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He didn’t like Pastore. An understatement. The man disgusted him. And yes, he treated his wife with derision. No way would he ever be voted husband of the year, but the law taught that there were two sides to every situation.
Maybe you had to cut him some slack.
It had to be rough to be married to a woman who was mentally ill.
And she was mentally ill, just as Pastore had warned. She was delusional—that thing with her not knowing whether or not she’d gone shopping had been upsetting. She was probably schizophrenic. Psychotic. Something that would account for the darkness in her eyes.
Matteo had seen that darkness before.
A client of his had a son who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. Matteo had met the boy. One of the first things he’d noticed had been that yawning emptiness in the boy’s eyes.
To put it bluntly, Ariel Pastore was crazy.
Crazy enough to have married a man like Pastore.
Why? For his money? There couldn’t be any other reason. A woman like that with a pig like him…
Matteo took a breath, expelled it, strode back to his desk and sat down.
Who cared why she’d married him? None of this was his problem. Once the files were gone…
The door to his office burst open, banged hard against the wall. Matteo shot to his feet.
Tony Pastore was barreling toward him with Janet hanging on to his arm.
“I tried to stop him,” she gasped. “But he wouldn’t—”
“Bellini,” Pastore roared, “you son of a bitch!”
“Stop where you are,” Matteo said. “You hear me, Pastore? One more step and I’ll call Security.”
“Call whoever you want.”
“Really? You want this all over the media ten minutes from now?”
Pastore’s face twisted. He came to a dead stop and shook Janet off as if she were a pesky insect.
“Where’s my wife?”
“What?”
“I said, where is Ariel?”
“Janet,” Matteo said quietly, never taking his eyes from Pastore, “go back to your desk.”
“Sir. Don’t you want me to—”
“I want you to leave us, Janet. Go back to your desk. We’ll be fine here. Isn’t that right, Tony?”
Pastore didn’t answer.
“You want to talk to me,” Matteo said, “you’ll agree. Either that, or I’ll throw you out myself.”
Pastore snarled a response.
“Was that a yes?”
“Vaffanculo!”
Matteo’s smile was feral.
“He says ‘yes.’ Go on, Janet. I’ll let you know if I need you.”
Janet looked unconvinced. Who could blame her? His visitor’s face was the color of blood; his breathing was so quick and harsh it was audible.
Matteo fought against the desire to do as he’d threatened. He wanted to grab Pastore and throw him out on his ass, and if Pastore fought back, that would be even better.
But if he gave in to what he wanted, he wouldn’t get an answer to the question racing through his head.
Why was Pastore looking for his wife? What had happened to her?
Only one way to find out, Matteo told himself, and he faked a calm he didn’t feel as the door snicked shut behind Janet.
“Explain yourself, Tony. Has something happened to Ariel?”
“Don’t give me that bull!” Pastore’s hands hung fisted at his sides, clenching and unclenching. “You know goddamn well what’s happened to her.”
Matteo glanced at his watch. “I’m going to give you thirty seconds to answer the question. Then I’ll call Security—but before I do, I’ll beat the crap out of you. Understood?”
Pastore laughed. “You and who else? Remember when we were kids? I used to bloody your nose just for kicks.”
Matteo smiled thinly.
“We’re not kids anymore, and you’re alone. No pals around to pin my arms behind my back. Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to take you on, but…” Another glance at his watch. “But, it’ll have to wait. Right now, you have ten seconds left to explain yourself. Nine. Eight. Seven—”
“She’s gone.”
“What do you mean, she’s gone?”
“I mean, my wife is gone. And don’t try looking so fucking surprised.”
“How can she be gone? She’s sick. You said she had a nurse. How could she just be gone?”
“Don’t try to duck the issue, Bellini.” Pastore’s mouth twisted “She’s gone, and you know where she is.”
“How in hell would I know that?”
“Give me a break! I saw the way you and she cozied up together Saturday night.”
Matteo laughed. “You have a terrific imagination.”
“And then all that crap she talked about you.”
“What?”
“How did we know each other. Where were you from.” Pastore’s hands knotted. “She talked more that night and yesterday than she has in the year I’ve been married to her, and it was strictly about you.”
Ariel Pastore had talked about him? It was difficult to imagine her stringing together more than two sentences at a time. She’d been almost painfully silent the time they’d spent in that bar. Maybe she’d been stoned or drunk, maybe her reticence was part of her illness. Whatever the reason, Matteo couldn’t imagine her asking questions about him.
“I’m asking you again, Bellini. Where is she?”
“I have no idea.”
“Bull. What’d she do? Phone you? Show up at your door doing her Snow White routine? Letting you think she’s all innocent, that she needs you to take care of her?” Pastore took a step forward. “Where is she, goddammit?”
Matteo narrowed his eyes. “Listen to me and listen carefully. I have not seen your wife. I have not spoken with your wife. I have no idea where she is. Capisce?”
Pastore glared at Matteo. Then, gradually, the angry red that suffused his face began draining away.
“If you’re lying to me—”
“Is she in danger?”
A shadow swept over Pastore’s eyes, or perhaps Matteo had imagined it.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, is she ill enough to try and harm herself?”
“Yes,” Pastore said quickly. “She is.”
Matteo nodded. He had a sick feeling in his belly.
“Then, you have to find her.”
“That’s what I spent yesterday trying to do.” Pastore held out his hands. “I had my people looking everywhere. She seems to have disappeared without a trace.”
His tone, his demeanor had changed. He was no longer a man enraged; he was a worried husband.
And yet—and yet, somehow, it didn’t ring true. There was still something in his eyes that made Matteo wary. Pastore seemed to sense it. His tone became conciliatory.
“Look,” he said, “I guess I came on a little strong…”
Matteo laughed, but the sound was without humor.
“Okay, so I went overboard.” Pastore jerked his head toward the pair of black leather sofas that faced each other across an oval glass coffee table at the other end of the room. “How about we sit down and talk?”
“Talk?”
“I have to find her. Like you said, she’s a danger to herself.”
Matteo ignored the sofas, sat down behind his desk and motioned to the two chairs facing it.
“Two days ago,” he said coldly, “you couldn’t wait to get rid of her. Now, you’re worried about her.”
“Of course I’m worried.” Pastore eased his bulk into one of the chairs. “I’m telling you, anything could happen to her.”
“And mess up your political plans,” Matteo said, even more coldly.
Pastore’s eyes narrowed. “You going to help me find her or not?”
“Contact the police.”
“What for?”
“So you can report her missing.”
“Yeah, right, like the cops are gonna hurry
to get involved. Bellini,” he said, leaning forward, “I need you to do this. For crissakes, you’re my lawyer.”
“No. I’m not. I told you that, Tony. I’m not your lawyer anymore. And even if I were, finding missing people isn’t part of my job description.”
“She liked you.”
“She probably doesn’t know what she likes,” Matteo said, damning himself for the way the simple words made him feel.
“She trusted you.”
“Remember when I told you that you needed a shrink, not a lawyer? Now I’m telling you that you need a private detective.”
“I have one. He’s already on the case.”
“Well, then…”
