(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder

by Donald Bain

  I returned his smile. “I don’t know about famous, but I am American and I do write books.”

  He was a large man with a craggy face accented by a large, broad nose, high cheekbones, and pink cheeks. Something about him was familiar. An actor perhaps? Or a politician? But he had all the trappings of a wealthy Italian businessman: three-piece suit, silk tie, large gold cuff links protruding from his jacket sleeves. What was also noticeable about him was the heavy aroma of aftershave.

  “You are much too modest,” he said. “May I?” He indicated the vacant chair.

  “Actually, I was about to leave and—”

  He sat. “I just want to tell you how much my wife and my daughters enjoy your books, signora. They are all translated into Italian and I believe that my wife has read every one. She anxiously awaits publication of the next.”

  “That’s kind of you to say,” I said, smiling. “Please tell them I write as fast as I can.”

  “I am sure you do,” he said. “I was wondering how you come up with your stories. You must be a very creative person.”

  Since he certainly didn’t fit the profile of most of my fans, I assumed he wanted more details to take home to his wife and daughters. I could have explained how I worked, but I didn’t want to prolong the conversation, as pleasant as he might have been. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I really must go,” I said, motioning to the waiter for my check, folding my napkin and placing it next to my plate.

  “A woman like you must lead a very busy life,” he said.

  I nodded but didn’t reply as the waiter placed a small silver tray next to me on which was a pen and the check showing my breakfast charge.

  I started to sign my name and indicate my room number when my uninvited visitor leaned closer. The man’s voice changed dramatically and he said in a low, menacing tone, “Go home, signora. Go home now and write your books. Don’t be a fool. If you stay and cooperate with the police, you will never get to write another book.”

  I looked up sharply and noticed that his three breakfast companions had risen and taken a few steps in our direction. I pushed back in my chair to put space between us, ready to make a commotion if necessary.

  The man stood and his smile returned. It was at that moment that I recognized him. His photograph had appeared in the newspaper Detective Lippi had shown me. What was his name? It came to me. Felice. Enzo Felice. The Mafia boss.

  “Buon giorno, signora,” he said. “It has been a pleasure talking with you.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” I muttered as Felice and his three colleagues walked from the room, stopping to say hello at a table of people who seemed to grovel in his presence.

  “Everything was satisfactory?” the maître d’ asked as I headed for the exit.

  “What? Oh, yes, everything was fine, thank you.”

  When I emerged from the dining room, Felice was still in the lobby, greeting people like a popular politician, shaking hands and slapping backs, his cohorts surrounding him, one on either side, the third bringing up the rear. The two men who’d been in the lobby when I’d arrived, and who I’d assumed were police officers, had gotten up and followed Felice and his entourage outside, where a long black limousine waited. Felice and his bodyguards got in; the men I’d assumed were police climbed into an unmarked car also parked at the curb and fell in behind as the limo joined the traffic. Well, they weren’t here on my behalf, I thought, disappointed.

  But someone else was. As I stood watching, a young man tapped my elbow. I jumped.

  “Scusi, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I did not mean to alarm you. I am Detective Amato. I have been assigned to be with you for the day.”

  “Did you see that man who just left?”

  “Enzo Felice? Of course. He’s everywhere. We have tails on him twenty-four hours a day.”

  “He came to my table and threatened me,” I said, not realizing that my voice was louder than I’d intended. Several people in the lobby turned to see what was happening.

  Detective Amato led me to a pair of chairs and indicated I should take one while he sat in the other; he removed a notebook and pen from his pocket. “Tell me, please, signora. What did he say?”

  I related the scene at breakfast as best as I could remember, my anger rising as I relived the conversation.

  “I am so sorry this has happened to you,” the detective said. “I assure you that he will not bother you again. I will stay out of your way, but please be confident that I will always be close.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said, meaning it. But the threatening words Felice had used haunted me as I went through the rest of the day.

  Despite the unpleasantness in the restaurant, I was determined not to let it send me scurrying back to my room to cower behind a bolted door. I purposely went shopping, defying those who tried to bully me, and bought small gifts to take home. I chose an outdoor café at which to have a leisurely light lunch while I watched the colorful parade of Romans and tourists enjoying the city. From time to time, I noticed Detective Amato trailing me, staying at a discreet distance, and I was grateful the police had kept their promise.

  At two thirty I returned to the hotel and waited in the lobby for Curso’s arrival. I recognized the red Ferrari when it pulled up to the entrance. Detective Amato escorted me to the car and opened the door, checking to make sure no one other than Curso was inside. Curso motioned for the detective to come closer. “I am driving Mrs. Fletcher to police headquarters,” he said. “I suggest you meet us there.” I half expected Curso to invite him to ride with us, but I couldn’t see how another person would be able to fit in the sports car. Even if he could have squeezed in, the detective undoubtedly would have declined the offer.

  I recounted for Curso the calls I’d gotten the night before and my confrontation with the Mob boss.

  “Yet here you are,” he said. “Others might have run away, gotten on the first plane out of Italy.”

  “I considered it,” I admitted, “but I feel even more strongly now about helping convict this young punk.”

  He laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Calling him a ‘young punk.’ It doesn’t strike me as a term you would use.”

  “I’m sure you’d be surprised at some other terms I use when I’m angry. Have you seen Vittorio today?”

  “No. Typical of him to be late. We were supposed to meet at your hotel for lunch, but he never showed up. He’s probably at the bar now, drinking his beloved grappa. We’ll look for him after you take care of your business with the police.”

  Detectives Maresca and Lippi were waiting for us when we arrived along with Detective Amato. They led us to a conference room where coffee and biscotti were served by a female officer. When we were seated, I described for them my encounter with Enzo Felice.

  “Unusual for him to deliver such a message personally,” Lippi said to Maresca.

  “It says to me that he’s especially concerned about what happens to Lombardi.” Maresca turned to me. “Generally, he’d have sent one of his goons to try to scare you off.”

  “Well,” I said, “I think he may have tried yesterday, but he didn’t succeed.”

  “What do you mean, Signora Fletcher?”

  I gave the detectives a brief account of the incident at the Spanish Steps, then waved away their apologies for not ensuring my protection. “It’s not important anymore,” I said. “I’m here. Are we ready for the lineup?”

  Maresca checked his watch. “They’ll be bringing in Lombardi and the stand-ins in twenty minutes.”

  “I wish I didn’t know his name,” I said.

  “Why?” asked Lippi.

  “It makes it, well, somehow personal.”

  “This young punk is personal?” Curso said. To the detectives: “Mrs. Fletcher called him a young punk.”

  “Please,” said Maresca, “don’t say such a thing in front of his defense attorney.”

  “He’ll be here?” I asked.

  “O
f course. Offer him nothing in the way of comment, Mrs. Fletcher. Simply view the lineup, pick out the man who murdered Fanello, and leave.”

  “Whatever you say,” I said, keen to get the whole matter over with.

  A uniformed officer entered the room and announced that the participants in the lineup were ready. Curso stayed behind as we followed the officer to a small room with a floor-to-ceiling window that spanned the wall. A heavy green drape was drawn across it. I was introduced to the prosecutor, a handsome young man with a pleasant demeanor. There was another man in the room, considerably older than the prosecutor and dressed more elaborately. His dark blue suit looked expensive, as did the multiple thin gold chains on his wrist and a gold tie tack that glistened in the room’s lights. Introduced to me as the alleged shooter’s defense attorney, he had a perpetual sneer on his deeply tanned face; I wondered whether it was for my benefit.

  Up until now I’d been relatively calm, but as the moment of truth arrived, I felt a slight quivering in my legs.

  “Ready, Mrs. Fletcher?” Maresca asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The curtain will be opened and the men will file in. There are six of them. Take your time and look closely at them. What is most important is that you be absolutely sure of your identification.”

  “If there is one,” the defense attorney said.

  “That’s right, Counselor, if there is one,” Maresca agreed with a sigh.

  “Where do you get the men to take part in the lineup?” I asked.

  “Mostly police officers who look somewhat like the accused, although we sometimes go out to the street to enlist a look-alike. Here we go.” He said into a microphone, “Open the curtain and bring them in.”

  I watched with fascination as the six men entered the brightly lit room on the other side of the glass. The room was devoid of any furniture. Behind the men was a marked chart on the wall against which their height could be judged. They were dressed similarly, in jeans, dark T-shirts, and sneakers. None wore a hat or glasses.

  “All right,” Maresca said into the microphone, “stand up straight and face the window.”

  He said to me, “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, step up to the window and take a long, hard look. There’s no rush. Take your time.”

  Although the six young men looked alike, I immediately recognized the one from L’Aquila. But I withheld announcing it because I didn’t want to appear to have rushed to judgment. I methodically took in each man’s face, going from left to right, from subject number one to subject number six. I could sense the tension in the room. My declaration had significant ramifications for the accused.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” Maresca said.

  “Number two,” I said.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I’d recognize him anywhere.”

  “If you’d recognize him anywhere,” the defense attorney said, “why did it take you so long to make the ID?”

  “I didn’t want to appear to be too hasty.”

  “I suppose you saw his picture in the paper along with yours.”

  Maresca interrupted the defense attorney’s challenge by speaking into the microphone. “Number two, please step forward.”

  The young man, whose name I now knew was Lombardi, took a few steps toward the glass. His expression was one of sheer defiance and anger, the same expression as when we had locked eyes in L’Aquila. Although I knew that he couldn’t see me, I had the feeling that he was challenging me.

  “You’re sure, Mrs. Fletcher?” Maresca said.

  “Yes, I am positive,” I said.

  “Thank you,” Maresca said to the men through the speaker system. “Please leave now.”

  The curtain closed.

  The defense attorney laughed. “This is a joke,” he said. “The event happened more than two months ago. It was a chaotic scene, people breaking into a church, guns being fired, a man shot to death right in front of you. Don’t tell me that you have a clear vision of him. It’s nonsense.” With that he stormed out of the room.

  Before I left, I gave an official deposition indicating that I had identified the suspect.

  “All I can say is thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Detective Lippi said.

  “I’m happy I was able to help,” I said. “Now, if you gentlemen don’t mind, I’d like to leave.”

  “Of course.”

  Detectives Lippi and Maresca accompanied Curso and me as we walked out of the building. Before we parted, Maresca asked how long I would remain in Italy.

  “I intend to book a flight for tomorrow,” I replied.

  “I ask because now that you’ve made your identification, I’m sure Felice and his men won’t be bothering you. Their intention was to intimidate you, to scare you off, which didn’t work. There’s nothing to be gained by threatening you again.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  “Buona fortuna, Signora Fletcher.”

  Curso and I drove to the hotel, where he looked for Vittorio. The big man wasn’t there; he hadn’t left a message for Curso, nor had anyone seen him.

  “Something is wrong,” Curso said.

  “You said he wasn’t especially punctual, Tony. Maybe he had too much to drink and fell asleep, or perhaps he simply forgot.”

  “Possibly, Jessica, but I’ll be uneasy unless I find out what happened. I’m going to drive up to Calcata.”

  “I hope everything is all right,” I said.

  “Will you be returning to Chicago?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “Well, I hope I’ll see you again.”

  He kissed my cheek and started across the lobby.

  “Wait, Tony,” I called after him.

  He stopped and turned.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. If I don’t, I’ll just spend the time worrying and wondering where he went. After all, you’ve drawn me into Vittorio’s life and your plans for him. I feel like—well, like part of the team.”

  “Good,” he said. “I would be grateful for the company.”

  He drove fast and skillfully, maneuvering the powerful sports car through Rome’s impossible traffic and really speeding up once on the highway. We parked where we had left the car the night before and walked into the village. The plaza wasn’t as busy as it had been during our previous visit, and I wondered why. We approached Vittorio’s cave, and I paused outside.

  “Something the matter?” Curso asked.

  “I had a chill, that’s all,” I said, looking around.

  “Stay here,” he told me as he entered the cave. “I will call for you if everything is all right.”

  I shivered, shook it off, then followed him into the gloomy interior.

  At the entrance to Vittorio’s studio, I saw the outline of Curso’s figure standing in the center of the room and turning in a slow circle. It was eerily dark in there; the lights were off and the only illumination was a shaft of light coming from the outside entryway, which I was partially blocking. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim surroundings. The first thing I noticed was that the paintings that had been stacked against the wall were gone. Then I saw the brown form crumpled against the opposite wall.

  “Tony?”

  “Yes?”

  I pointed.

  Curso muttered a string of profanity in both Italian and English and knelt beside the large man.

  “Is he—?”

  “Yes,” Curso said. “He is dead.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Vittorio had been killed execution style, with a single gunshot to the back of the head. Whoever had done it—and there was no doubt in my mind that the Mafia was behind it—had added a cruel afterthought. Grappa had been poured over Vittorio’s face and the half-empty bottle left propped against his cheek.

  I sat down heavily in one of the director’s chairs. “How horrible,” I murmured, more to myself than to Curso, who stood over the body, fists clenched, an anguished expres
sion on his face.

  With a pained sigh, he pulled out his cell phone and called Detective Maresca at police headquarters, informing him of the murder in Calcata.

  “They’re sending a squad,” he said as he sank into another chair.

  “I assume they want us to wait,” I said.

  “Yes,” Curso replied, “but not in here.”

  We left the cave and walked to the plaza, where activity had picked up. If any of the villagers were aware of the murder that had taken place in their midst, it wasn’t evident by their demeanor. There was a festive atmosphere. Musicians performed, artists set up their works in front of the small shops, and children ran around with abandon while their parents sat in cafés drinking wine or coffee in the late-afternoon warmth.

  Curso approached one of the artists, a matronly woman dressed in a flowing yellow caftan, and asked if she knew Vittorio.

  She laughed. “Sure, I know him, the big fool.”

  “Did you see him today?” Curso asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone leave his studio carrying many paintings?”

  “No.”

  I was curious about the same thing. There had to have been at least two dozen works in the cave when we’d first visited Vittorio. The only exit from the cave faced the plaza, and ferrying those works to a vehicle would have required someone to move directly through the center of town and across the square. Surely someone had to have seen the paintings being taken.

  Curso questioned a few other people, all of whom gave the same response. No one had seen anything. I decided to do some questioning of my own and approached a group of men seated at an outdoor café. There were four of them, three in their twenties or early thirties and the fourth an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair. Although the temperature was warm, the older man was wrapped up in what looked like a gray horse blanket, its color matching his unruly hair and shaggy beard. A thin half-smoked cigarette hung from his lips.

  “Scusi,” I said. “Lei parla inglese?”

  The old man stared at me through cold, dark eyes while two of his younger companions giggled, maybe because of my faulty pronunciation.