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

Billy.”
    “No kidding.”
    I crossed the room to the window and peered out from behind the curtain. Two men moving up the drive. “Friends of yours?”
    He strode up beside me, turned whiter still and shook his head.
    “After you, dude.” I swept out a hand. “Move!”
    He snatched the briefcase, ran out and down the hall to the stairs.
    I caught up with him in the basement, breathing hard. Footfalls, wood creaking overhead. We slammed out the door in a rush to the wall, scrambled up and over the edge and on up the slippery grass slope to the road. From there we ran on up to the car, yanked the doors open and climbed in. I gunned the engine and stomped on the gas. The old boat groaned, creaked and shuddered off up the hill.
    Billy Bob sat up, wheezing, reached and grabbed the rear-view mirror. He sighed, fumbled with his tie and ran long, skinny fingers through his hair, dark locks shot with a touch of gray. Handsome enough, as lawyers go.
    “What you got there, Billy?” I eyed the leather briefcase at his feet.
    “Paperwork. The usual crap.”
    Billy Bob Decker. Attorney at law, professional liar. “What’s it been, four or five years? I had you back in Dallas.”
    “San Antonio.”
    “Whatever.”
    “I made partner a couple of years ago, but I’m over here every six months or so.”
    “Keeping an eye on Gigi Goldoni?”
    “I was.” He swore. “Fool goes and shoots himself. You believe it?”
    “I’m starting to.” I eased the Shark into third. “You got a favorite watering hole?”
    “The Royale. It’s quiet.” He craned his neck around to look behind us. “But it’s all clear, Pete. You can drop me at the car.”
    “Where’s that, the Villa?”
    “Yeah, just down the street.”
    “Dunno, Billy. I didn’t like the look of those clowns.”
    He thought about it. “Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s hit the Royale.”
    “Great. We can sit in the bar and watch the lake.”
    I let him brood for a while as I slid on past the railway station and wound around down to the lake. He wouldn’t keep his trap shut long.
    Thirty seconds passed and it opened. “So what is this, a social call? Just happen to catch up with me at the Villa Sofia?”
    “Bird watching, Billy. There’s this tall, skinny kind, likes to nest on chimneys.”
    He snorted and swore. “Just about got myself killed up there.” He drummed the briefcase with his long, slim fingers. “Thank my lucky stars I found it.”
    “Why?”
    “What’s it to you?”
    “I’m on a story, Billy. I need to know what happened. You up on the roof over Gigi’s old office, what am I supposed to think?”
    “You’re not.”
    “I’m on deadline. Tonight.”
    He stared out the window for a while. “The man shot himself. That’s all there is to it.”
    “You sure?”
    “What difference does it make?” Billy Bob shook his head. “He’s dead.”
    “No news there, Billy.”
    “So make something up. You were good, Pete. Back in the day.” He paused, smiled and delivered the punch line. “Bullshit, made to measure.”
    The jab hit a nerve. I flinched and shot him a sour look sideways. “I took lessons from you. The master.”
    Billy Bob laughed and shook his head. “Give yourself some credit. You wrote perfectly brilliant crap on your own.”
    I swung around and up the hotel drive, climbed out and dropped the keys with the valet. Billy Bob pushed inside, heading for the bar. I was right behind him when a birdcall stopped me in my tracks. My phone. A whippoorwill. I’d found a recording on the net somewhere and had Johnny’s boy Mario turn it into a ringtone.
    I dug out the phone and punched up the call.
    It was Anastasia. “Johnny wants the Shark back, pronto.”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “Tonight.”
    “Come and get it.”
    “I’m on my way.”
    I hung up and pushed on into the bar. Billy Bob waved me over to a table by the window. I ordered a sparkler and asked the waiter for cheese and crackers. He came back with olives and