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

Merlot with a bow, got a nod from Sarge, pulled the cork and poured a splash in his glass. Sarge sniffed, took a sip, a gulp, swallowed and grunted. The waiter filled the glasses and went away.
    “Was Gigi sick? Heart, the big C?”
    “No idea.” A frown. “You should talk to Julia. She was close to him. Too close, maybe.”
    “Meaning?”
    “She’s taking it hard. Renata had her on the phone last night.”
    “Poor kid.” Not a kid anymore. Time rolling on.
    “You need to go see her. I was up at the Villa Sofia last week and your name came up. She was wanting to know if you’d married again, if you were happy.”  
    “And you said?”
    He shrugged. “Very.”
    “What?”
    “A very merry widower.”
    “News to me, Sarge.”
    “Gigi told me he saw you, said you looked great.”
    “When was that?”
    He shook his head. “Later, Pete.”
    I lifted my glass. Ruby red. “Julia found him?”
    “That’s the word. At Gigi’s place in the Paradiso.” High on the hill. A walled-in garden packed with exotic shrubs and trees, expensive views of the lake below.
    I sniffed at the wine, swirled it and drank. Mmn. A little rough. “How long did she work for him?”
    Sarge gave me a shrug. “Twenty years?” He sipped, swallowed, took a drag and blew out the smoke. “The world’s most loyal secretary.”
    “Like she was married to him,” I said. “Except for the sex.”
    He drew in another long breath of smoke and reached for the ashtray. “Says who?”
    “So it’s true?”
    “Don’t play the idiot, Pete. You knew.”
    His head hung low, wreathed in smoke, eyes burning at me through the haze. He was right. I knew and so did everybody else. “I suppose.” I looked away. “So. Still doing the books for Gigi?”
    “Gigi’s dead.” A stricken, pale, anxious look.
    “You didn’t answer the question.”
    “He’s dead, Pete. It doesn’t matter. E’ finito .”
    “You can’t tell me anything?”
    “There’s nothing to tell. He shot himself.”
    “Last time you saw him?”
    “Monday evening.” That came quick. Expecting the question. Maybe the police had already asked him.
    “Mood?”
    “Up one minute, down the next.” He reached for his wine. “Couldn’t stop talking about some deal.”
    “What sort of deal?”
    His eyes grew narrow. “He didn’t tell you?”
    “No.” Gigi must have told him something, after our meeting in Milan. “I saw him a couple of weeks ago, he just said he had something in the works. Wanted me to get him some press. The Financial Times, no less.”
    Sarge flicked a look around the restaurant. “And you said what?”
    “I said I could get him an interview, but only if he had big news.”
    “And Gigi?”
    “ Big news , he says. Big, big, big. Fresh money, happening soon .”
    “Same old story.” The light in Sarge’s eyes went out. Like he’d been hoping for news and I’d failed him. “But he got what he wanted, didn’t he?”
    I tilted my head, sideways. Question mark.
    He pointed at the headline and the photo of Gigi in the Corriere . “He’s front page news.”
    I took it in. The voice, the rage, the darkness. “You sound bitter, Sarge. Gigi lose all your money?”
    He took a sudden interest in his cigarette, studied the smoke as it snaked from his mouth and drifted up under the lights and away. Finally I said, “You want to tell me about it?”
    “Some other time.” He snuffed the cigarette. “You remember Aida? Gigi’s wife?”
    “Why, he lose her money, too?”
    Sarge lit up again. “Whatever he did, she went crazy on him, had to lock her away.”
    I frowned and fished a notebook and a pencil from a pocket. “Any idea where?”
    Sarge lifted his glass, examined the wine, its color darker than blood. “Up in the mountains. Davos, St. Moritz, something like that. Very exclusive. Very discreet.“ 
    I scribbled a reminder to look her up. Aida. A widow now. I remembered a white face, frail and thin, framed in black. In my memory she had