To Die in Tuscany

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To Die in Tuscany Page 14

by David P. Wagner


  “But Vitellozzi didn’t mention that Somonte had brought the drawing with him,” said Rick. “He said they talked about it, but he didn’t say that he’d seen it.”

  Betta pulled her phone from her pocket and took a picture of both the ticket and the case before she slipped them back into the evidence bag.

  “There’s another possibility,” said DiMaio as he sealed it up. “The ticket could be from an earlier trip Somonte made to Urbino.”

  “Or it wasn’t his ticket,” Rick said. “Someone put it there.”

  Betta sighed. “The bottom line is that we still don’t have the drawing and that it’s more likely he was killed to get it.” She looked at Pilar. “I shouldn’t be talking like this—it must upset you.”

  “No, I’m all right, really. Seeing the leather case brought back some memories, but they weren’t especially pleasant ones. I’m fine.”

  DiMaio was about to put his arm around her but stopped when he noticed the other policemen watching them. Instead he turned to Betta. “Vitellozzi is the one key person in this case I haven’t talked to yet. I’ll go see him tomorrow and ask him if Somonte was carrying the drawing when they talked. If Somonte did have the drawing that day, I have to wonder why he didn’t mention it to you two. It’s not as if he didn’t know the drawing was missing.” He watched as the old man got to his feet and started down the street. The inspector walked to him and slipped something into his hand and got a puzzled look. Then he shuffled off under the glare of the man in the bathrobe. “We needed to give the barbone something for finding the case, even though it didn’t contain the drawing.”

  “That was good of you, Alfredo,” said Pilar.

  DiMaio shrugged. “Perhaps you should go back to the hotel with Riccardo and Betta. I may be a while here.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Alfredo, do you want me to go with you tomorrow to see Vitellozzi?”

  “Thanks, Betta, but since you and Riccardo talked to him this morning, I should do the follow-up. I’m not sure which one I should see first, though, Vitellozzi or Professor Florio.”

  “Florio?” Rick asked. “Why Florio?”

  DiMaio pointed at the building next to that of the concerned citizen, who was still standing in his bathrobe outside his front door. “That’s Florio’s office. And behind this wall are the botanical gardens. Either Florio is involved and is not very smart about hiding evidence, or he’s being set up as a suspect. More likely it’s neither and our murderer simply decided to dump the leather case here since it was convenient. Either way, I’ll have to talk with Florio. I hope I don’t have to listen to another harebrained theory about who killed Somonte.”

  * * *

  Clad in a red UNM sweatshirt, shorts, and running shoes, Rick leaned over the counter and studied the city map with a groggy desk clerk who had just come on duty. Together they worked out a different route for the morning run. Rick had wondered if the steep streets could be avoided, but the only way to make it at all flat would be several turns around the parking lot below the castle, and Rick ruled that out as too boring. Instead, the clerk traced a percorso that would take Rick along the southern walls of the city, then on the appropriately named Via delle Mura before reaching a main street to return him to the hotel. Rick raised the option of running along the road he and Betta used in and out of town, but the clerk ruled it out, saying the lack of path would make it too dangerous, even if there was little traffic at that hour of the day. Rick thanked him, stuffed the map into his pocket, and walked to the door.

  Unlike the previous morning, the city saw no fog. The sun had not yet come over the spires of the palace, but enough light seeped through the sky that the streetlamps, though still lit, were not needed. After some stretching Rick ran to the corner and turned left and climbed the hill to the small square where they had received the call from DiMaio the night before. Except for a small sanitation truck emptying wastebaskets, it was deserted. He made a sharp turn and ran onto a street he hadn’t been on before, Corso Garibaldi. Was there a law that required every city in Italy to name a street after the hero of the Risorgimento? The buildings on either side closed in on him, forming a stone canyon that echoed his footfalls. After a short distance, the western side of the duke’s palace loomed above him, extending all the way past ornate balconies to the two rounded towers high above. Perhaps one of those balconies opened off Vitellozzi’s office, a luxurious perk for the museum director. If his story that he’d received Somonte in his office was correct, they might have looked out over this street.

  Rick lowered his gaze and jogged on as the surroundings changed from stony urban to natural green. Tall, leafy trees blocked any view of the buildings above him on the left, and on the right side ran a brick wall, beyond which opened up the splendid countryside of Le Marche. He could see for miles, which was exactly the reason the city’s battlements had been built there. Some of the hills and valleys were thick with forest, while others showed patches of open fields. Here and there a tiny building broke up the green with a block of earthen brown. The street now changed names to Via Matteotti, honoring the anti-fascist politician murdered by Mussolini’s thugs in 1922. Rick recalled reading about the case in an Italian history class. Unlike Somonte, Giacomo Matteotti had been stabbed to death.

  Rick was beginning to get winded and recalled that Urbino’s elevation was a mere fifteen hundred feet. After Albuquerque’s mile-high trails, such elevation was nothing—was all this time in the lower altitude of Rome taking its toll on his endurance? He hoped not. Passing a grassy ravelin and rounding the rampart, he kept his eyes on the undulating terrain. It was made up of hills, not mountains, but farming must have always been difficult for the people of the region. Which may have been one reason why Federico da Montefeltro made his fortune as a soldier of fortune rather than a farmer.

  Following the signs for the Porta Lavagine as the clerk had suggested, Rick began climbing the narrower Via delle Mura, which ran along the top of another layer of Urbino’s wall system. He passed the Hotel Bonconte, which looked very pleasant, its windows facing the views below the walls. Too bad Alfredo didn’t suggest they stay there; it looked like a winner. He stopped next to the wall and took out his map to pinpoint the hotel’s location, noticing as he scanned it that the street running parallel below was the Via dei Morti. Why hadn’t Somonte’s body been dumped there? Shaking off the macabre thought, he put away the map and continued his run. The street was descending now, but he knew there would be another climb before he got back to the hotel, and it came at the Porta Lavagine, a narrow city gate where Via Battisti began the ascent to the city center.

  Except for the window planters, the greenery was gone, and Rick was once again immersed in medieval stone and wood, or modern stucco and glass. But at least a few pedestrians now added a human feel to the street, making their way to a coffee bar, shopping for the pick of the best vegetables, or hurrying to an early appointment. A few glanced at him as he puffed past. Apparently early morning runners were not a rarity, perhaps thanks to the college students. At the top of the climb he found himself back at the intersection where he’d begun, a large loop complete. He considered but quickly rejected a final grind up Via Raffaello and back, instead loping down to the Botticelli.

  Betta was coming out of their room when he was a few steps from the door.

  “A good run, Rick?” She looked at the sweat stains and took a step back. “It appears so. I’ll see you in the breakfast room. Enjoy the shower.”

  “And you look especially lovely,” he called as she disappeared down the hall.

  Twenty minutes later he sat downstairs with Betta enjoying a second cup of strong coffee with hot milk and peeling the rind off a Sicilian blood orange. Crumbs from the first part of his breakfast littered the plate. He glanced around the room, noting two tables of aging British tourists, or at least whom he thought to be British given the tea they were drinking and their
shoes. Shoes, at least on older generations, were a giveaway for spotting Brits.

  “Was Pilar here earlier?”

  “I didn’t see her. She may have had other sleeping arrangements last night.”

  Rick feigned shock. “I hope she simply got back late and slept in.” He split his orange into pieces and popped one in his mouth. “Mmm; this orange is excellent. Have a slice.”

  Betta reached across the table but stopped when she heard her phone ringing. She took it from the table and checked the number. “Alfredo. Or Pilar using his phone. Hello?”

  The smile disappeared as she listened. Rick could hear the voice of DiMaio but was unable to make out the words.

  “We’ll be right there.” She hit a button to end the call. “It’s Bruzzone, the art dealer. Someone tried to kill him.”

  Chapter Nine

  When Rick and Betta turned the corner, it was déjà vu from the previous evening. Two police cars, engines running and lights flashing, lined up in front of Bruzzone’s art gallery. A uniformed policeman at the corner kept other vehicles from entering the street, while another standing next to the police cars ordered pedestrians to stay away from the gallery door and keep moving. As they approached, Rick remembered that he had considered extending his run up this street. Could he have missed the chance to be a witness to the attempt? Betta showed her identification to the policeman outside the door, and he waved her and Rick inside.

  DiMaio stood next to the display case talking on his cell phone, but the action was inside the tiny office at the back of the shop. There Bruzzone, dressed in his same business suit, was bent over in the one visitor’s chair squeezed into the space. He held a bloodstained cotton handkerchief to his forehead and stared at the floor. Behind him, between the still-cluttered desk and the wall, a policeman wearing rubber gloves worked a knife blade into a hole next to the bulletin board. DiMaio ended his conversation and slipped the phone in his pocket.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Betta said.

  The inspector glanced back at Bruzzone, whose chalky face contrasted with the red on the handkerchief. “No, it doesn’t. He had just come in and was sitting at his desk checking emails when someone burst into the shop, raised a pistol, and aimed it at him. He hadn’t turned on the lights in this room yet, so he didn’t get a good look at the person. When he saw the gun, he ducked down behind the desk but hit the edge and took a gash out of his forehead. The man fired just as he was ducking under the table.”

  “He’s sure it was a man?”

  “He’s not sure of anything, Riccardo. He thinks the guy was wearing a mask, or sunglasses, or something covering his face. What he remembers is the pistol, and how it was pointing at him, and how he instinctively ducked down. After the shot, he heard footsteps going back out and the door slamming. That’s when he called us.”

  Betta looked around the room, which seemed unchanged from when she had been in the shop. Her hand lifted the hinged top of the glass case and then eased it back down. “Nothing was taken?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Dottoressa Innocenti, is it not?” Bruzzone had gotten to his feet and was walking toward them.. He held the cloth with his right hand. “You will excuse me for not shaking hands.” He looked at the bloodied handkerchief for a moment before pressing it back to his head.

  “You may need some stitches, Signor Bruzzone. I’m sure the police will drive you to the hospital.”

  “Yes, yes, there will be time for that later. When the inspector is done with me. And this gentleman? Another agent of the art police?” He noticed Rick’s cowboy boots but said nothing.

  DiMaio introduced Rick as someone assisting him in the investigation. “Do you have any sense of why someone would do this, Signor Bruzzone?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He looked at DiMaio and then at Betta. “I was helping the police, of course, and whoever killed Somonte didn’t appreciate it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Inspector, I mentioned some names to your colleague here, and someone must have found out.”

  “But—”

  “You cannot be blamed, Dottoressa. This is a small city, and the arts community within it is even smaller. Word gets around quickly about something like a murder and stolen piece of art. So you must…”

  He began swaying and Rick took hold of his arm.

  “Thank you, Signor Montoya. I think I’m all right now. But perhaps I should have this head looked at. It’s beginning to throb. Do you have any other questions, Inspector?”

  “No. If I do I’ll ask them later when you feel better. Let me get you into one of our cars to take you to the hospital.” He took Bruzzone’s arm and led him out the door.

  “Rick, do you really think I’m responsible? I may have mentioned to some people that I talked to him, but…” She put her palm to her forehead. “O Dio, Bruzzone is right, isn’t he? It’s my fault.”

  “Betta, whoever took the drawing had to know that the authorities would interview anyone who had anything to do with it. Even if you hadn’t mentioned your meeting with Bruzzone to anyone, it would be logical that he and all the others would be visited by the police.”

  She grasped his hand. “I hope you’re right, Rick.”

  DiMaio came back through the door and stopped. “He’ll live, only because somebody was a bad shot. But if the gunman—or woman—was standing here, it would not be easy to hit Bruzzone sitting at his desk.” He put his outstretched hands together, pointed an index finger at the office, and squinted. “It would be a difficult target for a handgun, which is what I assume was used, and if the person had no firearms training, the tendency would be to shoot high.” He lowered his arms.

  “Betta is concerned about what Bruzzone said.”

  DiMaio shrugged. “You’re no more to blame for this than I am, Betta. The real culprit is the guy who shot at him. My question is motive. Assuming the shooter is the same one who killed Somonte, why would he want to get Bruzzone? Does our killer think Bruzzone knows something and wanted to keep him quiet?”

  “He was pretty quick to blame me,” said Betta.

  “Yes, you would be a convenient scapegoat, and that makes me suspicious,” said DiMaio.

  “If it was a warning to Bruzzone to keep quiet,” said Rick, “I imagine he got the message.”

  DiMaio looked around the room and into the office where the policeman was still working away on the bullet hole. “Perhaps I should take advantage of his absence to look around his office. From the looks of it he won’t notice that it’s been searched.”

  “Ecco,” said the voice from the office, and the policeman came out holding his hand palm up. The three of them peered into his hand where a small, squashed piece of metal lay on the gray rubber of the glove.

  “Almost certainly a match for the bullet we took out of Somonte,” said DiMaio. “Not a surprise, since we don’t usually get two shootings here in a month, let alone a week. But we’ll check to confirm it. Thank you, Sergeant.”

  The policeman slipped the slug into a plastic bag and made his exit. When he was out the door, DiMaio said, “I think I’ll do a quick search of Bruzzone’s office before getting back to the station. Can I ask you another favor, Riccardo?”

  “Of course.”

  “The Spanish consul wants to talk with me. He may not speak Italian very well.”

  “Alfredo, unless the Spanish diplomatic service is very different from that of other countries, he has to speak Italian if he’s assigned to Italy. But if you want me to be there just in case, of course I will.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back at the station in about a half hour. See you then.” He started toward the office but stopped. “I’ll be tied up with this crime scene for the rest of the morning after seeing the Spanish consul. Betta, why don’t you go to the Galleria Nazionale and talk to Vitellozzi. What were we going to ask him?” He
rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t get much sleep.”

  “If Somonte had the drawing with him when he visited the Galleria. Of course, I’ll go.”

  DiMaio rubbed the stubble on his cheek. “I appreciate both of you coming here, but I’m afraid it doesn’t help you very much, Betta. The drawing is still missing.”

  “But Alfredo,” said Betta, “the murder has to be connected to the drawing. It must be that whoever tried to shoot Bruzzone knows where it is. When we find the murderer, we will find the drawing.”

  DiMaio stared at her with tired eyes. “I know you want to find the drawing, Betta; we all do. But you have to face the possibility that Somonte’s murder and the attempt on Bruzzone have nothing to do with the drawing.”

  They stood in silence until Rick spoke. “Something else occurs to me. To state the obvious, the person who killed Somonte was the same one who came in here and shot at Bruzzone.”

  “That’s correct,” said DiMaio, “unless two people are involved in the crime and they took turns shooting at people. They would want us to think there was only one shooter. But I interrupted you, Riccardo. Go on.”

  “I was going to say that anybody who can prove they were somewhere else this morning when Bruzzone was attacked should be off the hook, even if their alibi for the night of the murder was weak. But if we have two accomplices, it won’t matter.”

  DiMaio considered the observation. “Well, I didn’t get much out of people when I asked them where they were the night of the murder, so I have my doubts that asking where everyone was this morning will help. But then I’m a confirmed pessimist and the lack of sleep is making it worse.” He rubbed his eyes. “But, yes, let’s find out where everyone was an hour ago. Betta, you can ask Vitellozzi, and I’ll call Florio and Morelli. Rick, if you could call Garcia, that will cover him and Signora Somonte, though I doubt if they’re involved.”

  Rick noticed that DiMaio left out one name. “We didn’t see Pilar at breakfast this morning, Alfredo. Did you keep her out late?”

 

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