The Venetian Series 02: When the Snow Comes Down in Venice

Bedrich and Helmut had been convinced that their quarry was within their grasp, only to discover that Acquati had been several steps ahead of them all along.

That had been a setback, but the game was not yet over, and it was good to have an ally. His collaboration with Helmut had produced the first real foothold that Bedrich had gained, after decades of waiting for an opportunity. He had learned patience during those years, and the recent episode had demonstrated that Acquati was capable of making mistakes.

"Rodica," he asked, "have you heard of the Discoteca Sotterranea?"

"No," she replied. "It's a nightclub? I don't go out much."

"It's a nightclub. I'd like to know what goes on there."

"I'm sorry, Bedrich." She rolled her R's when she pronounced "sorry," a small reminder of her Romanian provenance.

"Don't worry, dear. I'll find out."

The two of them sat inside the cafe, peering out through the windows at the vast, white expanse of the snowbound Piazza. The ornate structures that surrounded it wore their snow like a new coat of paint. They seemed rejuvenated and grand, having shed some of the aura of fatigue and corruption that, to Bedrich's eye, they customarily wore. A few intrepid tourists trudged across the square, being rewarded for their efforts by breathtaking, unobstructed photo opportunities, which they were trying to seize with clumsy gloved fingers. The usual mob of pigeons was nowhere to be seen.

"What will Helmut do in Venice now?" asked Bedrich. "Other than visit with you, my dear." He gave her a paternal wink.

"He will work at his job some more. I guess he will try to catch some financial criminals."

"When does he arrive?"

"Late this afternoon."

Bedrich smiled. "Good. I know you like him. It will be nice to have him back."

Rodica returned his smile, finished her espresso, and departed, leaving Bedrich to muse, and to be available, should anyone else wish to speak to him.

Rodica did not flirt. She was confident in her ability to select the right man, and when she found him, she was assertive and direct. Thus had it been with her and Helmut. When she was copying a painting in the Doge's Palace museum back in October, and he had struck up a conversation with her, she had come to the conclusion within a few minutes that she wanted him. And from then on, things had played out just as she intended. The problem, of course, was that he was a German citizen, and subject to the vicissitudes of his job. At the conclusion of his assignment in Venice, when he was recalled to Wiesbaden to be debriefed after everything apparently went awry, she had assumed that she had lost him, and she was sad.

But then, before a month had elapsed, he had called her and told her he was being sent back to Venice. She replied that she was eager to see him again.

Now she was waiting at Marco Polo airport, watching the plane from Frankfurt taxi up to the terminal. When the plane came to rest at the terminal and the passengers began to disembark, she caught sight of Helmut, walking along the jet bridge. He looked very dashing. His blond hair was somewhat shorter now, but still swept back dramatically from his face. He was wearing a teal-colored parka and jeans, and he was tall and delicious. Rodica reveled in the idea that she would be alone with him before long. She felt her pulse quicken and the moisture welling inside her panties, and on impulse, she ducked into the ladies room and removed them, tucking them away in her purse.

She emerged from the ladies room and waited for Helmut to pass through customs. Finally he crossed the threshold into the main terminal. She walked swiftly to him, embraced him and gave him a quick kiss. Then they walked, arm in arm, to a desk in the main terminal where they obtained vouchers for a water taxi.

They walked rapidly along the covered walkway toward the docks. They made small talk, and Rodica felt a glow of pleasure in looking once more at Helmut's face, a glow that was accompanied by a steadily growing moist and slippery feeling between her thighs. Helmut gestured toward the snow.

"How often does this happen?" he asked, in English, the one language that he and Rodica shared.

"Not often," she replied. "This is not usual."

"Are we going to freeze on the boat?"

Rodica smiled and patted his arm. "No." The boat would have an enclosed cabin for passengers, and in spite of the chilly weather, Rodica already felt quite warm, especially at the juncture of her thighs. She was thinking of the things they had done back in October when they met, exciting things in the shadowy alleyways near her apartment. And other things, such as when she asked him to shave her public hair for the first time, and how it felt when he did that, and what he had done to her there when he was finished with the shaving. She hurried him along down the path to the docks, not because of the brisk temperatures, but because she was eager to be alone with him in the warmth of the water taxi.

Soon they were at the water's edge. They presented their vouchers to the boat driver, and he helped them into their cabin, closing the sliding door behind them. At once they felt relief from the cold and removed their coats as the water taxi gurgled out of its berth.

Rodica sighed contentedly, then seized Helmut's head with her hands and brought his mouth to hers. They kissed slowly, feeling the current of desire flow between them after several weeks apart. Once again Rodica felt her juices spilling out onto her thighs, and she caught her breath, realizing that she could finally show this to Helmut. She guided his hand under her dress, upward to the source of the wetness. Helmut groaned his appreciation, and sent two fingers exploring inside her as he kissed her with greater urgency.

She was so wet! Helmut had never felt anything quite like it. As he provocatively caressed her G-spot, Rodica cried out in excitement. She craned her neck to see whether their cabin was in the boat driver's line of sight. Deciding either that it wasn't, or that it didn't matter, she quickly got up and undid Helmut's trousers. He cast a furtive glance as well toward the boat driver, then rose from his seat enough to let her push his trousers to his knees. She pushed him back down and quickly straddled his lap, lowering herself onto his cock.

Helmut's full length slid home into Rodica's cunt, and they both remained still for a moment, holding each other's bodies, tense with arousal and trembling with pleasure. They stared into each other's eyes in the waning light of the day, and began to fuck. Rodica was thrilled as she felt Helmut's cock going deeper, ever deeper. She teased the both of them by taking him inside her very slowly, only to lose control of herself after a few strokes. In her hunger for his cock, she shoved her greedy cunt precipitously down upon him. He cried aloud, thrusting his hips up to meet her, mad with the pleasure her oozing sheath was giving him.

Rodica frantically undid the buttons of her blouse, pushing her bra-less tits into his face. Helmut had never met a woman who was so sexually assertive, so demanding, and it aroused him to a degree he had never dreamed possible. He cried her name aloud before roughly possessing her nipples with his mouth, and they clutched each others' bodies, squirming and grinding together until they were both convulsed in a mutual wet eruption.

Outside, the canal and the city were growing dark. The only sounds were the lapping of the waters against the hull of the water taxi, the muttering of the motor, and the panting of the two spent lovers.

"It is very, very good to be back," whispered Helmut.

"I think so, too," replied Rodica. "But just wait until we get home!"

Bedrich was sitting on his damask-covered couch, speaking on the phone with Michela.

"Pronto."

"Ciao, Michela. It's Bedrich. I need some information. Maybe you can help me."

"Sure, darling."

"Do you know anything about the Discoteca Sotterranea?"

Michela tittered. "Yes, I do. That's not the place for you, Bedrich."

"What kind of place is it?"

"Well... it's a place for people who like to receive pain. Or to give pain. Or to watch others give pain."

"Sadismo?"

"Yes. Or things like that. Unusual things."

"Have you been there?"

"Sometimes." Michela laughed again. "Do you want to go with me?"

Bedrich chuckled drily. "I don't think so. But I need to know about someone who went there."

"These are very private people, Bedrich. And powerful people, some of them. You will see that they won't want to talk."

"Yes, I can imagine. But thank you, Michela. This is helpful."

"It was nice yesterday morning, Bedrich."

"Yes, it was. It's always nice."

Bedrich was sitting at the cafe by the Piazza again, this time outside, braving the elements. The snow was beginning to melt; the Piazza was a vast sea of slush. Tourists were slogging through it, with pigeons in hot pursuit. The sky was an indecisive mixture of malevolent dark clouds, benign white clouds, and occasional gaps where the sun might intrude for minutes at a time.

Two figures emerged from the thin crowd and began making their way toward him. Bedrich recognized Rodica and Helmut, and as they approached he rose to greet them. He leaned down to give Rodica a fatherly kiss on the cheek, and extended his hand to Helmut, speaking English of necessity,

"Welcome back, Helmut. Whom will you be hunting this time?"

"I'm afraid it's still Signor Acquati. My office wants him, and they told me to find another way to bust him."

Bedrich's eyes lit up, but the rest of him just nodded sagely.

Helmut continued. "I know he killed the consul's wife. But I can't prove a thing."

Bedrich almost smiled. "Maybe you will find new evidence."

Helmut raised his eyebrows. Rodica looked at him intently, but she was not thinking about law enforcement.

Bedrich said, "I have learned something about where she was on the night that she was killed."

"Well, that's a break in the case, because no one else has a clue."

"I found a report on a blog, one of those gossipy ones. It says that she was seen at a nightclub, with a distinguished gentleman. And it was a special sort of nightclub, for people who need a little something extra in their sex lives."

Helmut's eyes widened. "What sort of something extra?"

Bedrich was watching his eyes. "I don't know exactly. Maybe people who like to hurt, or be hurt."

Helmut took a deep breath. Bedrich saw that as well. Helmut said, "That's very interesting. It might be significant."

"I will try to find out more. But the people at these sorts of clubs don't like to talk about who comes there and what they do."

"I think that we should have another talk with your friend, Lieutenant Durante."

"Yes... we will do that." Durante was a long-time contact of Bedrichs, an official of the Guardia di Finanza.

Bedrich was in the habit of watching body language, and Rodica's was hard to miss. Her whole body was oriented toward Helmut, and she was gazing at him with a smile that was positively tropical. In fact, Bedrich chuckled to himself, he wondered whether she was the one who was melting the snow on the Piazza San Marco.

He continued, "Helmut, I'll call you in the morning. We'll see Lieutenant Durante tomorrow."

Helmut agreed, and he and Rodica left together, laughing conspiratorially.

The weather had grown cold again, and the melting of the snow had stopped. Overhead, the sky was a very solemn, uniform shade of gray, through which the light from the hidden sun filtered shyly. It felt like some change was in the offing.

Bedrich hurried along the paving stones, late for his appointment at the office of the Guardia di Finanza. Entering the building, he passed through the chaotic front office with a nod to the desk sergeant, and made his way to the back, to the office of Lieutenant Antonio Durante.

Inside, Durante and Helmut were waiting for him. Durante wore his usual look of harried, rumpled competence, and Helmut looked freshly pressed, alert and fashionable. Bedrich took the available seat in front of Durante's spartan desk. and Durante began to speak, a bit wearily.

"Hello, yes, good day to you gentlemen, so you are still wishing to pursue Signor Till Acquati, yes? You are thinking that he has killed the woman Heather O'Shaughnessy, but for that we have no evidence, yes?"

Bedrich replied, "Lieutenant, I may have an idea for how we can get some evidence." Durante leaned forward expectantly. "I found a news report that says Ms. O'Shaughnessy was seen on the night she was killed."

Durante said, "Yes! And where was she seen?"

"At a club called Discoteca Sotterranea."

Durante snorted, and a momentary smirk flashed across his lips. "She was seen there?"

Bedrich nodded. "In the company of an unnamed 'distinguished gentleman.'"

Durante leaned forward again and looked Bedrich in the eye. "You think that the gentleman was Signor Acquati, yes?"

"It is possible. They were both expected at the Halloween party of Signora da Rimini. Neither of them came."

"Other people who were expected may not have come. I don't see a connection here, yes? And tell me what was the source of the story?"

"It was a cached version of a blog which has been taken down. I tried to find who the author was, and got nothing. To me, that sounds like it was for real."

At this point Helmut cleared his throat. "I have some information that I would like to share." The other two men turned to him. "When I came here in October, I was operating undercover. Or at least I thought I was. I had approached Acquati as a businessman, asking him and his firm to broker transactions in financial derivatives for me. I was planning to set up a sting. I was invited to his home one afternoon for a consultation, and when I left, I forgot a prospectus that he had given me. I returned a little later to retrieve it, but when I got there, I heard a woman's voice, crying out in pain.

"As I approached his home, I saw his bodyguard through the window. He was watching TV. He must have heard the sounds, but he was ignoring them. Then I saw through another window -- I must confess to you, gentlemen, I was hiding in the bushes, I didn't want the bodyguard to see me, and that put me right next to the other window -- I saw the woman making the noise. It was Ms. O'Shaughnessy. She was naked, and her wrists were bound to a rope hanging from the ceiling. Acquati was lashing her with a riding crop."

Durante sputtered, "You did not report this to my office?"

"My apologies, Lieutenant Durante. I was called back urgently to Wiesbaden the day after the murder. I should have informed you. At the time, it did not seem significant because it seemed clearly -- consensual."

"Consensual?" said Bedrich.

"Yes. Oddly, she seemed to be, I guess, enjoying it."

Bedrich directed his gaze to Lieutenant Durante. "Clearly, if Ms. O'Shaughnessy and Acquati shared an interest in these sorts of practices..."

"Yes, it must be investigated," agreed Durante. "Yes. But we are not talking yet to Signor Acquati. We need more. We go to the Discoteca Sotterranea."

"You can't send your people there," said Bedrich. "No one will talk."

"Will they talk to you?" asked Durante.

"I don't know. I have an idea, if you will let me try it. Do you have photos of Acquati?"

"No. He has never been in the system here. And not in the newspapers, yes, I have looked for him there. He is staying away from cameras."

"I can get a photo," said Bedrich.

"Will he talk to you? Maybe you wear a wire."

"I doubt it. And he knows we are after him. If he talks to anyone now, he will check for wires."

Helmut interjected, "Even if you can establish that they were together that night... that's still just circumstantial."

Durante replied, "Still circumstantial, yes! But if they were together, yes, we can get warrants to search from that information. If they were romantically involved..." He sucked his teeth. "And still he kills her. For business."

Helmut looked skeptical. "I don't think you will find anything. Acquati is smart. We thought we were going to catch him at the masked ball of Signora da Rimini. He sent us on a wild goose chase there."

"A wild goose?" demanded Durante.

Bedrich explained, "He means that Acquati left a trail of clues to make us think that he would have Bob Cole killed at that party."

"Because we knew that Cole was a very big stockholder in HighPacific, and we knew Acquati wanted to make trouble for that firm. Because he could cash in on his derivative bets."

"Right. But we didn't know that Ms. O'Shaughnessy was also a big stockholder. He wanted us to focus all our attention on Mr. Cole. Cole was a diversion."

"A wild goose," said Durante, with skepticism.

"My point," continued Helmut, "is that we should not expect Acquati to be careless. He sent me a letter the day I left, and he revealed that he had known who I was all along. He was playing me."

Bedrich and Durante exchanged significant glances.

"Yes," said Durante.

"This is worrisome," said Bedrich. "But I think that our best bet is to learn whatever we can from this Discoteca Sotterranea business, and use it to go fishing, to try to find out other things we don't know."

"Or we could try an entirely different approach," said Helmut.

Bedrich asked, "What did you have in mind?"

"Do you gentlemen know how Al Capone was finally sent to jail?"

"Al Capone?" Durante re-pronounced his name, Italian style.

"They couldn't get him on murder, even though he killed plenty of people," Helmut continued, "so they got him on tax evasion."

Bedrich raised one eyebrow. "You think Signor Acquati has evaded taxes?"

"Not necessarily. But he is executing very complicated trades. I found that he was a major shareholder in HighPacific, using a sort of consortium to hide his identity. I'll spend some time looking at his financials, and I'll look in more than one country. He's active everywhere. Different countries have different rules. There must be some country where he broke one."

Durante nodded slowly. Bedrich replied, "OK. Helmut can pursue that investigation, and I will go to the Discoteca Sotterranea."

Bedrich leaned against the old stone wall in his hiding place, back in the shadows of a balcony two floors up, facing a courtyard in the vicinity of the Campo San Giacomo di Rialto. Over the years he had accumulated a wealth of knowledge about certain small, predictable habits of the powerful people of Venice. He knew that on certain mornings, Till Acquati would sit at a particular table in the courtyard below, and that interesting people would come to meet him.

Decades had passed since Bedrich had encountered Acquati face to face. But he had watched him often, noting the infinitesimal changes in his demeanor as the years passed by. His hair, once jet black, was now iron gray, but still swept precisely back from his forehead and ending meticulously just below his collar in the back. His light gray suit was expensive, but it was a testimonial to his exceptional taste, not just his affluence. His face still wore the look of imperturbable confidence that it had when Bedrich had come to offer his services so long ago. Back then, there were no crow's feet about the eyes. They were there now, but did nothing to diminish the serenity with which he wielded his power. These thoughts crossed Bedrich's mind as he watched Acquati appear at the far end of the courtyard, and gradually make his way to his preferred table, near Bedrich's spot on the balcony.

Bedrich brought his camera with its telephoto lens up into position, taking one photo, then another. His vantage point was perfect. Although Bedrich knew that he was invisible from where Acquati sat, he still felt oddly as if Acquati were looking at him and helpfully posing for a portrait. He snapped two more photos to be thorough, then packed up his camera and vanished down the staircase.