“No, I took her back to the hotel just after you left us last night at the wall. Well, not quite just after, but not very much later.” He shrugged. “Perhaps she had breakfast with her stepmother.”
Ten minutes later Rick and Betta walked into the Hotel Botticelli and asked for the room key. The desk clerk passed it to them along with a message asking Rick to call Signor Garcia, with his number. Rick took out his cell phone. “He may want to confess to the murder.”
“Just so he gives me the drawing when he does.” Betta held the paper so Rick could use both hands to enter the number into his phone. A very short conversation in Spanish followed, and Rick put the phone back in his pocket.
“Well, this is curious. He said he needs to talk to me. We’re going to meet in an hour, so I hope the Spanish consul doesn’t take too long.”
* * *
When Rick got to the police station the officer on duty told him to wait, that the inspector would be down shortly. It puzzled him as to why DiMaio wouldn’t have him come to his office, but he shrugged and looked around the large waiting room, deserted except for three other people. A woman was with a young man in his early twenties, whom he guessed to be her son. She stared straight ahead; he kept his eyes on his phone, a wire running from it to his earbuds. Playing his uncle Piero’s favorite game, Rick tried to guess why the two were waiting in the commissariato. The first possibility was a mundane one: the son needed some document that only the police issue, like proof of no criminal record, to be presented to another bureaucrat, in another government office, in order to get some public benefit. That was the most logical guess, but not very interesting. Better would be if they were there to report the disappearance of their husband and father, who had gone out the night before to bring home a pizza, and neither he nor the pizza had returned. He was straying from Piero’s game, which was intended to sharpen powers of observation, and instead creating fiction.
Rick sized up the man in the corner, who was dressed in a dark suit with a starched white shirt and striped tie. In the few seconds that Rick was watching him, the man had looked at his watch twice. Who still wore a watch? Rick hadn’t owned one in years, relying on his cell phone for the time, as well as for the news, GPS, sports scores, the weather, photographs, a dictionary, and notes to himself. He also made the occasional phone call on it. The man wasn’t that old, but everything about him indicated he wanted to be seen as being older than he was. Rick the translator came up with a few appropriate words: Prim? Yes. Punctilious? Maybe. Pedantic? Perhaps. He was scrolling through his mental thesaurus when DiMaio appeared, looked around the room, and walked quickly to him.
“Thanks for coming, Riccardo. That’s the consul sitting over there, and I’d rather not bring him up to my office or it could take forever. If you could start things off by making some excuse for me, that will help.”
“Ci penso io,” said Rick, using the Italian equivalent of “leave it to me.”
The man watched them approach, his eyes lingering a moment on Rick’s cowboy boots, and then got up when it appeared they were heading for him and not the woman with her son. Rick shook his hand firmly and spoke in Spanish, trying, but mostly not succeeding, to add a Castilian lisp.
“Señor Consul, I am Rick Montoya, the interpreter for Inspector DiMaio. He is mortified that he cannot receive you properly in his office, but he has been interrogating a prisoner there, and it is in—shall we say—some disorder. He hopes you will forgive him.”
The consul’s eyes widened and he looked at DiMaio, who, not understanding a word, smiled and bowed his head slightly before shaking the man’s hand.
“But…but…I don’t need a translator.” The words were stammered in Spanish. “I mean…” He continued, but in Italian, “I don’t need a translator.”
“Excellent,” said Rick, now in Italian as well. “Then I’ll just sit here in case there is some word that either of you may need assistance with. It’s my pleasure.” The three sat on the bench, DiMaio in the middle inclined toward the Spaniard.
“How can I help you?” DiMaio asked.
The consul did his best to get back his composure. He took a deep breath and put a concerned look on his face. “I have come regarding the investigation of Manuel Somonte’s murder.”
“I assumed that,” said DiMaio.
“He is, or rather he was, a most important man in Spain. He had many friends. In very high places, even in the Foreign Ministry.”
“I see. It would be natural of them to be concerned that the investigation is being given the very highest priority by the Italian authorities. Anything less would be seen as unacceptable.”
The consul nodded his head in a deliberate way. “I think we understand each other, Inspector. Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me exactly how the investigation is proceeding and what your conclusions have been to this hour.” He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest.
DiMaio rubbed his chin and frowned. He was about to say something when Rick bent his head around the policeman’s shoulder. “Signor Consul, I’m sure you can understand the implications of your question. Were the inspector to give you any details, it would mean that you would have to give implicit approval of…” Rick rolled his eyes toward the door from which DiMaio had just emerged. “Of the methods used by the authorities here. If that were to come to the attention of the press, it might put you in a rather delicate position. Of course, if that is not a concern…”
The Spaniard raised a hand. “No, no, I have complete confidence in the Italian police. I certainly didn’t want to give the impression that I thought otherwise. My main concern was to convey the embassy’s appreciation for the, uh, work that you’re doing on behalf of a citizen of my country.”
This guy will go far as a diplomat, Rick thought.
“Buon giorno.” The three men jumped to their feet as Pilar strolled toward them. On this morning she had gone casual: tight jeans and a turtleneck sweater. “If this is something important, I will not interrupt. I can wait over there.” Rick detected something in her tone that was different from the previous evening. Didn’t she sleep well? Had she and Alfredo had an argument?
“No,” said DiMaio, “not at all. This is the consular representative of your embassy. Signor Consul, may I present Signora Pilar Somonte, the daughter of the deceased.”
The consul’s eyes widened in equal proportion to the squinting of Pilar. She took a moment to size up her compatriot before speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. DiMaio edged away, Rick right behind him.
“What’s she saying?”
“I’ll translate.” Rick listened to Pilar and spoke in DiMaio’s ear. “She is not happy with the support the consulate is providing… She just called him a pin-headed bureaucrat… Why had he contacted the widow and not her as well?… She plans to talk to the ambassador…she will also contact the Foreign Ministry when she gets back to Spain… She just called him another name I didn’t understand that I’d guess is regional slang and not at all flattering.”
The outburst had gained the attention of the woman at the other end of the bench, though her son was still deep into his cell phone. All during the tirade the consul nodded his head but said nothing except the occasional “si.” Finally he mumbled a few words to her, excused himself to DiMaio, and made for the door.
Pilar stood there until he was outside. She turned to the policeman, then to Rick. “I’ll have to see you later, Alfredo, when we’re alone.”
Rick watched her go, then looked at Alfredo, who was staring at the ground. Something was happening, but Rick decided this was not the time to ask DiMaio what it was. They sat down on the bench and said nothing for an uncomfortable minute before the policeman spoke. “Well, Riccardo, I’m so glad we all had the chance to meet the consul. It was certainly a pleasure chatting with him, wasn’t it?”
“A lovely man.”
More silence, broken by Rick.
“Pilar seems a bit agitated this morning, don’t you think?”
“You could say that.”
“It may be something in the culture. Iberian drama. Which reminds me that I ran into Signora Somonte yesterday outside in the parking lot. She was coming to see you.”
“I’m sorry to have missed her.”
“I’m sure you were, Alfredo. She asked me to tell you that you should not assume it was an Italian who murdered her husband.”
DiMaio chuckled. “Her dislike of Pilar appears to know no bounds.” He clapped Rick on the shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did with the consul. I suspect I won’t be bothered by him again.”
Thanks to Pilar as well, Rick was going to say, but thought better of it. He looked at the woman and her son, and recalled his uncle’s guessing game. “Alfredo, you don’t happen to know why those two are in here, do you?”
DiMaio leaned forward, looked down the bench, and leaned back. “Signora Posilipo. She comes in every day at this hour to take orders for anyone who has to eat at their desk; then she brings the food back at lunchtime. She makes a dynamite vincisgrassi.”
“The guy with her?”
“Her nephew. He teaches semiotics at the university.”
They got up and started walking toward DiMaio’s office. “Do you want a coffee, Riccardo? I need one; I’ve been up since six.”
“Not for me. Garcia wanted to talk with me, and I’m meeting him in about fifteen minutes. You should come with me.”
The inspector thought for a moment. “No, Riccardo, it would just take more time with the interpreting between Spanish and Italian. Plus, I have to go back to the crime scene at Bruzzone’s shop. Garcia may well open up more without a policeman there. Did he ask to see me as well?”
“No.”
“Then he wants to talk to you alone. Don’t forget to ask him where he was this morning. You can tell me this afternoon what he said. I’m sure you’ll remember everything.”
“I’ll try.”
* * *
Betta had expected that the director of a famous museum located inside one of Italy’s architectural treasures would have an impressive office, and that was certainly the case. She had been in many spectacular offices in Rome, starting with that of the Culture Minister, but they had nothing on the room where Vitellozzi toiled. To begin with, there was the view: the hills of Le Marche spreading like an undulating green carpet outside the windows. Her eyes then were drawn to the ceiling frescoes where a parade of allegorical figures marched among clouds and exotic birds. A wavy geometric pattern flowed through the tiles on the floor, and gilded puti looked down from decorations above doors and windows. With all of that in competition for a visitor’s attention, no additional art was needed, but the museum director had hung two paintings in ornate frames on the wall opposite the windows. He didn’t have the pick of the collection—the famous masterpieces had to be on public view—but Betta was sure there was enough art available that didn’t fit in the main rooms to provide him with a good selection. She was surprised that he had chosen a rather obscure sixteenth-century artist whom she recognized only because she’d seen his work in the museum in her native Bassano. It was a style she favored, with deeper colors and thicker brushstrokes than were fashionable among the artists of that period.
Vitellozzi rose from his chair behind a desk made from one large plank resting on sawhorses of the same aged wood. A small stack of files made up the only paper on a working surface that also held a phone, computer, and cantilevered desk lamp. Unlike on the previous day, he wore a white shirt with a tie of conservative design. His dark suit jacket was draped over the desk chair, and he made no move to slip it on, a subtle indication of where he placed Betta in the pecking order of the Italian cultural world. That impression was confirmed when he motioned for her to take a seat at the meeting table at one side of the room rather than in one of the comfortable upholstered chairs arranged near his desk. This was to be all business, which suited her fine. The required coffee offer was made and politely declined, and he settled into the place at the head of the table.
“Thank you for seeing me again, Dottor Vitellozzi.”
He waved a hand to indicate that thanks were not necessary. “You must forgive me for the chaos yesterday, but it ended well. By the evening, the exhibit was in place, and all that needs to be done today is to bring in the food and wine. We will see you this evening, I trust?”
“Yes, it will be a pleasure.”
He pushed back the chair and crossed leg over knee. “It is on days like this that I am reminded how fortunate I am to be the director of a magnificent institution like this. Who would not want to work surrounded by some of mankind’s most magnificent creations? And that includes this palace, of course.” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “You know, this room may have been a hideaway for the duke when he wanted to get away from his court. There’s no historical evidence to prove it, just conjecture, but I like to believe it’s true. Can’t you just picture him sitting here reading one of the many books in his famous library, occasionally looking out over the hills of his dukedom? Perhaps pondering the ideas of great philosophers or planning his next military campaign? Who knows what ideas were spawned in this very room?” He sighed. “But you have not come here to consider the life of Federico da Montefeltro.”
It was a different Annibale Vitellozzi, and not just because he was more formally dressed. This was a contemplative, mellow museum director rather than a brusque, harassed exhibit-hanger. Betta had been ready for the same personality, and ready to dislike the man. Now she wasn’t sure. Would he today be more likely to open up about Somonte?
“Yesterday I neglected to ask you if Somonte had the drawing with him when he visited you here.”
Vitellozzi looked up at the mythological commotion on the ceiling as he tried to remember. “The drawing.” His eyes returned to Betta and he nodded. “Yes, he certainly did. Had it in a leather case that he seemed quite proud of. I had not seen the sketch when Bruzzone put it on sale, since without any funds to purchase it, there was no reason for me to go look at it then. It would have only increased my frustration.”
“As you must have felt when you finally did see it.”
“I can’t lie to you—I was angered as I held it in my hands. I’m sure that Somonte sensed my anger, but he seemed to enjoy it. He was that kind of person.”
“So you think that was the purpose of his dropping in?”
“Ostensibly he came by to talk about the arrangements for tonight. As I told you yesterday, he was paying the bill for much of the event, and he wanted to know about the program. I was planning to recognize his contribution and thank him, of course, and I still will, though the tone will be more somber. His widow will come, I assume, and she will be the one thanked.”
Betta changed the subject, but only slightly. “The leather case has turned up.” She watched his reaction carefully.
“The…the case with the drawing? It was inside?”
“No, it was empty.” She took her phone from her pocket and hit the screen while Vitellozzi watched with a puzzled look on his face. After a moment, she turned the screen toward him. “Is this the case he had?”
He went to his jacket, took out a pair of glasses, and put them on before returning to the chair and leaning toward the phone. “Yes, that looks like it.”
“Which confirms what Somonte’s daughter told us.”
He flinched for a second time, but not as convincingly. “Daughter? Is she here?”
“Yes. I think she’s planning to attend this evening.”
“She will be most welcome, of course,” he said, somewhat regaining his composure.
Betta could almost hear his mind working, likely thinking about the need to change his speech that evening. Pilar would have to be included when he recognized the Somonte family’s sup
port for the exhibit. He might also have been wondering if she and the widow would consider continuing that support in the future. Betta briefly considered telling him that the daughter and wife didn’t exactly get along but decided it wasn’t her role to do so. He would find out soon enough. Or perhaps he knew already. Was he really surprised to find out that Somonte’s daughter was in Urbino? Betta was about to put the phone away when she thought of something else and pulled up another picture. Again she showed it to Vitellozzi.
“That’s an entry ticket for the museum, of course. You can read it. Is that also some kind of clue in your investigation? Everyone who comes in here gets one, unless, like you, they have a pass from the Cultural Ministry.”
His tone indicated that he had decided to go on the offensive. Betta turned off the phone and put it in her pocket. “It was inside the leather case. Perhaps put there when Somonte visited you the day he was murdered. Even major donors have to pay the entrance fee?”
“Only people who work at the Cultural Ministry can get in without paying. He might have been given the senior discount, but Somonte could afford to pay full price.” He was growing impatient. “What is the next step for you, Dottoressa?”
It was a natural question, and Betta didn’t know how to answer it, even had she known what her next step would be. “I am following up on some leads.” She knew it was a weak answer and was quite sure he knew it as well.
He uncrossed his leg and leaned toward Betta. “Surely you have to believe that the person who killed Somonte has the drawing. Even if he was not murdered in order to get it, the killer must have it, or at least know where it is.”
“I’m not sure which is worse: that this person has the drawing and understood its value, or did not and has thrown it away.”
“If he knows the value, it may not turn up for a while. The killer could lay low and wait years to put it on the black market. But you are on the art theft squad; you know more about how such things work than I.”
Was he baiting her? “For not knowing much about stealing art, your scenario is quite convincing.”
To Die in Tuscany Page 15