by Beate Boeker
Carlina stared after her retreating back. Now what?
Two minutes later, the cleavage was back. “He's busy at the moment.”
Carlina drummed her fingers against the glass wall. “Did you talk to him?”
“Of course I did!” Finally, the receptionist showed some sign of temper.
“And what did he say?”
“That he's busy. He'll call you when he's got a free moment.”
Carlina felt as if someone had slapped her face. How could Stefano put her onto the back burner? How could he misjudge what she was saying? She had never come to his office before like that. Couldn't he tell that it was important? “Did you tell him that it's extremely urgent?”
The receptionist allowed herself a small eye-roll. “Of course I did.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He's busy. He'll call you. I told you.” The receptionist turned away and started sorting through a pile of envelopes.
“Right.” Humiliation washed over her. He had decided she wasn't important enough. Maybe their quarrel had made him too angry to see things objectively. Hot tears - half prompted by anger and half by dismay - sprang to her eyes.
She turned on her heels before the dragon of a receptionist could see them and left the police station. What now? She had to catch up with Francesca. If Ugo got into a temper, there was no saying what he could do. She called Francesca on her phone, but it rang for ages without anyone answering. Carlina balled her fists while the uneasiness inside her jumped higher and higher in leaps and bounds until she was thoroughly alarmed. Maybe Ugo had already gotten to her. Maybe he had beaten her half to death and she couldn't answer the phone. Carlina took a shaking breath to calm herself. If only she knew where her friend was at this moment!
Maybe she should first try Francesca's home. She jumped back onto her Vespa and hurried east to get to Via Francesco de Sanctis where Francesca had a small apartment on the top floor of an apartment house. But when she rang the bell and called her friend simultaneously on her phone, nobody answered. Damn! Carlina pushed her disheveled hair from her brow and tried to calm her scrambling brain. She had to accept that at the moment, she had no chance to reach either Garini or Francesca. She might just as well return to Temptation, which was the first place anybody would look for her if they needed her. Her head told her that this was the right thing to do, but while she retraced her way and crossed the area of Santa Croce to return to her store, the feeling persisted that she wasn't active enough, that somewhere in town there was danger, and that she had to do something about it. She felt as if she were being told to sit when all she wanted to do was run around in circles and check every single possibility. Then she remembered Uncle Teo. She stopped at the first opportunity, right in front of a gelateria with a long row of tourists waiting in line for their ice-cream and whipped out her phone. “Uncle Teo, it's me. Listen, I need to know where Ugo lives. Do you know the address?”
“Carlina, my dear. How are you?”
Carlina rolled her eyes. “I'm fine, but I'm in a hurry. Can you tell me, quickly? Where does Ugo live?”
“Ugo? Now let me think . . .” Uncle Teo cleared his throat. “I think, yes, I think he shared the apartment with his mother. I've never been there myself, but Olga once mentioned it when we went for dinner at the little restaurant down the street. We had a great evening, and the food was simply marvelous. I had tagliatelle alla --”
“Yes, Uncle Teo, I'm sure it was wonderful, and you can tell me all about it at another time. But do you remember the address? Ugo's address? It's important.” She was on the brink of saying that Francesca was in danger, but stopped the words from coming out of her mouth at the last moment. If she said that, there was no knowing what Uncle Teo would do. Besides, she wasn't sure that Francesca was in danger. It was just a feeling.
“But I was coming to that, cara.” Uncle Teo sounded a bit hurt. “I've now remembered. It's on Via de' Benci. Do you know where it is? It's not far from--”
“Yes, I know it. Thank you so much! I've got to run! Let's talk tonight!” She cut the connection, shoved the phone into her bag and started the Vespa once again. Via de' Benci wasn't far away, and if she was lucky, she would see Francesca's Vespa in front of the building. Five minutes later, she turned into the street. Yes, her hunch had been right. She saw Francesca's Vespa parked in front of a luxurious apartment building and stopped with screeching brakes. Now she just needed to find a tiny spot for her Vespa, then she could look for her friend. However, the narrow street was crammed full with parked vehicles and the tables of restaurants who had claimed long stretches of the sidewalk. She couldn't very well park on top of them. While she stood in the middle of the road, wondering what to do, a car came up behind her.
The driver hit his horn, shoved his head out of the window, and bellowed: “Hey, I hope you're having nice dreams! Move on, will you?”
Carlina gave him an apologetic wave and tried to squeeze her Vespa to the side, but the driver kept on honking and cursing. “Where did you learn to drive? Any child can see that you'll never fit into that spot. Move on, girl, move on!” He shook his head and pressed his hand onto his horn until the noise echoed from the houses and rang in her ears.
Carlina clenched her teeth and drove down the street at full speed. It was a one-way street, and she had to make a turn around the block to come back full circle.
It only took her two minutes, and a weight dropped from her chest when she saw that Francesca's Vespa was still parked in the same slot. At least she was close to her friend now. This time, driving down the street as slowly as possible, she managed to find a parking space three houses further down, left her Vespa there, and walked back to Francesca's machine.
Suddenly, she realized that she was acting foolishly. The right thing to do at this moment would be to call the police, not stumble head first into a potentially dangerous situation.
But that's what I've been doing, her heart shouted. And Garini didn't want to listen!
One more time, she tried to call him and was immediately forwarded to his mail box. Exasperated, she hung up. What could she say? Listen, I'm worried about Francesca and am going to overwhelm Ugo if he's trying to do her bodily harm? Garini would throw a fit.
She bit her lower lip and realized that she had forgotten to ask Uncle Teo for the right number. Francesca was somewhere in the area. Not far away. Maybe she needed her help. Maybe, while she stood here on the pavement, dithering, Ugo was beating her up. Carlina winced.
No, she couldn't wait. Her gut feeling told her that something was off, and her anxiety reached new heights. She wanted to see her friend, wanted to touch her, wanted to know that all was well. Once again, she tried to call her, and once again, nobody replied.
Carlina decided to have a look at the name plates on the houses. Maybe she could at least find out if Ugo lived here. It couldn't be dangerous; after all, she was in full view of anyone who strolled past or sat at one of the restaurant tables close by. The restaurant tables were enclosed by thin metal frames that gave them a secluded aura in spite of being practically in the middle of the street. Carlina went to the house closest to her friend's Vespa and read the shiny brass name labels that were fixed next to the heavy wooden door: Mercoli – Rossi – Alberi – Enlingua – Tenante.
Carlina stopped when she came to the last one. What was Ugo's surname again? It wasn't Ottima. It was something with T. Was it Tenante? She frowned and tried to recall the conversation with Francesca. No. That wasn't it. She couldn't recall it exactly, but she would recognize it when she saw it - hopefully. Carlina shook her head and moved to the next house. With its huge glass doors, marble foyer and potted palm trees, this one shouted luxury. She shrugged and turned away. If Ugo and Olga had been living in such a house, nothing would have induced them to move into the Mantoni family home. She still remembered her fight with Olga and how untamed anger had bubbled up inside her when Olga had appropriated her apartment and suggested that Ugo move in there. What utter gall.
; Her thoughts shifted to Stefano. He still hadn't called. Had he written her off as someone who didn't matter? She didn't know where he had spent the night. At his old apartment? Somewhere else entirely? A heavy weight pressed on her shoulders and nailed her to the sidewalk. Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at her feet. Was their relationship at an end?
Without warning, someone shot out of the luxury residence and passed her on the sidewalk, so close that Carlina almost lost her balance. Her mind registered the familiar perfume, recognized the face covered with tears as Francesca ran on, but before she could stretch out a hand, for the second time that day, Francesca slipped through her hands.
“Francesca, wait!” Carlina ran after her, not sure if her friend had heard anything.
Without a backward glance, Francesca jumped onto her Vespa, not even bothering to put on her helmet and started the machine. Intent on getting out of the parking space, she didn't even see her friend running toward her.
Later, Carlina couldn't tell how it had happened. Somehow, her feet got caught by an uneven stone on the pavement, and unable to stop herself, her speed threw her forward, head first against one of the decorative metal frames that separated the restaurant tables from the street.
Then all went black.
When she came to again, the first thing she noticed was a dull throbbing somewhere above her left brow. Next, she realized that she was sitting in an uncomfortable position on a hard chair. Someone moaned. It sounded familiar.
Damn. It was her own voice.
“Time to wake up,” Ugo's voice said. “Come on. It wasn't such a hard fall. I saw it. Just a little crack to the head, nothing serious.”
Her eyes flew open. Ugo?
He was standing in front of her, blocking the light that came from a small window. They were inside a narrow room with huge sliding doors to both sides. The doors – six on each side – were glossy white and went from the ceiling to the floor. The closest one to her right hand side had opened a crack and allowed a glimpse of shelves packed full with clothes. Next to the window, Carlina could make out a full-length mirror. A trace of Olga's perfume hung in the air. Her vision wobbled, and for an instant, it felt as if she would have to throw up. This is Olga's walk-in wardrobe. I'm inside Ugo's house.
She tried to get up and only realized then that she was bound to the chair. Her feet were fixed in an uncomfortable position, each tied to one leg of the chair, and her lower arms were pressed separately onto the wooden armrests, held by a thin cord that was usually used to bind up tomatoes and green beans. The thin cord hurt her arms. Ugo must have used at least two rolls of twine.
“Finally.” Ugo bared his teeth in something that was nowhere near a smile.
It made Carlina sick with apprehension.
“That was a great fall,” Ugo said. “You should have seen the crowd you drew. They were all trying to help. But I said I was your friend and that I would call a doctor. Then I carried you upstairs. They all thought I was very helpful.”
Ugo reached behind his back and produced a long, thin knife. Looking at its sharp tip with pleasure, he said, “And now, we're going to talk.”
Chapter 11
I
“I've got a Japanese tourist here with information for you.” The voice of Garini's colleague in Rome sounded bored, or maybe it just came across like that via the telephone. “He claims he's documented that murder, but if you ask me, it's all humbug. Of course, we checked his credentials, and they look all right to us, but still, it's almost too much of a coincidence.”
Garini sat up straighter. He had missed lunch, being too driven to take a break from checking out the files on his desk, and was now feeling the gnawing hunger in his insides. He pushed the feeling aside. Was this the hint he had been looking for? More than one murder had been solved due to coincidences. “What does this Japanese say exactly?”
“I'll put him on the line, and he can explain to you himself what he wants to say. He only speaks English, though.”
“That's no problem. Pass him on. Thanks.” Garini pulled up a notepad and pen.
“My name is Hiroto Yokoyama.” The quiet voice was speaking careful English. “Am I speaking to the – the person in charge for the Tower Murder?”
That's how the press had called it – the Tower Murder. It had stuck in the minds and was the main topic of conversation at all the cafés and markets and shops everywhere in the country.
“Yes, I'm in charge of clearing up the Tower Murder. My name is Stefano Garini. What can I do for you?”
The Japanese hesitated, then he said, with a level voice, carefully enunciating each syllable: “I'm an engineer, working for the company Makanita. Do you know Makanita?”
“Yes, I do. They're famous for their cameras and professional filming equipment.”
“That's true.” Apparently, the answer pleased the Japanese. “I am on holiday. I was in Florence on Monday and came by bus.”
“On the Piazzale Michaelangelo?”
“Yes. It rained, but that didn't matter, because I have to test a new camera.”
“A new camera? With a special zoom?”
“No. A thermographic camera.”
“A thermographic camera?” Garini's eyebrows climbed. He knew the technology that allowed to take pictures in the dark by registering the heat of an object, but these cameras were very expensive. “You're traveling with a thermographic camera?”
“Yes. It's a camera that takes pictures in the--” the Japanese was looking for the right word. “In the night, in the dark.”
Garini nodded though the Japanese couldn't see him. “I know how it works.”
The Japanese misunderstood him, probably because he was so used to the questions. “It works with infrared light. It shows the heat, you understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“It also works in rain. And fog. And smoke. It's a very powerful camera. The latest in technology, with much clearer pictures.” The Japanese was gathering speed. “It also covers a greater distance than any other camera on the market today. It is a unique prototype at the moment, but we plan to launch it in two months. You can even insert an USB stick and save everything and replay it at any moment, and then you also have a double--”
Before the Japanese could throw himself into a full sales pitch, Garini interrupted him. “Are you telling me that you used this camera to film the Tower San Niccolò at the time of the murder?”
“Excuse me?”
“You used that camera on Monday?” Excitement mounted inside Stefano.
“Yes.”
“Why are you only contacting us now?”
“Because I . . . I didn't notice. I filmed the view and saved the file to show it at my company when I'm back. But then our tourist group leader said something about the Tower Murder and asked if we had seen something. But nobody in our group had seen anything of the view at all because of the fog and rain. But then I remembered that I had filmed the view with my prototype camera, and I decided to look at it. I did not have time before to do so, you see. There's so much to record. I wanted to look at it with time on the plane, on my way home. But when I showed the film to our guide, he said we would have to tell the police immediately, only by then, we were already in Rome. So he said we should go to the police station in Rome, and they would tell us what to do.”
“That was good thinking,” Garini said. “But when you looked at the film, what did you see?”
The Japanese man was silent for a moment. “No murder,” he finally said, very slowly.
Garini's heart missed a beat. “You didn't see a murder?”
“No.”
“Then what did you see?” He had to force himself not to shout the words.
“I'll send you a link to the video, yes?”
“Yes, please! Send it right away, will you?” Garini asked to get his colleague back on line and gave him his e-mail address. “Please send me the file immediately.” With bated breath, he waited until the e-mail arrived, then clicked
on the link and waited for it to open. Just as the movie started, Cervi ambled into his office. “I say, Garini,--” he broke off as the saw the black-and white images on the screen. “What is this?”
Garini didn't take his gaze off the screen. “This is the San Niccolò Tower at the time of the murder, Monday at a quarter to five.” He pointed to a little sign at the left hand corner of the film that showed the date and time. “Filmed from the Piazzale Michelangelo with a new thermographic camera, the latest in Japanese technology. If this is what I hope it is, it'll prove that Fabbiola Mantoni-Ashley is innocent.”
The film showed the skyline of Florence in black and white. “The buildings are giving off heat, and this is recorded by the camera. It covers a greater distance than light and isn't influenced by fog and rain.”
“I know thermographic cameras; you don't have to explain them to me,” Cervi didn't bother to hide his irritation.
“Yes, but this is an amazing new model. I've never seen such a clear picture before.” Garini bent forward. His stomach clenched as the camera zoomed in onto the tower. He could clearly see the battlement, could see one person moving around on the platform. “This is Olga.” He pointed at the female shape.
“How can you tell?”
“I knew her. I know how she walked.”
Cervi nodded and bent forward. Everybody on the force was trained to notice details and to remember how a person walked. As this was one of the most difficult things to hide and change, the police paid special attention to it.
In silence, they watched as the focus of the camera shifted from the tower and concentrated once again on the Duomo in the background. Garini groaned. “Come on, get back to the tower.”
The movie made a little jumpy movement as if the photographer had sneezed, then the camera slowly panned from left to right, taking in the full panorama. However, in the lower half of the picture, they could see the top of the tower San Niccolò. A second woman now appeared on the top platform, rising like a genie from a bottle. First, her head became visible, then her shoulders, then her upper body. Garini knew from his visit to the tower that she was mounting the stairs.