Luca ignored the suggestion and rose from his seat. “I should let you get back to your meeting, Signor Muller. And I must be off to my next appointment. If you think of anything, you know where to reach me.”
Muller got to his feet. “The American, he’s not with you today? Has he left Campiglio?”
“Since he is on a ski holiday, he’s doing some skiing this afternoon.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.”
They shook hands, and Muller watched the policeman walk through the door of the hotel before scuttling to the reception desk and picking up the phone.
***
Dark clouds were forming around peaks far to the east, but too distant to be of any concern to the groups of people enjoying nearly perfect snow conditions. Among them were four skiers—one expert, two very competent, and one novice—who had just come off the lift. They stood in pairs. Rick and Cat watched as Flavio, standing close to Lori, gently pushed her body into the correct stance.
“I had a wonderful ski instructor at Vail,” Cat said in Rick’s ear. “He always just demonstrated himself the way I was supposed to lean on the skis.”
“Flavio’s a very hands-on kind of guy, Cat. He knows what he’s doing.”
“I can see that.” She looked at the sky, now starting to cloud up. “How many more runs do you think we can get in?”
“It’s slow-going with Lori, but we should manage a couple more. You don’t mind taking it easy, do you?” He looked at Cat’s expression, visible even with her goggles. “Cat?”
“We can take it easy, Rick. It’s just that I was looking forward to some real skiing.”
“The world can’t always revolve around Catherine Taylor.”
The comment did not please her. “You sound like my former husband.”
He was rescued by his telefonino. He hurriedly fumbled with gloves and pocket zippers to fish it out. “I have to take this, Cat.” He slid away from the group and opened his phone.
“Montoya.”
“Rick, this is Mark Fries. I hope I’m not interrupting something.”
Rick looked back at the group and saw that another skier had joined the trio. The man shook hands with Flavio and kissed Cat on the cheek. “No, Mark, not at all. What’s up?”
“Well, I looked into that loan, the one that Cam was working on for the real estate developer?”
The new arrival pulled up his sunglasses. It was Bruno Bauer.
“Right. Melograno.”
“Correct. The loan file showed Cam’s thoroughness, with every i dotted and every t crossed. He was an excellent banker. He even used our investigator to be sure everything was legit with this Melograno fellow.”
“Investigator?”
“Well, in addition to the standard credit checks, we occasionally look into people’s backgrounds to be sure everything is on the up and up. Don’t spread the word about that, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Mark. Did it turn up anything?”
“Apparently not. There was only the receipt from our investigator for services rendered, so apparently everything was fine. And, in fact, the loan was approved. Cam had signed off on it early last week. So I imagine that he was planning to give the man the good news in person.”
Rick kept the phone to his ear while he closed his eyes, trying to understand the significance of the loan approval. To begin with, it shot down the scenario of Melograno going into a homicidal rage when he was told he would not get the loan. What had Taylor and Melograno talked about during their meeting in the developer’s office on Thursday? Maybe Taylor just didn’t like Melograno—no surprise there—and decided to keep him hanging for a few more days. And before he could give the man the good news, he got murdered. Rick was shaking his head when he looked over to see that Mary and John Smith had joined the group. Perhaps Gina Cortese would be the next to appear.
“But there is something else in the file that I found curious.”
Rick returned his attention to the phone call. “What’s that?”
“There’s a message slip recording that Melograno called the office on Friday. Cam was already up skiing, as you know. The man asked about the loan and Cam’s assistant told him it was approved. Shouldn’t have done that, of course, but apparently Cam didn’t leave any instructions to the contrary and—”
“So Melograno knew on Friday morning that he had the money.”
“Yes, he did.”
Rick thanked the banker, told him he would let him know if anything broke on the case, and ended the call. He kept the phone gripped in his hand while trying to make sense of what he’d heard, but nothing came. He was about to rejoin the group when he decided he should call Luca.
“Inspector Albani.”
“Luca, Riccardo. I just had a call from the banker. Taylor’s boss.”
“And?”
Rick recounted Mark’s message. When he was finished he thought the line had dropped. “Luca, are you there?”
“Yes, Riccardo, I’m still here. Just trying to figure out what this means for the case. Perhaps nothing. Do you recall our first meeting with Melograno on Monday, how he was secretive about his dealings with the bank? He may simply have decided that we didn’t have any business knowing about his loan approval.”
“Could be. But I would like to ask him about it.”
“I would too, Riccardo. Are you still skiing? I can meet you in town in about a half hour.”
“I’m still on the mountain, but I’ll head down now. I’ll see you outside Melograno’s office.”
As soon as he zipped the phone into his jacket another possibility hit him. If it was what really happened, he thought, then everything falls into place, including a strong motive. He considered calling Luca back, but decided it would be better to think it through a few times on the way down to be sure he had it all straight. Whatever his conclusion, he needed to get down fast.
***
After taking Montoya’s call, Luca got into the passenger side of the police vehicle waiting for him in front of the hotel and nodded to the driver. As the car moved through the streets of the town he thought about his conversation with Muller and how convenient it would be for the man if the mayor were involved in this crime. His wife’s competition for the mayorship would be wiped out, and it wouldn’t hurt to have his wife running the town. It was logical that he wanted to push the investigation in Grandi’s direction, the only thing better for Muller would be to pull Melograno into the crime.
The policeman’s thoughts moved from Muller’s motives to his phone call from Riccardo. Did the new information from the bank help in any way at all?
The garage was in a section of Pinzolo designated for businesses necessary to the local economy but better located away from the eyes of the tourists. The plain, cement structure was wedged between a building supply warehouse and a lumberyard, all three sharing the same imposing line of high barbed-wire fencing. The police car drove through the fence gate and parked next to four cars lined up near the door to the building. Two of the cars had inventory tags hanging from their rear-view mirrors and pointed outward. The other two, which Luca guessed belonged to the mechanics, faced toward the building. He unwound himself from the seat, checked out a door marked “office,” but walked through the wide opening instead. The temperature seemed to drop as he entered, and he pulled his hat down without thinking.
The garage was one large open space except for a glass-enclosed office to one side where a woman with thick glasses hunched in front of a computer screen. Or perhaps hunched over a space heater. Four bays lined the back wall, all but one with cars up on lifts. The one vehicle at floor level was the only Mercedes in the shop, a late-model silver SUV, its open hood hiding the head of a man wearing insulated coveralls. He was the only one in the shop. Luca confirmed that the license plate was Melograno’s before walking over and tapping on the rear
fender of the Mercedes. The man extracted himself, stared at the policeman with a frown, and jerked a thumb toward the office.
“Talk to her to make an appointment.”
Luca pulled out his identification. “Inspector Albani. I have a few questions. It won’t take long.” The mechanic rubbed his hands on a towel that had been covering the side of the car, though they did not appear to be very greasy, confirming what Melograno had said about an electrical problem. “We are investigating some stolen vehicles, including a Mercedes or two.”
“Does this look like a chop shop, Inspector? I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with the alternator and I’m running late. But if you want to check it out, go right ahead.” He stood back from the car as Luca peered at the VIN and made a flourish of writing the number down on his pad. Then he slowly circled the car, stopping at the rear where he looked at the mechanic and gestured toward the trunk. The man waved his hand, which the policeman took as permission to open it. The inside of the SUV looked like it had just come out of the showroom, or at least recently vacuumed, as the marks in the carpeting indicated. Luca carefully closed the trunk.
“I think I’ve seen all I need to see, so you can get back to your wiring. Has it been difficult to diagnose?”
“You might say that,” the man answered, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “I’ve been at it since Thursday morning.”
Luca had been going through the motions of making notes, but his eyes jerked up from his pad. “Thursday morning?”
The mechanic held up his hands defensively. “Yeah, I know, it should have taken less time, but this one has me stumped. I even got on the phone to Stuttgart. And let me tell you, the owner has been breaking my coglioni about it.”
Luca wished the man good luck and stepped out into the relative warmth of the open air, pulling out his cell phone as he walked. His driver, who leaned against the car with a cigarette in his hand, called out. “There’s no signal here, Inspector.” He pointed to the mountain which rose steeply directly behind the building.
Luca walked back into the garage, pulling his coat collar around him, thankful for his warm hat. “Can I use your phone?” he called to the mechanic. The man pointed at a battered telephone in a niche near the door, and returned to his wires. As he dialed, Luca noticed that the woman in the office was still staring at her computer. The call was answered after three rings.
“Agenzia Immobiliare Melograno, how can I help you?”
The young voice sounded vaguely familiar. “This is Inspector Albani. I’d like to speak to Signor Melograno.”
“Yes, Inspector, this is Alberto Zoff. I’m afraid he is not in the office at the moment.”
Luca remembered that Zoff had tried to be very helpful when questioned about his boss’ movements for Saturday, though it hadn’t aided the investigation very much. “Is he expected back soon?”
“I think so, sir, but I can’t be sure. Things have become very busy in the last few days. Signor Melograno is moving ahead quickly to get verbal commitments for the purchase of apartments in the new building. He’s meeting with some possible buyers this afternoon.”
“Are you referring to the project for the lot north of the city?”
“That’s right, Inspector. And one of the prime apartments, which he had been holding back, is now for sale again.”
“Perhaps I might be in the market.”
“Really, Inspector?”
“No, Zoff, I was making the piccolo scherzo. I’m sure those apartments are outside of a policeman’s financial reach.” At least an honest policeman, he thought. Perhaps Zoff was thinking the same thing.
“Well, sir, if you know anyone in Trento who might be interested, you can have them contact me. Should I have Signor Melograno call you when he gets in?”
“No, I’ll just drop in later.” He glanced at the Mercedes. “By the way, Zoff, he told me that his car was in for repairs. How is he getting around?”
“Mostly he walks, Inspector, but I saw him driving a red vehicle.”
“He rented a car?”
“I doubt it, sir. More likely is that someone lent it to him. There are many people in this town who owe Signor Melograno favors.”
***
Rick exchanged greetings with the Smiths and Bruno before turning to Cat. “Sorry, but I have to get into town right away, something’s come up.”
“In the investigation, Rick? Was that the inspector on the phone?”
He looked around and saw that everyone had heard and were looking at him, awaiting an answer. “Let’s just say there may be a break, Cat. Flavio, can you see that the ladies get another couple good runs before the end of the day?”
“Of course, Rick. Nothing would give me more pleasure.”
“John and I will chaperone them, Rick,” said Mary Smith, getting a laugh from all the others except Bauer.
Rick assumed that Bruno’s English was not fluent enough to follow most of the exchange, but apparently he’d understood enough. “Riccardo,” he said in Italian, “if you are in a hurry, why don’t I go down with you? I really must get back to my store and I know a shortcut we can use.”
“That would be great, Bruno.” They said their good-byes and the group watched as the two skiers gained speed and disappeared over a rise.
“Rick is a very good skier,” Lori said. “I’ve been working so hard to stay on my feet that I hadn’t really watched him ski.”
“He has come a long way,” Flavio said. “You should have seen him before I began helping him out.”
John Smith tapped his glove against his chest. “Perhaps you could give me a few pointers, Flavio.”
“Well, John, let me look at your technique on the way down.” He looked at the captain’s skis. “You certainly have good equipment, so that should help.”
“Only the best from Bruno’s shop. I love these skis.”
Flavio pushed himself closer and checked them out. Suddenly he pulled down his goggles and adjusted the straps on his poles. “Please excuse me, Lori. John, if you would take care of the ladies, I must go.”
Flavio ducked his head and began speeding down the slope.
***
The trail was one Rick had used a few times over the past days to get back to the base of the mountain, at least initially. When the terrain changed from wind-blown openness to forest, Bruno, who had been ahead since they’d left the group, veered to the right, a cloud of snow shooting from the back of his skis. He looked back, waving his ski pole to be sure Rick made the turn. This was the shortcut, marked by a wooded barrier and a sign, which Bruno had deftly skied around. Rick didn’t bother reading the sign; he swooshed past it, keeping his eyes on Bruno.
Rick was impressed by the man’s skill, but knew from Flavio that all children born in Campiglio had skis put on their feet as soon as they learned to walk. They were taught the languid style that he’d noticed the first time skiing with Flavio north of Santa Fe. It was a more fluid and elegant way of skiing than he’d seen with Americans. Even on snow, the importance of bella figura came through.
Dark clouds had slipped over them from the west, and a few flakes of snow showed up against the backdrop of the evergreen trees. They were now on a narrower and somewhat steeper track, so that Rick had to concentrate to avoid going into the trees while still keeping up with Bruno. The section had not been groomed, making it even trickier. As he made his turns he could see a fork in the trail about a hundred meters ahead. At the split he could just make out what looked to be a cliff, but the snow, now helped by wind, blurred his vision. He guessed they would be taking the left fork, the one his bearings told him would be a direct route to Campiglio. They were most of the way to the fork when Bruno swerved to a halt. Rick barely missed him as he skied by and stopped in the middle of the fork. Below him, after a small ledge, was a drop of about a hundred feet.
He looked up t
o get an indication as to which fork to take, but Bruno was adjusting his bindings. Just as well, Rick needed a few seconds to catch his breath after that last stretch. He leaned on his poles and looked at the precipice below. It reminded him of some of the cliffs he’d maneuvered under Sandia Peak east of Albuquerque, but his climbs and descents were never in the winter when snow and ice made it too dangerous. Out of habit he started to pick out a possible descent route, noting where there was vegetation or rock formations to offer a handhold.
As he peered down, Bruno slammed into him.
The blow caught Rick in the shoulder, causing him to flip toward the edge, landing on his side. Instinctively he rolled onto his stomach and spread out his body, getting as close to the ground as possible. One of his skis had popped off and lay a few feet from his head. The tip of the other, still on his boot, balanced over the ledge. The two ski poles were still looped around his wrists, but one was trapped under his body. He lifted his head and saw Bruno towering above him, his ski pole extending in Rick’s direction.
“Jesus, Bruno, you could have killed me.” He took his gloved hand out of its pole strap and reached up to grasp the extended lifeline. As he stretched his hand, Rick saw a strange smile on the man’s face.
Bauer slapped Rick’s arm with the pole and then drove it into his side like a spear. With his free hand, Rick grasped the pole, struggling to force it away from his body, but he felt himself slowly sliding toward the edge. He untangled his other hand from the strap of the pinned pole and raked the snow, hoping for a rock or bush buried underneath that he could grasp to stall his slide. His gloved fingers found a loose stone about the size of a softball. It’s a weapon, Rick thought, as he stretched his fingers to grasp it.
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