Blood Will Tell - a short Milo Peretti mystery, Page 3

  ‘Then maybe you should have thought about it before you got involved.’

  ‘My business was about to go under. I would have lost every last cent I had. What else was I supposed to do?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you what you need to do now and that’s to tell me everything.’

  ‘You mean so you can bang me up?’

  ‘So I can catch whoever shot Vialli.’

  Chapter Six

  Francesco Miccoli glanced over at the other two men but they seemed engrossed in their own business. He lowered his voice anyway.

  ‘You’ll cut me a deal then? If I tell you what I know?’

  Peretti shook his head.

  ‘That’s up to the police. I was hired to investigate a murder, not whatever less-than-savoury business deals you had going on with the victim. Although if the two overlap...’

  ‘Look, Detective, I didn’t have anything to do with Giacomo getting shot if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘So, when did you last see him?’

  ‘Well, last night, but we finished our meeting just after nine. And he was definitely still breathing when I left.’

  ‘And can anyone else back up your version of events?’

  Miccoli rubbed his face in sudden tiredness.

  ‘No. My wife is staying with her sister in Napoli. She won’t be back until tomorrow.’

  Peretti crossed his ankles and leant back.

  ‘You know, Maria Vialli said you argued with her husband a week or so back. Is that true?’

  The question seemed to catch him off balance.

  ‘What? No. Well, yes. But it was only a disagreement. Nothing to shoot him dead over. Come on, you don’t believe I killed him do you?’

  ‘Honestly, Signor Miccoli, I’m not sure what to believe. You admit you had an argument with Giacomo Vialli and that you were the last person to see him alive. You say you didn’t kill him but I can’t check your alibi with anyone else can I?’

  ‘I swear I didn’t touch him.’

  ‘Then I hope for your family’s sake you’re telling the truth.’

  Miccoli put his face in his hands again.

  ‘What have I done? All of this for a handful of euros.’

  Peretti beckoned to him for more.

  ‘Come on, if you want my help then you have to tell me everything.’

  There was a long sigh and Miccoli began.

  ‘Vialli has been my accountant for as long as I’ve been in business. He came to me last spring and said he had a proposal for me. One of his associates needed a favour. Some technicality over payment of tax although he told me not to worry about the details. I just had to follow his instructions and I’d get a cut for my troubles. Like I said before, the business was on its knees back then and Vialli knew all too well how desperate I was. And when I heard how much money we were talking about I couldn’t say no.

  So that’s how it began. I take imaginary bookings for some of our most expensive holidays from a broker who may or may not exist, make out an invoice for whatever name I get given, get paid in cash and then send that money to an account in the Bahamas. I get to keep a percentage of their dirty money for letting them use my company to clean it and for not asking any difficult questions.'

  Peretti scratched his head.

  ‘But why would Vialli warn you that it was dangerous? You’d be in serious trouble if the police found out but danger? I’m not so sure.'

  Miccoli nodded.

  ‘You’re right of course but I’m coming to that. A few months ago Giacomo called me about another business venture that he needed my help with. He fed me some line about being a trusted colleague but I knew it had more to do with not being able to say no. It turned out he wanted me to take on some personal work for him. Similar values but with a bigger cut for me. That’s when he told me about the risk but all I saw was the money. Obviously I wondered what he was up to but I learned a long time ago the importance of keeping my mouth shut. Anyway, I figured cash is cash and the less I knew about where the money was coming from the better.’

  ‘Sorry, Francesco, so what you’re telling me is you were helping Vialli out with money laundering but you don’t actually know where the money was from, what Vialli was doing or who he was afraid of?’

  Miccoli scratched his ear.

  ‘Yes, I just do what I’m told. No questions. That’s how it works.'

  ‘Well, that had better be how it works. Because if I find out you did know something and you’ve lied to me then I’ll be coming for you too. Now make sure you stay in Rome.'

  Emilio Peretti tossed a business card down onto the desk.

  ‘And if you do happen to think of anything else then I want you to call this number. Got it?’

  The businessman nodded glumly.

  ‘Yep. Got it.’

  Chapter Seven

  Emilio Peretti paced the floor of his apartment, stopping every so often to examine the photos by the gentle glow of the lamp. Vialli’s dead eyes stared eerily back at him from the wall. Arranged neatly on either side were close-ups of the blood spatter, the gun, and shots from every angle of the office. Underneath the photos was a map of Rome. The Tiber snaked across the paper and to the west of the river a handful of red dots littered the streets of Trastevere. Peretti ran his fingers through his hair and muttered to himself as he walked.

  ‘Come on, Milo, think. There has to be an answer here somewhere. There has to be.’

  He kicked at a chair leg and then cursed his stupidity as the answering pain shot through his foot. Collapsing into the offending chair, Peretti gazed up at the wall where a huge sheet of paper had been stuck onto the tired plaster. Written on it in thick black ink were two names: Maria Vialli, Francesco Miccoli. A question mark took the place of a third name.

  He stared at the names for a while and then jumping to his feet again, Peretti grabbed the pen and walked to the wall.

  ‘So, Maria. Let’s take a look at you first shall we? The wife of the victim. You claim you were home alone at the time of your husband’s death. But no one can verify this, of course. And you certainly weren’t shedding many tears over him were you? And then there’s Investigation 101. The husband, or in this case the wife, is always guilty. So maybe you did kill him. But what would your motive be then? Revenge? Jealousy, perhaps?’

  Peretti’s hand paused on the paper until the ink from the pen had seeped out into a blot. A great full stop signalling the end of the detective’s knowledge. He took a step to the right and raised the pen once more.

  ‘Now your turn, Miccoli. Another suspect without a decent alibi… Maria Vialli pointed me in your direction too so why not? You were Vialli’s customer and also his partner in some shady business deals if I was to take your word for it. Which I might do if you were a better liar. Someone other than Vialli was paying you. I’m sure of it.’

  He threw down the pen and raked his fingers through the stubble on his chin. The clock above the desk was marching its steady way towards the witching hour and the rhythmic sound of the second hand seemed loud and insistent. The idea of sleep beckoned like a vaguely familiar stranger but Peretti’s mind refused to entertain it. He tried again to make sense of the new notes on the wall then rubbed at his eyes and groaned.

  ‘How long have I been talking to the walls like a lunatic? What is wrong with me?’

  ~

  The wild jangling of the telephone some time later brought Peretti back from that weightless limbo at the very edge of sleep. He checked the clock again. The day was already two hours old. He pulled himself up from the chair and crossed to the desk.

  ‘OK. OK. I’m coming.’

  He sat down and pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that Emilio Peretti?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This is Gianni D'Ambrosio. I’m a lawyer and an old friend of Francesco Miccoli.’

  ‘And what does an old friend of Miccoli’s want with me at tw
o in the morning?’

  ‘He’s been arrested for the Vialli murder.’

  ‘Arrested? When was this?’

  ‘Ten o’clock last night. He’s being held at the Monteverde station but I’ve only just been given access to him.’

  ‘I’m presuming they have something quite damning on him then?’

  ‘They managed to lift a partial print from the weapon. Apparently it’s a match for Franco’s.’

  ‘And what does Franco have to say about all this? He told me he had a meeting with Vialli the night he died. You have to admit that doesn’t look good does it?’

  ‘I agree, Detective, but Franco is adamant that he didn’t kill Vialli. And I’ve known him all my life. I believe him.’

  ‘People can change, Signor D'Ambrosio. Perhaps your friend did too.’

  ‘No. I can’t believe that. He has a wife and children. He has far too much to lose.’

  ‘Then why were his fingerprints on the gun?’

  There was a dramatic sigh at the other end of the line.

  ‘Franco said the gun was lying on Vialli’s desk and he picked it up to have a look but that was all.’

  ‘How convenient. And Miccoli wanted you to tell me this. Why?’

  ‘He said you’re the only one who can get him out of there.’

  ~

  Emilio Peretti had hoped that the air in the street might be a little cooler but the heat was still oppressive. Every breath felt warm in his lungs and made him wish he was back at the apartment. At least the ancient fan in the corner of his room could create the impression of fresh air. Out here in the narrow streets the heat hung thick and muggy like an invisible fog. So much for taking a walk to clear his head.

  The streets of Rome were quiet now though and Peretti was glad of the peace as he traced the route on the map he’d torn from the wall. He started at Vialli’s office and followed the path Francesco Miccoli would have taken on the way back from his meeting with the accountant. He strolled along the narrow streets until he stepped out into the wide expanse of Viale di Trastevere. It was empty now apart from the trees with their leaves hanging motionless in the thick night air. The daytime sound of cars and trams had been replaced by an uncharacteristic stillness.

  Peretti crossed the street and slowed down in front of the row of stores. He studied each one in turn, peering through the windows and then, seeing nothing of interest, moving on again. The second to last shop in the row had ‘Quadri’ written above the door in polished chrome. Through the glass Peretti could see the yellow glow of a streetlamp reflecting from a thousand surfaces. Diamond rings, necklaces and watches glinting in the half-light. And in the gloom of the farthest corner of the shop he saw what he had been looking for.

  A bright red eye stared unblinking out of the darkness from a security camera aimed at the front of the store. Peretti stepped back and made a note of the telephone number. He’d call them in the morning. Which, judging from the chirping of the birds as they stirred in the trees, was not too far away.

  Chapter Eight

  The sunlight was pouring through chinks in the ancient shutters of Emilio Peretti’s bedroom window when he lifted his head from the pillow. He rubbed his eyes in protest at the assaulting brightness, stretched and yawned noisily. Searching for the clock, he found it abandoned and in pieces on the floor. He had a vague recollection of the alarm going off a few hours before, a flailing arm and then silence. What had possessed him to set it that early anyway? He tried to remember but nothing came back to him. He groaned and reached for his glasses. Then, holding his head, he set off for the kitchen in search of caffeine and a working clock.

  There was a note stuck to the refrigerator door where Peretti had left it the night before. It was the telephone number for the jewellers. He dialled out while he drained his espresso cup and dumped it into the sink.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good morning. Is that Quadri?’

  ‘Eh, what’s that?’

  ‘Quadri. The jewellers.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, yes. Of course this is the jewellers. Quadri is what my grandson said I should change the name to. He got a new shop sign made and everything. Silly name if you ask me but that’s young people for you.’

  ‘I see. My name is Emilio Peretti. I’m a detective. I was on Viale di Trastevere last night and I noticed you have a security camera pointing onto the street.’

  ‘That’s right. We had it put up a few months back. I can’t risk those hooligans clearing me out like they did to Armando Colonnese down the street. Took everything they did. Insurance paid up of course and he’s got all the newfangled security paraphernalia now but it’s a bit late after the event isn’t it, Signor Miletti?'

  ‘It’s Peretti.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Peretti.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind. Could I come round and view the tape?’

  ‘Tape? What tape?’

  ‘From the camera.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no tape. It’s one of those boxes that look like a camera. Clever, eh, Detective?’

  ‘Very. Well, thanks for your time. You’ve been a great help.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Peretti slammed the phone down and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he fetched the telephone directory and dumped the dog-eared volume on the desk.

  ‘Right, Signor Colonnese. Let’s see if you can do any better.’

  ~

  There was a remote buzzing sound somewhere at the back of the shop as Peretti pushed open the door. An old man emerged and squinted at Peretti over the top of his reading glasses.

  ‘Can I help you, young man?’

  ‘I hope so. I’m Emilio Peretti. I spoke to one of your colleagues less than an hour ago. She said I could view the security camera tape from two nights ago. Would you mind?'

  ‘Sorry, you said your name was…?’

  ‘Peretti. Emilio Peretti. I’m a private detective.’

  ‘And this has something to do with a case I presume?’

  ‘Yes, I’m trying to establish the whereabouts of a suspect two nights ago.’

  ‘And you think he may have walked past my shop?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Very well. Come on through and you can see for yourself.’

   The office smelt old and sour with hints of furniture polish and ammonia. The combination made Peretti’s nose itch but he could endure it for a while longer. The time in the corner of the screen was 9.20pm. Allowing for Miccoli’s timekeeping to be less than accurate, if he passed the shop on the way home then he should be coming into view at any moment. Movement caught his eye but it was a couple strolling past arm in arm.

  Two more minutes passed before there was another sign of life: a man in a suit. Tall. Dark hair. Peretti leaned forward to get a better look. The man was only in the frame for two seconds but there was no doubt in the detective’s mind. It was Miccoli. 

  Peretti copied the video onto a disk and thanked Signor Colonnese for his help. The jeweller was busy polishing an old brooch at his workbench and nodded in response. The buzzer went off again as he headed out of the door but this time he hardly noticed.

  ~

  There was a dramatic sigh from the inspector at the other end of the line.

  ‘He was walking down Viale di Trastevere? And you’re sure it was him?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. Miccoli was on his way home like he said. I'll send the file over now so you can watch it yourself.’

  ‘Fine. Send it. Then, for the last time, mind your own business.’

  ‘Sorry, Commissario. I’ve been hired to find the killer and that’s what I intend to do.’

  ‘Good luck with that, Peretti. The only reason we arrested Francesco Miccoli was because of the prints on the gun. But if you’re right in claiming he had already left the office when Vialli was shot then it stands to reason that Vialli was the one who pulled the trigger. We are back where we started. With a suicide. Now, I have
more important cases to be dealing with so run along and don’t bother me again.’

  The line went dead and Peretti glared at the telephone in his hand before slamming it back down. Nesca was long gone but venting some anger in the policeman’s direction made him feel better anyway. Picking up the pen, he marched to the wall and drew a thick, black line through Miccoli’s name. One name and a question mark remained.

  ‘Ah, Maria Vialli. We meet again.’

  Peretti tapped his chin with the pen as he thought. The ledger. Perhaps there was something in that. He pulled it out from under a pile of papers on the desk and began to read.

  The dated entries started three years earlier. Irregular at first but the numbers grew steadily larger and increased in frequency. They were clearly payments of some kind. Vialli had been doing some bookkeeping on the side. But for whom? And for what? Peretti’s hands ruffled through his hair.

  Perhaps Miccoli had been telling the truth about the dirty money after all. The figures matched his story. But he had definitely lied about Giacomo Vialli paying him. The lack of eye contact; touching his ear when he answered – Miccoli had not been straight with him and Peretti knew it. But he was less sure of what it all meant.

  He read the ledger through twice. Still nothing triggered in his mind. He had the numbers and a few meaningless initials but nothing more. Peretti tossed the book to one side and went to make himself a long-overdue espresso.

  He filled the moka pot and tidied the kitchen while he waited for the coffee to percolate. Mail from the day before was piled on the side waiting to be opened. Probably bills or an advert for something or other. Peretti picked up the pile and stopped. A scrap of paper had been hidden from view underneath the envelopes. An address was scribbled under the name of the Viallis’ maid, Angela Marin. But the words were of no interest to Peretti. It was the writing that caught his eye. He had seen it somewhere before.

  Chapter Nine

  The place was just as Angela Marin had described it on the day of the shooting. A big old town house with plaster on the front wall which couldn’t quite remember what colour it used to be. The rest of the building was in desperate need of loving care too. Emilio Peretti rapped sharply on the door for the third time before he saw any sign of life. The sound of fumbling and the rattle of keys came from inside and the door creaked open. A man’s face appeared, eyes squinting against the sun’s glare. He was old, but maybe not as old as the silver-white bristles on his chin made him look.