Marcus noticed that family photos had been removed from frames and scattered on the coffee table, presumably rephotographed by the police for missing-persons purposes. They were certainly a handsome family. He knew Elena and the kids from company social events and from the times he went to their suburban Chicago Lake Forest estate for the occasional meeting with Jesper. He always found Elena to be personable and charming, not to mention stunning. The little girls were bold and sassy, not the least bit shy, and Marcus thought that they lacked the unpleasant traits that so often afflicted the offspring of the privileged. He was less fond of Jesper. He found him too excitable for a good leader and prone to treat his employees with a lack of respect, a trait learned at his old man’s knee.
A florid young man with peach fuzz, whom Marcus doubted had ever shaved, rushed forward to be next in line to kiss the ring. Before he opened his mouth, Marcus had him pegged as an American.
“Dr. Andreason,” the fellow said. “I’m Mitch O’Connor from the American Embassy in Rome. The ambassador wanted me to personally let you know that any resources you require will be forthcoming.”
One of Mickey’s first calls in the middle of the night had been to the American ambassador to make sure that the best people in Italian law enforcement were going to be working on the case. Mickey had considerable pull. Andreason Engineering Corp was the largest private defense contractor in America, supplying mission-critical electronic systems to companies like Lockheed Martin, Boeing, and Raytheon. Mickey, a Danish national born in Copenhagen, had designed an innovative gyroscope as a PhD student at MIT. After graduation, he licensed the patents from the university and started Andreason Engineering in his garage.
To say that it became a success would be a mammoth understatement. In the last fiscal year, the company had thirteen billion dollars in revenue and customers in seventy countries. Jesper, an only child, followed in his father’s footsteps, got his degree at MIT in electrical engineering, and joined the company in the R&D department. From there, he began his inevitable rise to the C-suite.
“You came all the way from Rome to tell me that?” Mickey asked O’Connor, ladling irritation over the young man like gravy. Marcus had seen this behavior in spades during his six years with the company. Mickey Andreason did not suffer fools.
“And to monitor the investigation—yes, sir.”
“Good, monitor away,” Mickey said, turning his back.
The next in line was a short, balding Italian who had rushed to find his suit jacket when Mickey entered. He was a representative of the Italian Ministry of Defense. Andreason Engineering was a major supplier of missile guidance systems to the Italian Navy.
Mickey said, “You’re here to monitor the investigation too, I assume.”
“Precisely,” was the reply.
“Well, who the hell is doing the investigating?” Mickey bellowed.
“That would be me.”
The reply came in English from a tall Carabinieri officer in his forties who had been watching the proceedings with a square-jawed, poker face. From the moment he laid eyes on him, Marcus figured he was the big dog on the porch.
“And you are?” Mickey asked.
“Major Roberto Lumaga, the commanding officer of the Carabinieri station at Reggio Calabria.” His English was polished and refined.
“Yes, we spoke on the phone,” Mickey said.
“Indeed, we did. And this is your security chief, Mr. Handler?”
Marcus nodded and offered a clipped wave.
The room was warm and everyone who had been waiting seemed to be wilting except for Lumaga. He appeared completely comfortable in a black jacket trimmed with silver braid and scarlet piping and perfectly creased black trousers. He was the only one in the room who was deeply tanned. Marcus figured he was just coming off a vacation or liked his tanning beds.
Before Mickey could demand an update, Lumaga provided one.
“First of all, you will want to hear that we have not yet received a ransom demand or indeed any communication from kidnappers. We have officers monitoring the fixed telephone lines at the Cutrìs’ residence and Dottore Cutrì’s law office, as well as the telephone line here at the villa. I am assuming that if a call came into your company offices in America or your Italian affiliate in Rome, that the information would have reached you.”
“We checked before we landed,” Marcus said. “It’s radio silence on our end.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean that we won’t hear demands tomorrow or in the coming days,” Lumaga said, “but that is where we presently stand. Next, I can tell you that our forensics squad was at the house until only a few hours ago and they have fully processed the crime scene. There were no signs of struggle, no blood, no broken objects. According to the housekeepers, the Pennestrìs, nothing seems to have been stolen. Isn’t that correct?”
Giuseppe and Noemi were sitting apart from everyone else. They nodded sadly.
“The Cutrìs were good enough to scrutinize the wardrobes and bureaus of the children and the parents to try to decide what clothes they might have been wearing when they left the house, but they were unable to make a determination.”
Leonora raised her hands in exasperation. “They all have so many clothes and shoes. It’s impossible to say.”
Lumaga continued, “As I told you on the telephone, Mr. Andreason and Mr. Handler, we found Jesper’s and Elena’s wallets and purses with their credit cards and driving licenses, family passports, and their mobile phones. Elena’s phone was unlocked and we examined it for any evidence of unusual communications. There were none. Jesper’s phone was locked and we have not been able to access its contents.”
“I should hope not,” Mickey said. “It’s going to contain all sorts of sensitive corporate data.”
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