“I would prefer to do my own inputting,” Nico said, his pride kicking in. He was also fast at the computer, having typed countless reports. He welcomed the challenge of writing in Italian.
“You’re familiar with the Italian keyboard?” Daniele asked, a Venetian lilt to his words.
He hadn’t thought of that. “Can I write it out in longhand?”
“Certainly.” Perillo held out a hand. Daniele quickly filled it with several sheets of paper and extracted a pen from his front shirt pocket. Perillo handed over the sheets to Nico. “Please add your phone number and address at the bottom.”
“Of course.”
Daniele stood behind his superior in an at-ease position. Perillo pretended to read a report on the disappearance of ten cases of wine from a Castellina in Chianti vintner. The matter had quickly been solved, thanks to a tip from the vintner’s wife. All ten cases were in his mistress’s home.
“Done,” Nico said, and handed over a single sheet. Perillo held it back out for Daniele to type up.
While the young man’s fingers flew across the keyboard, Nico nudged OneWag with his foot. The dog looked up at him for a moment, then stretched his small body as far as it would go, as if to say he didn’t have a care in the world.
In two minutes, Nico’s typed deposition was back in Perillo’s hands.
“Please reread it.” Perillo slid the paper across the desk after having read it a second time. “In typing it up, Daniele made a few grammatical corrections.”
“I’m sure there were more than a few.”
“No,” Daniele said. “Only a few. Your Italian is good.”
Nico knew that was bullshit. “Thank you.” He had always been lousy at written Italian. It had nothing to do with how people spoke.
Daniele, who looked no older than eighteen, blushed. With his pale skin, rosy cheeks, blue eyes and straight, wheat-colored hair, he could have been mistaken for a midwestern farm boy. Or a Tuscan nobleman. The portraits in the Uffizi were full of men and women with his fair coloring.
Nico compared his own handwritten deposition with Daniele’s typed one. Nothing had been altered except his many mistakes, which he hoped to remember. His life was now a continuing learning process, mastering written Italian being only the first step, and not an easy one at that. He signed the typed version and slid it back across the scratched, ink-stained wooden desk. At his precinct, the desks had all been metal, and the walls filled with details of cases they hadn’t solved yet, photographs of the victims and whiteboards covered in the latest rundowns of each case in black Magic Marker, the salient points underlined in red.
In the room he was sitting in now, the pale yellow walls held a large map of the area, a photograph of Greve’s famous Piazza Matteotti from the days when wine was sold from horse-drawn carriages. Next to it, an aerial view of tens of stands offering wine tastings, fronted by crowds.
Perillo caught him looking and shook his head. “Chianti Expo keeps us busy. It’s good for the vintners, a headache for us and the idiots who drink too much.” He turned to Daniele. “Where’s the kit?”
Daniele jumped up and rushed out of the room.
“Is he new?” Nico asked, remembering his own anxiety when he’d first joined the homicide squad. After the first week, Joey, his first partner, had presented him with a cigarette box filled with joints. All they did was add five pounds to Nico’s girth.
“Six months on the job and his first murder. We don’t get too many of those. Fast learner.” They both watched Daniele come back into the room, this time at an intentionally measured pace.
“Now for your DNA,” Perillo said. “Go on, Daniele. You know how to do it.”
Daniele straightened his shoulders, opened the sealed plastic envelope, took out a large Q-tip. “Open your mouth, please.”
Nico did as he was asked and had his mouth swabbed. Fingerprinting was next.
When Nico had wiped his fingers clean with the tissues Daniele offered him, Perillo stood up. “Good. That’s done.” He wanted to talk to this man, draw him out, but fair was fair. Conor Domenico Doyle had had a very bad start to his day.
“The rest of the afternoon is all yours now.”
Nico didn’t move. Curiosity wound itself around his head like a snake. “Have you been able to identify the dead man?” Here was Eve, biting into the apple.
Perillo held back a smile of satisfaction. Once a police detective, always a police detective. A cliché. But clichés were just truths made insignificant by too much repetition. “Not yet. Without a face to show around, it isn’t easy. I’ve contacted all the hotels in the area.”
Daniele’s chair squeaked. Perillo waved a hand at him. “With Daniele’s help, of course. He’s invaluable.”
Daniele’s cheeks reddened again.
“The hotels are going to get back to us if any of their guests don’t show up tonight. As for the three families who live near the crime scene, no one heard a thing. Or so they claim.” In truth, he had only spoken to the wives, the men having gone to work for the day. He would need to return there this evening.
“The medical examiner and forensic team came down from Florence and did their work. They combed the area, but the murder weapon, a shotgun, was not found. Nor the casing. Maybe the medical examiner will find the pellet embedded in what was left of the man’s face, so we at least know the gauge of the gun.”
“Will that take long?” How fast would Perillo get results from Florence?
“I can assure you it isn’t as fast as what you see on CSI. By the way, your assumption that the single gunshot you heard killed the victim seems to be correct. At least, the times match. The body’s on its way to Careggi as we speak.”
“The hospital in Florence?” Stella had been born there. The eighteenth of August. Every year, Rita sent her a gift.
“That’s right. That’s where our legal-medical institute is. Oh, we took his fingerprints, of course, and we’re having them checked on the national database in Rome and by Interpol. It may be days before we get results. We’re not as fast as you Americans.”
“Don’t believe what you see on American TV programs. We take our time too.”
“Glad to hear that.” With a smile on his face, Perillo extended a hand. “Thank you for coming by, Signor Doyle. I look forward to sharing a coffee. Maybe some morning at Bar All’Angolo?”
This man wanted something from him. Nico could feel it. Maybe it was just the standard Italian curiosity about American life and politics, and Nico was just being paranoid. He shook Perillo’s hand. “I’m there most mornings around nine.” Nico leaned down to pick up OneWag from under the desk, but the spot was empty.
“He’s by the entrance, ready to go,” Perillo said. As Nico walked to the door, Perillo added, “I’ve been wondering how the dead man got to that clearing.”
Nico turned around. “You didn’t find a car?”
“No car, no scooter, no bicycle.”
“Three possibilities. He walked, the killer drove him there or the killer took his car.”
“Perhaps, but we found no tracks. Only some freshly broken twigs. It barely rained on Sunday, so the ground is still hard. What I ask myself is, why did the murder occur at that time? It was still dark when you heard the shot. And why that particular spot?”
“I suppose that’s for you to find out.”
“True enough. But please stay in the area for the next few weeks.”
Nico didn’t like the sound of that. “Am I a suspect?”
“No, a witness.”
Nico scooped the dog up, nodded to both men and left.
When the door had closed, Daniele asked, “Do you want to involve him in the case?” He hoped so. Americans knew how to solve problems. If Steve Jobs were still alive, he’d have figured this out in the blink of an eye.
“The higher-ups in Florence h
ave unfortunately assigned Substitute Prosecutor Riccardo Della Langhe to this case, and I can definitively say that exchanging ideas with an ex–New York City homicide detective will be far more beneficial than listening to Della Langhe’s idiotic pronouncements.” He wasn’t about to let on to Daniele how unsure he felt about solving this brutal killing. It was complicated. Unknown victim, possibly American, valuables left behind. He had dealt with only one previous murder in his career, easily solved. It didn’t help that Della Langhe, prejudiced against anyone from the South, considered him dumb.
Perillo opened his drawer and stared at the messy contents as if they could offer a solution. Eventually slammed the drawer shut.
Behind him, Daniele stood up straighter, steeling himself for an outburst.
“We’re going to prove that arrogant jerk wrong,” Perillo said out loud. “We’re going to solve this ugly crime quickly, Daniele. We have to.”
Daniele relaxed his posture. “Yes, Maresciallo. Maybe we can talk to Signor Doyle, who certainly must have solved many murders in his nineteen-year career?”
“Perhaps, Daniele.” Exactly what he was thinking. “But right now, it’s time for you to go back to calling the Florentine jewelry stores you so expertly unearthed on your computer.”
The list was endless, much to Daniele’s dismay. He enjoyed navigating the depths of the Internet to extract the gems Perillo needed. He found talking to people awkward, especially over the phone, without knowing what to expect beforehand. The one advantage, which his mother repeatedly pointed out, was that at least no one could see him blush when shyness made him trip on his words.
“Excuse me, Maresciallo. The dead man was American, so surely the bracelet is American?”
“The technicians did say his clothes were American, gold shoes included, but that does not necessarily make him an American. New York alone receives millions of foreign tourists a year, and they buy and buy and buy American clothes made in some cheap-labor country by children.” Perillo picked up the suede leather jacket—Italian lambskin, cut and sewn in Florence—he had carefully draped over a chair and flung it over one shoulder. “No, dear Daniele, be careful of jumping to easy conclusions. The phone awaits you. I’ll go and talk to the four jewelers here in town. One of us might get lucky. Ciao.”
Daniele watched his boss saunter to the door on his soft new suede boots and matching jacket. He knew where the maresciallo was going first. The café next door, for his tenth or twelfth espresso of the day. How the man didn’t have the jitters from all that caffeine was a mystery to him. Daniele looked at his phone, then the screensaver on his computer, a picture of an ascending line of cypress trees silhouetted against a clear blue sky. A picture that had ended up on countless postcards. He loved his job, most of the time. He liked his boss. The world behind the cypress trees would have to wait. Daniele picked up his cell phone and keyed in the numbers in his notebook.
THREE
Nico and Tilde sat outside at the restaurant, looking out at the dark valley sprinkled with the lights from distant towns. The sky had its own faraway lights and a moon reduced to a smile. The view Sotto Il Fico offered its diners was its biggest drawing card. The food was good, but the view was spectacular. It was now past midnight, and the place was empty. The only nearby sound came from a light breeze teasing the leaves of the fig tree. The tables had been cleared, the dishes and kitchen cleaned. Enzo had taken his mother home. Stella had gone off with Gianni. It was time to relax with a glass of 2013 Sammarco, a “Super Tuscan” red wine Enzo had introduced him to.
“Looks like Gianni’s changed his mind,” Nico said. “Stella has her smile back.”
“A short-lived smile. I know my daughter. He brought her flowers. It’s a ploy. He has to make her love him again before renewing his demands. She knows that.”
Nico heard anger in her voice. Where was it coming from? He couldn’t believe Enzo had ever treated her that way. He was a good man. Un pezzo di pane, Rita had once called him. A piece of bread.
“I’m glad to see my fusilli alla Rita sold out.” He wasn’t showing off so much as changing the subject.
“Compliments, Nico. They were delicious. You added just the right amount of garlic, arugula and oil. Did you see Elvira sneaking forkfuls from Enzo’s plate when she thought we weren’t looking?”
Nico laughed. “I guess she liked it, not that she’ll ever admit it.”
“Not even on her deathbed.”
“I’m sorry we ran out. I would have roasted more tomatoes, if I’d had more. I picked my plants clean.”
“You’ll find many more at Sunday’s market in Panzano. We can go together if you want.”
“That recipe is yours now,” Nico said. “I want to offer different dishes.”
“Any recipe of Rita’s is welcome here.”
“How about mine?”
Tilde laughed. “I’ll have to taste them first.”
“Done.” They clinked glasses and drank. “This wine is heaven,” Nico said.
“Yes, it smooths out the wrinkles of the day, and you’ve had a major one.”
“And your wrinkles?”
Tilde heard the concern behind the question and didn’t like that her emotions had been readable. “They’re on my face, but I can only blame them on age, not the day. How did it go with Salvatore? Did he figure out who the dead man is?” Nico could tell she was trying to pivot away from herself.
“Not yet. I believe he’s assuming the man wasn’t a local, thanks to those shoes, I guess.”
Robi’s drunken boast came back: I’ll return covered in gold. Tilde shook her head to toss the words away. “A mosquito,” she explained when Nico looked curiously at her.
“Perillo’s put the word out to hotels in the area and I guess asked a few real estate agents. A man with that kind of watch might have rented an apartment. I wouldn’t think he was the Airbnb type, but you never know. It’s going to take a while. This whole area is rented out this time of year.”
“Find the unslept bed.”
“It’s a start. I imagine there are plenty of guests or renters who find other beds to sleep in while on vacation.”
“I wouldn’t limit it to vacation time.” Her voice had gone sharp again.
Nico leaned forward, trying to glimpse Tilde’s expression in the dim light of the mosquito-repelling candle. Had Enzo cheated on her? Rita had once claimed that cheating was part of an Italian man’s DNA.
Tilde caught him peering at her. “It’s not what you think. Enzo has been very good to me.”
“You deserve it.”
She shook her head. “I wish I did.” She hadn’t returned Enzo’s love when they’d gotten married, feeling that she didn’t deserve him after what had happened. He had loved her enough for both of them. He still did. She would forever be grateful to him.
Nico didn’t know how to respond to the sadness in her voice except by returning to the murder, which seemed to interest her.
“It looks like the shot I heard was what killed the man.”
“Is that significant?” When didn’t seem as important as who.
“It establishes time of death. That can be important. Funny thing. Perillo’s wife gave OneWag a bath, turned him into a big pom-pom.”
“OneWag?”
“His tail produces one wag at a time. That’s it.”
“So you’ve given him a name. Does that mean you’re keeping him?”
“I’m not ready to keep anything besides myself, but I’ll feed him and make sure he has water.”
“Help yourself to our scraps.”
He lifted a plastic bag from the floor. “I have.” Nico finished the wine and leaned back in his chair. In the distance, a blinking light moved across the darkness at a steady pace. He watched it move, trying to make out what it was.
“What are you looking at?” Tilde asked.
“That moving light. What is it?”
“When Stella was little, she called it a fairy light. She wanted to watch it until dawn. I see you’re hooked too.” Her beautiful, beloved daughter. She was hiding something from her mother. Something that she suspected had nothing to do with Gianni. Worry about her daughter and the detail of the gold shoes were making her frantic. “A light blinking in the dark, moving toward some unknown destination. That’s what it must feel like when you’re trying to solve a murder.”
Nico remembered only too well. “What is the light, then?”
She laughed. “It belongs to a garbage truck making its rounds. I suppose Salvatore will also be picking through a lot of garbage on his way to a solution. I don’t envy him.”
“Neither do I.” He just hoped the maresciallo’s light was bright enough.
OneWag was curled up in his usual spot by the vegetable garden gate. Nico spotted him easily, thanks to his flashlight. “Hey, brought you something.” He waved the bag in the air, plastic rustling. “Not that you deserve it after that snub at the station.”
The dog sat up and gave Nico his “I’m listening” tilt of the head. No wag and no running to the food. It made Nico smile. This mutt was as proud as any Tuscan. The people, at least, had a right to their pride. The Italians owed their beautiful language to the Tuscans, according to Rita. On their honeymoon, she had made sure to point out the greatness of Tuscan art, their architecture, and always Dante’s Divina Commedia. Endless quotes from the Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso. He understood nothing of the poet’s arcane Italian, as he had not understood Chaucer in high school, but loved her, and that was enough reason to listen.
“For you, surviving is enough reason to be proud,” Nico told the dog. “Okay, you keep your dignity. Here.” He dropped the bag on the ground and opened it. “Buon appetito.” He walked the thirty steps to the house, unlocked the door, turned on the neon light of the ground floor—one large room where the farmer had once kept his pig, now cleaned up and filled with Aldo’s discarded wine barrels—and climbed upstairs.
Murder in Chianti Page 4