Best served cold, p.20
Best Served Cold, page 20
“How long ago was it?” Filomena asked.
“Not more than a year ago. When I thought about it last night, I couldn’t help but wonder if the police are talking to Cesare.”
“It would seem logical that they would,” said Rick, staying neutral. “When I see the inspector again, I’ll mention your recollection of the party, if you don’t mind.”
“Please do. You never know what could be helpful.” A look of concern spread over Eduardo’s face. “Don’t get the idea I think Cesare Gallo could be involved in the man’s murder. I wouldn’t want the police to think I’m accusing him of such a crime.”
“I will say that to the inspector as well.” Rick pushed back his chair. “I must get up to the room to check my email before the group heads out for the day. Aunt Filomena, I’m sorry that I got sidetracked on this; I was looking forward to spending some time with you.”
“I understand, Riccardo. Perhaps you could stop in on your way back to Rome. We can have a glass of wine on my terrace, and you can tell me everything. Let’s hope the murderer is found by then.”
Rick stood, shook hands with Eduardo, and kissed his aunt’s cheeks. “I hope so. Eduardo, it was my pleasure to meet you, and I hope to see you both again very soon.”
Back up in his room, he thought about the two sides of his family. There were many more Montoyas, spread across New Mexico, but those few he knew on the Italian side were certainly an interesting group. He promised himself to seek out more on the Fontana side, and to spend more time with Filomena. Pondering about his family and reading the few emails that had landed in his in-box had temporarily taken his mind off the murder of Biraldo. Now, as he stared out the window of his room, he tried to sift through his thoughts. Nothing new came to mind, even the incident Eduardo had recounted didn’t add much to the case. Cesare Gallo’s jealousy, or lack of it, had already been hashed over with the inspector, without any firm conclusions. Perhaps Chiara would have something new to tell him the next time they talked.
For now, it was off to the forest primeval east of Assisi.
* * *
Rick turned around in his seat and saw that the unmarked police car was keeping a discreet distance between it and the van. He was tempted to wave at Detective Rossi, who was behind the wheel, but decided against it. Adelaide Chaffee, sitting next to Rick in the back row of the van, might find it strange. She was dressed for the great outdoors: brand new hiking shoes, a long-sleeved blouse, and a sweater tied around her waist. The skirt was the usual length, falling just below the knee, but the material was a blue denim, ready for walking through brush. After trudging through churches and along cobblestoned streets, dirt paths would be a welcome change for someone used to hiking the trails of northern New Mexico. She had leaned her walking stick against the window next to her and was studying the screen of her phone, not paying attention to Rick. Just as well, since his mind was still stuck on the investigation. The van left the walls of Assisi behind and headed east. Rick glanced at Adelaide, who was now scrolling images across the cell’s screen with her finger.
“I didn’t know you were taking photos, Adelaide. I thought you left that to your niece.”
She took her eyes off the phone. “Oh, no, I don’t use the phone for photos. These are all Jessica’s.” She noticed the look of incomprehension on his face. “Let me explain. When I agreed to bring Jessica on this trip, my only stipulation to my brother was that she leave her cell phone at home. Fortunately, he backed me up. It is something that drives me crazy about her generation; those phones are almost another appendage of their bodies. When I would have lunch with my brother and Jessica, she would be looking at it during most of the meal. Don’t these children understand the value of human interaction? Lord knows what she was consulting it about or to whom she was sending messages. Not that she’s any different from the others of her generation. When I go shopping, I see their eyes glued to the screen as they walk around like zombies a few steps behind their parents. I suppose it’s just as much the parents’ fault. I want to go over and shake them.”
“But you restrain yourself.”
“Barely.”
“You were saying about Jessica’s pictures?”
She picked up the phone, which had dropped to her lap. “Oh, yes. Sorry for the rant. I promised my brother we would send back pictures of the trip, so every day Jessica downloads photographs from her camera into my cell phone. Then I send them off to him. She’s really very good, I have to say, and not just because she’s my niece. Have you seen any of her pictures?”
Rick shook his head. “I’ve only watched her taking them.”
Adelaide tapped on the screen with a finger that held a silver and turquoise ring. “I’m not very savvy with these things, but I think I just brought it back to the beginning of the roll. Of course it’s not a roll, but you know what I mean.” She passed the phone to Rick. “Just push it to the left with your finger—it’s called scrolling.” She passed him the phone.
He could see immediately that Adelaide was correct about her niece’s skill with the camera. Even the group pictures were well done, showing the faces at just the right distance. There were many pictures of the group, many taken in airport waiting rooms, and they included Biraldo. It was the first time Rick had seen the man other than as a crumpled body, and he tried to read something from the man’s features. What came across was someone with a high opinion of himself, a handsome, well-dressed Italian with a facial expression that fell somewhere between a smile and a smirk. It was understandable that Letizia Gallo would be attracted to that face.
Shots that would be considered more artistic appeared after the group had arrived in Rome. Jessica must have ventured out immediately with her camera and begun taking photographs of those small details that fascinate visitors to the city: ancient doors, metalwork, small fountains, sewer covers marked with the SPQR of the municipal government. Leaving the big city, panoramic views became a frequent subject, along with more shots of the group members. Some of the New Mexicans were obviously not happy with being photographed, possibly because the fatigue from the jet lag was catching up with them, and it showed. In one frame, both subjects were giving the camera an annoyed look. Distance shots and street details returned with the arrival in Assisi, and Rick recognized some quaint shops he had passed near the hotel. She had included some locals to add color, but they were oblivious to the camera. A number of photographs were devoted to the visit to Santa Maria degli Angeli, including those taken outside when Rick had talked with her about her equipment. He was in some of them, and in many more taken at the restaurant after he’d rejoined the group for lunch.
Adelaide had been looking at the screen as he scrolled. “She’s quite proficient, don’t you think, Rick?”
“Absolutely. She has an eye for capturing whatever the scene requires, whether it’s a group shot or a more artistic subject.”
When he said it, something clicked. He returned his finger to the screen and pushed the roll back until he found what he was looking for. He studied the photograph for a moment to be sure, then scrolled back to the beginning and passed the phone to Adelaide.
“Thanks for letting me see them,” he said, trying to keep his voice normal. He put his hand around his own cell phone in his pocket, but decided to wait until the van stopped to make the call.
* * *
The final kilometers of winding road had weaved through dense forest made sinister by intervals of fog that floated out of the trees, engulfed the van, and moved on. Rays of morning sunshine tried to fight their way through branches overhanging the pavement, but the van, as well as the car behind it, kept their headlights on low beam. Chris slowed down the van and pulled into a parking area marked for the Eremo delle Carceri on the right side of the road. Five cars were parked together on the far side of the lot, and Rossi drove in past the van and parked next to them. Nearby was a sign with an arrow, indicating the route to the Eremo. Chris Carson pulled over at the opposite end from the cars, turned off the engine, and opened the door. Zeke, who was sitting next to him, stood and faced the group.
“I’m glad we brought our sweaters,” he said. “It looks like it will be chilly.”
Rick had not gotten the sweater memo, but his shirt was long-sleeved and of a thick material. He waited for everyone to disembark, including Adelaide, and then worked his way down the aisle to the door. He stepped onto the gravel and noticed the change in temperature; a good ten degrees cooler than in the sun outside the hotel. He looked around and saw Rossi leaning against his car trying to look like just another religious pilgrim, which was hard to do in a suit and tie covered by a raincoat. Nobody in the group appeared to notice the policeman; they were too busy talking about the chill or chatting excitedly about what they were about to see. The priest was starting to herd them toward the path when Rick pulled him aside.
“Zeke, I need to make a phone call, and I’m not sure of the signal once we get out of this clearing. I’ll catch up with the group in a bit.”
“Sure, Rick. I’m not sure if we’ll need you to interpret anyway.” Anxious to see the site of Francis’s hermitage, he turned and started toward the trail with his New Mexicans in tow. Only Vicki noticed that Rick was hanging back, and after a puzzled look, she continued on with the group. In a moment they all were out of sight, and the parking area became silent.
Rick pulled out his phone, hit a number, and Inspector Berti answered on the third ring. He explained what he had seen, and she listened without comment until he was finished.
“You’re right; there can be no other explanation. Stay with the group, Riccardo; I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The call ended.
Rick put the phone in his pocket and looked around the parking lot to be sure no one had been close enough to overhear what he’d said. He needn’t have worried; no new vehicles had driven up, and the lot was still mostly empty. Even Detective Rossi had vanished. Perhaps the cop had decided to head up the path ahead of Rick, thinking one of the Americans could be a Mafia hit man. The thought brought a quick smile to Rick’s face, but it went away when he returned to the matter at hand. He turned over in his mind the interviews of the last two days, trying to recall everyone’s alibi, if they had one. Nothing contradicted what he’d just seen on Adelaide’s phone. He started toward the trail, the gravel crunching under the heels of his boots. At the edge of the parking lot, a sign in four languages indicated that it was twelve hundred meters to the Eremo and that visitors should stay on the path. He stepped onto it from the parking lot, finding well-trodden dirt rather than gravel. Small holes from Adelaide’s walking stick ran along the right side.
The overhanging branches immediately cut down on the light like a dimmer switch, but at least the patches of fog had not penetrated the forest. A light wind blew through the branches, causing a rustle not unlike that of aspen trees in the Sandia Mountains, where Rick had hiked so many times. There would be no views on this hike like in New Mexico, despite the hills. Tall trees covered any chance of that. The path cut back and forth, avoiding steep stretches but adding to the length of the hike. For those in a hurry, a set of steps ran directly up the hill, crossing the path in the middle of each switchback. Rick considered taking the steps, but decided to stay on the path. He was enjoying the tranquility of the forest and being able to run things over in his head. He had just made a turn and was starting up a relatively benign incline when he saw someone entering the path from the steps. Rick stopped when he recognized the reporter who had been begging him for an interview. The man’s chin had more stubble, and he wore a heavier shirt, but otherwise, except for a small backpack, he looked the same.
Stopping to catch his breath, Angelo Stefani spotted Rick and smiled. “Well, this is perfect. We have no one to interrupt us when I ask you a few questions. Certainly you will oblige me after I came all this way.”
Rick did not try to hide his annoyance. “How did you find out the group was coming here this morning?”
“An anonymous tip. I would tell you, but you know how it is. We journalists have to protect our sources.” He slipped his pack off his shoulder and held it by one strap. “I’ll just get out my pen and notepad.” The zipper stuck. He looked up at Rick, smiling, before jerking it open. His hand slipped into the bag and rummaged around inside.
“Listen, Signor Stefani, I’m not going to answer any questions, and I really must—”
Rick was interrupted by a gunshot behind him that sounded like it was next to his ear. Stefani’s face showed total surprise as he stared down at the red spot on his shirt. He looked back at Rick and slowly crumpled to the ground. The open backpack fell next to him.
Rick spun around to see Detective Rossi; arms stiff, hands firmly gripping a pistol. He lowered it and inserted it somewhere inside his jacket. “Stay where you are, Signor Montoya.” The policeman moved past Rick and knelt next to the body of the reporter before looking back. “He was about to shoot you, you know.” He pulled on a pair of rubber crime-scene gloves from his pocket and pushed them over his fingers.
Rick was frozen in place. “I don’t see any weapon.”
Rossi smiled. “It must be in here.” He lifted the backpack with his gloved hand and peered inside. “No, not there.” He looked at Rick and shrugged before reaching into the pocket of his own raincoat and pulling out a dark pistol with a stubby silencer screwed to its barrel. “Oh, here it is.” He lifted it and pointed it directly at Rick. “I may have misspoken, Signor Montoya. I said he was about to shoot you, but unfortunately he already did.” He looked at the gun in his hand, still pointed at Rick. “And with this silencer, he would likely have gotten away with it. No one would have heard the shot that killed the famous translator. Thank goodness I came upon the crime scene, but what a shame that I got here a moment too late to prevent it.” His eyes looked over the top of the pistol. “Well, at least I was able to kill your murderer. It will look very good on my record that I took out a Mafia hit man.”
Rick stared at the end of the weapon, cursing himself for not accepting Chiara’s offer of a bulletproof vest. How could he get out of this? Stall for time. Keep him busy. Don’t mention that Berti is on her way, since that would rush him to finish the job sooner. “So when you worked in Palermo, Detective, it wasn’t just for the police.”
“The family can be very persuasive.”
“Did you work for Inspector Cribari?”
“Ah, the good inspector. A model policeman. But unfortunately for you, we have no time to chat. Someone may have heard the shot.” He raised the pistol higher and steadied his aim.
“Aren’t you supposed to use a lupara? I’ve always heard it is the preferred weapon of the Mafiosi when getting revenge.”
“Much too messy. And too bulky to carry easily.”
Rick’s eyes moved past Rossi. “A very large man is about to attack you.”
Rossi laughed and looked at Rick’s boots before turning his attention back to his aim. “That may work in your American cowboy movies, but not—”
The blow caught him squarely in the neck, and he was unconscious before he hit the ground. The pistol landed on the dirt with a thump.
“Lord, forgive me,” said Zeke as he knelt next to the policeman. “Who is this guy, Rick?”
“Someone who doesn’t like translators.”
“And this one?”
“A journalist who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Zeke crossed himself and knelt over Stefani’s body. He put his fingers to the journalist’s neck, then quickly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “He’s still alive.” He pressed the cloth to the wound.
The sound of police sirens floated over the trees.
* * *
When Inspector Berti came around the bend in the path, she quickened her pace. The three uniformed cops with her did the same while pulling out their revolvers. What they saw was the priest kneeling next to a body, while Rick bent over the unconscious policeman, trying to extract his service revolver. The gun with the silencer lay on the ground beside them. Rick heard the approaching trio and looked up to see two guns trained on him.
“Are you all right?” Berti asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I just saw a man nearly murdered, was almost killed myself, and more cops are aiming their guns at me. I’m fine.”
“All right, I understand that sarcasm is your way of dealing with stress, Riccardo. Now tell me what this is all about.” She glanced at the cops and switched languages. “You’d better do it in English.”
“So there are no witnesses if this turns out to be as bad as it looks? You need not worry.”
Zeke held his position, his hand still pressed to Stefani’s shoulder. “This man needs medical attention. I’ve seen worse gunshot wounds, but he should get to a hospital.”
She turned and barked orders to the uniformed men. One immediately ran down the path while pulling out his cell phone. The other rushed to the fallen journalist and took Zeke’s place.
Rick explained what had happened on the trail, from the time the journalist had appeared until Zeke’s mighty blow to the neck of Rossi.
“I can confirm what Rick said,” said Zeke. “I had heard the shot and left the group to come back down the trail. I was able to come up behind the man when he was pointing his weapon at Rick. They were talking, but of course I couldn’t understand what they were saying.”
Berti told the third policemen to handcuff Rossi. She looked down at the still unconscious man on the path. “You did that, Father? You’re a large man, but still…”
“Zeke was in the Marines before he took his vows,” Rick said.
“That would explain it. The ambulance should be here soon, but I’ll have them take care of Rossi second.” She pulled out her cell phone and stepped away.
“Are you in trouble, Rick?”
“No, Zeke, but thanks for your concern. And thanks for saving my life.”
