Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) by Pete Pescatore Page B

the kitchen. I slid onto a bench, lowered my head to rest on my arms and shut my eyes.
    When I opened them again a cup of coffee sat in front of me, and on the table a thick brown envelope. I pushed back the flap and peered inside. Something yellow. I fished it out. Plastic. Bumps on it. Studs. A little yellow brick. I peered in again. Another one. Two little yellow plastic bricks. Three, four. Seven altogether.
    Julia strode into the kitchen. She’d showered and changed and was clipping on earrings. Earrings. I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket. Still there. Still burning.
    I picked up a little yellow brick from the table. Lego. I picked up another and pressed them together. “What are these things?”
    “Bricks. I found them in his pocket.”
    “Did Gigi like to play with toys?”
    Her anger flared. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She reached for a yellow plastic brick and fingered it, staring at nothing. “I just—I found him, then I called the police. And then for some reason I went through his pockets.”
    “What were you looking for?” I picked up one brick after another and built a yellow chimney.
    “I don’t know. I’d never seen them before. They left them here for me to find.” She swept a hand across the table. The chimney flew and crashed into the wall. Yellow bricks tumbled to the floor. “I was out of my mind, Pete. I can’t remember what I did or even what I told the police. I just—can’t.” And finally, a sob. She slumped into a chair, a broken doll. I got up, threw an arm around her shoulder and held her until she ran out of tears.
    When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. “His head, it was awful. His mouth. Open.”
    “The gun?”
    She blinked, working her way through the question. “What do you mean?”
    “Where was it?”
    “I don’t remember. In his hand? Yes. I think so. Or on the floor.”
    “Which side?”
    She closed her eyes. Her hands grew still. “His right. To the right of him.”
    “Are you sure?”
    She opened her eyes and stared into mine. “Absolutely certain.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “Thank you for what, Pete?”
    “Gigi was left-handed.”
    A soft smile appeared on her lips. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. He was indeed.” A hand on my arm, a squeeze.
    “What are you thinking?”
    “It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’ve made a mistake. Shot him with the wrong hand.”
    “Maybe. Unless—”
    The smile turned fierce. “Unless?”
    “He chose the wrong hand—on purpose.”
    She was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on mine. “Yes. Of course. A message. That’s it.” 
    “Message for—“
    “I have no idea. For me? The police? You’re the smart one, Pete. You tell me.”
    “No clue.”
    “It has to mean something to someone.” She shook her head. “I’ll get it.” She stood and walked out.
    What, the phone? Then I heard a voice, and Julia’s answer. “He’s in the kitchen.”
    Footsteps clumped down the hall. Closer. I stood up.

Nine
    “Hey, hey! Look who’s here!” I shot an open hand skywards. “Gimme five, Billy-Boy!”
    He slapped it away, grabbed me by the lapels and yanked my face up to his. “Where is it?” he sputtered. “Tell me. Now.”
    I broke his grip and pulled away. “Have a seat, buddy. Can I offer you a drink?”
    “Shut up, Pete.”
    “What’s wrong, bubba? Our lady friend keep you up all night? Ho, ho, ho. Man, were you wasted, or what. You could hardly walk and you were drooling all over her. It was embarrassing.”
    Dead in the water, Billy Bob Decker slumped into a chair, his belly rolling over his belt beneath a rumpled white shirt and straggly tie. I peered at the tie. Busty ladies in bunny ears and the name of a gentleman’s club in Dallas.
    “I’m off,” said Julia. “Pull the door shut behind you when you leave.”
    “Jules, baby. You can’t leave me here with this … Texan.”
    “You’re a big boy, Pete.” She turned and walked off down the hall. “Call