Dante's Numbers by David Hewson Page A

down on a vast leather sofa. Falcone joined him and they waited. She wanted to make an entrance, a point. Adele Neri slipped briefly into the kitchen and came out with a glass of blood-orange juice, a spremuta freshly pressed, probably from one of the stalls in the Campo dei Fiori. The drink was almost the colour of her hair, which was now longer than he recalled, clipped bluntly against her swan-like neck. Emilio Neri had been one of the most important mob bosses in Rome until his past caught up with him. Adele, more than thirty years his junior, with a history in vice herself, had been complicit in his downfall, though how much of that was greed and how much hatred for her husband they had never been able to decide. The gang lord was dead, his empire shattered, soon to be disposed of by his guilty widow. One crime clan left the scene, another took its place. Life went on, as it always would. He'd felt happy about Neri's fate at the time. A man had died at Costa's hand in pursuit of the answers Adele Neri had held in her smart, beautiful head all along. He had never quite shaken off a misplaced sense of guilt over that particular outcome.
    “Where's Allan Prime?” Falcone asked.
    “You tell me. I was supposed to have lunch with him today, at noon. I came over, rang the bell. No one answered, so I let myself in. Then some people phoned from the studio. They said he hadn't turned up for the premiere either.” She took an elegant, studied sip of the scarlet drink. “This is my place. I can do what I damned well like.”
    “You and Mr. Prime…” Costa asked.
    “Landlady and tenant. Nothing more. He tried, naturally. He's the kind who does that anyway, just to see who'll rise to the bait. It's a form of insecurity, and insecure men have never interested me.”
    “You have no idea where he might be?”
    She made a gesture of ignorance with her skinny, tanned arms. “Why should I? He pays the rent. I indulge him with lunch from time to time. It's a kindness. He's like most actors. A lot less interesting than he thinks. A lot less intelligent too. But…” She gazed at them, thinking. “This isn't like him. He's a professional. He told me he was going to that premiere tonight. He moaned about it, naturally. Having to perform for free.” The woman laughed. “Allan's an artist , of course. Or so he'd like to pretend. All that razzmatazz is supposed to be beneath him.”
    “Girlfriends—” Falcone began.
    “Don't know, don't care,” Adele interrupted. “He had women here. What do you expect? He had a few parties early on, and I had to get someone to speak to him about that. There are some nice old people living in the other apartments. They don't like movie types wandering around with white powder dripping from their noses. It's not that kind of neighbourhood. Also…”
    She stopped. There was something on her mind, and she was unsure whether to share it with the police, Costa thought.
    “Also what?” he asked.
    “Why should I tell you people anything? What do I get in return?”
    The inspector frowned. “Some help in finding your tenant, perhaps. Does he owe you money?”
    “Three months outstanding. Show business people never pay on time. They think we should be grateful they're here at all. That we should put up a plaque on the wall when they're gone.”
    “ Twenty-four thousand dollars,” Falcone observed. “A lot of money.”
    “Don't insult me. I spend more than that in one day when I go to Milan. I'll tell you one thing though. For free. Prime and his cronies had interesting friends. I came to one of his parties. Him and that evil bastard Bonetti. The company they kept.” She smiled. “It was like the old days. When my husband was alive. The same dark suits. The same accents bred in cow shit. A bunch of surly sons of bitches from the south who think they own you. That kind never changes. They just put their money in different places. Legitimate places. And movies, too, not that they're the same