Present Day Isola Mario, Venice Monica Vidic's killer knows who they are.
He knows it as surely as if they were flying Carabinieri flags.
It amuses him that they are so stupid.
Makes him laugh that they think he'd be caught unprepared by an advance party in unmarked boats.
Not a chance.
He watches them on his surveillance monitors, scrambling ashore like rubber-legged tourists after a first trip on a gondola.
Fools.
Off in the distance, high-powered cameras scan the waves and pick out the blue-and-white hulls of the regular Carabinieri patrol boats. Supposedly out of sight. How funny. With good technology, nothing is ever out of sight.
The killer is still smiling as he saunters from the boathouse through to the main part of the house. He chats with two new members of the commune, then wanders to the rear drawing room so he can make sure he's with the others when the surprise is sprung.
Old brass bells over the front door of the mansion jangle into life.
Suddenly there's bedlam.
Panic appears on the brows of several senior security guards. A bald man with the kind of face that no doubt always looks serious is loudly announcing who he is. Apparently his name is Carvalho – Major Carvalho. He holds a search warrant high above his head and bustles in like Inspector Clouseau. Monica's killer wonders how long it'll be before the clown trips and breaks something. Behind him marches an army of plain-clothes officers armed with evidence bags and serious expressions. For Monica's murderer, it's almost too amusing for words. Vito finds a large man with rounded shoulders and a fat face blocking his progress from the front door. 'I'm Signor Ancelotti, Mario's lawyer and the commune's attorney. Let me see the warrant.' He stretches out his podgy, well-manicured hand.
Carvalho slaps it in his pink little palm. 'I can assure you, it's in order.'
Dino Ancelotti positions thick black-rimmed glasses over his dark eyes. 'Stop your officers from going any further. They do nothing until I have authenticated this.' He walks away, still scrutinising the paper. 'If there's so much as a spelling mistake, you can be certain we will sue.'
All eyes are on Carvalho. Characteristically, he opts for caution. 'Wait!'
Instantly, his search teams stop, as though playing a game of statues.
'Wait until the lawyer has finished his check. We have ample time.'
As they idle, a woman in blue denim shorts and a blue bikini top glides across the marble floor towards them. A digital camera buzzes, clacks and flashes in her hand. 'Cool! Pigs in the palazzo – can't wait to post these online!' She speaks English with an American accent and stops in front of Valentina. 'My, aren't you fucking gorgeous! A bit sour-faced, but Christ alive, what fabulous bone structure you've got. You ever done porno, honey?'
Valentina fights the fury rising inside her. 'Don't take my picture again.'
The woman in front of her grins defiantly. She's covered in tattoos, they're everywhere, even on her face, and the lieutenant can't help but stare.
'Here, take a picture yourself, looks like you want to,' mocks the tattooed photographer.
Ancelotti reappears before the scene turns ugly. He holds out the warrant to Carvalho. 'It's genuine. Enjoy yourselves, but make sure your children don't break anything – there's a lot of original artwork around the place.'
The major nods and the bustle begins again. Mario Fabianelli watches from the top of the staircase.
He's learned that being a billionaire takes the haste out of life. You can afford to hang back – even suffer some minor losses, if necessary. The cops are going to find a little dope and a smattering of other low-category drugs as well. But working out who owns it – well, that's a whole different problem for them.
Mario strolls down the stairs and offers his hand to the rather determined-looking Carabinieri major. 'Buongiorno, my name's Mario.' He lets the statement sink in. Let's the cop realise he's face to face with a man of incalculable wealth and power. 'Perhaps you would like to talk in a quieter room? I'm sure you have questions. Let me have someone fix some drinks for us.'
The lawyer, Ancelotti, glues himself to his boss. 'You needn't say anything, Mario. Let them waste their time and then go.'
The billionaire smiles. 'But I'd like to, Dino. I'm bored, and this promises to be amusing. Besides, if the Carabinieri need help, then I want to be nothing short of fully cooperative.'
Carvalho glares at him. No envy. No hatred. Just focus. 'A drink and a chat would be good. I take my coffee black, and my conversations truthful.'