“Montoya.”
“Montoya, this is Crispi.”
“Yes, Inspector. I was just going to call about coming to see you again.”
“I hope you have something to tell me.”
Rick looked at the ancient archivist, who seemed oblivious to the conversation. “Probably nothing of any consequence, but a few details.” In truth he had nothing but hunches and conjecture, but he didn’t want to say that he’d promised Rondini to get anything new on the case from the policeman. “Shall I come to the questura now?”
“Where are you at the moment?”
“In the archives of the Gazzetta.”
If Crispi was intrigued by Rick’s location, it didn’t show in his voice. “I am not at the questura. I will send a car for you. It will be there in five minutes.” He hung up.
Inspector Crispi as his usual loquacious self.
The police car arrived four minutes later, just as Rick was coming through the glass doors of the building. He got in the front seat, and after a short exchange of greetings, the car made a sharp U turn and drove away from the center of the city. He considered asking the driver where they were going, but the policeman didn’t appear to be the chatty type. What would be the reason to meet at someplace other than the police station? The car took them quickly to the edge of the city where even a decade or two earlier there would have been fields rather than structures. The houses they passed were cement boxes devoid of personality, despite attempts to add color and life through window boxes and shrubbery. They were almost into exclusively agricultural land when the car slowed down. Rick could see a police vehicle parked in front of a house that looked like it had originally been part of a farm rather than new construction. Age was difficult to judge in farmhouses, but this one looked to date from early in the twentieth century, or even the late nineteenth. In a few more years it would be surrounded by newer construction, even a housing development, as the city seeped outward. The house consisted of two stories, like a square two-layer wedding cake, with a balcony running around the entire second floor. Separate from the house sat a garage, which could have originally been a storage shed, and behind that, rose a tall metal windmill like the old ones Rick had seen in New Mexico. A quarter of its blades were missing, the vane was rusted, and it looked like it hadn’t turned in years. Three people stood at the base of the windmill: a woman, a uniformed policeman, and Inspector Crispi. They were looking up at a man sitting on the small platform next to the blades, his legs dangling over the edge.
“What’s going on?” Rick asked when he reached Crispi.
The inspector turned his attention from the man above to the new arrival. “Afternoon, Montoya. He won’t come down.”
The sitter stared back toward the city, oblivious to the group below. He was dressed in canvas work overalls, the knees wrapped with orange strips that caught the sun as the legs swung back and forth. Heavy boots, a dark blue sweat shirt, and a knit cap completed the outfit of a highway construction worker.
“Excuse me, Inspector,” Rick said, “but what does this have to do with the murder of Roberto Rondini?”
In reply he got a puzzled look from Crispi. “Rondini? Nothing, of course. Do you think I have the luxury of dealing with only one case at a time? I needed to talk to you and this is where I happen to be at the moment.” He jerked his thumb upward. “Here with Lando.”
“Why is he up there?”
He glanced at the woman. “Let’s go over to the house and I’ll tell you.” They had started to walk when Crispi stopped and turned back to the windmill. “You’ve made your point, Lando,” he shouted up at the man who continued to stare at the horizon. When they were out of earshot of the group, Crispi stopped and took a deep breath which spoke more than words about the present situation.
“He came home early from work because of a water main break and found his wife with the neighbor.”
Rick looked around, wondering in which of the few houses he saw the neighbor might have resided. “In flagrante?”
“They were having coffee in the kitchen. Both fully clothed.”
“But Lando is the jealous type.”
“It appears so.”
Rick dug his hands into his coat pocket. The temperature was noticeably lower out in the country than in town. Perhaps the cold would get Lando off his perch. “Do you have some news on the Rondini investigation, Inspector?”
“We were contacted by your hotel about an hour ago. Someone called and left a threatening message for your capo. ‘Tell the American that he should leave immediately or he will be in grave danger,’ was what the desk clerk remembers. It was a man’s voice. Of course the American could be you, but I doubt it. There are no other Americans registered in the hotel at the moment except you, Rondini, and his secretary. I wanted to talk to you before we speak with Mr. Rondini.”
“There was a similar message yesterday, written on a note and left under the wiper of the car.”
For an instant Crispi’s normally bland expression changed almost imperceptibly to a frown. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“It didn’t appear serious enough to waste your time. It could have just been a prank.”
“My time will now be wasted on it. Did you keep the note?”
“I think the driver threw it away.”
Crispi nodded his head slowly. “And now the prankster has returned, likely annoyed that his first message wasn’t taken seriously.”
They were interrupted by the shrill voice of Lando’s wife. Rick couldn’t make out what she’d said, but from the tone and the way she was shaking her fist he concluded that her words did not convey much tenderness.
“So you will talk with Rondini?”
The reply was another nod. “With your help. My English is minimal. This threat is just another small detail added to an already murky case, making it messier but no more conclusive. I am not in the good graces of my superior for pursuing it, since he preferred Roberto Rondini dying in a tragic accident. I’m not sure how he will react to this development.”
Rick recalled what his uncle had said about Inspector Crispi’s relationships with the rest of the police force. It was impossible to read anything into the inspector’s comment, to know if he was concerned about his boss, or with anything else. The words were said as if he was describing what he’d had for breakfast.
“What else have you found since we last spoke?”
Rick looked back at the windmill before answering. All the players were still in their places, looking up at Lando. “Rondini had lunch today with Livia Guarino, and I was present. She is coming around to the possibility that her father was murdered.”
“Which would argue for taking her off the list of suspects. Go on.”
“The lunch was mostly about family and how her father loved the river, but she did talk about that plot of land. She doesn’t know what to do about it, and asked Rondini’s advice. Their neighbor, Fiore, was against any kind of development, and the two men used to argue about it. By coincidence, Fiore was having lunch at the restaurant and came to our table.”
“And?”
“The normal exchange of pleasantries, as you would expect. He asked Rondini if he’d seen the sights. He knows that Rondini is a developer, and I’m guessing he made a connection in his mind between Rondini’s appearance and the possible sale of the land to build a shopping center or factory.”
“Is there a connection?”
“Pure coincidence, as far as I can see, but I’m still not Italian enough to see plots behind everything.”
“Just give yourself time, you’ll come around to it. What else of interest?”
“After the lunch there was something. We gave Signora Guarino a ride home, since her husband didn’t make it because of an appointment, and had dropped her at the restaurant. When we got to her farm there were demonstrators at the gate.”
“We got in without incident, dropped off the signora, and got out without a problem, though they squeezed in close to the car. By coincidence, when I was looking up Rondini family stories in the Gazzetta just now, I came across a photo of the man who appeared to be the leader of the demonstrators. The caption with the photo said his name is Domenico Folengo.”
“Yes, Folengo. He is, as the saying goes, known to the police. We have never actually arrested him, but he has been detained temporarily for getting too boisterous in his demonstrations. The issue is always the same, what he sees as environmental destruction in any and all forms. We had a case of vandalism early this year, some construction equipment had tires slashed and windows broken, and we suspected it was Folengo’s doing, but couldn’t find evidence to justify bringing him in.”
“What does he do when he’s not demonstrating?”
“Not much. He lives off an inheritance from a wife who died a few years ago. He spends all his time saving the world. It would be nice to have family money, wouldn’t it?”
Rick assumed that Crispi’s question didn’t require an answer. “Something else I found in the archives was interesting, regarding the fishing association that Roberto Rondini was active in.”
“I knew that he was a fisherman, of course. What did you find?”
“When Rondini was elected to the board, the former president resigned. The man’s name is Sandro Bastoncini.” Rick passed him the piece of paper with the name. “I couldn’t tell if it was in protest to Rondini’s election, or something totally unrelated, but he might be someone you’d want to talk to. If nothing else, he can tell you about Rondini’s activities in the fishing group.”
Crispi studied the name and then slipped the paper into his pocket. “Another person who likely won’t be of any help. But you are correct, it may at least give me some more insight into the fascinating private life of Roberto Rondini.”
“In that regard, how did the interview with the woman go?”
“As expected. Add Letizia Bentivoglio to the list of those who think it couldn’t be an accident. She said Rondini was getting moody in weeks before, set off, she thinks, by the anniversary of his own father’s death. Concerned with his own mortality. Going to some funeral a few weeks before he died didn’t help his mind-set. He was also bothered by the uproar when people found out he was thinking of selling that plot of land.”
“The demonstrators? This guy, Folengo?”
“Must have been.” Crispi looked over at the scene around the windmill. Nothing had changed. “I did a background check on Signora Bentivoglio and didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. She’s never done anything to bring her to the attention of the authorities. I also checked on Roberto Rondini’s farm manager, Carlo Zucari, but that was different.”
“How so?”
“About twenty years ago he was arrested for assault and did prison time after an argument in a bar that led to violence. He almost killed a man in a rage. He somehow got himself a job at the Rondini farm after he was released, and he worked his way up to the manager position. We don’t often find instances of an ex-convict turning himself around, but that was the case with Zucari. I can’t help but wonder if he really is a changed man, or if the violence was simmering below the surface.”
“What would be his motive?”
Crispi looked at his watch and up at the man on the windmill. “That’s what puzzles me. Rondini gave him a chance after prison, so why would he want to do in his benefactor? It also puzzles me why Rondini gave him the job in the first place, but we’ll likely never know. Maybe he’s ready to jump.”
The last sentence was uttered after they heard some commotion coming from the windmill. Lando had taken his eyes from the horizon and was now engaged in an animated conversation with his wife. At one point he waved his arms wildly, almost losing his balance, and she screamed. Their voices lowered and the uniformed policeman, who had been joined by Rick’s driver, edged away from the metal ladder that extended up to the platform, to give them privacy. Slowly, as Rick and Crispi watched, the man began climbing down the ladder. When his feet were about ten feet off the ground, the woman said something that Rick couldn’t make out, and Lando’s head jerked around, causing him to lose his balance and start to fall head-first toward the ground. His wife screamed again as the nearby policemen rushed toward the base of the windmill. Crispi stood and watched. It was Lando’s turn to scream as his left ankle caught in a rung, keeping him from falling all the way to the ground but causing great pain. Grunting and struggling, the two policemen managed to extract the foot from the ladder and get him down without further complications. It was a toss-up as to which was now louder, Lando’s groans or his wife’s admonitions. Crispi walked to the small group, gave orders to the two policemen, and returned to Rick.
“They’ll get him into one of our cars and take him to the hospital. They should examine his head as well as his ankle, when he gets there.”
The two policemen got Lando to his feet, put his arms over their shoulders, and he hobbled on one foot between them toward one of the cars. The scene reminded Rick of an injured linebacker being taken off the gridiron with a torn ACL, his wife following behind in the part of the team doctor. After Lando was squeezed into the back seat of one of the police cars, his wife got in the front and they were driven off toward the city.
“I’m not sure if that was a good outcome or a bad one,” said Rick.
Crispi watched the car disappear down the road. “She may break his other leg before the night’s over.” He pointed at the other car where the second policeman awaited them. “Get in, we’ll go talk to your capo.”
“I’m the one to get the threat, and the hotel calls the cops? What am I, chopped liver?”
Rick interpreted Rondini’s second question as “I should have been told first”—not a direct translation, but it got his boss’s point across. They sat on white leather chairs in a corner of the hotel lobby with Rick taking the interpreter position between the two of them. The policeman, who had little experience with Americans and even less with those raised on the East Coast, appeared intrigued by Rondini’s manner. At least that’s the way Rick interpreted the slight squint in Crispi’s eyes.
The inspector did not attempt to justify the hotel management’s decision. “Would you like me to assign a policeman to the hotel, Signor Rondini?”
Rick sensed that Crispi’s offer was pro forma. He also expected Rondini to turn it down.
“Montoya will keep his eye on me. And my assistant is trained in the martial arts.”
Another facet of the multifaceted Lexi Coleman, Rick thought as he interpreted.
“In addition, Inspector, I would not want to keep any manpower from helping you to solve my cousin’s murder. Can I assume you believe these threats are connected to the crime?”
Crispi rubbed his stubble before replying. “You have declined my offer for protection, Mr. Rondini. Would you change your mind if I told you there is a connection? The fact is, I don’t know. But if there are any other threats, no matter how they are delivered, you must promise to contact me immediately. Signor Montoya has my number.”
“I will do that,” said Rondini after getting it in English from Rick. “And you must promise to inform me if there are any developments in the investigation. You have Mr. Montoya’s number.”
In a battle of wills, Rick was certain that Rondini would come out on top. Inspector Crispi was good, but out of his league.
“Signor Rondini, I have just told Signor Montoya what I know, he will be pleased to inform you and we won’t have to go through the translation. I really must return to the questura. Please be careful.” Crispi didn’t wait for Rick, but got to his feet, bowed stiffly, and walked to the door, leaving Rick and Angelo seated.
“Is he pissed off?” Rondini asked after the policeman
had left.
“His manner is always the same, so it’s difficult to tell. Are you sure you don’t want police protection? It might be a good idea since someone appears to be unhappy with your presence in Mantova.”
“We don’t need a cop getting underfoot. If you have to take down some kook who attacks me, I’ll pay you extra. You look like you could handle it.”
“Is bodyguard part of Lexi’s job description?”
“It could be, Language Man, it could be. Which reminds me that she should be made aware of what is going on. I didn’t want to say anything, since she has enough to do, but you’d better tell her all about it.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. After that big lunch, I’m staying in tonight, so you are again assigned to take her to dinner. Tell her everything.” He removed his glasses, took out a handkerchief, and started to clean the lenses carefully. “Now what does that cop know about the murder of my cousin?”
Rick was initially surprised by what got Lexi’s attention, but when he thought about it, it made sense. She was, after all, Angelo’s assistant, and her main focus would be on the business, not on possible murder suspects.
“Do you think Angelo’s niece asked him to come here because he develops shopping centers?” she asked.
“I really don’t know. She knows what his business is, but she could have found that out after she decided to track him down and invite him to the funeral. But the same thought crossed his mind.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I told you he’s very suspicious of people’s motives.”
“Or perhaps it’s just his Italian genes,” Rick said.
She had requested a less formal restaurant than the previous night, wanting to see “the real Italy,” as if affluent people eating in an upscale ambiance wasn’t really Italian. It was something about many American tourists that intrigued Rick, their idea that rustic meant genuine. The place this evening was brightly lit, noisy, and small, its wooden tables squeezed into a long, rectangular room that ended in the door to the kitchen. A few shelves built into niches were lined with dusty wine bottles, and the rest of the bright red walls were covered with art by local amateurs. No tablecloths this time, only brown paper place mats stamped with the restaurant logo, a plump goose. The menus were hand-written and stained. Strong aromas, which would have stayed in the kitchen in most restaurants, floated through the air. Lexi loved it.
A Funeral in Mantova Page 10