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

always worn black. As if her love for Gigi had died decades ago. No surprise there. He’d always acted like he wasn’t married, made no secret of his need. He never stopped asking, knocking on doors, hitting on anything in a skirt. I closed my eyes and heard Gigi’s voice, felt a hand grip my arm as he leaned in and whispered, It doesn’t matter how many say no, Pete. You just keep on asking until you get to yes.
    An image of Eva rose up from the lake, black and white, like a photograph on a marble tombstone. Gigi must have asked her too. And her answer? I didn’t know. I never would. I fingered her earrings in my pocket, shook her off and looked up at Sarge.
    “You should give her a call,” he said.
    Eva. Call Eva back from the dead. No, not what he meant. “Aida?”
    “Julia.” Sarge shook his head, bent it and laid another cigarette on his lip. “Forget Aida. She’s gone.”
    “Lights on, nobody home?” 
    “Something like that.” He lit up.
    I sat there, watching the smoke. I dug out my Nokia and fumbled with the menu. “Can you give me the number?”
    I heard a funny noise and looked up. Sarge was laughing. “Mister Technology,” he said, and reached for my phone. “Let me see that. Must be fifteen years old.”
    He took it in hand, laughed again and shook his head.
    “It works,” I said, and took it back. “What’s her number?”
    He picked up his own phone—shiny, the latest—and read off the numbers.
    I punched them in.
    “If you can get her to talk, she knows everything.” He set the phone on the table, tapped the screen a few times, stared at it for a moment and said, “We're in for some rain.”
    I looked out the window. It was raining.
    The waiter waddled up with the pizza. Sarge’s bubbled with four kinds of cheese. The Napoli was looking a little under the weather.
    Sarge carved out a wedge of his quattro formaggi , folded it over and stuffed it in his mouth.
    I sipped the Merlot and let him chew for a while and said, “How much do you figure Gigi owed? Between you and everybody else?” I picked up the pencil, licked the tip and held it poised above the page.
    He raised a finger to his lips and shook his head. 
    I tried a couple more questions, but Sarge made sure his mouth was busy. I turned my attention back to the food. The Napoli was a disaster. Burnt crust, soggy in the middle, enough salt to shrivel an army of slugs. I downed a couple of slices and left the rest to rot.
    A blast of music made me jump. Familiar. It came to me— The Lone Ranger . Sarge took the call, got up and stepped away from the table. He was back in a couple of minutes, in a hurry. “Sorry, Pete. I have to run.” 
    “No problem.” I pushed myself to my feet, drained my glass and hurried after him. He called to the waiter, gave a little nod and turned back to me.
    “You heading back to Milan tonight?”
    I shook my head. “I’m in a motel at the airport.”
    “Huh?” A frown scrunched his face. “Don’t be silly. You can stay at our place. My mother’s still cooking.”
    A vision of his mother floated in, a gray ghost without shoes, hunched over the stove in a rough woolen dress and black apron, silver hair pulled back in a bun, a flash of old yellow gold in her smile.
    “Yeah? You sure? My old room?”
    “Still there. Think you can find it?”
    “No problem. Thanks.” Sarge and Renata ran a bed and breakfast in a lakeside village a few miles to the south. Morcote. It had a guest room high up under the roof where I used to stay every once in a while. Whenever something came up.
    I rolled up to the cash register and pulled out my wallet.
    From the door Sarge called out, “I took care of it, Pete. See you tonight.”
    I watched him run down the street through the rain.
    Rain. No point in getting wet. It would be over soon enough. I salvaged the Corriere from the table at the back, climbed a stool at the bar and ordered a coffee, corretto .
    The barman added a splash of grappa and set the