The Lizard's Bite Part 12
"So we're accused of arranging marriages now, are we? And by Aldo Bracci of all people? Let me tell you something, Leo. Murano may not care much for us. But it has even less time for the Braccis. They've a reputation that precedes us by a couple of centuries. They're all crooks and devils. Ask around yourself. So what else did Aldo say?"
"That it was Michele who was interested in Bella initially. Not Uriel at all."
She sat down on the bench by the window and gazed out onto the bright water.
"G.o.d, this place," Raffaella Arcangelo murmured. "Whispers in the dark. All this made-up rubbish."
Falcone joined her. "I don't mean to pry. You understand why I have to ask?"
"Of course." She nodded and turned her eyes away from the lagoon, staring him in the face. "You don't like this kind of work, do you?"
"It's work," he replied, a little offended. "I don't get the luxury of choice."
"In Rome, I imagine, you're dealing with different people. Ones you know are guilty. You just have to find some way of proving it."
"Sometimes it's like that," he agreed. "Not always."
"We're not criminals here," she insisted. "You must understand that. I don't know what's gone wrong. But it's some personal matter, Leo. You can't use your usual rules to get to the bottom of this. Normal rules don't apply here. Not . . ." she added, smiling, "that I'm in any position to give you advice."
"It was Michele, then? In the first instance?"
She closed her eyes briefly. "That happened after his marriage collapsed," she said. "Michele had had his eyes on Bella. All the men did. She was very pretty. Very . . . accommodating. I told you the Braccis had reputations. Sometimes that attracts men, in case you hadn't noticed. Were there others? Yes. Half the men of Murano, married men sometimes, or so they say. For Michele it was just a stupid infatuation. Nothing more. It came and then, when he realised how ridiculous the idea was, it pa.s.sed. A few years later Uriel proposed to her. Bella was in her thirties by then. I imagine her options were running out. It never struck me as love, not from the very beginning. It was merely a practical arrangement for both of them. Did we discuss it as a family? Of course. Uriel wanted to know Michele no longer had feelings, naturally. Not that any of us needed to ask. By then the business was in a bad way. Michele's been wedded to the business. There's no room for a real relationship."
Those dark eyes flickered towards the lagoon again. "You could say the same for all of us," Raffaella added softly. "And besides . . . to hear an accusation of that nature from a man like Aldo Bracci. I told you to look, Leo. Well? Did you?"
Falcone thought about those ancient criminal records and wondered how reliable they were. Michele Arcangelo's infatuation seemed much more recent, more real.
"More whispers in the dark, perhaps. Aldo Bracci was simply cautioned, never charged. If there'd been real evidence-"
"There was evidence," she interrupted. "It was the talk of Murano. A scandal. No one could believe it. They were brother and sister. The two of them scarcely tried to hide what they were up to, though Bella was just a child, of course. She couldn't have known what she was doing. At least, I believe believe she didn't." she didn't."
"Such a long time ago . . ."
"Here? It's like yesterday. These people have long memories. For good and bad. They don't bear a grudge. They nurture it. Bella and that creature had an argument. She went to the police out of spite. Aldo was lucky he didn't go to jail for what he'd done to her!"
"And afterwards? They made up?" It was the question she wanted him to ask.
"They're the Braccis. A family. Of course the argument didn't last."
"And you think the affair may have resumed? With her own brother? Even after she was married?"
"I don't know." She was suddenly circ.u.mspect. "He used to come here to see her from time to time. Ostensibly, of course, it was to speak with Michele. About business. Bracci was always looking for extra work, not that we had much. I heard . . . sounds from time to time. Whether it was Aldo . . ."
Falcone waited.
"Oh for G.o.d's sake, Leo," Raffaella objected. "I wasn't going to get into the habit of eavesdropping on my sister-in-law making love. What kind of person do you take me for? I simply couldn't avoid hearing things sometimes. It could have been her brother. It could have been someone else. Do you expect me to greet every single visitor at the door?"
"Did Aldo have . . . ?"
"A key?" She understood him in an instant. "Of course not. At least not that I'm aware. Michele would have been livid if that was the case. Though if Bella gave him one anyway . . . Who's to know?"
Raffaella Arcangelo stared at her hands, clasped over her knees, and frowned. "I don't think Aldo ever really accepted the marriage. Funnily enough, in spite of his own background, I think he felt Uriel wasn't good enough for Bella. Perhaps if it had been Michele, things would have been different. He resented us, though. We had money once. That's something he's never known. And perhaps . . ."-she glanced into his face-" . . . perhaps that resentment amounted to hatred. I wondered about that sometimes. When he was here. Full of drink. With Bella. I heard shouting sometimes. I wondered about intervening. He's a bitter, angry man. I wouldn't want to be on the end of that anger."
Falcone stood and stared out the window, down towards the small iron bridge. It wouldn't be difficult to get onto the island surrept.i.tiously. A man could climb around the fence. Or take a boat up to the jetty, perhaps an hour or two before Piero Scacchi arrived. Yet the question of the keys remained. Someone had locked the door on Uriel Arcangelo. Someone had left him with a key that could never work, condemned him to die.
"Tell me something outside your limits, Leo," she pleaded. "I've been as frank with you as I possibly can. Perhaps I can help more. I will, if you let me."
Falcone mulled the possibilities. What was there to lose?
"Bella was pregnant," he told her without emotion. "She'd known for more than a week. Uriel wasn't the father. We've seen medical records. It's impossible. Nor do we have any way of establishing who the father was. Not in the circ.u.mstances . . ."
Raffaella Arcangelo screwed her eyes tight shut, moaned gently, then buried her head in her hands. The mane of long dark hair fell forward, concealing her face.
Automatically, Leo Falcone reached down and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he murmured, and realised she was right: There was something too close-too personal-about this case. He needed to think about the way he broached his next question. "I thought perhaps . . ."
Raffaella raised her head. Her tear-stained eyes blazed at him.
"You thought I knew? This is insane, Leo! Three lives now! Gone. For what?"
Falcone blinked, feeling dizzy. The heat was different in Venice. Humid, and riddled with the stink of the lagoon. It leeched the energy out of him, made it difficult to think straight. He missed Verona, where there were colleagues of his own age, and of similar experience. A line led through this investigation. He knew that, and knew he had to keep the search for it in his sight. Someone killed both Bella and Uriel Arcangelo. Somehow Bella was implicated in her own death too, or so the evidence seemed to say.
"A child . . ." he murmured. "She would have told someone, surely?"
"She would have told the father," Raffaella answered, her voice angry, determined. "And . . ."
Her eyes flickered towards the window and the men below. Michele was the head of the family. Falcone wondered what that really meant. Was Michele supposed to be a party to everything?
"I need to speak to my brothers."
Falcone followed her through the old, fading mansion, down through the warren of dark corridors half lit by dusty chandeliers populated by dead bulbs, listening to the echoes of her hurried footsteps.
THE TOSIS WERE RIGHT ABOUT ONE THING: THERE WAS plenty of information on spontaneous combustion out there. Any number of lunatics, sceptics, and pseudoscientists were busy yelling at each other on the subject. Teresa Lupo had spent two hours sifting through the reams of material on the computer in Costa's apartment, saving the little she found useful, and examining the doc.u.ments sent from Anna Tosi's miracle medium of e-mail. After that, her head spinning with possibilities, she'd popped out to buy some pizza and water from the shop around the corner, returning to the computer immediately, spilling crumbs, Peroni-like, across the keyboard as she worked. All the same she was, she decided, none the wiser. Wrong. She was a touch the wiser, just reluctant to admit it because there was something here that disturbed her greatly: a possibility that the Tosis had a point. This wasn't spontaneous combustion in some fantasy comic book kind of way, flames licking out from underneath Uriel Arcangelo's ap.r.o.n, sparked by some pa.s.sing moonbeam. But people did die on occasion from an event that appeared, on the surface, inexplicable, a sudden, inner fire which seemed to consume them with a shocking rapidity. plenty of information on spontaneous combustion out there. Any number of lunatics, sceptics, and pseudoscientists were busy yelling at each other on the subject. Teresa Lupo had spent two hours sifting through the reams of material on the computer in Costa's apartment, saving the little she found useful, and examining the doc.u.ments sent from Anna Tosi's miracle medium of e-mail. After that, her head spinning with possibilities, she'd popped out to buy some pizza and water from the shop around the corner, returning to the computer immediately, spilling crumbs, Peroni-like, across the keyboard as she worked. All the same she was, she decided, none the wiser. Wrong. She was a touch the wiser, just reluctant to admit it because there was something here that disturbed her greatly: a possibility that the Tosis had a point. This wasn't spontaneous combustion in some fantasy comic book kind of way, flames licking out from underneath Uriel Arcangelo's ap.r.o.n, sparked by some pa.s.sing moonbeam. But people did die on occasion from an event that appeared, on the surface, inexplicable, a sudden, inner fire which seemed to consume them with a shocking rapidity.
"That doesn't mean there's no explanation," Teresa reminded herself. "You just have to find it, girl."
Here. Stuck in a tiny police apartment in Venice, with nothing but a laptop computer for company. She thought about what she'd be doing if this had dropped on her desk back in Rome. Scouring the Net for clues? Surely. But more than that, she'd be sharing the problem. And she knew with whom.
Teresa Lupo pulled out her mobile phone, reprimanded herself for a few brief milliseconds with the admonition that her absence was a holiday for her staff also, then dialled Silvio Di Capua's private number.
"p.r.o.nto," yawned a bored voice on the other end, one which immediately jerked into alert suspicion once Silvio realised who was on the line. yawned a bored voice on the other end, one which immediately jerked into alert suspicion once Silvio realised who was on the line.
"No!" he declared straight off. "I won't do it. I'm ending this call now. You're supposed to be on holiday, for G.o.d's sake. Go fake a tan or something. Leave me alone."
"I didn't ask you to do a d.a.m.n thing, Silvio! I was just calling in to see how you are."
"So I can't do the job, huh? Give me a break. Do you think I don't recognise that wheedling tone in your voice? I won't play. You can't make me."
"Of course you can do the job! I wouldn't have gone away and left you in charge if I thought otherwise."
"Then what? I'm not getting involved. It's bad enough you dumping me in the c.r.a.p when you're here working. I'm not having it when you're supposed to be on vacation. Hear me, Teresa. The answer is no. No, no, no, no, no . . ."
There was an image of a charred corpse on the screen: Buffalo, New York, 1973. No obvious explanation. The man smoked. The man drank. So did millions of other people, all of whom managed to work their way to the grave without turning into life-size spent matchsticks.
She smiled. Silvio was giving in already.
"You're not busy then?"
"Says who? I'm sorting out paperwork you should have done months ago. I'm dealing with a couple of interdepartmental liaison meetings-"
"My . . ." she cooed. "That sounds fun. Are there whiteboards and stuff? Have they given you one of those laser pens? Do you get to use big words and acronyms?"
"You will never understand management-"
"I am am management," she interrupted. "So let me-what's the management word for it?-let me management," she interrupted. "So let me-what's the management word for it?-let me cascade cascade something down to you, dear heart. When you want to say no, you say you're too busy. Not, screw you, I won't do it. Understood?" something down to you, dear heart. When you want to say no, you say you're too busy. Not, screw you, I won't do it. Understood?"
There was a brief silence on the line. The roar of defeat.
"Just because I don't have much in the way of corpses doesn't mean I'm not occupied."
"No corpses means no fun, Silvio. Admit it. I know when my little man is bored. You sounded bored when you picked up the phone. I've got a corpse. I've got a cure for that boredom. If you want to hear it."
"No!" he insisted.
"Fine. In that case I'll hang up . . . ."
"Do that! Go have a holiday!"
"Your word is my command. I am about to put down the phone. Or, more accurately, my finger is wandering towards the off b.u.t.ton. Do you really want me to press it?"
"Yes!"
"Fine. It's done. I shall say just two words before doing so."
A pause was required. Silvio always rose to histrionics.
"Spontaneous. And And combustion combustion."
Teresa cut him dead, placed her mobile on the desk and began to count to ten. It rang on three. She let it chirrup five times before answering sweetly, "h.e.l.lo?"
"I detest you with every fibre in my body. You are evil. This is so so unfair. You can't treat people like this!" unfair. You can't treat people like this!"
"Spontaneous combustion, Silvio. I have a corpse here-well, part of a corpse-and a Venetian pathologist, albeit one who's a couple of hundred years old himself, who's determined to write that finding on the death certificate. So what do you think?"
"I think it's a little early in the day to start drinking. Go sober up, woman. See the sights. Catch a boat somewhere."
"No kidding. It's all there. I have photos. I have reports. I have all manner of material I could send you if you'd like. Provided it doesn't interrupt your whiteboarding, that is. I mean, I expect my people to have priorities."
He hesitated before replying, wary. "Two points," he responded. "I will believe in spontaneous combustion the day I come to accept the existence of werewolves. Second, you're in Venice. you're in Venice. Where you are just another dumb tourist, Teresa. Not someone with the authority to go investigating weird deaths, whatever the crazy locals believe. Most people tread in c.r.a.p accidentally. You seem to like crossing the street to do it. This is a habit I deplore." Where you are just another dumb tourist, Teresa. Not someone with the authority to go investigating weird deaths, whatever the crazy locals believe. Most people tread in c.r.a.p accidentally. You seem to like crossing the street to do it. This is a habit I deplore."
"I was asked to take a look! OK?"
"Who by?" he demanded.
"Falcone."
"Oh s.h.i.t. You're not telling me you're riding the range with the Three Musketeers again?"
"I ride the range with one of them a lot, in case you hadn't noticed."
Peroni's presence still bugged Silvio somewhat. Her a.s.sistant hadn't lost the hots for her completely.
"I was using a metaphor. Let me put it plainly. Are you out of your mind? Are you out of your mind?"
Maybe, she thought. If she really was considering the weird science stuff the Tosis were pushing her way.
"So what's your objection to spontaneous combustion?" she asked.
"The same objection I have to reincarnation. Or alchemy. It's nonsense."
A tiny light went on in her brain. There were times when she wanted to hug Silvio. His small accidental insights could be just what she needed to trigger her own imagination.
"Without alchemy there'd be no chemistry," she remarked. "You're a chemist yourself, along with all those other talents. You ought to know that."
Silvio swore quietly down the phone. She was spot on. Alchemy may have begun with quacks, but it soon became science under another name. And weren't gla.s.smakers like the Arcangeli alchemists of a kind too, sharing the same common bonds of secrets and substances, changing the shape of the natural world, bending it to their will?
"What I'm saying," she persisted, "is that I'm beginning to believe this man really did die in a way that can be interpreted as spontaneous combustion. The question is: What does that actually mean? How could it happen?"
"Get their forensic people on it!" he objected. "That's why they're there."
She recalled how Falcone had slyly got her intrigued. It was a superb trick.
"But they're not as good as you, Silvio. You've worked forensic and pathology. They're slow. They're unimaginative. This is Venice. They're wet behind the ears when it comes to real crime. It's just the tourist police out here," she continued, steeling herself to what she understood to be a big lie. "Trust me."
"I know what's coming. You're gunning for resources. We get audited, remember? We have to a.s.sign work to cases. How am I supposed to hide all that from the managers?"
Teresa prodded at the keyboard, loading up the Tosis' doc.u.ments and photos, adding in a few of her own.
"I'm sending you something to read," she said, despatching the lot off to Silvio's private address. "Go through it. Then get back to me with a way we can go forward with this. You've got till tomorrow."
"Tomorrow! For fu-"
He was still cursing, with a florid ingenuity, when she hung up.