The Last Enemy (24 page)

Across the street from Orlic’s apartment was a restaurant, and against its door leaned the officer Cenni had assigned to watch his designated chief suspect. Antonio Martini was working at one of his front teeth with a toothpick while watching with some interest a young backpacker dressed in hiking shorts as she walked up the steep incline headed toward Assisi’s main square. Observing Martini, while Martini observed the fräulein, Cenni reflected that he too frequently forgot that Elena and Piero were the best to be had at the Perugia Questura. He excused himself to Sergeant Antolini and walked across the street to confirm with Martini that Orlic was still inside her apartment. Martini, who had the grace to remove the toothpick while speaking to his superior, informed Cenni that Orlic had not stepped out of her apartment since late afternoon when she had returned carrying a bag of groceries. He also assured Cenni that she had no idea she was being watched.

The bell was answered immediately by a return buzz and a muffled shout of
avanti.
When the commissario and the sergeant rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, it was evident by the expression on Orlic’s face that she had not been expecting the police. She and Cenni exchanged looks for a moment, neither of them speaking, although it was obvious to the commissario that the woman was not sure if she should ask them in. Then, decision made, she moved to one side and pushed the door partly open, indicating by this grudging gesture that they might enter.

Cenni was momentarily surprised by the apartment’s lack of warmth and comfort, mainly, he admitted to himself, because it was difficult to accept that a woman of such beauty would live in such squalor. It was a bed-sitter of sorts, with an unmade single bed in one corner and little in the way of furniture to suggest its sitting room function: summer leavings of two white outdoor chairs; a green plastic table covered with gardening implements; a battered wooden dresser with four large drawers; and attached to the back of the front door, a clothing rack with six pegs, from which hung a motley collection of cotton print dresses, oversized cardigans, one good wool dress carefully placed on a hanger, a black winter cape, and a tan windbreaker. In a corner opposite the bed was a large cardboard box containing a jumble of shoes and boots. The single mirror in the room was turned to the wall. An upholstered chintz chair, its cotton insides protruding from both the arms and the back, was the premier piece of furniture in the room, and Orlic offered this to the sergeant before seating herself on the edge of one of the plastic chairs. Cenni seated himself on the remaining chair, not waiting for an invitation.

He’d had a quick look around while Orlic was clearing the seat for Sergeant Antolini and was disheartened though not surprised to see a large flower arrangement of exquisite color and form in the center of the dresser: Chinese red blossoms with yellow centers. Fallen petals on the dresser and the floor suggested that the blossoms were no longer fresh. If anything, Cenni thought, the beauty of the flowers diminished the room even further.

He launched immediately into the interview. Subtlety was wasted on Sophie Orlic.

“Signora, the flowers on your dresser, tell me about them.”

“They’re peonies.”

Cenni sighed. How quickly he forgot. No open-ended questions. “Why are they here, Signora, in your apartment,” he emphasized. “When did you buy them, where, how many, why?”

“On Friday, in Rivotorto . . . I like flowers.”

Her breathing had grown shallow, changing the timbre of her voice, but she continued to hold his gaze.

“Signora, how many?” he asked again.

“I really don’t know, as many as the florist would sell. You can count them for yourself,” she added, nodding to the arrangement on the dresser.

Cenni indicated to Sergeant Antolini to count the flowers and waited patiently, not taking his eyes off Sophie Orlic, who continued to sit, motionless.

“Twenty, Commissario, although two of them are without petals, just bare stems,” the sergeant reported after she had finished counting.

Sophie responded to this unintended criticism with vigor. “It’s hot in here and they weren’t fresh on Friday when I purchased them. The florist in Rivotorto takes flowers from another shop in Perugia when that florist can’t sell them. Italians aren’t terribly fond of peonies. They prefer traditional flowers—roses, carnations, mums. He still asks top price, though,” she added at the end of her surprisingly long speech, shrugging as though to say,
What would you expect!

Cenni observed that the only time Sophie Orlic was roused to animation—and that was seldom—was when she spoke about her flower business. He knew from Elena’s research that Orlic was doing reasonably well, with an ever-increasing list of clients. What does she spent her money on? he wondered, looking around again, this time openly, at the barren apartment. Certainly not on herself, and the report from Croatia stated that the daughter was in a public hospital.

Cenni held Orlic’s gaze, making it difficult for her to look away. He said, “One of my officers spoke to the florist in Rivotorto. You purchased eight peonies on Friday. The remaining lot, twelve to be exact, was delivered to the Casati home shortly after noon on Friday. The florist also said that there were no other peonies to be had from any of the other florists around here, that these were a special order from Turkey. How is it that you now have twenty?”

Cenni wondered if he’d been too quick to reveal what he knew about the peonies, but his doubt disappeared as he watched her hands clench. The only chance of obtaining the truth from Orlic was to confront her.

“The countess brought me twelve peonies on Friday afternoon. Only eight of those are mine,” she said, nodding to the arrangement on the dresser. “I forgot to mention it. The countess asked that I use her peonies in the Easter arrangement that I was preparing for the family vault. I had them with me on Saturday, in one of my flower baskets, as you may remember,” she said boldly. “Since then the vault’s been sealed, so I put the countess’s peonies in a vase with my own flowers. Simple enough,” she said smugly.

“Not simple at all, Signora,” Cenni replied. “The countess gave a sworn statement to me on Saturday that she didn’t leave the house until seven, and then only when she went with her husband to view the procession in the Piazza del Comune.”

The Croatian returned his gaze steadily. How was it possible that he’d ever imagined, even briefly, that she might be dull-witted? She had the intelligence and instincts of a world-class midfielder.

“Signora, again! How did you come to possess twenty peonies?”

“As I just told you! The countess brought them to me on Friday— at about four or five o’clock—I can’t say for sure.” She hesitated before speaking again. “Perhaps she’s forgotten. More likely, though, she’s afraid of the police, the way we all are. Or should be. Ask her again!” she said.

11

IT WAS NOW 5:15 and Cenni was standing outside the San Giacoma gate waiting for his driver to pick him up. The interrogation of Sophie Orlic had not gone well, and Cenni was embarrassed that it had taken place in front of Sergeant Antolini. He had permitted a woman—even worse, one not suckled on Dante—to best him, and not just about the peonies. He had tackled Orlic on a number of inconsistencies:

Question: “The previous week’s flowers, what happened to them? The vases in the Casati vault were empty when Minelli’s body was found.”

Answer: “How should I know? Lots of people have keys to the vault. Anyone could have removed them, even the American.”

Question: “Why didn’t you mention the missing flowers during your interview on Saturday?”

Answer: “You didn’t ask, and I had other things to think about.”

Question: “You deposited eight hundred euros in cash in your bank account on Friday evening. That’s a lot of cash. Where did you get it?”

Answer: “Most of my clients pay me in cash. I hold the money in my apartment until I have enough to make one large deposit. The banks charge each time you use the ATM.”

Question: “We’ve had two men with metal detectors combing the cemetery looking for the key you lost. They found nothing. Again, where did you drop the key?”

Answer: “I found it earlier today. It slipped through a small hole in the lining of my pocket. Would you like to see it?”

Question: “Our forensic team found your fingerprint inside Minelli’s billfold. You said on Saturday that you didn’t touch anything inside her purse.” This final accusation caused a slight, barely perceptible change in her affect. She swallowed before responding. But, as always, she offered the best possible answer. “They’re mistaken. I never touched her wallet.” She refused to budge from this last assertion.

He could have browbeaten Sophie Orlic into a confession, if not for murder than for something: theft, accessory, interference, lying (that would really give the Italian press a hoot—
Arrested for lying to the police!
). There were far too many inconsistencies in her story—stories! But he hadn’t the heart to bully a woman with her tragic history. And he still believed that she was innocent of Minelli’s murder. Covering up for the countess perhaps, or someone else in the family. Someone had given her the peonies. Just that morning, Carlo had accused him of being soft on criminals. Perhaps there was some truth in that, although he still had the best conviction record in the questura. Grilling suspects into making confessions was more in Fulvio Russo’s line. His convictions came from painstaking detective work.

The car pulled up and he slid into the back seat. He leaned back warily, closing his eyes. His headache was back. Tomorrow he’d have to decide how to handle the problem of Orlic’s print on Minelli’s wallet. Right now, he was due back at the questura for two more interviews—Paola Casati and her well-connected boyfriend. Montoni, now there’s someone I’d enjoy grilling into a confession, he thought, as the car moved silently down the country lane on its way to Perugia.

12

“WHY DID YOU buy the peonies?” the commissario had asked her, looking around the shabby room in amazement, as if she could have no appreciation of flowers beyond the money they brought in. What did he know of her life before Assisi? What did any of them know? Her beautiful home with its highly polished furniture and sage green wall-to-wall carpeting, a woman to help her with the cooking and cleaning, a wild-flower garden that had been featured in two magazines. A lifetime, destroyed in a few hours.

Even the countess, who referred to her as
My dear friend
, treated Sophie like a servant.
Sophie, be a dear, carry this upstairs.
Sophie, hand me my glasses, there, dear, right next to the sofa. Sophie,
you ironed a crease in that sleeve. Would you mind reironing it,
dear? The count is so particular about his shirts. Sophie, dear, what
would we ever do without you?
The countess had discovered very quickly, not even two weeks after her mother-in-law’s death, that she (and her husband) did very well without Sophie.

On Friday morning, at the wholesale florist in Rivotorto, Sophie had met two women from Assisi, friends of the countess. They had addressed her with great respect—
Signora Orlic this,
Signora Orlic that
—which Sophie knew was not usual from women in their position toward women in hers, women from Eastern Europe who cleaned their houses. Sophie was confident from the way they had praised her flower arrangements that they would soon become clients. A good sign! Sophie was always on the lookout for signs.

And then she caught sight of the peonies, blossoms of true red that shaded softly at the tips to a delicate strawberry color. The single row of wide cup-shaped petals appeared exquisitely fragile against the flower’s green foliage. She couldn’t see the centers but she knew they were the deep yellow of Sicilian lemons. They were behind the back counter, in the small refrigerator where the florist stored his special orders, out-of-season blossoms that he imported from Turkey for his wealthier patrons. Sophie had never purchased any flowers from that refrigerator. The cost of even one flower was dearer than six of most other varieties. But as soon as she had spied the peonies, she knew that she had to have them. It was the very flower that Sergio had picked when he’d made love to her for the first time.

The florist said he was very sorry but that Countess Casati had a standing order for any peonies that came his way. “I rarely get peonies of this quality, Signora, and the countess would be gravely offended if I sold them to you.” But after Sophie had offered double the asking price, he agreed to sell her eight of the twenty that he had in stock. “You’re one of my best customers,” he added, as he wrapped the flowers in tissue paper and handed her a receipt for forty-eight euros, her food allowance for two weeks.

The first time that she and Sergio had picked a
peony peregrina
, her grandmother had warned her that it was a flower sacred to the wood gods. And now there were twenty of them wilting on her dresser. What could she expect!

13

THE INTERVIEW WITH Paola Casati had gone exceedingly well. Piero had found her at a little after 4:00 PM sitting in the Bar Sensi, at one of the back tables by herself, smoking, drinking coffee, and staring off into space. She hadn’t protested in the least when Piero told her that the commissario would like to have a word with her. “Came along like a little lamb,” Piero said. And no members of her family had been around to protest on the lamb’s behalf. Cenni knew he’d have another morning visit from the questore if her grandfather found out, but he trusted Paola. From what she’d told him, she and her grandfather did not get on. Cenni had asked her not to talk to anyone, particularly not to her grand-father about their little talk. “Forget about it,” he’d cautioned her, “I know I will.” Paola was the only Casati he liked; he hoped it could stay that way.

Cenni almost always felt guilty when suspects, even the ones he didn’t like, were too easy to manipulate, perhaps because he hated taking unfair advantage. The police always went into the game with a two-goal lead. He disliked even more the inevitable role of bully, despite knowing that a good part of the job required exactly that, bullying the public into behaving itself. But with Paola Casati none of the usual tactics had been required: no promises, no threats, no charm. “Tell me about McDonald’s,” he had led off, and she had followed with a full confession.