Perfect Crime Page 8

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  Marco was at the Caffè Cavour at ten o’clock on that hot Sunday morning, sipping cappuccino and reading the weekend Corriere della Sera. He was seated at an outside table under an umbrella near Piazza Garibaldi, where he could see Gianni approach from any direction.

  It was the usual Sunday morning parade on the sun-blazed piazza: young mothers pushing prams with toddlers wearing sun hats, walking in groups of two or three, alternating talking and texting on cell phones; male pensioners following shorthaired terriers and dachshunds on leashes; widowed nonnas strolling in short-sleeved black dresses, linking arms with each other, stooped over with age and from lifetimes of raising children and grandchildren. Some of them were huddled under umbrellas against the intense sunlight.

  Marco glanced at his watch. Gianni was late. Typical. At ten thirty-five, Marco ordered another cappuccino. When he returned to his table, he spotted Gianni hurrying into the piazza from behind the chiesa where he’d likely parked his car, near the primary school.

  Gianni’s head shifted nervously left and right as he approached Caffè Cavour. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed and grabbed clothes off the floor; his wrinkled shirt was untucked, the front drooping over his belt. Gianni’s running shoes had tattered laces. His uncombed hair poked from under a cap. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.

  Marco rose and pushed a chair towards Gianni. “Ciao, Gianni. Come va?” Gianni refused the chair and motioned to the café. “Let’s go inside. It’s too hot outside,” he said, his voice tense. His left hand was twitching like an electrical current had jabbed his elbow. “The air conditioner in my car isn’t working.”

  Gianni hurried past Marco into the café, went to a corner table, and sat where he could see everyone in the café, on the patio, and on the piazza.

  Marco ordered an espresso at the bar and brought the cup and saucer to the table. “Thank you,” Gianni said, avoiding Marco’s eyes as he sipped the inky-black espresso. Abruptly he said, “Let’s go outside. I need a smoke.” He tipped his head back, drained the bitter coffee, and set the cup on the tiny saucer.

  “I thought you wanted to be inside—” Marco said, but Gianni had already risen and pushed back his chair.

  Marco followed Gianni and found an empty table in the shade of one of the café’s umbrellas. It was hot and muggy, 38°C already. People were staying in the shade of trees or awnings around the piazza.

  Gianni reached into his back pocket and pulled out a Marlboro Rossa tobacco pouch and Rizla cigarette papers. He pinched brown flakes out of the package and dropped them into the paper, with some falling next to his saucer. He rolled the flakes in the paper, creased the ends together, and licked them before popping the rolled stump between his lips. He lit his lumpy cigarette with a plastic lighter, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled smoke over his shoulder.

  Marco disliked smoking, believing it was a filthy, dangerous habit and an insult to people forced to breathe nearby. “You look tired, Gianni,” Marco said, sipping his cappuccino, wishing Gianni would take off his sunglasses. “Did you sleep last night?”

  Gianni took off his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes that made him look older and world-weary. “Not much,” he grunted. “Betta was up with Davide most of the night; he was coughing, crying. I got up a couple times to take care of him but then couldn’t go back to sleep. I’ll need a nap this afternoon.”

  “Davide’s been sick a lot, hasn’t he? How’s Betta handling the stress? I’ve left messages for her, but she doesn’t seem to have time to call back.”

  “It’s not her fault. She’s busy day and night. She needs rest, but I don’t know how or when that can happen.” He made a fluttering wave with his hand as if brushing away a fly.

  Marco watched Gianni, his fingers twitching as he rolled the cigarette around. “What’s going on, Gianni? Your note worried me.”

  Gianni picked a piece of tobacco off his lip and flicked it on the ground, avoiding Marco’s eyes. He glanced furtively at people walking by in the shade, then again stood, motioning with his head that it was time to leave.

  Gianni walked into the piazza and tossed his cigarette butt into the gravel path, glancing nervously in one direction, then another. Marco followed behind. Gianni meandered around the statue of Garibaldi, the hero of Italy’s Risorgimento, mounted on his horse, leading his Redshirts into battle. He glanced up at the statue of the former sea captain who had left politics and moved to Sardinia to raise cattle. Gianni had told Marco once that Garibaldi was his personal hero; Gianni had even named his daughter after Garibaldi’s wife, Anita.

  Gianni looked away and strolled around the monument, which was on a stone plinth in a small circular garden with pink and white petunias enclosed by a wooden fence.

  Marco followed a half-step behind his brother-in-law, observing his odd behavior, like that of a man seeking to run away and hide from strangers. Marco pointed to a corner of the piazza shaded by trees. “There’s an empty bench over there,” he said.

  Their shoes crunched on the gravel path, kicking up dust and dried leaves. Neither spoke until they were seated in the shade. Gianni took out his Marlboro Rossa packet again to roll another cigarette. “I’m in trouble, Marco,” Gianni said. “Big trouble.”

  “Tell me.”

  Gianni lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled to his side. “I made a big mistake,” he began, almost blurting out his confession. “A guy—Indian or a Paki, I couldn’t tell—came up to me a couple months ago when I got home. He was nicely dressed . . . spoke perfect Italian with a Genovese accent. He knew my name. He asked me if I wanted to make some easy money. Fast. I was suspicious.”

  “You should have walked away.”

  Gianni spoke in a staccato fashion, like he wanted to rush through his pathetic tale. “He asked how Betta and the kids were. I was shocked. How would he know my family? He knew the school where Anita goes. He knew Betta took Davide to the park every morning. How did he know that? I was going to walk away . . . then he asked if I could use some extra money to buy new clothes for Betta and the kids.”

  “He probably had been spying on you for some time. What was his name?”

  “He called himself Mimmo, but I didn’t believe him. It’s probably just an Italian nickname he uses.”

  “Foreigners often use phony Italian nicknames.”

  “But his Italian was good. He talked fast. He was only there about five minutes. He said he wanted to help my family.”

  “How much did he offer you?”

  Gianni narrowed his eyes, avoiding looking at Marco. When he answered, it was with a hushed voice. “Five thousand euros. For an hour’s work.”

  Marco balled his hands into fists. He was furious with Gianni but didn’t want him to know. Bribing a customs official was a police matter, not just a family issue. “That’s a lot of money, Gianni. He offered you a bribe.”

  Gianni took another drag, averting his eyes. “I know. Damn it, I should have walked away.”

  “What did he want you to do?”

  Gianni closed his eyes for a moment, sweat glistening on his forehead. When he answered, he spoke in bursts, making Marco believe he hadn’t confided in anyone about the incident that had likely caused him sleepless nights while he had suffered in silence.

  “A container ship was coming into the harbor in a few days. He knew I was on a team that inspected containers. He wanted me to sign papers for one container without inspecting one of the boxes in it. He knew about the paperwork, who has to sign it. He knew my supervisor’s name and even showed me a copy of his signature. I was shocked that he knew so much.”

  “Where was it going?”

  “Milano.”

  “What did you do?”

  Gianni grimaced like he’d bitten into a lime. “I . . . I did as he said. It was easy. My supervisor signed the papers I gave him, and the container was taken to the warehouse and left on the truck a couple days later.”

  “What was in the shipmen
t?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  Marco was stunned. Gianni had committed a serious crime that could send him to prison. But why had he taken so long to tell him? “You took a bribe, Gianni. You could lose your job and be in trouble with the police.”

  Gianni sucked his cigarette hard, ash falling on his soiled shoes. “I know . . . but the money . . . you know we don’t have much. Betta doesn’t work. Two young children take a lot of money. I pay support for Michele. I’m always broke. If it wasn’t for the money my father gives me, we’d be living on the street.” He blinked away tears, reaching up to wipe his eyes.

  “Why did you wait to tell me? We could have arrested this criminal.”

  Gianni grimaced, looking like he had painful gas in his stomach. “There’s more,” he continued, speaking rapidly. “Mimmo came back a month later. Same deal. Another envelope with five thousand euros. Another shipment. Just look the other way and sign the documents. He asked if Betta was okay, as he hadn’t seen her recently. He was watching our apartment. She was at your mother’s in Parma for a couple days. Remember? Serena was there as well.”

  “I remember.” Gianni’s story was getting more complicated; he had apparently taken another bribe. Where did this end?

  “The shipment came. I signed the paper and gave it to my supervisor, who signed without reading it. The container was put in a warehouse for delivery. It was also going to Milano. I felt guilty, but I’d already spent the money he’d given me before. I was tempted by the money.”

  “Everyone has a price, Gianni,” Marco said, restraining his anger. He had to hear the rest of the story, which he suspected was more incriminating for Gianni. “Some people are corrupted by money. For others it’s sex, a new car, a promotion, or a better job. People are tempted by what they don’t have.”

  Gianni nodded, head lowered. He dropped his cigarette onto the gravel and squashed it with his shoe.

  “What was in the shipment? You had the manifest.”

  “The paperwork said bicycle parts and clothes from China. Machine parts from Pakistan.”

  “There was something else in there.”

  “I know, but I didn’t inspect.”

  “Does Betta know what you did?”

  “No!” he said, raising his head, reacting as if he’d been slapped on the face. “If she did, she’d kill me! She’s angry with me . . . we’re . . . having problems. Marital problems. I’m sure she’s told you.”

  Marco leaned back and took a moment before he answered. Betta had mentioned that Gianni had been acting strangely the last few weeks, distant and sullen. But he didn’t want to let Gianni know Betta was confiding in him. “She did mention that you were worried about something. I called you a month ago, but you didn’t return my call.”

  “I’m know. I’m sorry. I was afraid to tell you. But after . . . this week . . . I knew I had to see you.”

  Marco blinked. There was more. “What happened?”

  Gianni looked away, pinching his forearm with his fingers like he wanted to rip off his skin. He reached for his Marlboro Rossa package but then stopped, stuffing it back into his pocket. “Mimmo was back Tuesday.”

  “Another bribe?”

  Gianni shook his head. “Not a bribe. A threat.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked if I thought Anita was safe at her school. He said that the walls around the playground have a breach; someone could reach in and grab a child. He was trying to scare me, Marco. And he did. I was terrified! Someone grabbing Anita? I couldn’t sleep for nights after that.”

  Marco held his breath. He and Serena loved Anita almost like their own child. Serena was Anita’s godmother. They had been at the hospital when she was born and had taken care of her so Gianni and Betta could have a weekend vacation before Davide was born. “You should have called me immediately. I could have had an officer there in minutes. We could have arrested him.”

  “It happened so fast. I was angry, and I was afraid for the kids. I wanted to hit him. He said another shipment was coming next week. If I didn’t let it through, something might happen to Betta or one of the kids.”

  A warm breeze from the harbor rustled the towering palm trees in the park, making a soft scratching sound above their heads. A dried palm frond drifted to the ground, landing at Marco’s feet. Marco was furious at what he was hearing: his brother-in-law admitting he had taken bribes, his family threatened. Possibly Marco’s own sister’s life was in danger. How could Gianni have been so foolish?

  “You’re in trouble, Gianni. So is your family.”

  “Can you help me, Marco, please?” he begged, finally looking at Marco, tears running down his cheeks into his scruffy, unshaven beard. “I don’t know what to do.” He wiped tears away with a knuckle, embarrassed by his confession. He lowered his head into his hands, leaned over, and started to sob.

  Marco took out his cell phone. “I’m going to call the vice questore immediately. He might want to send an officer to your apartment to see if this Mimmo comes back. But you have to tell your story to a prosecutor.”

  Gianni made a sorrowful moan, like he’d been kicked in the belly. “Oh, no . . . do I really—”

  “Yes. And you’re coming to the Questura with me tomorrow for questioning. We’ll need a statement about everything you told me.”

  Gianni uttered another moaning wail, turning away from Marco so he couldn’t see his face.

  # # # # #

  Rex Royale

  A Streak Across the Sky

  Mornings Without Zoe

  Blood and Money in the Hunt Country

  Perfect Crime

  Teammates

  Missing Persons

  The Stalker

  Jack Erickson is the author of thrillers, mysteries, and romantic suspense novels. He is a former U.S. Senate speechwriter, senior editor for a national trade association, publisher, and free-lance writer for the Washington Post, Washington Star, Washingtonian, and other newspapers and magazines.

 

  Erickson is the author of five books on the emerging craft brewing industry including the award-winning Star Spangled Beer: A Guide to America’s New Microbreweries and Brewpubs published by RedBrick Press.

  Erickson lives in northern California with his wife.

 

  jacklerickson@gmail.com

  https://www.jackerickson.com