His enthusiasm for looking around waned, he got a room and went right to bed after making several ridiculously expensive withdrawals from the mini-bar.
#
The flight was tense. Antonio introduced the man as Umberto Santo. Antonio didn't explain who he was beyond the name or why he was along. Alexis had not pressed and figured she could ask later, when her friend had stopped sweating.
The crime scene was near the peak of the mountain where people stopped before they gave the Stelvio Pass a go. At the very peak was a hotel; the caretaker who lived there was found rolled off the road, where it had slid three meters. Alexis, Antonio and Umberto were shown every inch of the crime scene.
The officer on the scene didn't speak English and seemed uninterested in waiting while Antonio translated, so Alexis focused on his facial expressions. It was clear that the local officer was baffled by the events. When he was done giving his report, Antonio and Alexis walked down to the bar where several people had seen the caretaker the night before. Umberto remained to ask some further questions and fill out an official form.
As they walked, Antonio said, "The letters ATM were carved on the back of the shoulder, which is why they called. If it hadn't been for that detail, it would have likely been ruled an accident."
Alexis asked, "Why is that?"
"There are clear indications of the victim," he said, looking at his notes, "named Galeazzo, falling and hitting his head on a large rock. It looks like he was killed instantly. The spot where he tripped, which was a pothole on the side of the road, showed a clear mark of his feet as he stumbled and fell. He was very drunk. The letters were carved post-mortem."
"The press doesn't know about the letters, so it has to be the same person who killed the waiter. No signs of strangulation?"
"Nope, just the head wound."
"Is it possible he was hit with the rock?"
"Nope, if you recall, the stone didn't move, and it was obvious from the weeds growing around it that it had been there for some time."
"Good point," she said and held the door for Antonio who shook his head at her smirk and walked inside. They grabbed a booth in the back corner.
Antonio bought two Cokes and brought a bowl of pretzels back to the table.
Alexis said, "So, our killer decides to move up to the big leagues and make a name for himself as a serial killer...by taking credit for a dead guy. It doesn't seem very...sporting."
"You're the expert, but I thought serial killers were big on rules. I would think this comes dangerously close to cheating."
"I do, too. Remind me to let him know that he...or she...is a real amateur at this. What's the deal with the accountant?"
"He's not an accountant. He is...well...reviewing my progress, methodologies and...well...decision-making ability regarding outside consultants."
Alexis wrinkled her nose at being included in Umberto's review and said, "I've never seen you so stressed out. What's his deal?"
"He likes finding reasons to fire people, stripping them of their pensions, and leaving them no hope of ever having a career in government ever again."
"He sounds charming. Is he married?"
"I know you're joking, but I'm sure you know the answer."
Alexis liked this game. She was good at it, and Antonio enjoyed watching her mind work. She said, "He is married. I saw the ring. There are problems, though. During take-off he kept twisting it. I'd wager he was thinking about a fight they'd recently had or maybe the girlfriend is pushing him to leave his wife."
"How do you know he has a girlfriend?"
"The tie is too hip for a serious and conservative government official. His wife didn't buy it for him. It looks brand new, too. He came from her place."
"You might be right, but his personal life isn't important. I need to find this killer, preferably before the press finds out."
"I won't tell them."
"You're a mensch."
"You're not Jewish."
"I know more Yiddish than you can possibly imagine."
"You never cease to amaze me."
"I'd like you to amaze me with some sort of brilliant idea about where we go next."
She got up and went to the bar. Antonio watched her mix charm and cop. He couldn't tell what they were talking about, but she was taking notes. Four minutes passed until she returned.
"Well?"
"He was working last night. It wasn't terribly busy, but our victim and someone he had never seen before bought a bottle of Aphrodite Ouzo. They kept to themselves. He thinks the guy was staying up the hill at the Hotel Refugio Alpino because they left together, and they were singing about climbing the mountain."
"Could he describe him?"
"He described him as average looking. That's all. No hair color or height or anything. Apparently, he left his glasses at home."
"You think the drinking buddy is our killer?"
Alexis didn't talk for a long time then said, "Admittedly, this serial killer may be the stupidest in history, but why would he spend an entire evening in a bar of people that could identify him?"
"Yes, but they really didn't, did they?"
"He didn't know that tourists in Italy don't pay attention. I just can't get over how sloppy it was, and there just doesn't seem to be any normal signs. I'm not buying it."
"So, we've got nothing?"
"We've got pretzels," she said and held up the bowl for Antonio. He gave a sigh and took a handful.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chapter Fourteen
Mitch slept for fourteen hours. When he got up, it was done. The zipping around Europe in a haze of romanticized daydreaming had been fun, but it hadn't gotten him anywhere. He had escaped his routine and built up a store of sights, sounds, and ideas that would serve him well in his writing, but he had not figured out his next move.
A friend, who had come up with his wife from Berlin, agreed, nay, begged him to leave the BMW with him and to let them take Mitch to the airport. Mitch gave him some cash to rent a place to store the car and told his friend that he could take it out for occasional spins just to keep the battery charged. The friend was giddy. His wife took a small amount of joy in her husband's delight.
Mitch didn't want to bother with finding a flight and called Kate. She was thrilled to arrange for him to return and, thus, be in town for the Columbia lecture. He ordered a latte at Café Testa Rossa in the Innsbruck Airport and paid with cash.
A woman in a light blue blouse sat next to him reading what looked like a very dry journal in Dutch. Mitch thought about how the cultures of Europe melded all over the continent then he went back to thinking about "The Girl."
As if on cue, she said, "There must be someone pretty special waiting at the other end of the flight."
"What makes you say that?"
"I'm a neurologist, and you wreak of 'in love.'"
"Is there really a scent?"
"Well, there are pheromones, but I was being more figurative than literal. When people are in deep, head-over-heels love, it can create a chemical reaction in the brain similar to using cocaine."
"I have to admit, it's pretty bad."
"How bad?"
"A week in Columbia with a suitcase full of cash bad."
"That is pretty bad."
"It is. I've been in a fog for over a week."
"So, where is this dream girl? Isn't she with you?"
"No, she's in California."
"And you had to leave for work?"
"No, I just left."
The woman furrowed her brow. "It sounds like you've got an interesting story."
Mitch had been dying to tell the story. The woman listened, asked a few questions, and kept encouraging him to continue each time he said, "But I'm going on a bit."
They talked about her job and some more about the effects of love on the brain. Mitch felt a little less pathetic. She said one last thing, and it stayed with him: "If she is half as fond of you as you are of her, then you need only think of wha
t would make her happy, and she will be touched. I think you'll be fine. In the words of a marketing genius for Nike...'Just Do It!'"
Mitch laughed. It was good advice.
#
Paul made it to Innsbruck. When he saw the charge on Mitch's card for his hotel, he left immediately. It had become obvious that he would need to speed up his intelligence to real-time. Since he started following Mitch, he had always been anywhere from a few hours to a day behind.
Now, he had a room at a place down the street and, when he inquired at the desk of Mitch's hotel, Paul learned that the he had already checked out. He had lost him again, and there hadn't been any charges on the card the rest of the day.
He had time to think.
If he were honest, he hadn't done a great job with the drunken guy Mitch had been with, though, at the time, it had seemed like a simple way to get victim number two. In hindsight, he worried if maybe someone had seen him leave right after Mitch and his drinking buddy. It also was apparent that as long as Mitch was traipsing around Europe that trying to build a body count that could be pinned on him was not going to be easy.
First and foremost, there would likely be numerous jurisdictions involved from multiple countries. It was possible that nobody would notice the connection between the bodies. It also seemed that he was flying by the seat of his pants. Most serial killers were methodical; at least, they were on TV. If it were too random or crazy, people wouldn't believe someone like Mitch could be the killer. He was too respected.
There also needed to be a reason. Paul had thought people might believe that the writer had been creating fictional murders for so long that he had decided to give it a try, but that seemed thin.
There was also the matter of his own, rather abrupt, decision to take a vacation. Paul needed to carefully plan his alibi lest he get caught in his own web.
Paul was sick of Europe. He didn't like living from one hotel to the next and frankly, maintaining the level of hatred that had launched his plan, was exhausting. The answer was obvious. Paul needed to go home and approach the plan like he did with everything else. He needed calm, careful consideration, extensive calculation, and excellent research.
He would leave tomorrow. Just the thought helped him relax. Paul spent the rest of the evening going through some of the 1837 emails that had amassed in his absence. He reviewed two proposals, rejected one, and gave one a green light. He read a three-page piece of code that was performing poorly and crafted a rather elegant solution. The delete button was clicked 218 times. The business of business was familiar, and, though he had never loved it, at this moment he liked his old life.
His final thoughts before he went to bed were of a judge reading the sentence, "To be hanged by the neck until dead." Paul knew that nobody was hung anymore, but it was his fantasy, so he let it take him into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Chapter Fifteen
The real world was filled with all sorts of minutia that could wear on a person's spirit. Mitch reveled in escaping from it all while he was gone, but now, sitting in his condo in midtown Manhattan, he was happy to be home.
He stood and looked out over the Hudson River. It was a clear day, and the view was spectacular. The ding of the microwave and the smell of bacon were just a few of the familiarities he had missed. He spread some butter on an English muffin.
Butter was not something he regularly used, but before he had gone to San Francisco, he had run out of the Heart Healthy spread he regularly used. Going shopping was on the day's list of chores. With the bacon done and the English muffin ready and waiting, he cracked two eggs into a skillet and broke the yolks. Sometimes he went over easy, others scrambled, but fried eggs were what his taste buds ordered today.
As the eggs cooked, Mitch looked at the kitchen table with the shiny silver fruit bowl, sans fruit, and picked up his iPhone. He typed into his notes app, "Buy apples and butter." It didn't mean butter; it meant the healthy stuff that didn't taste nearly as good, but, since he could never remember the name of the crap he bought, butter worked as a pretty good reminder.
He flipped the eggs.
Mitch added turkey, bread, eggs, and salami to the list. He slid the eggs onto the muffin, added his last piece of American cheese, and threw two slices of bacon on top. The sandwich was done. It looked delicious on the glossy black plate, so he took a picture and tweeted it with the hashtag "#Bacon." It was good to be home.
From the kitchen table he could see the Empire State Building. Watching the city from such a lofty perch was one of the simple joys he treasured. It was even better at night. The egg sandwich was delicious. After he finished eating it, he added American cheese and Swifter Sweeper pads to the shopping list. Even the thought of sweeping his hard wood floors made him happy.
The only thing he dreaded was the inbox. He knew it was waiting for him with its beady little eyes just wanting to dump piles of stress on his happy morning. The laptop was snoozing on the coffee table, looking calm and innocent. He usually used his iPad, but it was easier to deal with emails on the HP.
Mitch washed off the plate and skillet, rinsed out his juice glass, and returned the kitchen to its normal state of "photo ready." He loved his condo, and it was only the second place he had lived that he kept spotless. He couldn't stand to see clutter, but to someone who had never seen the dumps he had lived in before, they would assume he had a massive case of OCD. He didn't, but it was just too pretty a place not to clean it. Sleek and modern couldn't be bothered with clutter.
He grabbed the HP and returned to the kitchen table because the comfy couch wouldn't let him get any work done. The couch was notorious for making him play video games, watch sports, and aggressively nap. He loved the couch.
The HP came to life. Mitch heaved a sigh and opened a Firefox browser. With a few quick taps on the keyboard he had his email open. "437?"
It was times like this that he wished he had a cat. It was less weird to talk to a cat than oneself, and cats were really good about sleeping on keyboards when one was trying to get stuff done.
Managing a heaping pile of inbox nonsense was one of his skills. There were easily a couple of dozen sources for daily emails that would lead to articles and blog posts. He enjoyed them, which was why he subscribed to them, but none of them required an answer. Three minutes of rapid search and delete would cut the number in half.
Goodreads, Facebook, Scoop.it, Writer's Market, and TechCrunch were the first to receive the mass delete. He would get caught up with those anyway and didn't need the emails to show him what he had missed. Several blog notices headed for the trash and then he stopped.
Pioneer Outfitters, a blog by a woman named Amber-Lee deep in the wilds of Alaska, had a few new posts. This was one of those blogs he adored, but it often didn't make the cut during his daily rounds. There was only so much time to read each day. The subscription often reminded him of the little jewel.
Pioneer Outfitters offered excursions to people who wanted to hunt big game in wilderness that few had ever seen. It really was a joy to read about their adventures. Mitch had never been hunting, and though he knew hunters and could appreciate their stories and love for the sport, Mitch imagined he would feel bad about killing something he would rather hug. He didn't feel so bad that he would turn down an invitation to sample the spoils of the hunt. Still, he had always thought it would be fun to pack up the camera gear and see what game he could shoot with his Nikon.
He had imagined it a hundred times. It was but one of dozens of adventure dreams that were never far from his thoughts. He didn't know why he was always alone on the trips. He went to movies alone. He usually preferred to dine with a newspaper for company more than sitting and chatting about daily trifles. Did that mean that it was beyond the realm of possibilities?
"The Girl" was back, sitting on a log near a campfire. He could see himself putting a log on the fire and snuggling up next to her. Mitch clicked on the Pioneer Outfitters link and read the post. Well, he read ab
out a third of it before needing to pace.
"Siri, call Kate, iPhone."
"Good morning, world traveler, how is it being back in the large, red delicious?"
"It is sweet and juicy. How are you this morning?"
"I'm great now that you're back where I can keep an eye on you."
"That is why I called. I'd like you to pop over and literally keep an eye on me."
"That sounds ominous."
"Not at all, actually. I've had an idea, and I can't be bothered to figure it all out on my own."
"You know I'm always here to do your bidding."
"I'm running to the store for groceries. I'll likely be back before you get here, but, if not, you still have your key, right?"
"I do."
"Excellent. I'll buy some scones."
He added scones to the list and headed off to the Well Green Market II. It took less than twenty minutes to find everything on his list.
When Kate arrived, he was worked into a frenzy of disjointed thoughts. He gave her a hug and five minutes of socially acceptable small talk about his trip to Europe. Then he was ready to go. "Okay, fire up that laptop. We've got a trip to plan."
"You just got back."
"No, this is for me and her."
"I've never seen you this nuts before. There was that bookbinder with the really healthy...bookshelves, but even she didn't make you crazy."
"Excellent use of the long pause to make bookshelves into a double entendre. I may have to use that one day."
"Be my guest."
"I'm taking her to Alaska."
"Alaska?"
"Yes," he said and flipped the HP back open. "Here is where we are going. She loves photography and nature. This will be perfect."
"Does she love getting eaten by bears?"
"I'm pretty sure that Amber-Lee and her compadres try to discourage the members of the family Ursidae from snacking on their guests."
"Family Ursidae? You looked that up on Wikipedia, didn't you?"
A Touch to Die For Page 5