Murder Most Unfortunate (15 page)

The door was ajar. Rick pushed it and peered into a room filled with what appeared to be office supplies. Lights on the walls illuminated the scene. Cleaning equipment, including mops and buckets, had been pushed into one corner next to a sink. Beside the sink sat three large bins marked with triangular recycling symbols. Two were empty, the other overflowing with shredded paper. About a dozen boxes of supplies lined a set of metal shelves or were stacked neatly on the floor.

“Signor Innocenti?” His voice wavered.

There was no answer, but he thought he heard something coming from the far corner. He walked toward it and found another door, also slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped into another room that was well lit by a large overhead fixture, its light glaring off the tiled floor. A shelf on one side of the room held more boxes of supplies, but also two paintings whose style was strikingly familiar to Rick. His heartbeat quickened. Sitting in a wood chair opposite the two works sat a man who now turned his attention to Rick. As he did, he lifted a pistol from his lap and aimed it at Rick's chest.

“You were expecting someone else, Mister Montoya?” Stefano Porcari's face showed indifference but then broke into a grim smile. “Don't be alarmed that Innocenti may be in any danger, Riccardo, he and his lovely daughter are safe. It is only you who have gotten yourself into this predicament.”

“What kind of predicament, Signor Porcari? Did you think I was coming to rob your bank?”

“That is exactly what I think. How good of you to come to that conclusion so quickly. I trust Inspector Occasio will do the same when the evidence is handed to him on a silver platter.”

Rick surveyed the room and felt his palms beginning to sweat. Next to Porcari were more boxes, these with stenciled marking for the Banco di Bassano. Forms, Rick guessed; all banks needed forms. This must be the rear part of the bank building, the storage area. Otherwise, except for the two paintings, the room was bare save a pointed metal object on one of the boxes next to the chair.

“I'm sorry that I do not have another chair for you, Riccardo, but the floor will serve when the time comes.”

The room was not large. Rick calculated that the banker was about a dozen feet from him, too far to charge and get away with it. He would get Porcari's eyes somewhere other than on him, so he could edge closer.

“I suppose you think I was going to steal those paintings.” He gestured at the two framed works on the shelf and the banker glanced at them. Rick moved a few inches toward him.

“Those paintings? You could have had them just by asking.” He stared at the bright colors on the two, as if in a trance. Rick inched closer. “They are the reason all of this started, my dear Riccardo. Look at those wonderful masterpieces. But of course you know all about them, Sarchetti told you at the bridge.”

Rick couldn't keep from looking. What did the man mean? What did Porcari think that Sarchetti had told him? “Sarchetti told me nothing about any paintings at the bridge. I don't understand what you mean.”

“That charlatan sells me these pieces of trash and then gets drunk and brags about it. I know that's what happened.” He turned his attention back to Rick, who had managed to move an inch closer, but still not close enough. The gun moved back and forth in the man's hand. “That's of no consequence now. Everything will work out for the best. Who would have thought that the interpreter would be the murderer of two men? Perhaps you learned such skills in America. Such a violent country.”

The words drove home the fact that this was a man who must have killed two men already. This time it would be with a gun and not a knife. Rick concentrated on his plan. It was the only way to save himself. “Why would the police think I was a murderer, Signor Porcari?” He was stalling for time, but the situation did not look promising.

The narrow smile returned to the banker's face. “It's too perfect. You break into the bank to steal paintings like those that you admired on the walls of my office. I happened to have mentioned to you, when you visited, that I had two new masterpieces in our storage area.” He noticed the frown on Rick's face. “Of course I neglected to say that when we had coffee, but the police will believe me. Inspector Occasio considers me the very picture of honesty.”

Rick's breaths were coming shorter now as he understood Porcari's plan and realized the genius of it. The banker, aware of his guest's discomfort, smiled and continued.

“The security cameras near the outer door will show you entering. And the door has been jimmied open by nothing less that the knife that killed Sarchetti.” He waved his hand over what Rick now realized was a short, wood-handled dagger. “Your fingerprints will be on it, of course. And I, working late, heard noises in the back of the bank, and came to investigate. Fortunately, I am armed with this gun which I have a license to carry. We law-abiding citizens must be sure to follow the rules, and you know that we always have to be prepared for an attempted bank robbery. Usually the thieves are after cash, but why not paintings?”

“You thought everything out, Signor Porcari. But one part of all this I don't understand.”

“The least I can do for you, Riccardo, given this final service you are about to perform for me, is clear up any misunderstandings. What is it?”

“Why did you have to kill Fortuna?”

The question caused Porcari to shake, making Rick regret the question, even if it bought him a few precious seconds. The gun wavered while remaining trained on Rick's chest.

“The man would have ruined me,” he said through clenched teeth. “That's all you need to know.” He lifted the gun with unsteady hands.

Rick raised his hands defensively, in a reflex movement, when Betta screamed behind him. Porcari's head jerked toward the doorway and Rick leaped at him. The chair collapsed under the weight of the two men, but Rick grabbed the wrist that held the gun and forced it up. He was surprised by the strength he felt in the man's arm.

“Betta, get out of here!”

His voiced was drowned out by shots from the waving pistol. Two bullets slammed into the opposite wall as the men struggled on the floor. Rick kept his two hands on the man's wrist, pushing the gun away, but the banker had better leverage, gripping it firmly while pressing the barrel back toward Rick. Porcari growled as his free hand struck out at Rick's face, punching him above the eye. A few drops of blood dripped into the corner of the left eye, blurring his vision. The man was on top of Rick, pulling the fist back for a second punch, when his arms sagged limp and surprise stiffened his face into a grimace. He groaned in pain and the gun clattered to the floor. Rick shoved the man off, grabbed the pistol, and got himself to his feet. He was ready to aim at Porcari, but immediately saw that the man was no longer a threat. The knife protruded from Porcari's shoulder and he gasped in pain. Betta stood above him, arms taut, breathing heavily.

“A doctor…a doctor. You must help me.” Porcari clutched at his bleeding back but the knife was just out of reach. As he twisted in pain the weapon dislodged by itself and hit the tiles with a metal clank.

Betta kicked it expertly to the other side of the room, far from the man's reach. “It doesn't look that serious. I've had worse injuries falling off a motorcycle. Keep that gun ready, Riccardo.”

Rick trained the pistol on Porcari with one hand and pulled out his cell phone with the other. “I'll call DiMaio.”

“No need, I already did when I got your message on my phone. I knew my father wasn't planning on meeting you and the address was strange, so it smelled like a trap. With two dead bodies already, I thought you shouldn't take any chances.”

They kept their eyes on Porcari as they talked, oblivious to his short, groaning breaths. “Did you tell DiMaio that you were coming here yourself?”

“He didn't ask, so I didn't tell him.” She gave Rick a quick grin. “He would not have approved, and if I hadn't come, where would you be now?”

Rick nodded, and watched Porcari writhe on the cold tiles. “You've got a point, Betta.” They both looked up when the faint sound of a police siren made its way into the room. “DiMaio and the cavalry.”

“Riccardo, look at that!”

Rick tensed and his eyes jerked down to Porcari. “What?”

She was staring at the shelf with the two paintings. “The missing Jacopos, the cause of all this, and now they're damaged.” She walked to the shelf and raised her finger to touch the bullet holes. One was almost in the center of the left painting, the other at a corner of the second. “Was he aiming at them? They make it intact through wars and revolutions and now, after all those centuries, this happens.”

Rick shook his head. “Unless I've got everything completely wrong, Betta, those two paintings are not our missing Jacopos. They are—” The sound of brakes, doors slamming and feet in the outer store room cut off his sentence. DiMaio appeared in the doorway, stopped, and took in the scene.

“I thought you'd never get here, Alfredo. Did you stop for a coffee on the way?”

***

Rather than the deluge of the previous day, only a few thick drops splashed over Bassano as Rick and Betta walked slowly along the stone street, her shoulder tucked under his arm. Bassano's good citizens, expecting the rain, were now nowhere to be seen except for an occasional soul hurrying home. The street lights had been on for an hour, but their rays did not reach into the darkened doorways of this narrow lane that was mostly shops and offices, now closed for the day. They had not spoken since leaving behind the flashing lights of the police cars on Via Lombardia, but now Rick felt Betta breathe a deep sigh and knew she was ready.

“How can you be sure that those are not the missing Jacopos?”

She could not see his smile. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask. Those two works had been sold to Porcari by Sarchetti, he as much as told me so when he trained the gun on my chest. But Fortuna told him they were fake. Porcari knew that the nasty professor would have broadcast to everyone that he had spotted the forgeries. The banker would have been exposed as having used bank money to buy forgeries, which would have ended his career at Banco di Bassano and eliminated his chances of working in any other bank. Just as bad, the man's reputation among art collectors was ruined. Fortuna had to go. As did Sarchetti, for having sold him fakes in the first place. And when he thought Sarchetti had told me about the whole affair, I was going to be next.”

Betta stared at the pavement, a frown crimping her red lips. “I got that, but what you haven't explained is why you believe that the two damaged paintings couldn't have been our missing Jacopos.”

“I might be wrong, but I think the two Jacopos, had they been offered to Porcari, would have been outside the bank's price range. He told me as much when I visited him at the bank.”

“So they remain missing. The mystery continues.”

“I have a hunch about who has them.”

The comment had the expected effect, Betta stopped short and turned to face Rick. “What? Riccardo Montoya, you tell me everything this instant.”

“You sound like my mother.” He tousled her hair. “Let me check something out after I drop you off. I don't want to give you my theory and then have it turn out to be my imagination. One way or another, I'll tell you everything when we have dinner.”

She reached up and patted the bandage above his eye. “Are you sure you don't need that looked at by a doctor?”

“Now that you have touched it, the healing is complete.”

“What a romantic scene.” The slurred voice growled from a darkened doorway before the man lurched out into the street, blocking their way. He wore a dark suit under a leather coat, his tie knot loose and askew.

Betta clutched Rick's arm. “It's my ex-fiancé.”

“We've met.”
I hope this one isn't armed
.

Chapter Thirteen

“Carlo, you're drunk.” Betta clutched Rick's arm. “Go home, you'll get yourself in trouble.”

The man swayed slightly and his eyes shifted between Rick and Betta. “And who will give me any trouble? Certainly not him.”

Rick watched Carlo's body swaying before him and noticed the bloodshot eyes, making it easy to size up the situation. If he were careful he should not have much trouble with the guy. He had successfully faced bigger challenges in Albuquerque bars, and many of those weren't as drunk as Carlo. So why not tie up some loose ends? His hands dropped to his sides and he rubbed his palms slowly along his coat. “Is this what you do for Porcari, follow people around?”

Carlo's body stiffened, like he'd just been slapped. It was just the reaction Rick had hoped for. “What I do at the bank is of no interest to you.”

“It is if you become a danger to other drivers.”

Betta looked up at Rick. “What do you mean?”

Rick kept his eyes on the unsteady figure before them. “Carlo knows what I mean. You were trailing Sarchetti for your boss weren't you?” There was no response. “But then you saw Bettta and me on the motorcycle, and that got your interest, didn't it? You decided to follow me instead.”

“What I do for the bank is no business of yours,” he repeated. He was obviously clenching and unclenching his fists.

“You said that already. You even got up early to see where I went jogging. Someone could have been hurt.”

“Riccardo, what do you—?”

“I'll explain later, Betta. I want Carlo to know that what he's been up to the last few days hasn't gone unobserved.”

“My boss will—”

“Your boss is on his way to jail, Carlo. He won't be able to help even his most loyal employee. Now go home as Betta suggested.”

Rick knew what was coming and had planned to react. Carlo stepped forward and pulled back his fist to strike. Rick smacked him in the knee with his boot with a cracking sound. The man howled in pain, giving Rick a look of hate just as Rick's fist caught him square in the jaw. He crumpled to the ground.

“Let's get you home, Betta, Carlo will be a while getting up.”

A slurred shout reached their ears, but they were too far away from the man on the pavement to understand it. Betta squeezed Rick's arm as they turned the corner. Later, as they walked into Piazza Monte Vecchio, Rick was still answering Betta's questions. “I didn't want to worry you. The wire was a nasty prank, but nothing came of it, and at that point I didn't know if it was intended for me or Caterina. The way she reacted, not wanting the police to be told, makes me think that she's into something nasty herself.”

Betta stopped and looked up at the lighted windows of her father's apartment. “Will we ever find out about Caterina? This morning my father was wondering the same thing.”

“The mystery woman. My guess is that she's returned to Milan after the excitement of her morning's run, and we'll never know what she's really been up to.”

Betta slipped her arm inside Rick's coat and around his waist. Her hands were cold, but he didn't complain. “Riccardo, this sounds terrible, but all this excitement has given me an appetite.”

“A bowl of pasta does sound good. I have something to do at the hotel but then I'll be back. Think about where you'd like to dine.”

“And you will tell me your theories about the missing Jacopos.”

By then, they may not be theories
.

***

The hotel lobby was deserted except for one person sitting in a chair on the far side. Unfortunately for Rick it was Erica, and as usual she was dressed perfectly. She stood and waved, and he reluctantly walked to her and planted the required kisses on her cheeks. There was that perfume again. He noticed that her smile was brighter than he'd seen it since she'd barged back into his life. Had it only been a couple days?

“Come sit with me for a moment, Ricky. I have something to tell you.”

“Sure, but for just a minute.”

He sat down next to her on the sofa and was surprised when she took his hand in hers. “Ricky, I have decided to stay with Jeffrey.” Rick opened his mouth to speak but she held up her hand to stop him. “But what I want to tell you is that I couldn't have made the decision without your help.”

“Erica, I did nothing.”

“Oh, yes you did. I will always be grateful.” She squeezed his hand. “Jeffrey has been pushing me to set a wedding date, and now we will. Sometime before the summer, I think. You will be invited, of course. You'll come, won't you? He wants to rent a villa in Tuscany and invite all our friends from the States. Destination weddings in Italy are very much in vogue these days, but I'm thinking Umbria. Tuscany has been overdone. ”

The woman will never change.

“Erica, that's great news, and it will be an honor to be invited to the big event, wherever it takes place. Listen, I really must go. Dinner appointment. Give my best to Jeff.” He got to his feet. “
Ciao, bella,”
he said before walking off.
“Tanti auguri
.” Though it might be Jeff who needs the good luck, he thought as he approached the reception desk. Erica was making the right decision, but probably for the wrong reasons. Still, if the outcome was the correct one, did it really matter? That's the question—was it truly the correct decision?

His mind moved quickly to the next issue at hand. The clerk looked up from his computer, passed over the room key without being asked, and returned to the screen. Rick weighed the heavy metal number in his hand before getting the clerk's attention.

“Is Professor Gaddi in his room?”

The clerk checked the various cubicles. “His key is out, so he should be. If you'd like to call him it's room 214.”

“
Grazie
.” Rick walked past the niche where the house phone sat and continued to the elevator. He got off at the second floor and walked past several doors before reaching the right one. After taking a breath he rapped twice. He heard footsteps and then a voice.

“
Chi è
?”

“Riccardo Montoya, Professor.”

When the door opened Rick was struck by Gaddi's appearance, beginning with the man's hollow eyes. They looked like they hadn't seen sleep for days, and the stubble on his face added to the haunted look. A tie hung loose from the frayed open collar of his wrinkled shirt. The smile was forced, for appearances' sake.

“Riccardo, I was not expecting visitors. Let me invite you in. Fortunately they have given me a room which allows me to do so. Two chairs, if you can believe it.” He stood back to allow his visitor to enter. The small sitting area had the chairs as well as a television that was tuned to the national news. The usual generic mountain scenes were framed on the wall. Beyond another doorway would be the bedroom and a bath. Rick thanked him and took a seat.

“We are still under house arrest, Riccardo.” He rubbed his chin as if just realizing its need for a razor. “Let me turn off the news, there's nothing that will cheer us up.” He pressed the remote that had been sitting on the table between them and the screen went dark. When he put it back down he noticed the glass of wine on the table. “Can I offer you some wine, Riccardo? It's from the little refrigerator, so it's not the finest.”

“No thank you, Professor.”

“And what brings you here, Riccardo? To share the misery of our forced confinement? Bassano is a lovely town, but not when one is required to remain in it.” He picked up the glass and brought it to his lips.

“The forced confinement has come to an end, Professor. The murderer of the two men has been apprehended.”

The glass, still full, returned to the table. “Really?
Grazie a dio
. I shall be able to return home. How do you know?”

Rick saw no reason not to recount the scene in the bank warehouse, though he did not go into detail about the struggle. He watched Gaddi carefully when he came to the part about the two paintings, now each with a bullet hole. The professor listened and sipped his wine.

“You were fortunate to get away safely, Riccardo. But how strange that Porcari would have resorted to such violence. It makes sense now that you've tied everything together, but I would never have suspected him.” He studied the ruby liquid in his glass, lost in thought.

“My friend Betta thinks that the two paintings are the missing Jacopos.”

Gaddi came out of his trance. “Does she?”

Rick leaned forward. “But I do not think either of those paintings is a Jacopo, Professor. And I believe you don't either.”

The weary cast of Gaddi's face was now mixed with sadness. The two men looked at each other in silence, broken after a few moments by the older man. “I don't understand what you mean, Riccardo.” The indignation in his voice, if that's what is was, appeared forced.

“I saw Sarchetti last night after dinner, before he was killed, and he was in high spirits. The visit to Bassano had gone surprisingly well, he told me, without going into details. But since he was a businessman who dealt in buying and selling art, my assumption was that he had made a deal, and a very lucrative one. Today Detective DiMaio mentioned in passing that you had met with Sarchetti yesterday afternoon.” Gaddi's face remained unchanged. Rick continued. “My friend Betta's name is Innocenti. She works with her father at their gallery in Piazza Monte Vecchio, Arte Innocenti.” A flicker of something appeared in the old man's eyes. “You went to the gallery and made some vague inquiries about buying and selling art. I found that curious. But it started to make sense when I heard about your meeting with Sarchetti. I had always found it strange that the man was at the seminar in the first place, but now it all comes together. What better place to meet to talk about selling paintings by Jacopo Bassano than at a seminar about the master himself?”

Rick watched as Gaddi got to his feet, walked slowly to the other side of the room, and stopped. He spoke to Rick but his eyes were somewhere else. “Riccardo, two memories of my childhood have stayed with me all my life, and they both deal with my father. The first was his activities in the war. He was barely a teenager when he slipped out of his home in Padova and joined the partisans. He never wanted to talk about it, even when I asked him. It was that way until he died. But my uncles filled me in, and at the funeral I met many of the men he'd fought beside, one of whom told me how my father saved his life.”

Gaddi walked to the table and took a long drink of the wine while Rick waited. “My other memory is of my father's love for art. Where he acquired it I never discovered, but since he worked in a factory, everything he knew was self-taught. He was certainly not a rich man, but he collected whenever he could, and our home was filled with color. I would sit in front of a painting on a small stool and he would tell me about it—the use of color, the composition, the symbolism. When I am in front of a class I always think of those times. The love of art was what he passed on to me, and I made it my life work. He died after I got my first professorship and taught my first class. I remember him sitting in the back of the lecture hall.”

The old man swallowed hard and did not meet Rick's eyes. He stayed on his feet.

“One day when I was about ten, I got into the attic of our house. I had been told never to go up there alone, since it was dark, dusty, and dirty, but like any child I was curious. Among all the old furniture, boxes, and books was an ancient trunk. I thought it would have treasure or something equally valuable, and when I opened it I found two paintings wrapped in cloth. They were beautiful works, even at that age I could recognize it. The next day I wanted to ask my father about them, why they weren't on the walls with our others, but I knew I would be in trouble if he found out that I had gone to the attic by myself.

“I forgot about it, grew up, went to the university and started my profession. It was only when my mother died and I was forced to go through my parents' belongings that I got into the attic again and again came upon that trunk. By that time I had taken on Jacopo da Bassano as one of my specialties, and when I unwrapped the cloth from the two paintings I realized what I had in my hands.”

For the first time since starting his story, Gaddi looked directly at Rick. “But I also realized how the paintings had come into my father's hands. My emotions were a mixture of elation and shame. For weeks I wrestled with myself over what to do, and I finally decided that my father's reputation was more important than returning the two works to the world of art. So I kept them, knowing that some day it would all have to come out, but long after my father was gone.”

He walked out of the room and Rick could hear water running in the bathroom sink. Gaddi returned with a filled glass and set it down next to the now-empty wineglass. Rick waited as the man put his thoughts together to continue.

“Last year my wife became ill. I believe I told you about that when we met at the museum. When she could not be cured by our local doctors, I became desperate. They told me there was a specialist in Switzerland who might be able to help, if I could get the money together from friends and relatives. I knew that would be impossible, but I remembered the two Jacopos. I made some discreet inquiries, without revealing anything, and was told about Franco Sarchetti. I contacted him and we agreed to meet here in Bassano.”

Rick waited a few moments to be sure that the professor had finished. “From what I've heard about Sarchetti's reputation, he was probably the perfect man for the sale.”

Gaddi returned to his chair and took a sip of water. His voice now was hoarse. “He knew he had me over a barrel, and I'm sure he had some prospective buyers in mind. In that meeting yesterday we finally settled on a price. It would have taken care of my wife's treatment, but I'm convinced it was a small fraction of the true value of the two. What made me most ashamed was that these masterpieces might never see the light of day again. They'd be prisoners in the private collection of some millionaire. For a scholar, that was like a knife in the heart.” Rick was about to speak, but Gaddi held up his hand. “Let me show you. You will understand.” He walked into the other room and Rick could hear a door opening, then closing. When he returned, Gaddi was carrying a long, thin suitcase. He laid it on the carpet and pulled a zipper that went around three sides. Carefully he opened the flap and removed two cloth sacks. His hands were shaking as he pulled the two painting from the sacks and set them against the wall.