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“Si. That’s right. That’s what he called us. A brotherhood of his favorite people. You know that saying about keeping your enemies closer? It didn’t apply to him. He surrounded himself with people who’d take a bullet for him, and he never talked about any enemies.”
“You’d take a bullet for him?”
He leaned in and removed his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot, but very big dark eyes, giving him a handsome face. Those eyes focused on her with complete clarity. “I feel I owe him that much. I mean, seriously. All the stuff he did for me? And then he takes me on this trip for my birthday? I’m falling short, big-time, in paying him back.”
Either he was a very good actor, or here was someone who really had cared about Franklin Tate. “What did you think when you heard Goldie had hired me?”
He ran a hand through his thick dark curls. “Thought it was probably a good thing. I liked Goldie. She was the one who first offered me that meal, fifteen years ago. She’s a real sweetheart. They didn’t get along as husband and wife, but she cares about him. And there was something odd about the way he went. So it makes sense.”
“What was odd?” she asked, so intensely curious that she didn’t even realize she’d sat at the edge of his lounge chair until he wiggled his toes near her.
“Well, he was healthy. One minute, he’s making all these plans for the future, and the next minute, he’s dead. It didn’t make sense.”
She pulled her notepad from her bag. “Do you mind giving me an account of everything that happened on the trip?”
He stretched his hands over his head and yawned. “I’ll do the best I can. Strap in.”
She held her pen to the paper. “I’m ready.”
“Okay, well . . . it was my birthday, my last year of my twenties, so Frankie came down and told me we should have a big blow-out party. He’d pay for all of it. So how could I resist? He brought along a couple of his friends. They’re part of our Frati. I don’t know them as well as he does, but I figure he’s the one paying, so he can make the guest list. I got there early in the morning and got on board. We took off, and landed an hour later in Monaco. It was great. I mean, I was high from almost the second I got on board.”
“So you were doing drugs?”
“Yep. And drinking and smoking cigars. All of it. The rest, when I think about it, came in flashes. The casinos. The girls. I met a blonde in Monte Carlo and I remember going with her into the restroom, and—” He gave her a suggestive glance. “You know.”
“Okay,” Daisy said. “That was in Monte Carlo. What about when you went to Lyon. Was there anyone else on the plane with you?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking. “I think there were a few prostitutes. I remember doing lines with one of them on the conference table.” He raised a finger. “Then I remember Dirk—that fat American guy who handled Frankie’s investments—trying his luck with one of the flight attendants. When she didn’t bite, I saw him getting with a prostitute in the restroom.”
“This was before you landed in Lyon?”
He shrugged. “Might have been after. Lyon is just a big blur. I don’t remember any of it. I might not have even gotten off the plane in Lyon, come to think of it. I was that wasted.”
“Do you remember anything else from the trip?”
He shook his head. “The last thing I remember is touching down in Lyon, and one of the guys getting me in a headlock, telling me he was going to get me laid. Next thing I knew, I woke up on the floor of the conference room in a pile of vomit. I think it was my own.” He let out a long breath. “Wild, wild night. By then, the police were running around, and when I got up, I learned that Frankie was dead.”
“So the last time you saw him was . . .”
“Earlier in the evening. He was with a girl he’d met in Monaco. At the baccarat table at the Blue Coast Casino. He took her aboard, and they went into the bedroom. I don’t think she was a prostitute. She was blonde, big boobs. Everything he likes. He was all over her, from what I remember.” He massaged his temple. “Yeah, that was the last time I saw him. He gave me a look and told me to be good, closed the door, and that was it.”
“So you don’t remember if he got out in Lyon?”
He shrugged. “No. I assume he did. When I woke up that morning, the blonde was gone and he was sitting, dead, in his regular captain’s chair.”
“So you never saw the blonde leave.”
“No. And I didn’t even get a good look at her. All I saw was blonde hair and big boobs.”
“Did you see him drinking his morning pick-me-up?”
Matteo frowned. “No . . . uh, I know about it. He swears by it. But I guess I wasn’t paying much attention.”
“So you never saw anyone making him a drink, at all, while you were on there?”
He smirked. “I don’t make drinks. That’s what the stewardesses are for. I wouldn’t even know where they keep the bottle opener on that plane.”
“What about the other people who were on board? Did you see any of them when you woke up?”
