Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Read Online Free

voice said sorry this number is no longer in service . I hung up on her and dialed again. It took two or three rings before she picked up. “Hello, Pete.”
    “Renata. Telepathy?”
    “Caller ID. Italian number.” A sigh. “You heard the news.”
    “Yeah. Bad news.”
    “Yes.” Her voice was on the edge of breaking. “What do you want?”
    I steadied myself. “I was looking for Sarge. I called the number …”
    “Let me give you the new one.” 
    “Hang on …”  I fumbled for a pen. “Shoot.”
    She gave me the number and fell silent.
    “How are you holding up?”
    A few seconds passed before she said, “You better ask Sergio.”
    “Renata?”
    The line was dead.  I stood there for a while, staring out over the lake to the past.
    Sergio “Sarge” Ungaretti was a chartered accountant. He’d kept the books for Gigi and his companies, the investment fund and the start-ups we bet on.
    “Ungaretti.”
    “Sarge!”
    “ Con chi parlo? ” He didn’t recognize my voice.
    “It’s me, Sarge.” I waited. Nothing. “Pete. Pete Pescatore.”
    “Pete? Oh, so you heard. It’s terrible, terrible news.” The voice sank to a whisper. “Where are you?”
    “In town. You free for lunch?”
    “Hang on.” He gave it some thought. “Pizza. Same time, same place.”
    “I’ll be there.”
    The hard bright light slanting in off the lake threw sharp winter shadows into the streets. I found a kiosk with a rack of Swiss papers and foreign press— The Financial Times , Le Monde , a couple of the big German dailies. I picked up the local Corriere del Ticino and ducked into a cafe.
    Italian entrepreneur found dead . A secretary had discovered the body at Mr Goldoni’s home in the Paradiso district in Lugano. Police had found no signs of a break-in, no indication of foul play. Suicide seemed likely, an autopsy would have the last word. 
    A respectful paragraph listed the highlights of Gigi’s career. The early years with IBM, the junk bond buy-out that made him rich and the IPO that made him a hero. That was about it. No lowlights, no rumors, nothing from the last ten years. Maybe it was too soon for a real obit, or maybe that was all he would ever get. Maybe nobody wanted to remember the story, how they’d fallen for his spiel, been taken in by his visions of wealth and glory. He’d made a few early investors rich, but the rest of us had gone down with the ship, spellbound by his old sweet song— fresh money from the Arabs, coming soon, coming soon . 
    The cappuccio was cold and the croissant two or three days old. I left a coin on the counter and walked out. The hard bright light and the shadows were gone, the weather darkening to suit my mood.
    The pizzeria was there where I’d left it a few years before, ten minutes up from the lakefront road. I peered in through the window. Square-cut slices with canned tomatoes and cheap mozzarella on greasy metal trays behind glass, coals in the wood-burning oven behind. I whirled away and moved on. A few doors down was a shop that sold high-end mechanical watches, the sort that cost more than a Maserati. I zoned in on one that looked familiar and remembered I’d written it up for a customer: An exceptionally elegant date display on a silver-grain dial, framed by a satin-brushed rose gold case. I stared through the window and wondered again why anyone bought them. Seventy-five thousand Swiss francs. What was the point? You needed a bodyguard just to check the time.
    “Pescatore!”
    I looked up. Sarge came ambling down the street, rolled up and offered a weak yellow smile. “Good to see you, Pete. You’re looking well.”
    “Thanks.” I looked him over. He’d put on thirty pounds and lost a chunk of his hair. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
    He laughed. “Still a good liar. You always were.”
    “Look who’s talking. Numbers lie too.”
    “Ain’t it the truth.” He’d learned his English from the movies. “You writing a story for Cronaca Nera?