Free Good Blood by Aaron Elkins Page A

morning.
    “Yeah, but it’s not all gravy,” said Phil. “See, the deal is, anybody else in the family who wants to live there also has the right to do it, no charge, for as long as he wants, and Vincenzo has to put up with him and foot the bill unless he can come up with some kind of justification not to-moral turpitude, murder, something along those lines. So aside from the oddball, so-called relatives who come and go, Vincenzo’s had… let me see… four people-no, five-who’ve been there just about forever and are never going to leave; not in this lifetime. And there are all kinds of rules about them: They have to dine with the padrone if they want to, they have to be consulted in family matters, and so on. It’s all very medieval and complicated. Vincenzo tried to get it overturned once, but no luck. It’s foolproof, written in stone.”
    “On second thought, maybe not such a good deal,” Gideon said.
    As the boat entered the still pool between the two curving arms of the quay and worked its way around the tied-up launches, a dark, lean man in mirrored sunglasses, black suit, black T-shirt, and mirror-shined black shoes emerged from the shade of a lawn umbrella, where he had been sitting in a folding chair, apparently working a puzzle in a magazine. Never turning his head away from them, he used his heel to grind his cigarette out on the pavement, shrugged both shoulders to set his suit coat better, tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves, and sauntered toward them.
    “Who’s this?” Gideon whispered. “He looks like a leftover extra from The Godfather. ”
    “You’re closer than you think,” Phil told him.
    The dark man reached the head of the steps as the captain leaned over the boat’s prow with a boat hook, making ready to tie up. “Proprieta privata,” he said without expression. “Non entrate.”
    “Cesare, how’re you doing?” Phil asked in Italian.
    The man pushed his sunglasses an inch down his nose and peered mistrustfully over them. Then, abruptly, he smiled, like a piano lid opening to show the keyboard. “Fili? Hey, nobody told me you were coming.”
    “Nobody knew. I thought I’d give everybody a nice surprise. So is it all right if we tie up?”
    The man jogged down the steps, inspecting Julie and Gideon. “Who are your friends?”
    “Old pals. Americans. Known them for years and years.”
    Cesare nodded. “All right, go ahead and tie up,” he said to the captain, who’d been waiting with the rope in her hands. And to Phil: “The guy, I’ll have to pat down. Better tell him.”
    “I understand Italian,” Gideon said.
    “That’s nice. Climb out and lean your hands against the wall here. No offense, I hope.”
    “Help yourself,” Gideon said, following instructions, while Julie looked on with wide eyes.
    “I should have mentioned it,” Phil said to her in English. “They have to do it with strangers.”
    “Not to me, I hope.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    The pat-down was quick and professional. Cesare was lighting another cigarette and Gideon was zipping up his windbreaker when Cesare uttered a soft curse. “I knew it, damn it, here comes the old man. He sees everything.”
    Gideon looked up to see a tall, elderly, goateed man in a too-small, old-fashioned suit, starched white shirt, and tie standing at the head of the stairs and peering down at the scene below him with obvious displeasure. Gaunt and frail-looking, he leaned on a silver-headed, metal-tipped cane but stood extraordinarily upright. Gideon thought he might be wearing a corset to keep him so straight. He was accompanied by an ancient dog, as old in dog years as the man was in human years; a fat, panting, waddling Corgi on a leather leash.
    “In my brother Domenico’s time,” the old man said in a thin but steady voice, “all who wished to come were welcome on Isola de Grazia. The stranger was trusted no less than the relative.” He spoke more in sadness than in accusation, in a flowery textbook