That idea had waned lately, and he’d even begun to find the man somewhat creepy. Whitcombe had turned up for tonight’s premiere in a garish white suit and taken to bearding starlets with his lascivious gaze. The man had even announced to the media that he intended to write a book on the affair of “Dante’s Numbers,” as he had dubbed it. According to that morning’s papers, an outline for the work was now being hyped around American publishers by one of the book world’s more notorious agents. Law enforcement work often had unforeseen consequences. The elevation of Bryan Whitcombe to the status of unlikely media star was one he could never have predicted.
None of this did much for Quattrocchi’s mood as he sipped his free champagne. He began quietly to plan his exit from the proceedings so that he might miss the screening altogether, merely returning for the closing ceremony. Then he saw Gerald Kelly, a man for whom he felt no affection whatsoever, stomping towards him like a bulldog intent on its victim.
“We need to talk,” the American snapped. “Somewhere private.”
Quattrocchi followed to an empty area close by the lake and listened. As he did so he felt the bitter taste of envy rise in his throat.
The SFPD captain was right to tell him of this development. He was in charge of the Italian investigative team. Falcone should have come to him first with this news, and allowed Quattrocchi to pass it on to Kelly.
The American finished with the suggestion Quattrocchi join him and Falcone for the interview with Simon Harvey after the premiere.
“Of course I’ll be there,” Quattrocchi insisted. “We’re joint investigating authorities in this case. It would be highly improper to commence without me.”
Kelly glared at him. “You know, I never got around to saying this to your face until now. But this is our country, not yours. We interview who we like, when we like, and I don’t care whether that pisses you off or not.”
“And Tonti? What do you propose with him?”
“I’m feeling generous. And I don’t want this freak show getting any worse. He’s a sick old man. He’s not going anywhere. He can turn up with his lawyers at Bryant Street in the morning. No reporters. No leaks. Not a word to anyone.”
The maresciallo nodded at the pack of photographers now corralled into a specific section of the secure area by the stage outside the screening tent. “You think they’ll be happy with that?”
“I don’t care what they’ll be happy with. That’s the way it’s going to be.”
He stalked back into the crowd.
Americans amazed Quattrocchi. Their incapacity for a little common deviousness from time to necessary time was quite bewildering.
He found Roberto Tonti in the center of a group of movie company executives. The man looked more gaunt and haggard than he had two weeks before. His eyes were invisible behind sunglasses as usual. His grey hair appeared stiff and unreal. The director was finishing a cigarette as Quattrocchi arrived. Immediately he lit another and said nothing as the suits around him gossiped and argued.
Quattrocchi got next to him and said in Italian, “Tonti, it is important we talk.”
“I doubt that very much.”
The Carabinieri officer nodded at the men around them. “Do they speak Italian?”
There was a slow, shallow intake of breath, then Tonti replied, “They’re producers. Most are still struggling with English and it’s their native tongue.”
“Listen to me well. Once this premiere is over, it is the intention of the San Francisco Police Department to arrest you on suspicion of fraud and conspiracy to murder.”
Tonti took a long drag on the cigarette, looked at him, and said nothing.
“They have a witness,” Quattrocchi persisted. “A member of your … tontine. He has already told them of your arrangement. The man has agreed to make a statement, doubtless in return for some kind of immunity.”
“Who?” Tonti demanded.
“This is not an appropriate time.”
“I wish to avoid embarrassment this evening. You must understand that.”
“Of course. All the same …”
“Shut up. I am thinking.”
Gianluca Quattrocchi fell silent. There was something chilling in the authority of this man. Something decidedly odd.
“What do you have to offer me?” Tonti asked at last.
“You’re an Italian citizen. If you give yourself up to my authority, I can arrange these matters through our courts, not theirs.”
“You don’t understand Americans. They don’t like to lose.”
“Captain Kelly is feeling sentimental. He will invite you for an interview tomorrow morning. Were you to leave the country tonight after the premiere and arrive in Italy in due course … It would not be difficult. A private jet would have you in Mexico in a couple of hours. After that, what could the American authorities do?” Quattrocchi coughed into his fist, praying none of this conversation would ever go any further. “Extradition proceedings take years. You will receive much fairer treatment in your native country, surely. If you plead guilty to some minor financial transgression, we can spin things out for a long time …”
“I’ll be dead before summer turns.” Tonti spoke with a matter-of-fact certainty.
“Then die in Rome, where you belong. In bed. In your home, not some prison cell in California.”
“Without a name I shall not agree to this.”
“I cannot …”
“Without a name I shall go to the Americans this instant. I shall tell them everything, and inform them of your approach and your offer. Perhaps they can better it.”
Quattrocchi’s temper had stretched to breaking point. The premiere would begin in a matter of minutes.
“I believe they have an appointment with Simon Harvey,” he muttered. “I did not tell you this.”
“Of course, Maresciallo. This is kind of you.”
“No. Merely practical.” He tried to fathom the expression in the man’s haggard features. “So we have an arrangement?”
“How could one deny the Carabinieri?” the director replied effusively. “It would be impertinent, no?”
Gianluca Quattrocchi did not expect thanks from this individual. Nor did he anticipate or enjoy condescension.
“I shall endeavour to make your time in Rome as comfortable as possible,” he replied stiffly, aware that he was speaking to the long, thin back of Roberto Tonti as the director turned to the suits and evening gowns, the mayhem of the premiere of Inferno.
12
They watched the movie from the darkness of the VIP seats at the front. Not long after the start he felt her head slip onto his shoulder, her hair fall against his neck. Costa turned his head a degree or two and stole a glimpse at Maggie Flavier. On the screen she stood five metres high, the ethereal beauty Beatrice, Dante’s dead muse, offering hope as the poet faced the horrors and travails of Hell’s circles, just as the idea of the unworldly Madeleine Elster had appeared to bring solace to the lost and fearful Scottie. For most of the movie, the real woman behind Beatrice was fast asleep against him, mouth slightly ajar, at peace. He scarcely dared breathe for fear of waking her. However loud the commotion on the screen, she seemed oblivious to it all, slumbering by his side like a child lost in a world of her own.
He felt happy. Lucky, too. And like her, he scarcely took any notice of the overblown cinematic fiction that had brought them there. Costa’s thoughts turned, instead, to the events of the past few weeks, and the growing conviction that the roots of this genuine drama lay, somehow, in the fairy tales these people created for themselves.