Piero was about to close the folder when Rick stopped him. “Is that the bus ticket?” The policeman nodded and passed over the plastic envelope. Rick held it up and studied both sides of the ticket inside. The time stamp was slightly blurred, but not enough to make it illegible. He passed it back as they heard a knock on the door.
“You wanted to see me, Commissario?” She peered in and noticed Rick, but waited for her superior to reply.
“Sergeant, you remember my nephew?”
Rick got to his feet and shook hands with the new arrival. No sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers this time; she was smartly dressed in a well-pressed blue uniform with black shoes. It was as if this was the twin of the person who had picked Rick up at Fiumicino.
“Salve, Carmella.”
“Ciao, Riccardo. You appear more rested than when I saw you last.” She looked at Piero, perhaps wondering if she had been called in only to greet Rick.
“Sergeant, Riccardo is helping on the Zimbardi murder case. He’s translated some materials that the count wrote in English, and they give clues to where the man spent his last days. The count was working on a project about the history of streets, and he was interviewing people who lived and worked on those streets. I want you to go talk to those people.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And Riccardo will go with you. He has all the notes on what the people told the count.”
Was she resentful that he would be tagging along? Rick watched for a reaction from Carmella and couldn’t detect any. He pulled out his notes, walked to the map, and pointed. “The count’s most recent entries had him in this part of the city. Specifically, on these streets. His notes were dated, but he may have written them a day or two after he visited the locations. From the way they were written I sense that he took informal notes when he was talking to people and later sat down at home and cleaned them up. So, what I read were not first drafts.”
“Still,” said Piero, “he was in the general area just before he was killed, even if you don’t know exactly which streets.”
“I’m quite sure which street it was where he spent those last few days, Uncle.”
“So go down and see what you can find out. Sergeant, you’re working on the Palmeri case, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but we’ll be arresting him this afternoon.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning?” The commissario looked from one face to another.
“Yes, Sir,” said Rick and Carmella in unison.
Fifteen minutes later Rick was on Via Buoncompagni waiting for a bus to take him down the hill into the flat center of the city where the apartment was located. The time and place of the next morning’s rendezvous with Carmella had been set, and he hoped that by then, after reading more of the count’s notes, they would have people to seek out. He mulled over the meeting with his uncle. It was almost as if the man was looking for a way to get him into police work through the side door, just as he had suspected. Wouldn’t Mamma love that, her son following in the footsteps of her brother? Not really.
The bus he took roared down the street, veering left sharply to get through a yellow light and onto Via Veneto, forcing all the passengers to grab seats, poles, or each other to keep from falling over. As it passed the American Embassy, Rick worked his way through the crowd to punch his ticket on the boxed machine attached to one of the upright poles. The passengers around him gazed out through the dirty windows or talked on cell phones. The bus made more stops for people getting on and off, but by the time it turned onto the Corso, the city’s longest and straightest street, it was almost full and Rick had been squeezed toward the front. Just as well, he was getting close to his stop. He was staring out at those walking along the sidewalk, going almost as fast as the bus, when he felt a nudge near his waist. When it happened again he turned to see a short man working his way toward the door. Rick reached down and realized his wallet was missing. Another rookie mistake. The busiest bus route in the city, he should have been more vigilant.
“Hey!” he called out instinctively in English.
The man kept going toward the door but dropped the wallet on the floor of the bus. In a split second he was out on the street, timing his caper perfectly for when the doors of the bus opened. A gray-haired woman picked up the wallet and passed it to Rick who was trying to get to the door.
“You should be more careful, young man,” she said in Italian. “These thieves are everywhere. Haven’t you ever been on a bus before?” The way she talked, it was Rick’s fault. She looked down, noticed his cowboy boots, and her expression changed from scolding to derision. “Ah, a tourist,” she said to people around them, as if that explained everything. “No wonder.”
Rick kept his mouth shut. No use making the situation more embarrassing by responding in Italian. Thankfully, his stop was coming up and he squeezed his way forward under the shaking heads of the Roman strap-hangers. First learning that he would be working with Carmella and now this. If those were the worst things to happen to him this day, he was fortunate. He stepped onto the street and started walking toward the apartment when his cell phone rang. Not a number he was familiar with, but then he was in a new city now. He pressed the button and put it to his ear.
“Montoya.”
“Reek! I need your help!”
Rick looked at the phone in his hand and wished it wasn’t his. The words had been spoken in Spanish, with a porteño accent he remembered all too well. How the hell did Juan Alberto, the crazy Argentine, get my number? Does he know I’m in Rome? Good God, is he in Rome?
Perhaps things can get worse after all.
Rick was still recovering from his conversation with Juan Alberto Sanguinetti when he pushed open the door to a bar just off Piazza Navona. It was early for a second coffee, but he needed something to help sort out what his old friend had said. Rick mentally put quotation marks around the word friend as he recalled those times, years earlier, on the campus of the University of New Mexico. They had met not on campus during class hours but one night in a bar on Central Avenue, which would be expected since Juan Alberto didn’t spend much time in class. That evening the Argentine was with three women, one of whom knew Rick, and she had waved him over to their table. Introductions were made, and Rick not only met Juan Alberto, but the two other ladies, one of whom he ended up dating, something Juan Alberto took credit for during the rest of the semester. In Juan Alberto’s opinion, said introduction—analogous to removing a thorn from Rick’s paw—entitled him to seek Rick’s help whenever needed, which turned out to be with some frequency.
This one-sided relationship ended only when Juan Alberto’s academic luck ran out. Even with the hefty out-of-state tuition that Juan Alberto’s father was sending from Buenos Aires, the university could not justify keeping someone on the books who did not understand that it was an institution of higher learning. Unfortunately for Juan Alberto, a letter to this effect was sent to his parents, squashing his plan to stay on in Albuquerque and use the tuition money to buy a part ownership of a massage parlor. Reluctantly he was driven to the airport by his buen amigo Rick Montoya to board a plane for the southern hemisphere. After walking him through the check-in process—Juan Alberto had never truly mastered the English language—Rick assumed he was seeing the last of Juan Alberto Sanguinetti.
Now he found that his assumption was incorrect.
He ordered a double espresso.
The convoluted tale that Juan Alberto had given over the phone was all too typical of schemes he had been involved in back in New Mexico. The Argentine, it appeared, had not changed, except perhaps for the worse. He told Rick that in Buenos Aires he had talked a local wine producer into sending him to Rome to get the exclusive contract from the Vatican to buy Argentine wines. The pope was a local guy, after all, and he would certainly want to serve his home wines for official entertaining. Neither Juan Alberto nor his employers knew that popes do not do any official ent
ertaining, but that was not the only problem with Juan Alberto’s scheme. He sold himself as having connections to the pope’s Argentine family, but those connections were less than flimsy. They were nonexistent. He also claimed to be fluent in Italian. His name was Sanguinetti, what could be more Italian? Unfortunately, his Italian was even worse than his English, and it was his great-grandfather who had been born in the Old Country. Juan Alberto figured that he could waltz into the Vatican, flash some of his Latin charm, and land a contract with ease. Instead, he found that the Curia was impenetrable. After several attempts to get a pie in the puerta, Juan Alberto decided to call his old buddy Rick Montoya. A female acquaintance from his days in New Mexico had mentioned in an e-mail that Rick was moving to Rome. Unfortunately, Rick’s cell phone number had remained the same from his college days.
As he stirred double sugar into his double coffee, Rick cursed the FCC for allowing him to keep his number when he had changed plans a few years earlier. Then he cursed the girl who had tipped off Juan Alberto he was moving to Rome. When he was finished cursing, and had finished half his coffee, he returned to Juan Alberto’s problem. Could he be of any help? Who did he know in the Vatican? The answer hit him about the same second as the caffeine, both serving to widen his eyes.
Lidia.
Art said that she worked in the Vatican press office. It would be great to see her again, and since Art said she wasn’t married, it would be an easy way to say hello without complications. Art had hinted she was in some kind of relationship, so he would tread carefully. Asking for help on behalf of Juan Alberto would be a good way to do it, so he wouldn’t look so obvious. And who knows, she might even suggest someone to at least talk to Juan Alberto, thereby allowing Rick to slip off the hook. I did that favor for you, Juan Alberto, so good luck and hasta luego. He drained his cup, walked happily out to the street, and started in the direction of his new abode.
Five minutes later he was pressing the bell on a massive set of wooden doors. The building was old, Rick guessed seventeenth century, but it could have been older. The doors—really gates—were large enough to allow vehicles to enter, carriages when it was built and now cars. That meant that there was room inside for parking, though Rick long ago decided that he would not be getting a car himself. He would walk or use public transportation to get around Rome. As if wanting to confirm his decision, the traffic roared so loudly behind him that he wondered if the portiere would be able to hear his ring. Exhaust from the buses hovered with him against the door, like it was also trying to get off the street. He was ready to push the bell again when a tiny door opened well below eye level. A face, or part of one, looked warily out through it.
“Yes?”
It felt like getting into a speakeasy or exclusive private club. Should his uncle have given him the password? He bent over and spoke through the opening. “I am Riccardo Montoya, here to see my aunt’s apartment.”
“Anybody with you?” asked the face.
“Just me.”
The hole snapped shut and Rick heard a click. A person-sized door, cut into one of the gates, swung open with a creak and Rick stepped through it into the courtyard. The portiere appeared from behind the door as it swung shut. The face Rick had seen through the opening was the front of a round head, attached to an equally round body. The entire figure, dressed in blue overalls, came up to Rick’s chin. The courtyard was large enough for a horse and carriage to make a U-turn, but now it held four cars parked along the walls. The thick gates, and the building itself, lowered the traffic noise by dozens of decibels, and the air was noticeably clearer. Above them was the open sky, at the moment beginning to cloud up. Below it, windows looked down on the courtyard on all four sides and he wondered if his great aunt’s apartment was one of those facing the street. He hoped not.
As Rick looked up, the other man surveyed him with squinted eyes, but they widened when they got to Rick’s cowboy boots.
“The signora said you were an American. Are you a cowboy?”
A curious thing to ask. Rick had been on horses a few times at his uncles’ northern New Mexico ranches. Surely that was enough to call himself a cowboy. “You might say that. I come from New Mexico, where Billy the Kid was shot by Pat Garrett. And what is your name?”
The cowboy connection made such a strong impression that the man was at a loss for words. Finally he found his voice. “I, uh, am Giorgio.” He stood frozen in his place until Rick extended his hand.
“My pleasure, Giorgio. Can we go to the apartment now?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” He hurried off toward the rear of the courtyard with Rick following behind him taking one step for each of Giorgio’s two. They stopped at a dutch door where the small man opened the top part and reached around to retrieve a key off a set of hooks. It was the typical Italian portiere hovel, with a wood desk, beat-up sofa facing a tiny TV set, and tools hanging on the wall as well as spread across the desk. Rick could not help noticing that the walls were covered with movie photos, all of them westerns and mostly Sergio Leone spaghetti westerns. Clint Eastwood, with his trademark wrinkled stogie, had top billing. Did Giorgio know that the series had been filmed mostly in Europe? One thing for sure, Rick had an important ally in the building even before moving in, and he had his cowboy boots to thank for it.
They walked to an elevator and took it to the top of three floors where they stepped into a tiny hallway with two doors. Giorgio fumbled with the key, unlocked one of the doors, and led the way with a polite “faccio strada?” Rick followed him into semi-darkness. The portiere switched on a bare ceiling light and hurried to each of the windows, opening them and then pushing its set of hinged shutters. They banged against the outside wall and light streamed into the room, which was a combination living and dining area. Dark brown beams that looked like they could have been original ran across the ceiling, but in Italy one never knew what was old and what was new. The floor was gray tile that clicked under Rick’s cowboy boots, making him glad that he was on the top floor and not the apartment underneath.
He had not thought to ask his uncle about furnishings, and was pleasantly surprised to find a few pieces of furniture which didn’t look all that bad. Certainly good enough for a start. Under the ceiling lamp sat a round wood dining table with four chairs, and on the other side of the small room were two chairs and a matching sofa, with a floor lamp between them. He walked to the windows and found that one side looked down on the courtyard while the other looked over the tiled roof of the lower building next door. Other taller buildings, including some church domes, were visible in the distance.
“The kitchen is here,” said Giorgio, pointing his arm back in the direction of the door. It was a small, galley layout, what one of Rick’s more colorful American aunts would have called a one-butt kitchen. No dishwasher, as expected, but instead the typical European drying rack over the sink. Under one section of the counter was a small refrigerator, also typical since Italians tended to shop daily. A stove was wedged next to it, one that could barely fit a medium-sized chicken, topped by two burners. All in all, perfect for Rick’s needs.
“The bedroom and bathroom are this way.” Giorgio gestured with almost a bow. The bedroom furnishings consisted of a bed and an armoire which took up almost all the floor space. Next to it was a bathroom with, to Rick’s relief, a shower in the corner. He never took baths. The final surprise was a small, bare room overlooking the courtyard, that Rick decided would be his office. There was just enough space for a desk.
“The building has WiFi,” said Giorgio, as if reading Rick’s mind.
“Thank you, Giorgio. I’ll be moving in as soon as I can buy sheets and towels.”
“You are Signor Montoya?” The door today had been opened by the countess herself, who looked Rick up and down as if he was dressed in overalls. The gatekeeper to the building must have called ahead, so who else would be ringing her doorbell? And this had to be the countess, looking
like someone sent from Central Casting for the part: gray head, owlish face, a thin string of pearls, reading glasses hanging from a gold chain, knit dress, and sensible shoes.
“Yes, Countess. My pleasure.” He extended his hand, which was taken with a tinge of reluctance. “I should be able to finish reading your husband’s notes today,” he said. “And I can make my report to Commissario Fontana.”
She stepped back to allow him to enter, then closed the door. “What have you found so far?” She crossed her arms across her chest and squinted at Rick, like he was the plumber who had come to fix a clogged drain. She probably treated all tradesmen the same way. Was she regretting her decision to tell the police about the count’s journals? Or was she naturally cranky?
“There was considerable information about where the count had been in the days before he died. Whether that has any relevance to the investigation is something the commissario will have to evaluate.” He was sounding like a bureaucrat.
She closed her eyes for a moment, shook her head, and gestured toward to hall. “Well, have at it. You know the way up to the count’s study. You can let yourself out when you’re finished.” She turned and walked off.
Rick went down the hallway and climbed the stairs into the study. It was as he had left it, down to the folders on the desk which held strips of paper marking where he had left off. After giving the globe a spin he pulled off his jacket, settled into the chair, and went to work. The previous day he had read through all the street notes, so today he started with the journal. It was really a diary, but that word brought the image of a young girl writing in her pink bedroom. Gentlemen like the count wrote journals, not diaries, but the purpose was the same, if not the content. Count Zimbardi composed in a stilted first-person style, like something a nineteenth-century British chronicler would have written, heavy on impressions and flowery descriptions. It matched the handwriting, also something from a previous era. The journal was different from the notes he had taken from his interviews with people on the streets, which were detailed but factual, but Rick found each interesting in its own way. The journal covered more than the notes about the street research, as would be expected, including mention of what appeared to be frequent evenings at Il Tuffo, the bar that Gonzalo, the butler, had said was a favorite hangout for the count.
Roman Count Down Page 6