Death Brings Gold. Nicola Rocca
detective,â said the Inspector, as soon as the other crossed the threshold. âI saw you brought me more fuel for the fire. Letâs get started.â
He handed him a copy of the document.
âRead it and make notes of the most important parts. Iâll do the same. Then weâll compare them.â
Bassaniâs face took on a bemused and incredulous expression. It was obvious that he had never worked that way before. Detective Caslini also looked shocked the first time. But afterwards Walkerâs words had put him at ease.
Four eyes see better than two, and two heads think better than oneâ¦
When Walker repeated the same motto to Bassani, he replied with a pleased smile.
Then, neither of them needing to add anything else, they started reading Dr Viscontiâs report.
After less than an hour, they had finished. Both men had highlighted the cause of death: cardiorespiratory arrest. Moreover, Visconti in his report talked about ligature strangulation with undetermined object. The doctor assumed it was a strip of fabric, or something similar. Some marks with a small regular square texture had been found on the victimâs neck.
Moreover, there was another element that caught their attention. In the victimâs mouth, Visconti had identified an unusual removal of the layer of the skin in the sublingual sulcus. And around this tear, which was irregular in shape and as big as a corn kernel, traces of methyl cyanoacrylate had been found.
The two men stood there in silence for a long time. Without knowing, they were formulating the same thoughts.
The only noise, that for a moment disturbed the quietness of their room, was coming from Walkerâs lighter. A hiss and the cigarette came to life.
The Inspector stood there staring at the empty space, thinking about the information he had just read, as if in that way he could absorb them completely. One question, though, formed in his mind. And he was convinced that the same doubt was gripping detective Bassani.
Neither of them could pull an answer out of a magic hat.
When Walker noticed that his Marlboro had burnt itself out, he squashed what was left of it in the ashtray. Finally he let his fingertips slip onto the computer keyboard. His hands typed the name of the weird chemical compound and a link appeared. When the answer appeared on the screen, he turned towards Bassani.
âWhat was that man doing with traces of glue under his tongue?â
CHAPTER 11
The man cursed in hatred against the gaming machine. It was the third time in a row that it had given him one short of a Royal Flush. It was as if it was making fun of him, giving him the illusion of a win that would never come. But he knew these stupid devices well. They would spin, spin and spin. They would deceive ,deceive and deceive. And, after teasing one for so long with the promise of a prize without delivering, the eventual super jackpot would be served on a silver platter. And Caio Merli knew that moment was close, it was only a matter of investing some more banknotes.
He took his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He opened it and with disappointment found he only had a tenner. In that moment he realised the money-hungry bitch machine had already sucked from him a hundred and forty Euros. He pulled the banknote out and flattened it with his hands, trying to make it more appetising for the poker machineâs mouth. Next, he put it near the slot, which was flashing as if to signal that it was waiting for the note.
The jaws of the machine swallowed the note, which was also Caio Merliâs last chance to break the bank. The sound of the paper being quickly sucked in, followed by the polyphonic jingle of the machine, was the signal the credit had been accepted.
Now, Caio was ready to play; it was all or nothing.
He kept the button pushed until the bet reached the maximum amount allowed. In doing so, he would only have two hands to play.
He hit the red button with his fingertips and the card symbols began spinning vigorously. Then, on the second turn, they started to slow down, stopping on a combination that came to nothing.
âFuck!â the man cursed.
He was about to push the red button again, when a short metallic cascade told him that one of the machines to his right had decided to pay a small amount. He shot a distracted glance at a man in a green cap, who didnât notice, as he was preoccupied collecting his few coins. He stood there staring at the lucky man longer than he would have liked it. Then, with a sense of disgust, he turned his eyes and concentration to the screen and with determination pushed the button that activated the movement of the cards, as though the outcome might depend on the force with which he pressed âstartâ. The combination of cards and the legend âINSERT COINâ told him that his chances of winning were exhausted. Just like his money.
Of all the decisions available to him, he was certainly not abandoning such a warm machine. He knew too well that it was only a question of ten or so more Euros for the machine to spit out a nice payoff.
He looked around and verified that there were only two other people in the small room.
He tilted the stool forward, placing it against the poker machine keyboard, to indicate that he was reserving the machine. He entered the door leading to the bar area of the place. He exchanged a glance with a well dressed man reading a newspaper, who sipped coffee. When he neared the bar he made eye contact with the barman.
âIâll be back soon, Iâm going to take some money out,â he said, giving a hint of a smile.
âIâll be here,â replied the barman, while drying a glass.
It took him less than five minutes, the ATM was about two hundred metres from âBar Santoâ.
When the barman saw him return, he light-heartedly welcomed him back.
âYouâve come back sooner than soon.â
âI canât miss the jackpot. I feel it, the machine is hot.â
The man behind the counter smiled, a sly smile, as if to say it was always -more or less- a substantial jackpot for him, whenever someone put a banknote in one of his machines.
âGood luck!â
Caio Merli didnât get the meaning of that smile, or if he did , he didnât show it.
âThank you, Anselmo,â he replied, without giving too much weight to those words.
His mind was elsewhere. He was already dreaming about the metallic sound of that cascading roll of Euros. He was thinking about how he was going to spend that substantial little lump. Perhaps he couldâ¦
Something familiar stopped those thoughts. And for a millisecond even his heartbeat stopped. He felt dizzy: he recognised the sound of that cascading reel of money. His anger exploded inside him, so much that his blood pressure shot to the stars. He blinked his eyes in an attempt to awaken from that nightmare.
Yes, the nightmare where the fucking son of a bitch in the green cap waits for the moment you go to replenish your stock of Euros to move in on your machine. The one you reserved by tilting the stool forward. The hot one. The one that was still spitting into its tray metal coins that had the weight, form, size and value of one euro each.
âAre you a fucking idiot?â
The man with the cap didnât hear him, or pretended not to.
âOI!â continued Caio approaching him, his hands were trembling with anger and itching for a fight. âIâm talking to you, Green Capâ.
The man turned.
âAre you talking to me?â he asked calmly.
Caio moved closer, his mouth just a couple