Death in the Dolomites (9 page)

“I didn't do anything.” The boy's words were muffled by the metal of the hood.

Luca finally reached the car, breathing heavily. “What… is going on…Riccardo?”

Rick kept one hand against the boy's back and pointed to the ground with the other. “There, Luca, look there.”

The policeman reached down and picked up the cap. It was dark blue, and the gold letters ND were intertwined on the front. On the back, also in gold, was the word IRISH.

***

The boy sat at one end of the long table, a tape recorder directly in front of him. A uniformed policeman with a pad and pen sat to his left, Luca to his right. Rick leaned against a side wall, wishing there were windows in the room.

“Go over it again, Lorenzo, to be sure I understand.”

The boy looked up at Rick, as if he could somehow avoid repeating the story. Rick shrugged.

“We were just coming to the edge of town. We'd left Verona before dawn, stopping only to have a cappuccino and a roll at a bar in some small town on the road. We knew it would be a while before we could check into the hotel, and we, well, after the coffee, we needed to…”

“You had to take a leak,” said Luca. “I don't need the specifics. Go on.”

The boy took a sip from the cup in front of him. “We pulled off the road into a clearing. No trees, but covered with snow, of course. We could see the trails off in the distance where people were coming down off the mountain, and the chairlift to take them back up. After we, uh—”

“Yes, took care of your bodily needs. Go on.”

“I saw something blue sticking out of the snow, walked over and pulled it out. It was mostly covered, but after I shook off the snow I saw it was a nice cap. It wasn't like it was anything that valuable. If it had been, I would have turned it in when we got to town.”

“I'm sure you would have,” said Luca. “You didn't see anything else lying around?”

“No, sir, just the cap.”

“Then what?”

“We got back into Gino's car and drove into Campiglio. It took us a while to find a place to park, but luckily we got that space near our hotel when somebody was pulling out. That's when you grabbed me.” He frowned and looked up at Rick who grinned back.

“And you think you can find this place?”

“Sure. I'm good with directions. It's right outside town.”

“Good. Sergeant, take him out and make copies of his documents. And let him use the bathroom if he needs to, we don't want him up there contaminating the crime scene any more than he has already.”

Lorenzo and the sergeant left the room. Before the door closed, another policeman stuck his head through the doorway. “Two journalists are here, Inspector. They say they have an appointment with you. I asked them to wait.”

“Thank you, Corporal. I'll be with them in a moment.”

Rick was pushing down the corner of the old ski poster on the wall when Luca gestured for him to take a seat at the table. “The newspapers can wait. What did you think of our little hat thief?”

“It sounded to me like he was telling the truth,” Rick said as he eased into one of the chairs.

“I'm sure he is. And it's very possible that we have found where the murder actually took place.” Luca looked at the blue cap, sealed inside a clear plastic evidence bag. It sat in the middle of the table. “Explain something to me, Riccardo.” He picked up the bag.

“If I can, Luca.”

“Notre Dame, the name of this university. That is French, is it not?”

“It is indeed.”

Luca turned the bag in his hands. “And the word on the back, ‘Irish.' That means
irlandese
, if I am not mistaken?”

“Yes, Luca, Irish are people from Ireland.”

The policeman nodded slowly, his face serious. “So we have an American university with a French name whose students are from Ireland?”

“That's close enough.”

“I will never understand your country, Riccardo.”

“Don't even try, Luca. It's easier to solve murders.”

***

So much for the sun. As Rick walked up the hill from the police station to the hotel, the clouds closed ranks to eliminate the last patch of open sky. And it had begun to snow again. He looked at his watch and wondered if Flavio had already headed for the mountain. Not that he'd blame him if he had. Just because Rick had become involved in the investigation didn't mean Flavio had to stay in the hotel.

He pushed his hands into his coat pockets, reminding himself that he had to get another pair of gloves, and felt his phone vibrating. When he checked the number it was a 2 area code. Milano.

“Montoya.”

“Rick, this is Mark Fries.”

“I thought it might be you, Mark. I suppose you heard the news.”

“Yes, the police came to the bank today. This is terrible. How is his sister taking it?”

“As well as can be expected. The consulate is sending someone up to help her out.”

“I know. I called the consul general and he told me. I said that the bank is ready to help in any way we can.”

Rick brushed the snow off his phone. “What did the police ask you?”

“Pretty much the same things you asked when you called, and I gave them the same answers. Well, they also asked about possible enemies, arguments he may have had with someone, that sort of thing. Nobody here could think of anyone with a motive to…to take Cam's life.”

“I suppose they asked you to contact them if anyone recalled anything that could help the investigation.”

“They did. I suppose that's standard procedure.”

“I think so. But if someone does remember something, since I'm helping out the inspector here who's running the investigation, it might speed things if you called me, and I can pass it immediately on to him.”

“Certainly. I'll be glad to do that, Rick. I've asked my assistant to check on that loan. Perhaps there's something there that could be of help. I'll let you know.”

They said their good-byes and Rick tucked his phone back in his coat pocket before continuing up the road. He wondered if the Milanese police would be annoyed that he'd cut them out of the loop. Probably not, and Luca was the lead investigator who had likely instructed them to question the workers at the bank in the first place.

He pushed open the door of the hotel and walked into the lobby. Flavio was standing near the front desk, dressed in his ski pants and sweater, talking with a woman whose back was to Rick. She wore a dark pantsuit and had short hair, instantly reminding him, even without seeing the face, of one of his college classmates, Linda Chavez, who got a job with an Albuquerque bank on graduation. Flavio noticed Rick and said something to the woman. She immediately turned on her heel and began striding toward him. She even walks like Linda, he thought, but is much better looking. She stuck out her hand.

“I am Lori Shafer, from the American Consulate General in Milan. Signor Caldaro told me that you know how I can get in contact with Catherine Taylor.” She spoke in relatively correct but somewhat accented Italian, like she was reading from a practice dialogue in language class.

Rick glanced at Flavio's grin and toyed for an instant with the idea of continuing in Italian, but decided against it. “You can speak English with me, Ms. Shafer. Pleased to meet you, I am Rick Montoya.”

“But I…” She looked back to Flavio, who did a theatrical shrug, and then returned her glare to Rick. “He didn't tell me you spoke English.”

“He probably didn't tell you that he speaks English himself.” Flavio was now at her side, and Rick added: “Though not very well.”

“I was so impressed by your Italian, Signorina,” said Flavio, “that I did not want to expose my limited English.”

Rick shook his head. It was Flavio's Latin Lover persona that Rick had not seen since they'd frequented the bars on Route 66 those many years ago. The vice consul would have none of it.

“I really must contact Ms. Taylor immediately. If you could
please
give me her address?”

Her demeanor, which was so common in young American professionals, was something that drove Rick crazy. And it was why he'd had only one date with Linda Chavez.

“This is Italy, Ms. Shafer, and we go through certain niceties before charging into business. Call it Old World, if you'd like, but that's the way Italians are. Apart from that, Catherine Taylor is resting now after a very difficult morning, and she shouldn't be disturbed.”

Flavio watched the two, fascinated by the exchange. His grin was wider than ever.

“I don't think you understand the function of United States consular officers,
Signor
Montoya.”

Rick took a deep breath. “My father is the American Consul General in Rio, Ms. Shafer. He's told me about his work over the years.”

Her mouth dropped open. “He's…Wait a minute, there was a Mr. Montoya who lectured in my Italian area studies course. Was—”

“He's done some lecturing at the Foreign Service Institute.”

“So you…you're American.”

“
Brava
. So why don't you relax, call me Rick, and call this guy Flavio. And we'll call you Lori. We'll get you over to see Catherine Taylor in good time. She goes by Cat, by the way.”

For the first time Lori Shafer's frown somewhat softened. “Thank you, Rick. And Flavio. I guess I was a little short. I just want to be sure to do the right thing for this poor woman. Milan is my first overseas assignment.”

“Somehow I guessed that,” said Rick.

Her face was returning to normal from the previous blush. She checked her watch. “Since there's no rush I'll get settled in my room. Will you be here when I get back?”

“Yes, I will be in the bar,” said Flavio quickly.

She took the handle of her bag and rolled it toward the elevator while the two men watched.

“She's a fire biscuit, isn't she?” Flavio, without realizing it, was still stuck in English.

“The expression is ‘firecracker,' Flavio, and let's get back into Italian.” He glanced at his friend's attire. “Aren't you going skiing?”

“Not now, Rick.”

***

Inspector Albani stepped out of the police car, adjusted his hat, and looked across the field. The area was just as Lorenzo had described it, surrounded by trees, but open and flat. He pushed away the snow with his boot to reveal dormant grass. The regular clanking of a distant ski lift's chairs was barely audible. He looked toward the sound, and through a break in the trees could see skiers coming down off the mountain into a large valley. In the summer, the driver had told him, it was a nine-hole golf course. Luca Albani was neither a skier nor a golfer.

The tire tracks made by the boys' car were still visible. Little snow had fallen in the hours since they had made their pit stop, but it was starting again. The same for their footprints, now small but regular dips in the snow. They were the only indentations in the blanket of white that covered the field. Luca sighed, confirming that any marks made by the vehicle that brought Taylor and his murderer to this spot had long since disappeared. Was this where the violence had taken place?

“Come out here, Lorenzo.” The boy squeezed his body from the backseat and zipped up his ski coat. “Now, take me through what happened.” Luca looked toward the driver, and the occupants of a second police car. “Listen to what he's saying,” he said as they got out of the car.

The boy looked around, getting his bearings. “We parked there. You can still see some of the tire marks. Then the four of us walked over to the edge and pissed near those trees. I was on the end, and when we were walking back I noticed something blue sticking out of the snow. You can just see the tracks from where I walked over and got the cap. It was right over there.” The others looked where he was pointing. “I brushed the snow off it and walked back to the car to join the others. We drove back out to the road and into town. That's all.”

Luca rubbed his chin and tried to picture the murder scene. It was unlikely that the wind had blown the hat from somewhere else, given the protection of the surrounding trees. Equally unlikely was that someone had come up here to dispose of the hat after Taylor had been killed. More probably, Taylor and his assailant had driven here, and it was in this field that the murder took place. In the struggle the hat had fallen to the ground and the murderer had not noticed. Or he did notice and either didn't care or was too busy figuring out what to do with the body. Where exactly had the struggle taken place? Near, but not next to where the hat was found? If they drove into the middle of the field, rather than stopping at the edge where the boys had, then their vehicle could have had four-wheel drive to get through the snow. And they would not have walked very far from it. He turned to the driver of the second car, a sergeant.

“You've got the shovels, right?”

“Yes, sir, they're in the back.”

“Start from over there, where he said he found the cap. Dig through the snow to see if you can find anything else. Like skis and poles. Or some object that could have been used to crack the victim's skull. Or any sign of struggle. Work out from that point until you've covered the whole area.”

They began the search and something was found almost immediately. It was not the murder weapon, but potentially almost as useful.

“Sir, you'd better come look at this.” The policeman stood stiffly, pointing toward his feet, not wanting to disturb what he'd found. The snow came up to his ankles. The inspector slogged toward the man, his borrowed boots at least a size too large. He reached him and peered at the spot. After a moment he removed a plastic evidence bag from his pocket, opened it completely and brushed snow into it.

“Good work. It could just be mud, but since the ground is frozen, it's more likely to be blood.” He held up the bag and they looked at the dark brown stain inside the clump of white. “We'll send it to the lab. Keep looking, we could find the murder weapon.”