The Villa

eyes darted from side to side, he worked up a puzzled smile. "I don't understand."
    "Neither do I," David said pleasantly. "That's why I'm asking you to explain it."
    "Ah, well, David. You give my memory too much credit. I can't remember every account, or details of it. If you'll give me time to pull files and information—"
    "Oh, I already have them." David tapped a finger on the file on his desk. Not so smart, he decided, surprised. And not prepared. "Your signature appears on a number of expense chits, correspondence and other paperwork pertaining to this account."
    "My signature appears on many such account papers." Don was beginning to sweat—lightly, visibly. "I can hardly remember all of them."
    "This one should stick out. As it doesn't exist. There is no Cardianili account, Donato. There's considerable paperwork generated for it, a great deal of money involved. Invoices and expenses, but no account. No man by the name of"—he paused, flipped open the file and drew out a sheet of Giambelli letterhead—"Giorgio Cardianili, with whom you appear to have corresponded several times over the last few years. He doesn't exist, nor does the warehouse with an address in Rome to which several shipments of wine are listed to have been shipped. This warehouse, where you, on company expense, traveled to on business twice in the last eight months, isn't there. How would you explain that?"
    "I don't understand." Donato sprang to his feet. But he didn't look outraged. He looked terrified. "What are you accusing me of?"
    "At the moment, nothing. I'm asking you to explain this file."
    "I have no explanation. I don't know of this file, this account."
    "Then how is it your signature appears in it? How is it your expense account was charged more than ten million lire in connection to this account?"
    "A mistake." Donato moistened his lips. He snatched the letterhead from the file. "A forgery. Someone uses me to steal money from La Signora, from my family. Mia famiglia," he said, and his hand shook as he thumped it against his heart. "I'll look into this immediately."
    No, not smart at all, David decided. Not nearly smart enough. "You have forty-eight hours."
    "You would dare? You would dare give me such an ultimatum when someone steals from my family?"
    "The ultimatum, as you call it, comes from La Signora. She requires your explanation within two days. In the meantime, all activity on this account is frozen. Two days from now, all paperwork generated from this matter is to be turned over to the police."
    "The police?" Don went white. His composure in tatters, his hands began to tremble and his voice to hitch. "This is ridiculous. It's obviously an internal problem of some kind. We don't want an outside investigation, the publicity—"
    "La Signora wants results. Whatever the cost."
    Now he paused, struggled to think, to find a rope swinging over the pit he'd so suddenly found himself standing over. "With Tony Avano as account executive, it's easy to see the source of the problem."
    "Indeed. But I didn't identify Avano as the account exec."
    "Naturally I assumed…" Don wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "A major account."
    "I didn't qualify Cardianili as major. Take your two days," David said quietly. "And take my advice. Think of your wife and children. La Signora will be more likely to show compassion if you stand up for what's been done, and stand up for your family."
    "Don't tell me what to do about my family. About my position. I've been with Giambelli all my life. I am Giambelli. And will be long after you're gone. I want that file."
    "You're welcome to it." David ignored the imperious and outstretched hand, and closed the folder. "In forty-eight hours."
     
    It puzzled David that Donato Giambelli was so unprepared, so clueless. Not innocent, he thought as he crossed
    St. Mark's Square. Donato had his hand in the muck up to his elbow. But he hadn't put the scam together. He hadn't run the show. Avano, possibly. Quite possibly, though the amount skimmed under his name was petty cash next to what Donato had raked in.
    And Avano had been dead four months.
    The detectives in charge of his homicide investigation would likely be interested in this new information. And how much of that dingy light would land on Pilar?
    Swearing under his breath, he moved toward one of the tables spilling out on the walkway. He sat, and for a time simply watched the flood of tourists pour across the stones, in and out of the cathedral.