Best served cold, p.17
Best Served Cold, page 17
“Rick, won’t you join us? I’d like you to meet Arnoldo, a talented local sculptor.”
“We have met already,” said Fillipo with only a slight accent tacked on his English.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, Signor Fillipo. I was just admiring one of your pieces in a store just down the street from here.”
“From the size of your sack, I am guessing you did not buy it.”
“You would guess correctly.” He turned to Adelaide. “I didn’t realize you knew Signor Fillipo.”
“We finally managed to make the connection. Won’t you have a glass with us, Rick?”
“Thank you, but I really must get back to the hotel.” He detected a look of relief on the sculptor’s face. “And I’m sure you have business to discuss.”
“We certainly do,” she answered, patting Fillipo’s hand and giving Rick a wink. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
Rick made the near U-turn and started down the hill in the direction of the hotel, considering what he’d just seen. It would make sense that Adelaide knew Arnoldo Fillipo, or at least knew of him, because Biraldo had shown her pictures of his work before she agreed to buy them for her gallery. And she had to have known that he worked in Assisi. But telling Rick that she’d “finally made the connection” was a bit odd, unless Biraldo had purposely kept the information from her. Why would he do that?
The chance encounter with Adelaide and Fillipo raised questions without any answers in return. He was going nowhere. His cell phone ring snapped him out of his thoughts. It was the call he’d been expecting.
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Riccardo, where are you? I sent Rossi to the hotel, and they said you had gone out. Didn’t you get a call from your uncle?”
He ducked into a doorway away from the ears of other pedestrians. “I did, which is why I went out. After all, it was my last chance to enjoy the city without being tailed by a flatfoot.” He threw in the last word in English, to see if she got it. Apparently she did. “And why Rossi? Isn’t it a bit of overkill to put a detective on a job that could be handled by a regular cop?”
“Do I need remind you that you are the nephew of a very high-level policeman?”
He laughed. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? So Rossi will be my alter ego until I leave Assisi.”
“At which point you’ll have a police escort all the way back to Rome. You’ll have to drive the speed limit.”
“I always do.”
“But I’m giving Rossi the night off, and you’ll have another bodyguard.”
“At least a sergeant, I would hope.”
“Even better than that. An inspector. You and I need to review the case, and we can do it over dinner. I’ll be at the hotel at eight.”
She ended the call and he slipped the telefonino back in his pocket. He tried to convince himself that it would be good to talk about the case with Berti, and why not do it over dinner? They both had to eat, didn’t they? And he had things to share with her, like running into Fillipo with Adelaide, and what Adelaide had said about Chris Carson at lunch. So it would definitely be just police business. He remembered the bag in his hand and thought how much Betta was going to enjoy her gifts.
A few minutes later, walking through the gate of the hotel parking lot, Rick noticed someone crouching next to his uncle’s car, peering at the undercarriage. When the man heard Rick’s footsteps on the gravel, he got up and brushed off his pants.
“Detective Rossi, are you thinking of buying a Spider?”
“It would be my dream, Signor Montoya, but on a simple policeman’s salary, not likely. No, I was checking your vehicle. I trust that Inspector has told you that it will be my pleasure to keep an eye on you while you are here.”
“She did. But I don’t plan on going anywhere until dinner, and I’ll be safe inside the hotel until then. If you’d like, you—”
“I would, Signor Montoya.” He looked at his watch and started toward the gate. After two steps he stopped and turned around. “Be sure to stay in your room. I will see you tomorrow, though you may not see me.” He smiled and walked away.
As Rick bounded up the hotel steps, he noticed a silver Ferrari parked next to his uncle’s Alfa. This was a nice hotel, but anyone who could afford that car should be staying in one with more stars. Walking to the reception desk, he heard his name called and turned to see Aunt Filomena. She wore a flowing dress and silver-strapped sandals, and was sitting next to a man of indeterminate age, but much more in her range than Rick’s. The man wore brown linen slacks, a print shirt open at the collar, and loafers with beige socks. A few tufts of gray hair above the ears graced an otherwise bald and very tan head. Rick walked to his aunt and bent to kiss her on both cheeks.
“What a nice surprise, Zia.”
“I hoped it would be,” she replied. “Riccardo, I’d like you to meet my friend Eduardo dei Paschi. I managed to drag him away for work, and we thought we’d zip down to Assisi and invite you to dinner.”
Rick extended a greeting and shook hands with Signor dei Paschi—who immediately insisted he be called Eduardo—before taking a seat next to his aunt. “I would have loved to have dined with you this evening, but unfortunately I have a dinner engagement I just can’t break.” He neglected to mention that it was with a police inspector.
“Then you will at least have a drink with us. Filomena has told me so many good things about her nephew that I must insist on spending a few minutes with him.” Decades of smiles had worn wrinkles in just the right places on Eduardo’s face, making it obvious to Rick why his aunt enjoyed the man’s company. Being driven around in a Ferrari likely added to the fun. “Does this hotel have a terrace bar, Riccardo? If we’re going to have a drink in Assisi, we have to have a view.”
“It’s a very nice bar, but no view.”
“In that case, there is a hotel around the corner that does.” He stood up. “Shall we take a short stroll, Filomena? I need it after being cramped in that car.”
Rick was relieved that Rossi had decided to leave him alone. It would have been awkward if they had noticed they were being followed by a policeman.
The other hotel was not far, and as they walked, Rick was peppered with questions about living in Rome and his translating and interpreting business. From the way the man listened, Rick was sure Eduardo was sincerely interested in the answers. When they entered the hotel, dei Paschi was set upon by the man behind the counter who rushed out to shake their hands. Introductions were made.
“Eduardo, you didn’t tell me you were coming. I am mortified that I have no free rooms, but we will work something out.”
“No, no, Rino. Filomena and I have driven down just for the evening, to have dinner with Riccardo. But I wanted to show him the wonderful view from your terrace. Is there a table free?”
“Do you really need to ask?”
The view lived up to Eduardo’s billing. It was the same as from Rick’s hotel room, though at a slightly different angle, and the sun was still high enough to need the shade of the large umbrella over their table. After ordering drinks, the three sat in silence admiring the Umbrian countryside. It was Rick’s turn to ask Eduardo about his work.
“I’ve mostly pulled back from the daily operations of the bank.” The comment elicited a light cough from Filomena. “Yes, my dear, I know you don’t think I’ve pulled back enough, but one cannot suddenly walk away after so many years. It wouldn’t be healthy for me, and it certainly would not be good for the bank.”
Eduardo had ordered a bottle of Colli Perugini Bianco, and it arrived in an ice bucket with three glasses and a plate of pâtè crostini. When the glasses were filled, he raised his and toasted the soon-to-arrive sunset. “It is the most precious part of the day,” he said after they took tastes. “And the view is essentially the same as that witnessed by Saint Francis.” He studied the straw-colored liquid. “Francis may well have had this wine before he rejected worldly things.”
“In the category of worldly things,” said Filomena, “I saw on the news that there was a murder involving someone connected to an American tour group. Would that have been your group, Riccardo?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“An American was killed?” Eduardo asked.
“No,” Rick answered. “An Italian from Perugia, named Biraldo.”
His eyebrows crimped in thought. “Biraldo. I think I met a man by that name, Filomena. A friend of Cesare Gallo. I might even have met him during a party at Cesare’s.”
“He was the man you were asked to fill in for, wasn’t he, Riccardo? The interpreter?”
“That’s right, Zia. And my first interpreting duties turned out to be for the inspector in the interviews with the Americans in the group.”
“Do the police think one of the Americans killed the man?”
“I had the sense during the interviews that the police inspector was going through the motions with the Americans. Of course they’re also talking with Italians who knew Biraldo.”
Eduardo tapped a finger to his lips, indicating he was trying to remember. “I only met him that once. He made an impression, but not a positive one. If I remember right, Cesare Gallo knew him from childhood, which would explain why he was there that night, since Cesare calculates everything based on how it can benefit him, including his guest lists.”
“Everyone does that, Eduardo.”
“Not like Cesare, Filomena. He also carries a grudge like no one I’ve ever encountered in business. I recall once when one of his managers was thinking of taking a job with another chocolate company. He found out, fired him on the spot, and made sure no one in Perugia hired him. Most people would have realized the man’s worth and offered him a raise to stay, but that’s not the way Cesare operates.”
Filomena patted Eduardo’s hand. “We’re not here to talk about such things as vengeance and murder. Let’s let Riccardo tell us more about his lady friend. Her name is Betta, and she works at the culture ministry.” She smiled at Rick. “That sounds so fascinating, Riccardo. She must meet some very interesting people.”
* * *
The address the pastel thief had given Galilei was in a part of Pisa that had never been seen by the tourists, nor by most locals. A spur of track ran parallel to the street, its aging wood ties obscured by weeds and broken bottles. Had any American tourists wandered here by accident, they would have realized immediately that they were on the wrong side of the tracks, though the other side didn’t look much better. On the opposite side of the street, the walls of a line of warehouses served as the canvases for local graffiti artists. Rusted bars covered the windows, but not enough to have kept most of the panes intact. Shadows were beginning to creep over the broken pavement, but of the four streetlights along this stretch, only one had blinked on. Betta and Signor Galilei stood surveying the scene while Elio was taking care of the taxi.
“I’m glad you brought this policeman along,” Galilei whispered to Betta. “He looks like he can handle anything.”
“We’re in good hands,” said Betta.
Elio strode up to them, returning his wallet to his jeans. “The taxi driver didn’t want to wait.”
“I can’t imagine why not,” said Betta. “All right. The building should be that one.” She pointed to a warehouse whose address number was faded and barely visible. Outside the door a vintage motor scooter was parked. “He seems to have arrived, and like he promised, alone. As we discussed, Signor Galilei, you will stay outside until we call you in. I probably shouldn’t have brought you along, but since you’ve been instrumental in setting this up, you have earned it.”
The old man beamed. “I’ll be in that alley.”
“Don’t talk to strangers,” said Betta. “Let’s go, Elio.”
After they were out of Galilei’s hearing, Elio said: “Don’t you think you should have brought a real policeman along? You said you have a local contact.”
“The guy would be worthless, and if this is all a hoax, I wouldn’t want my boss to get word of it. If it’s real, I’ll call a police car to get us all.” She patted his arm. “We’ll be fine. Dear.”
“Oh that’s right, we’re married. Do I look like a good husband?”
“You’re fine, Elio. I hope our thief doesn’t notice that neither of us is wearing a ring.” They were close to the doorway. “Remember that besides providing the muscle if needed, I want you to confirm the authenticity of the pastel.”
“Not to worry. Dear.” He pushed the metal door and it swung open, banging against the inside wall. “Hello?”
“I’m in here.”
The voice sounded very much like that of the man they’d left outside, surprising Betta. In her mind she had created an image of a cat burglar, like in the movies, dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and wearing fingerprint-avoiding gloves. She should have known that suave cat burglars don’t drive old motorbikes. What she and Elio found instead, when they followed the sound of the voice, was an old guy in overalls and work shirt, sitting at a wooden table. Not even any gloves. His white hair flew out at all angles, and he squinted like he’d forgotten his glasses. The faint light of a single bulb hanging over the table picked up a gleam of perspiration on his high forehead. Something wrapped in brown paper sat on the table in front of him. He waved a calloused hand at two chairs.
“I didn’t want to have more than one of you,” he said, his voice almost cracking.
“We always make our major decisions together,” answered Betta.
Elio nodded in agreement. “Can we see it now?”
It took a moment for the man to understand. “Oh, of course.” He carefully tore the tape from the corners of the package, unwrapped its contents, and placed it in front of them. Elio picked up the frame and moved it to catch as much of the weak light as he could. He studied it for a full two minutes before giving Betta a nod.
“That’s it. Just as bad as I remember.”
Betta sighed. “Well, let’s get this over with so we can have dinner.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a leather case.
“You have the money now?”
“Not exactly, Signor…what is your name?”
“I’d rather we didn’t use names.”
Betta pulled a laminated card from the case. “You’ll have to give your name eventually.” She showed him the card. “I’m with the art fraud police.”
The man looked like he had been punched in the stomach. “Police? I don’t understand.”
“You stole a valuable work of art. I caught you. It’s not that complicated.” She pulled out a notepad and pen as Elio got up and started toward the door. “Now, give me your identity card so I can copy down the information.” He did as asked and she began writing. “Nando Toricella from Pisa. I was hoping for an international criminal to boost my resume.”
“You must listen to me. This is not what it seems.”
She kept on writing. “What am I missing?”
Elio and Signor Galilei appeared out of the darkness and walked toward the table.
Galilei stopped suddenly. “Nando! You?”
“Massimo, you weren’t supposed to be here.”
Betta waved a hand. “Wait, wait. You two know each other?”
The art dealer ignored her question. “Nando, how could you? Stealing from your own church? What will Father Oresti say?”
“He wouldn’t have known anything if you hadn’t gone to the cops.”
“What would you expect? I’m an honest art dealer.”
The two old men stood facing each other while Betta and Elio sat like spectators at a tennis match.
“Massimo, it was our only chance to get the roof fixed. Our campaign had raised only a hundred euros. Now you’ve blown it.”
“You did this for the roof fund?”
“Of course. Do you think I’m a common criminal?” He waved a hand over the pastel. “And you have to agree that nobody in the parish would have missed it.”
“No one but Father Oresti.”
“Oresti can’t fix the roof.”
Betta finally intervened. “Signori, we’re getting nowhere.” She closed her notepad and put away the pen. “Signor Toricella, we know where to find you, and I don’t expect you to flee the country, so I won’t call a police car to take you away. You can go.”
“That’s all?” He got to his feet slowly, like his back hurt.
“For now.”
They watched as Nando shuffled slowly out of the room after giving Galilei a final scowl. A moment later the muffled rattle of the motorbike engine seeped through the walls and then disappeared slowly. Nobody said anything for several minutes until Galilei broke the silence.
“I should have just sold it to that buyer in Zurich.”
Another extended period of silence followed, but this time it was Betta who spoke.
“I think I see a way out of this. But I’ll need help from both of you.”
CHAPTER TEN
The police car had turned down the hill from the hotel rather than up toward Assisi itself. Gathering speed, it dropped quickly to the flat plain below the city, taking the route that Rick and Zeke had used that morning on their run.
“I know police like to drive fast, Chiara, but isn’t this a bit too much?”
“We can’t be too careful when guarding the nephew of a high-level policeman.”
Rick switched into English. “Enough with the nephew stuff. And you know very well that around here nobody could follow us without it being obvious.” He turned and looked out the back window. “The only ones behind us are other drivers cursing at your car under their breath. I should have stayed at the hotel and had a quiet dinner with the group, rather than risking death in a car accident.”
