care
.”
Massiter nodded at the man beside him. “You have to tell them, Gianfranco. What’s there to lose?”
The commissario swore bitterly, then lit another cigarette before continuing. “This isn’t about business. It’s about politics. You three of all people should know that’s not a place to make enemies. In your case, more enemies.”
They were on probation. Costa understood that as well as Falcone and Peroni. It didn’t make them anybody’s fools.
“We’re listening,” Costa said.
“Jesus,” Randazzo hissed, flashing Falcone a grimace. “You smug bastards really think you’re a team, don’t you? All for one, one for all. Wise up. Do you think you’re untouchable because of that? Listen to me. The Arcangeli have been bankrupt for years. Five at least. Probably more. They’ve managed to stay afloat because they’ve been working their way through some influential friends. If you know the right people here, you’d be amazed how easy it is to dip your beak into the public purse. They owe millions in taxes going back a decade. They’ve been quietly getting subsidies from everywhere to keep that stupid place running, even though it’s just a museum that’s no longer even fit to open its doors to the public. The cultural people have paid. The historical commissioners have paid. The city, the region. They’ve all been sweet-talked by the Arcangeli into stumping up cash on the promise that sometime soon it would all come right.”
“And I guess a little went back into some private pockets?” Peroni suggested. “Is that what we’re talking about here?”
“Maybe,” Randazzo snapped. “Maybe not. Nothing comes for free anywhere, does it? Or don’t you have kickbacks in Rome? Are you people all just too high-minded for that?”
Falcone scowled. “
We
are.”
“Well, that’s your privilege. But let me say this. If the Arcangeli go down, then this city suddenly has a hole in its books the size of the lagoon. They can’t keep it quiet any longer. There’s just too much money at stake. If it goes to some kind of judicial inquiry — and it would — then all manner of decent people are going to find themselves standing in the dock, or worse.”
Peroni raised a battered eyebrow. “Decent?”
“Don’t preach to me!” Randazzo yelled. “You don’t belong here. You don’t know how we work.”
Massiter leaned forward and tapped the commissario lightly on the knee. “No need to lose your temper,” he cautioned. “These are practical men. They know which side their bread’s buttered.” The Englishman eyed them. “Don’t you?”
Falcone took out his notepad, scribbled something on it, tore off the sheet and tossed it into Randazzo’s lap.
“There’s my signature,” he said. “Write the report and stick that at the end. Then we can all go home.”
“No!” the commissario bellowed. “I need you to do this. You’re outsiders. You’ve got background. No one’s going to argue with what you say. Uriel Arcangelo killed his wife. We
know
that. I’m not asking you to bend the evidence or sign off on anything you don’t believe. The facts are there. I just want them put down on paper. You’ve got a week. Then…” He gestured towards the lagoon and the cloudless blue sky. “Then you’re gone. Do we have a deal?”
Falcone shook his head. “You can’t put a time limit on an investigation.”
Massiter opened another bottle of water for himself and shrugged. “A week’s all I’ve got. After that, the whole business goes tits up, and me with it. At least I only lose money. Some of the other people hereabouts…”
“What if we find out he didn’t do it?” Peroni interrupted.
“That’s not going to happen,” Randazzo said wearily. “It’s impossible. Listen, we’re just trying to keep a lid on an awkward situation that would hurt a lot of people if it got out of hand.” He glowered at Falcone. “Hurt them
unnecessarily
,” the commissario insisted.
.”
Massiter nodded at the man beside him. “You have to tell them, Gianfranco. What’s there to lose?”
The commissario swore bitterly, then lit another cigarette before continuing. “This isn’t about business. It’s about politics. You three of all people should know that’s not a place to make enemies. In your case, more enemies.”
They were on probation. Costa understood that as well as Falcone and Peroni. It didn’t make them anybody’s fools.
“We’re listening,” Costa said.
“Jesus,” Randazzo hissed, flashing Falcone a grimace. “You smug bastards really think you’re a team, don’t you? All for one, one for all. Wise up. Do you think you’re untouchable because of that? Listen to me. The Arcangeli have been bankrupt for years. Five at least. Probably more. They’ve managed to stay afloat because they’ve been working their way through some influential friends. If you know the right people here, you’d be amazed how easy it is to dip your beak into the public purse. They owe millions in taxes going back a decade. They’ve been quietly getting subsidies from everywhere to keep that stupid place running, even though it’s just a museum that’s no longer even fit to open its doors to the public. The cultural people have paid. The historical commissioners have paid. The city, the region. They’ve all been sweet-talked by the Arcangeli into stumping up cash on the promise that sometime soon it would all come right.”
“And I guess a little went back into some private pockets?” Peroni suggested. “Is that what we’re talking about here?”
“Maybe,” Randazzo snapped. “Maybe not. Nothing comes for free anywhere, does it? Or don’t you have kickbacks in Rome? Are you people all just too high-minded for that?”
Falcone scowled. “
We
are.”
“Well, that’s your privilege. But let me say this. If the Arcangeli go down, then this city suddenly has a hole in its books the size of the lagoon. They can’t keep it quiet any longer. There’s just too much money at stake. If it goes to some kind of judicial inquiry — and it would — then all manner of decent people are going to find themselves standing in the dock, or worse.”
Peroni raised a battered eyebrow. “Decent?”
“Don’t preach to me!” Randazzo yelled. “You don’t belong here. You don’t know how we work.”
Massiter leaned forward and tapped the commissario lightly on the knee. “No need to lose your temper,” he cautioned. “These are practical men. They know which side their bread’s buttered.” The Englishman eyed them. “Don’t you?”
Falcone took out his notepad, scribbled something on it, tore off the sheet and tossed it into Randazzo’s lap.
“There’s my signature,” he said. “Write the report and stick that at the end. Then we can all go home.”
“No!” the commissario bellowed. “I need you to do this. You’re outsiders. You’ve got background. No one’s going to argue with what you say. Uriel Arcangelo killed his wife. We
know
that. I’m not asking you to bend the evidence or sign off on anything you don’t believe. The facts are there. I just want them put down on paper. You’ve got a week. Then…” He gestured towards the lagoon and the cloudless blue sky. “Then you’re gone. Do we have a deal?”
Falcone shook his head. “You can’t put a time limit on an investigation.”
Massiter opened another bottle of water for himself and shrugged. “A week’s all I’ve got. After that, the whole business goes tits up, and me with it. At least I only lose money. Some of the other people hereabouts…”
“What if we find out he didn’t do it?” Peroni interrupted.
“That’s not going to happen,” Randazzo said wearily. “It’s impossible. Listen, we’re just trying to keep a lid on an awkward situation that would hurt a lot of people if it got out of hand.” He glowered at Falcone. “Hurt them
unnecessarily
,” the commissario insisted.
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