Present Day Carabinieri HQ, Venice Mario Fabianelli doesn't ask for his lawyer. Doesn't object at all to Vito taping their interview. And willingly consents to give blood, DNA and hand-swab samples.
The billionaire brushes his white linen trousers, settles into the chair in the interview room and watches the red light on the digital recorder flash into life. 'Major, I'll help you any way I can. I have told you I have nothing to hide, and I know nothing about the death of your young colleague who worked as one of my guards.'
'Antonio Pavarotti.' Vito looks angry. 'My young colleague had a name. To some of us he was precious.'
'I'm sure he was. All life is precious.'
'Well, his precious life ended just a few kilometres away from your island, and at the time he was in your employ.'
'Not really.' Fabianelli insists. 'He was hired by a security company we employ. All legal responsibility lies with them.'
'Antonio's boat was rigged with explosives-'
'You've already told me this, Major,' snaps Fabianelli. 'I was fully aware of all that when I let you swab my hands. I'm very sorry – very, very sorry for your loss, but really I had nothing to do with it.'
'Nor with the disappearance of Tom Shaman or Tina Ricci?'
'Shaman is that priest, right?'
'Right.'
'Then I had nothing to do with him, or the woman you mentioned. She's the one the priest thought was at my house?'
Vito feels his patience snapping. 'You have two separate security systems. Why is that?'
Fabianelli answers without hesitation. 'Simple. I don't want people knowing when I leave or return. As I told you before, major, I'm very careful that I don't get kidnapped. Only my closest staff has access to the boathouse and its security monitors.'
Vito decides it's time to try a different approach. 'Your assistant, Mera Teale, told Shaman that Satanic services were carried out at the mansion. Is that true?'
Fabianelli looks amused. 'Probably. We have a mixture of all religions – Quakers, Pagans, Catholics, Mormons, Muslims – so, yes, I imagine there are Satanists. And if there are, then they no doubt dance naked around candles, have orgies and do whatever Satanists do.'
'And that's what you think they do, is it?'
The billionaire shrugs. 'I really have no idea. The whole point of the commune is that everyone is free to find their own private space and express themselves in any way they want. I find mine, and I keep myself very much to myself.'
'And while we're talking of yourself, would you mind telling me what your own religion is?'
'Aaah.' He looks thoughtful. 'My Holy Trinity is Money, Art and Sex, Major. I don't mind which god or gods give them to me, but I worship them all. Now then, are we done with these crazy questions?'
Vito shakes his head. 'No, we are not. We are a long way from finished. Signor Fabianelli, do you know a man called Lars Bale?'
He looks off into the distance, through the windows and across the rolling lawns of his mansion. 'No. No, I don't think so.' He turns back to Vito. 'Why? Who is he?'
'He's an American. Quite a famous one. Are you sure you don't know him?'
'My memory isn't perfect, but I'm sure I don't know him.'
'Here's a photograph. Faxed to us by the FBI.'
Mario quickly shakes his head.
'Please look closer, signor. Are you sure you don't recognise him, or anything about him?'
He takes the photograph and considers it. 'No. I'm afraid not.'
'There's a tattoo there. A tiny tattoo like a tear beneath his left eye.'
Mario notices it now. 'Is this significant?'
'Mera Teale has an identical tattoo in an identical position. How do you account for that?'
Mario laughs. 'I don't think I have to. You should ask her. Have you looked closely at Mera? She's covered in tattoos. She has hundreds of them.'
'And do you think she has others that are identical to those on the skin of a Satanic serial killer awaiting the death penalty?'
'Major, I really don't know.' Fabianelli is showing the first signs of annoyance. 'Feel free to interview Mera at any time you want. I'm sure she'll be frank with you and will have proper explanations for all your questions.'
'We will,' says Vito. 'You can bank on it.' He passes over a photocopy of an auctioneer's catalogue that Nuncio gave him. 'Does this mean anything to you?'
Mario doesn't touch it. 'Should it? What is it?'
'An Etruscan silver artefact. Very valuable.'
He barely glances at it. 'No. It means nothing to me.'
'Are you quite sure?'
The billionaire looks at him suspiciously. 'Major, I'm growing bored now. I am positive that it means nothing to me. I own a lot of art. A good deal of sculpture. But I am a modernist, and I know every piece in my collection.'
Vito jabs his finger at the photocopy. 'You own this piece.'
Mario shakes his head.
'We've traced its ownership to a company of yours in the Cayman Islands. You paid more than a million dollars for it.'
He looks shocked. 'I can assure you I didn't.'
'You own a company out there called MFA – Mario Fabianelli Artistes?'
He shakes his head again. 'No. I have no knowledge of such a company. Who are its directors?'
Vito slides another piece of paper across the table. 'You – and your lawyer, Signor Ancelotti. You'll see your names listed there.' A thought strikes Vito. 'By the way, where is your little Rottweiler?'
Mario examines the paper. 'I don't know, Major. I haven't seen Dino Ancelotti for several days now.' He hands the documentation back. 'I really have no knowledge of this company If this paper is real, I wasn't involved in its incorporation. '
Vito sits back and regards him suspiciously. 'You don't know where your own lawyer is?'
The billionaire laughs. 'Where is your chief prosecutor right now?'
'At work, probably in her office or someone else's office.'
'Va bene. Dino is also probably at work in someone's office – maybe a tax office, maybe a banking office, a revenue department office. I don't know which office or where, and I don't want to. My life is more interesting than knowing the whereabouts of my lawyer.'
'May I impose upon you to call him and ask about your ownership of this offshore company, MFA, and the artefact I mentioned?'
Mario smiles. 'You may. But not in here and not right now.' He gestures to the tape recorder. 'I want to be helpful, Major – but I don't want to be foolish. If mistakes have been made by people working for me, then they are private mistakes and I will deal with them privately.'
'Let me remind you, signor, that this is more than a private matter – it is a legal one. We are investigating several murders, including the death of Antonio Pavarotti, a person in your indirect employ.'
Fabianelli's patience snaps. 'And let me remind you – you haven't charged me with anything and you don't have anything to charge me with, or you would have done so. Major, I don't need a lawyer to tell me you're all at sea and desperately fishing for scraps. So, if you please, I would like to go home, from where – I promise – I will call my lawyer. And if it's appropriate I will then enlighten you about this company and the artefact you mentioned.'
Vito's done. He's out of tricks. Out of questions. Continuing the interview seems pointless. He turns off the recorder and painfully watches Mario Fabianelli swing his thousand-dollar cream linen jacket from the back of the interview chair and leave.