Death in the Dolomites (8 page)

Luca nodded in agreement. “I'd ask to meet you in the bar later, but the crime scene here could take a while.” He showed a small grin. “You'll likely have this crime solved by the time you reach the hotel. But you can tell me in the morning.”

Rick nodded silently. He was exhausted both mentally and physically. As he began walking toward the hotel, Luca's voice stopped him.

“Riccardo, something else. A possibility you may not have considered. Did you notice that Pittini's coat and hat were very similar to yours, and he's about your height? Be careful.”

Chapter Six

“Yes, that's my brother.”

The funeral director pulled the sheet back over Cam Taylor's face and stepped away from the others standing around the body. Rick instinctively put his arm around Cat's shoulder and she pushed her head against his chest. There were no tears. Luca inclined his head toward the door, a silent message for Rick, and the three walked out into the waiting area where the warm air contrasted with the chill of the other room. Cat separated herself from Rick and massaged her face and eyes with both hands.

“I'd like to go back to the apartment.”

Of course, Cat.” Rick looked at the policeman who nodded.

“We'll talk later,” Luca said in Italian.

***

They had spoken just a few words as they walked along the streets of Campiglio. Cat stared at the sidewalk, only occasionally glancing at the sky, with her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her ski coat. The snow was taking a break. A few rays of sunlight knifed through the cloud cover over the eastern mountain, casting shadows that had been rarely seen the past few days. The sun would bring joy to the skiers who passed Rick and Cat on their way to the
piste
.

“Why don't you come up, Rick. I'll make us coffee.”

“That would be good.”

Cat pulled a key chain from her pocket when they emerged from the elevator. As she slipped one of the keys into the door they heard a noise behind them and both turned to see the long face of Daniele Lotti staring at them. Rick saw that he still wore the red turtleneck. Perhaps he slept in it.

“Daniele,” said Cat. It was an acknowledgment of his presence, nothing more. She glanced at Rick and turned back to Lotti. “This is—”

“Yes, Cat, I met him and the other policeman yesterday.”

Rick was about to correct him when Cat spoke. “I'll talk to you later, Daniele.”

Lotti's eyes darted from her face to Rick's and back. “But I thought we—”

“I said I'll talk to you later, Daniele.”

***

“Does he know what's happened?” asked Rick. They were in the small kitchen of the apartment. Water in the bottom of a small espresso pot was beginning to boil, pushing up through the tube to packed coffee above it. The aroma spread through the room.

“Yes, I told him this morning before you came. Sometimes I wonder why I ever paid any attention to him in the first place.” She leaned against the counter while Rick sat on one of the stools. “He was one of the few men I met who spoke English. Not the best of reasons to start a relationship.”

“Probably as good as any, Cat.” The gurgling of the pot had stopped, and Rick got up from the stool and turned off the fire under it. Using a dish towel to keep from burning his fingers, he took it from the stove and poured the steaming, black liquid into the two cups. “Sugar?”

“Just one.”

He put a spoonful of sugar into her cup and two into his. They both picked up the saucers, stirred the cups, and smelled the brew before taking tentative sips.

“Do you always wear cowboy boots, Rick?”

“They're comfortable.”

“That's what a friend in college always said. I thought she was trying to make a statement about being from Oklahoma.”

“Nothing wrong with being proud of where you're from.”

“I suppose not. Tell me about where you're from, Rick.”

She was trying to get her mind off her brother, and he was glad to help, even if it meant talking about himself. Or to himself—her eyes were hollow.

“I'm from various places. Spent a lot of time in Italy, since my mother's Italian, but also much of my life in New Mexico, where my father is from. I went to high school in Rome but college in New Mexico. Piles of relatives in both countries. Dad's a diplomat, so we moved around. A couple times we lived in Washington when I was in grade school. And then South America. Washington was the hardship posting—no live-in help.” It was a joke, but her face showed that she didn't get it. Of course, he thought; growing up she'd always had Maria or someone else to pick up after her.

“That must have been very…interesting.”

“I guess you could say that.” And people often did say just that, Rick thought. Foreign service life was something most Americans couldn't get their head around. Next she'll say something about traveling a lot.

“You must like traveling.” She had taken a seat on one of the stools.

“Actually, Cat, I hate plane rides. Most times my family stayed put where we were living. Our vacations were by car to someplace close by. You probably did more traveling when you were a kid than I did.”

She took the last sip from her cup and walked it to the sink. “Well, we skied in Vail every winter and there was also the trip to the Bahamas. Summers, it was Maine.”

Poor thing, he thought. “I rest my case.”

“Do you think this policeman is competent? He didn't say much when he was here with you yesterday, and the same this morning.”

“Cat, he doesn't speak English, so he's not going to be chatty with you. But to answer your question, I think he knows what he's doing. I can say that now, after being with him for a full day.” He took his cup to the sink and ran some water in it, considering her question in his own mind. True, Luca was somewhat eccentric, if for nothing other than his taste in hats, but he appeared to know his business. And if the guy had a poor reputation in the ranks of the police, Uncle Piero would have called to warn him rather than encouraging his nephew to assist.

“I hope you're right, Rick.” She rubbed her eyes, red from lack of sleep and tears. “I really have to get some rest. I shouldn't have had that coffee.”

“Espresso doesn't keep you awake, it's all the water in American coffee that brings out the caffeine. Scientific fact.”

“Really?”

“Really. Go lie down, you'll drop off quickly.”

She wandered to the one small window of the kitchen. It looked out over the roof of the building behind and beyond to the evergreens of the mountain. A sliver of trail was visible through the trees, its whiteness outlining a red snowcat that was finishing its morning grooming chores. Soon the first skiers would cut smooth grooves into the lines left by the machine. When the snowcat disappeared behind the trees she turned to Rick.

“I'm supposed to be devastated, grieving, falling to pieces, but all I feel is exhaustion. I guess that's because I never really got along that well with my brother. We went through the motions. He was supposed to be protective, like big brothers are, and I was supposed to appreciate it. We played that game well, especially around my parents, but there was no substance to it. We didn't dislike each other, Rick, we just never were friends. Maybe someday I'll feel some regret that we never were close, but right now I don't. Is that wrong?”

Rick thought about his own sister. With all the moves they'd made growing up there was a bond between them, something unique to foreign service families, and that bond remained. Except for the pictures on the walls, home had changed every three years. Home was wherever he and his sister found themselves, and they'd made the best of it. Rick knew that his early years were very different from Cat's, but he still had trouble fathoming her feelings toward her brother.

“It's not wrong,” he said. “Everyone is different. Perhaps it's better that you feel that way. It will help you get through this.”

“Thanks, Rick. That helps a lot.”

As he let himself out he realized he hadn't told her about the previous night's violence on the street down from her building. And she had not said anything about the sirens, or if she'd heard them, didn't think much of it. Probably a good thing. She had enough to think about without adding something else. Something which likely had nothing to do with her.

***

Rick walked the few short blocks to the police station, dodging skis swinging from the shoulders of those heading for the mountain. The sergeant on duty waved him past the front desk and pointed toward a door which was half open. Taped to it was a handwritten sign: “Inspector Albani.” He pushed the door open and heard Luca's voice.

“Come in, Riccardo, welcome to my mountain empire. Please make yourself comfortable, if that is possible in these chairs. The body of Signor Taylor is on its way to Trento for the autopsy, so I have been going over what we know about the case. It's not a lot.” He tapped his hand on a file. “And now we have a second crime.”

Rick looked around the room and took a seat at one end of the long conference table that served as Luca's temporary desk. The walls were bare except for a calendar whose pages had not been flipped to the present month, and a local tourism poster that showed a busty blond skier. One of the poster's bottom corners had come loose from its thumbtack and curled up to cover the tips of the girl's skis. The room had no windows.

The inspector's shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark arm hair that matched the hair on his head. The suit jacket draped the chair next to him, the overcoat lay on the next chair, but his new hat had a place of honor at the end of the table. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back, surrounded by files, papers, and a few empty paper cups. It appeared that Luca was not especially neat, which somehow did not surprise Rick.

“Thanks to your quick reaction last night, Riccardo, Guido Pittini is probably going to survive the attack. But he is in critical condition and has not regained consciousness. The wound was from a small knife, according to the attending doctor. He was attacked from behind and stabbed in the neck over the shoulder. But you know where he was stabbed. Ironically it may turn out that the blow to his head on the cement will be the more critical of Pittini's injuries…that is what is keeping him unconscious. If the snow had not cushioned him slightly, he could have been killed.”

“Did your men find anything last night?”

“
Un bel niente
. There wasn't anyone around at that hour to question, and any footprints along the sidewalk were already covered. You remember how hard it was snowing.”

“And no bloody knives lying in the snow.”

“Not a one.” Luca twirled a pencil between his fingers as if it were a weapon. “I talked to his wife.”

“And?”

“She was shocked, as you would expect she would be, and had no idea who would want to harm her husband. She said he had gone out, but he didn't tell her where.”

“No doubt working on the campaign. Stuffing envelopes, perhaps.”

Rick's attempt at humor fell flat. Perhaps it didn't make it through translation. “I'll ask the mayor if he was doing some campaign work, but somehow I doubt it at that hour. I have some men checking the nightspots to see if he was seen anywhere. There aren't that many of them in a town this size. If he was in a public place with a woman, we'll likely find out soon.”

“We can rule out one woman, at least.”

A puzzled look showed on the policeman's face, but then he got it. “Tell me how it went with Signora Taylor. As well as could be expected?”

Rick briefly described his conversation with Cat at the apartment, leaving out that he'd told her something of his own background to help get her mind off the death.

“So, my American friend, from what you said I sense that Signora Taylor is not suffering in her grief.”

Rick shrugged. “Not yet, Luca, but it all may not have sunk in yet.”

“What was her reaction to the excitement of last night?”

“I didn't bring it up, and she didn't either. Her apartment must be soundproof if she didn't hear all the sirens.”

Luca gave that some thought. “And you say you had a brief encounter with her neighbor, Signor Lotti?”

“There wasn't much to it. She was annoyed and snapped at him, and he took it. He was a bit shocked, first at seeing me and then by her reaction. I found it strange that he thought I was a policeman.”

Luca grinned. “Well, we never actually explained your presence when we visited him yesterday. You should take it as a compliment, of course.” He stood up and reached for his jacket. “I need a good coffee, the stuff from the machine here is terrible.”

“I just had one with Cat, but I'll go with you. This room is starting to close in on me.”

“And you've only been sitting here for five minutes.”

They left the room, nodded to the sergeant, and walked outside. The sunlight that had started to peek through the clouds was now out in full. It would be a good morning on the trails. A parking lot spread out in front of the entrance to the police station was surrounded by hotels and businesses. Luca pointed out a bar at the opposite end and they began to walk between the parked cars to reach it. Ahead of them four young men were getting out of a muddy SUV, slipping on their coats and stretching their limbs. One checked the skis on the roof while the others looked around the square and up at the mountains surrounding Campiglio. Once the vehicle was secured, they began walking toward a hotel at the far end of the square, talking loudly. Rick watched them and suddenly grabbed Luca's coat.

“Riccardo, what—”

“That kid, Luca, we've got to get him.”

Rick began running toward the group, followed by a bewildered Luca. The lot was full, and they darted between cars, sometimes having to double-back where there was no space. Rick kept his eye on one of the group, who he estimated was in his early twenties. When Rick was about twenty meters from him, the boy looked around and saw the two men running toward him. A look of panic came over his face and he started to run while his three friends stopped and stared. Rick and Luca brushed past the three and continued the pursuit.

“Stop, police!” yelled Luca as he gasped the thin air.

The boy tripped and fell against the hood of a car, his hat flying to the ground. Rick was on him immediately, forcing the boy's chest and face against the front of the car like he'd seen cops in Albuquerque do on various occasions.