head with an apparently genuine death mask attached to it. He had four plainclothes state police officers with him to form a physical barrier between the evidence and the grumbling crowd of smart uniforms and surly faces getting angrier by the moment. The small police forensic crew had, meanwhile, gathered what passed for some of the strangest evidence Peroni had ever seen.
What really took his breath away were the movie people. Roberto Tonti, storming at anyone within earshot, grey hair flying as his gaunt frame hobbled around the stage. The producer Dino Bonetti, who’d pass for a mob boss any day, stabbing his finger at anyone who’d listen, demanding that the evening proceed. And, more subtly, some quiet American publicity man backing the two of them up during the rare moments either paused for breath. Even the Carabinieri balked at the idea everything could go off as planned. While the arguments ensued, Teresa and her small team worked quietly and swiftly, placing items very quickly into evidence bags and containers, trying to stay out of the melee. Peroni hadn’t told her they didn’t have long. He hadn’t needed to.
“There’s been a death,” Peroni pointed out when Tonti began threatening to call some politicians he knew. “And …” He gestured at the bloodied fake head. “… this. The entertainment is over, sir. Surely you appreciate what I’m talking about?”
The publicist took him by the arm and requested a private word. Glad to have an excuse to escape the director’s furious bellows, Peroni ordered the plainclothesmen not to move an inch and went with the man to the back of the stage.
He had seen Simon Harvey on their visits to Cinecittà to discuss arrangements for the exhibition. The American seemed professional, obsessed with the job as much as the rest of them, but, perhaps, with some rare degree of perspective. Peroni recalled that, on one occasion, the man had even given them a brief lecture on Dante and the origins of Inferno, as if somehow needing to justify the intellectual rationale behind the movie. He’d even declared, “This will be art, promise.” This had struck him as odd and unnecessary at the time. But then the movie industry was rarely predictable, for ordinary human beings anyway. That day in the film studios he’d watched hideously disfigured ghouls sipping Coke, smoking cigarettes, and filling in crosswords during their time off camera. After that, he’d been glad to get out into the dull suburb surrounding the studio and breathe the fume-filled air.
“Listen,” Harvey went on. “Forget about Roberto and Bonetti bawling you out. That’s how they work. The point is this. There’s big money at stake here. Italian money.”
Peroni stared at the man, wondering what to make of this strange comment. “Italian money?” he asked. “What does that mean?”
Harvey cast a backwards glance to make sure no one was listening. “Do I need to spell it out?”
“For me you do.”
The publicist placed a conspiratorial hand on Peroni’s arm. “You’re a cop,” he said with a sigh. “Please don’t act the innocent. And God knows it’s been in the papers anyway. Bonetti has all kind of friends. Government friends.” He winced. “Other … friends. There’s more than a hundred and fifty million dollars running on this horse. Money like that creates debts that need paying. This is your country … not mine, Officer. We both know there are people neither of us want to piss off, not for a three-hour private screening in front of a handful of self-important jerks in evening dress, anyway. All I ask is you give us a break. Then we’re done. It won’t get in the way. I’ll make sure. That’s a promise.”
Peroni couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Someone’s been shot. They heard it. We all did. There’s also the question of a death mask which, in case you’ve forgotten, is not only a national treasure. It also seems to resemble your missing movie star.”
He pointed at the head, which was now on a plastic mat on the podium table, being prodded and poked by Teresa and her deputy, Silvio Di Capua. She caught Peroni’s eye; he got the message instantly. It was time to get the evidence out of there as soon as possible, before the Carabinieri grabbed it. The dark blue uniforms seemed to be breeding around them, and some of them had fancy stripes and medals on their jackets that denoted the arrival of more-senior ranks.
“Ever heard the saying ‘The show must go on’?” Harvey retorted.