When Rick appeared at the door of the dining room, the noise level was higher than before the interviews with Inspector Berti. The shock of Biraldo’s death had worn off, helped by an ample flow of wine. Zeke walked quickly to Rick. “You’re in time for one quick glass of wine, Rick; they are about to serve dinner. How did it all go? I couldn’t tell from the look on the face of the inspector; she must be a good poker player.”
“I think it went as well as could be expected, and everyone was very cooperative. Please thank them on behalf of Inspector Berti.” She had not asked him to thank them, but she wouldn’t mind him saying she did. “Listen, I’m going to pass on dinner with the group. She wants to go over the case with me.”
Zeke put his hands together in what Rick thought was a very priestly gesture. “Are you sure that’s all she wants to go over? Excuse my skepticism, Rick, but I recall how you were in college with the ladies. Your reunion with Vicki Alameda reminded me.”
Rick took it as more of a ribbing than a rebuke. “I’ll find out at dinner. Don’t worry, Zeke, I can take care of myself.” A waiter appeared with a tray and Rick took a glass of red wine. “Back in college, did I ever mention that my Italian uncle is a cop?”
The waiter was starting to walk away when Zeke reached out to take a glass himself. “You did not. At least I don’t remember you telling me that. Cheers.” He tapped Rick’s glass with his.
“It’s been a kind of running joke with my uncle Piero that I should become a policeman as well. I’ve helped the police a few times, usually like this situation, with interpreting. I talked to him when you were down with Biraldo’s body, and he encouraged me to help out Inspector Berti.”
“Ah, now I understand. You’re having an intimate dinner with the comely inspector to please your uncle.” He smiled.
“I’m glad to observe that even with your collar turned around, Zeke, you have not lost your rapier wit.” He drained his glass. “I’ve got to go. I’ll try to remember to call you when I get back so you won’t worry.”
“I won’t stay up.”
As Rick left the room, everyone was in animated conversation, thanks to the events of the afternoon. Only Vicki noticed him leave.
After a quick visit to his room, Rick came back to the lobby to drop off his key at the reception desk. When he approached it he saw a woman in an animated argument with the desk clerk. On closer examination, he saw that the woman was doing the arguing and the clerk was cowering behind the counter. Her outfit was flashy—the skirt a bit too short and the blouse a bit too fitted. For an instant Rick wondered if a pious town like Assisi could have…no, probably not. And certainly not in an upscale hotel like this one. The clerk saw Rick and gave him the look of a drowning man spotting a lifeguard on the beach. The woman turned, transferring her glare from the clerk to Rick.
“Signor Montoya, could you please help me with this woman?”
He didn’t see how he could, but said: “If I can, of course.”
“She says—”
“I’m looking for Ettore Biraldo,” she interrupted. “Are you connected with this tour group?”
Rick gestured to the clerk that he would deal with the problem, and the man quickly retreated to the other end of the counter. “Yes, I am.” He assumed his most soothing manner, and she relaxed, though only somewhat. “Signor Biraldo is not here at the moment; perhaps you could give me a message for him.”
“He was supposed to meet me. He called yesterday morning, and I made arrangement to come to Assisi. Then, not a word. And I was going to give him some important news. Well, now it’s his problem. I shouldn’t have trusted him.”
“Are you staying at this hotel?”
“No, no. I always use the Capri. He knows that. Tell him I’m not happy.” She began walking to the door.
“And your name?”
She stopped and turned. “Letizia Gallo.”
Fifteen minutes later Rick stood on a corner half a block from the Hotel Capri. The sky was dark, bringing the streetlamps to life, and the few people who were out and about appeared to be heading to dinner, which was what Rick was thinking about. The light lunch at Aunt Filomena’s had worn off long before, and with all the excitement and then his interpreting, he had worked up an appetite. But first was the small matter of Letizia Gallo. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. Was the inspector busy at the police station or was she arriving late to make another statement, like she did by using the siren while driving up to the hotel? There was a certain drama with this woman, no doubt about it. He turned to see her coming up the street on foot. She hadn’t changed from her work outfit, but of course this was still work. He did notice a splash more of color on her cheeks as she walked toward him.
“This is going to work out well, Riccardo. The restaurant is just a short distance away.” Having made her linguistic point back at the hotel, she’d returned to Italian. “This hotel is not as posh as the one where you are staying. In fact it has the reputation as a place for trysts. Which gives us a hint as to why she was staying here.”
They started walking, and Rick wondered how Chiara knew about the hotel’s reputation. He decided not to ask. “Letizia Gallo told me she always uses the Capri.”
“Perhaps Biraldo wasn’t the only person she’s been meeting up with here. What is the woman like?”
Rick described Letizia as accurately as he could without seeming too judgmental, but Chiara got the picture. “She sounds like—what’s the word in English?—a floozy.”
“I was thinking hussy.”
“That’s a good one too. What was it again? I mean what did she say?”
They were almost to the door of the hotel. “That she had some important news for Biraldo.”
“Right. Well, she can just pass whatever it is on to me.”
The hotel lobby was smaller than that of the Windsor Savoia, but because of its location in the heart of the city, the building itself was considerably older. The interior, however, had been brightened with buckets of stucco and white paint. The marble floor and walls reflected light from a large chandelier hanging between the small reception area and a slightly larger sitting room that held three chairs, an end table, and a sofa. A tiny unattended bar took up the corner. The inspector surveyed the room quickly before marching up to the woman behind the counter.
“Please tell Letizia Gallo that her visitor has arrived.” She put on a charming smile. “Don’t tell her anything else; we’d like it to be a surprise.”
They had only been sitting for a few seconds when the woman came down the stairs and stormed into the reception area. Her face changed instantly from anger to puzzlement when she saw Rick and the inspector.
“What is…? Who are you? Where is Ettore?”
Chiara got up and motioned for her to sit down across from them. She held up her identification. “I’m Inspector Berti, and you have already met Signor Montoya. I have some questions for you about Ettore Biraldo.”
She slowly sank into the sofa. “It doesn’t surprise me that he’s in trouble with the police. That’s probably why he didn’t show up today. Well, I don’t know where he is, I can tell you that immediately.” Her eyes darted between Rick and Chiara. He remained silent, watching the inspector work. Uncle Piero would be interested.
“He was in trouble with the police, but now he has troubles of his own. He’s been murdered.”
Not the smoothest way to start an interview, Rick thought, but if its purpose was to get the woman’s attention, it worked.
“Oh my God, Ettore dead? Who would have done it?”
“Probably not you, Signora Gallo, or you would not have come looking for him at the hotel. When did you expect to see him? You’d made some arrangements to meet?”
She took several deep breaths to compose herself before answering. Her hand, shaking slightly, flitted up to her face. “He called me yesterday morning from his hotel in Rome and said he’d be in touch when he got to Assisi, either last night or this morning. When I didn’t hear from him all day today, I came to his hotel.”
“You’re not from Assisi.”
“No. I live in Perugia. I drove down this morning.”
“Where were you last night?”
She swallowed hard. “Can I get some water?” Without waiting for an answer, she walked to the bar, found a bottle of mineral water, and poured some in a glass. When she got back to the sofa, she took a long drink and put the glass on the table. “Last night I was at home.”
“You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“So your husband can confirm that.”
“He worked late and didn’t get home until about eleven. But he can confirm that I was there when he got home.”
“Where does your husband work?”
“He manages a chocolate company, Dolce Vita. Perhaps you’ve seen their products. He also produces wine, same name.”
Rick was more impressed by the chocolate than the wine, being a big fan of Dolce Vita’s hazelnut-flavored bars.
“We’ll need your husband’s address and phone number.”
The inspector’s request made Letizia Gallo fidget. She clenched and unclenched her hands in her lap. “I suppose you’ll have to.” She pulled her skirt down over her leg, though there was not much of it to pull. Inspector Berti didn’t appear to notice; she kept her eyes on the woman’s face.
“Your husband was not aware that you were coming here today, Signora?”
“He doesn’t give me his work schedule, and I don’t tell him about what I do every day.” A touch of defiance had crept into her voice and face, but it disappeared with Berti’s next question.
“You told Signor Montoya that you had some important news to give to Biraldo. What was it?”
Signora Gallo glared at Rick and then took another sip of the water. “Who is this guy, anyway? Is he a cop as well? He led me to believe that he was with the tour group.”
“He is with the tour group. He will be taking Ettore Biraldo’s place as guide. Can you answer my question, Signora?”
“I was going to tell him that if my husband heard he was back in Italy, it could be a problem.”
Rick thought he knew why it would be a problem, but he was glad when Chiara asked. They both waited while the woman thought about her answer.
“Ettore owed my husband money, and not a small sum, apparently. They had been childhood friends, and Ettore came to Cesare and asked him to back a business deal he was involved with. That was over a year ago. Apparently, the deal fell through, and then Ettore left for America. Cesare was furious.” She looked at the frown on the inspector’s face and realized what she’d said. “But Cesare wouldn’t have killed him. Don’t you see? It wouldn’t make sense.” She looked from Berti’s face to Rick’s, and pleaded, “With Ettore dead, he won’t get the money back. And all my husband is interested in is money.”
The inspector had said that the restaurant was nearby, which in a town as small as Assisi meant it would be a few minutes’ walk from the hotel. Signora Gallo said she would be staying at the Capri that night and returning home to Perugia in the morning. By the time they’d left her, she appeared to have gotten over any grief from the loss. It was unlikely, Rick decided, that she had been spending her days without male companionship after Biraldo had escaped to America. She would get through this.
They passed a window almost at pavement level, its opening crisscrossed with iron bars. The street was already too narrow for even the smallest car, and now it became even narrower. Just ahead a windowed passageway joined two buildings at the second-floor level. They went under its arch, through medieval darkness, before coming out into the light of a streetlamp.
“Does she really think,” said Chiara, “that money would be the only motive her husband could have to murder someone?”
“Are you insinuating that her husband could have suspected a relationship between the two of them?”
She gave him a puzzled look that then turned into a smile. “I forgot that I am with an American who has one of those ironic American senses of humor.”
“You never told me how you learned your English, Chiara. Obviously in the States.”
“My father was a journalist, and he was sent to Washington by his paper to be their correspondent there. My mother insisted my brother and I go to public school where we lived, in northern Virginia. I was about ten and had already studied some English, but when they dropped me into a class where nobody spoke Italian, I was forced to learn quickly. By the time we left four years later, I could have been taken for a local.”
“Kids can soak up languages pretty fast, especially at that age. But you didn’t learn words like floozy and hussy in middle school.”
“I read novels in English now; it helps my vocabulary. What about you, Riccardo? If Commissario Fontana is your uncle, your mother must be Italian or your name would be Fontana.”
“Brava. I can see why you’re a police detective. Yes, I learned Italian and English at home. When my sister and I were alone with Mama, she always spoke Italian. When dad was there, we went into English. With my friends we switched back and forth.”
“What did your father do?”
“Diplomat. Still is. He’s the consul general in Rio at the moment.”
“But you grew up in Italy?”
“I’m still growing up.”
“There’s that humor again. And here’s the restaurant.”
He would have missed it; there was only a small lamp that threw light over an even smaller sign. The door had a few glass panes covered from the inside by someone leaning against it. When Rick pulled open the door, a man stumbled to one side and apologized. Chiara squeezed past him, followed closely by Rick. At least ten people milled around the entrance, and the dining room—which was likely the only room in the place—was crowded with diners. A waiter walking by them carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses looked up and spotted the inspector. He stopped, looked around the room, and gestured to her.
“Your table is ready, Chiara,” he called over the din. “The one in the corner.”
“Grazie, Baldo,” she answered, pulling Rick along by the arm, while getting the evil eye from the people waiting. They worked their way around elbows and heads before arriving at their table, somewhat quieter than the middle of the room they had just passed through. The chairs squeaked as they pulled them out to sit down.
“Good thing you called to make a reservation.”
“I didn’t.”
Rick smiled and spread the napkin on his lap. “I’m impressed, Inspector.” Menus were dropped in front of them by an unseen hand. Rick picked up his. “I suppose you have the menu memorized.”
“Not quite.” Without looking she said, “I would suggest the spaghetti con pasta di olive followed by the pollo all’arrabbiata, if they haven’t already run out of it.”
“I’ll put myself in your hands,” he said, immediately regretting his choice of words.
“The chicken is pretty spicy. Do you think you can handle it?”
Rick gave her a derisive laugh. “You forget that I spent many years in New Mexico. Now what about a wine to go with this piquant dish?”
“We’ll see what Baldo suggests.”
Rick looked around the room and concluded that the darkened entrance off an alley was part of the plan to keep the place a local secret. Everyone appeared to be a regular. There was not a tourist to be found, and he heard only Italian being spoken. He recalled a dark day several months earlier when an article about a favorite restaurant of his in Rome had appeared in the New York Times travel section. Nobody he knew went there after that because the quality declined and it was always too crowded. Fortunately, this place was still under wraps. The proof would be in the eating, of course, but every dish he noticed while working their way to the table looked quite toothsome.
Baldo returned, took their order, and suggested a Torgiano cabernet sauvignon to go with both courses. They agreed and he scurried off.
“How long have you been here, Chiara?”
“Almost two years.”
“You’re Romana, if I have your accent correct.”
“One hundred percent. My mother was not happy that I was leaving Rome but pleased that I was coming here since I was named after Santa Chiara.”
“The famous Saint Clare, the right hand of Saint Francis and founder of one of the more famous orders of nuns. Somehow I have trouble picturing you locked up in a monastery as a member of the Poor Clares.”
“But I am dressed in black.”
“Yes, but it’s not a habit.”
The wine arrived and Baldo filled their glasses before leaving the bottle and departing. They toasted and sipped. “Chiara, aren’t we supposed to be discussing your murder investigation?”
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose we must.” She rubbed the back of her neck, as if fatigue had suddenly overtaken her. “What did you take from the interviews of your compatriots?”
“Not much. Their alibis for the time of the murder were weak, but none of them had any strong motive for getting rid of Biraldo either. The only one with a motive may have been Leon Alameda, and that would only be if Biraldo had been trying something with his wife.”
“The lovely Vicki Alameda, your former acquaintance.”
He ignored the comment. “Leon Alameda and Peter Rael confirmed each other’s stories about being out late for a walk. But either of them could have met up with and killed Biraldo after they separated. Or they could have been in on it together. As far as their wives, I have trouble picturing either of them murdering the man. Vicki could have slipped out while her husband was in the bar talking with Adelaide Chaffee, but that may be a stretch. Lillian Rael, forget it.”
“Adelaide could have met Biraldo and struck him with that cane of hers.”
“Walking stick. I can’t picture it, but I suppose it’s possible.” He opened a packet of breadsticks and broke one in two. “The two kids? Too young and innocent, and they did corroborate each other’s stories, at least for the time they were out walking. But either of them could have gone out later and committed the murder.” He bit off a piece of the breadstick. “So what do you take from what they all said? There must be something, since you heard it twice, in English and then Italian.”
She picked up her glass and turned it slowly. “I agree with your analysis. Your uncle must have taught you well.”
The pasta arrived and was placed in front of each of them. As he always did, Rick studied the dish before picking up his fork. The spaghetti had been darkened by a paste of olives and mushrooms with which it had been tossed in the frying pan. Pieces of both were scattered among the strands of pasta, and flakes of parsley added a touch of green. Impressed, he wished Chiara a buon appetito and twirled his first bite on the fork. The olives dominated both smell and taste.
“The best dishes are the simplest ones.”
“Very true, Riccardo. Here in Umbria they are very proud of their black olives, and of course mushrooms are a local specialty as well. Sometimes they shave truffles over this dish, but to me that’s a bit much.”
“I agree. Truffles should be used sparingly, and for me, only with cheese dishes.”
They spent a few moments in silence, enjoying the spaghetti, before Rick returned to the subject at hand. “If the Americans, as you call them, are unlikely to be involved, it brings you back to those Italians who had dealings with Biraldo.”
Chiara patted her lips with the napkin. “Dealings is an interesting way to put it. Clearly, I will have to have a chat with Cesare Gallo, the chocolate man. But there are others Detective Rossi was going to talk to about Biraldo before he met his end. One is a man named Rucola. Agostino Rucola.”
“The one who lives above a store.”
She put down her fork. “How did you know that?”
“Father Zeke had the address, and we went there looking for Biraldo this afternoon. We talked to the woman who owns the store.”
She shook her head. “Rossi went there and didn’t find Rucola. He didn’t tell me about any store under the apartment.”
“She thought Biraldo was there in the late afternoon and was arguing with Rucola. She could hear the voices but couldn’t make out what they were arguing about.”
“We’ll have to pay a visit to Signor Rucola.” She picked up another forkful of spaghetti. “But not until after dinner. This pasta is excellent; the chef here is one of the best in Umbria.”
Did she really mean both of them when she said “we”? No, she had to be talking about Detective Rossi. He had to admit that he was enjoying his involvement in the investigation and would not mind going with her to see Rucola. Perhaps his uncle was correct about him needing to join the police force. He used a bit of bread to dip into the dark olive sauce left on the side of his plate. “You never told me what Biraldo had done to have you looking for him.”
She placed her fork on an almost empty plate, a signal to Baldo that she was done. “We were asked by our colleagues in Trieste to track him down. His ex-wife, who apparently is prominent in Triestini circles, claims that the last time they were together, just before he departed for America, he absconded with some of her jewelry. They had heard a rumor that he was back in Italy.”
“So he was a jewel thief along with his other misdeeds? Quite a guy, this Biraldo.”
“Well, she admits that he gave her the jewelry when they were married, but her lawyer has pointed out that legally it belonged to her. There was nothing in their divorce settlement that said he would get it back.”
“Where was she last night?”
“I called Trieste and they checked. She was at some society event. Ironclad alibi.”
“She could have hired a hit man.”
“I doubt it. This isn’t Palermo.”
“Which is why I didn’t see any swordfish on the menu.” The comment earned him a puzzled look. He went on without explaining. “Let me try to understand what you have so far on Biraldo. He stole his wife’s jewelry. He was paid to import artwork to Adelaide Chaffee’s gallery in Santa Fe, but she lost money on the deal. He borrowed money from Signor Gallo, an old friend, and not only hasn’t paid it back but was carrying on with Gallo’s wife. Does he have any outstanding parking tickets?”
A waiter arrived to whisk away their empty pasta dishes, and Baldo followed him immediately with their secondo. The chicken pieces had been simmered in a tomato sauce with a dash of chili pepper to give it heat. Just from the smell wafting off the dish, Rick could tell that it would be considered mild back in Albuquerque. The chef had been generous in the sauce poured over the chicken, and Baldo, knowing what would be needed to enjoy it, replaced their almost empty bread basket with a full one. Rick took the bottle and filled their glasses before Chiara took the new fork that Baldo had given her and speared a piece of chicken that had fallen from the bone. Rick did the same.
“Melts in your mouth,” she said in English.
“And not in your hand?”
“M&Ms. I loved those things. Why don’t we stay in English? I don’t get to practice speaking it that often.”
“You don’t really need the practice, Chiara, but sure, whatever you want.”
They kept the conversation in English for the rest of the meal, including a discussion of growing up in a culture other than one’s own. Rick noticed that the brash defensive shell that had surrounded Inspector Chiara Berti at the murder scene had almost disappeared. Was it the wine? Or could it simply be part of her plan for Rick Montoya? Whatever it was, he was enjoying it. The conversation was interrupted by the ring of Chiara’s cell phone.
While she took the call, speaking in a low voice, his thoughts went to Betta. She was probably having dinner with some art police colleague in Lucca, or maybe a local contact in the investigation. Did she have any old friends in Lucca? He hoped she wasn’t eating alone at her hotel. He would give her a call when he got to his hotel if it wasn’t too late. Or perhaps not, since she would ask about his dinner. I’m involved in a murder investigation and had dinner with the police inspector. Really, what’s he like? No, better to call her tomorrow.
Chiara finished her call and stuffed the phone back into her purse. “That was Rossi. He should have called me earlier. I’m wondering how good a cop he really is.” It was a curious comment to make, and perhaps without realizing, she had made it in Italian. She took her fork and cut a piece of the chicken, pushed on some of the sauce, and put it in her mouth. Rick waited while she chewed, and when she started cutting another piece he spoke, also in Italian.
“Well? Anything of interest from Rossi?”
“A couple things,” she said, the words muffled from chewing the pollo. She swallowed, took a drink of the wine, and got down to business. “The autopsy report says that he had a wound on his head caused by a blunt object. Nothing new there. But the actual cause of death was the fall. You’ll recall that the drop was only about three meters, but he must have fallen in a way that broke his neck.”
“He hit the blunt object when he fell?”
“Unlikely, and we didn’t find anything near his head, or even near the body, which could have caused that wound. Plus the ground was quite soft. No, he was struck on the head and then either fell or was pushed over the railing. It was not a very high railing, you’ll recall. If he had hit some of the thicker branches of a tree, that might have saved him, and he would have ended with only a gash on the head and perhaps a broken leg.”
“And if he hadn’t been stunned by the blow, he might have cushioned the fall himself.”
“Correct. Instead, he dropped awkwardly.”
Rick nodded. “I noticed something just now that I don’t think you did.”
She frowned. “Oh, really? What’s that?”
“I was having dinner with Chiara, when suddenly Police Inspector Berti arrived at the table.”
She laughed loud enough to get the attention of the next table. “That’s good, Riccardo. But listen, there was more from Rossi. He searched Biraldo’s suitcase.”
“I hope he found the name of the person Biraldo was going to meet up with at the castle.”
“Not exactly. But he did find something we will have to follow up on.”
There was that we again, he noticed. “And that was?”
“A business card of a sculptor here in Assisi named Arnoldo Fillipo.”
“He could be the one whose work Biraldo was selling to Adelaide Chaffee’s gallery. I could ask her tomorrow.”
“If it is the same person, I would not be surprised if Biraldo hadn’t paid him.” She looked at her watch before spearing the last piece of chicken on her plate. “We can get a coffee on the street, Riccardo. Do you think you can find the place where this guy Rucola lives?”
“I thought meals in Italy were supposed to be relaxed and not hurried. Something sacred. Now you want to hustle me off to interview someone?” He picked up his wineglass, slowly and deliberately, and took a sip.
“I’ll get the check,” she said, signaling to Baldo with a wave. “You’re working for the police, so I’ll find a way to write your dinner off.”
“You’re a good Romana, Chiara, so why don’t we do this a la Romana?” Her expression turned serious and she closed her eyes in thought.
“What’s the matter? Something about the murder?”
She shook her head. “No, I was trying to remember what that expression is in English.”
“Dutch treat.”
“Of course. I guess that’s why they pay you the big money as an interpreter.”
Baldo was able to point them in the direction of Rucola’s street, and they set out on foot. Rick wondered if Chiara had dismissed her driver for the evening, and if so, what that meant. Of course she could summon a police car instantly if it was needed, but still.…
The route took them through Assisi’s main square, the Piazza del Comune, where a few tourists still sat at outdoor tables with their drinks, soaking up the atmosphere. What would have been a rectangular shape was thrown off kilter by the streets coming into it at either end from different levels, irregular building facades, and an awkwardly placed fountain. The early-fourteenth-century Palazzo dei Priori, which now served as the seat of comunal government, dominated the south side of the square. Across from the Comune, the tall columns of the former Temple of Minerva were a reminder that this space was once a forum built by earlier inhabitants of the city, who called it Assisium.
While Chiara waited, Rick climbed a few steps up to the fountain and scooped some water from its bowl. He patted his face to cool himself down and wash away any effects of the wine. The temperature had dropped from its late afternoon high, but the city’s stone still held firmly to the heat. They continued through the square, stopping for a moment in front of the ionic columns of the temple, bathed in light from a hidden lamp.
“Santa Maria sopra Minerva, the same name as one of my favorite churches in Rome,” said Chiara. “I’ve always been impressed by how Christians built churches on top of pagan temples. The symbolism is about a subtle as a sledgehammer. Usually they tore down what the pagans had built, but here, fortunately, they kept the facade.”
“What’s the interior like?”
She shook her head. “Nothing like its namesake in Rome, that’s for sure. Obviously much smaller, and of course no Michelangelo sculpture.”
“And no elephant statue out front either.”
“You’re making me homesick, Riccardo.”
They left the openness of the square and reentered the labyrinth of streets before reaching Rucola’s building. Other than a black cat that ambled along without paying any attention to the two humans, the street was deserted. The store under the apartment was dark and protected by a sliding metal gate. A faint light came from one of the windows above.
“He’s here,” said the inspector. She walked to the door, pressed the button, and held it down.
They heard a faint buzzer followed by a shuffling of curtains from the window above, then the noise of someone coming down the stairs and the clicking of the lock. The door was pulled open revealing a towering Agostino Rucola, who became less imposing when Rick realized the man was standing a few steps above them. His clothes—shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops—diminished the menacing first impression, but an unkempt beard and piercing eyes added to it. The inspector identified herself and introduced Rick. The man didn’t move, but only looked from one face to the other.
“What’s this about?”
“We need to ask you some questions about Ettore Biraldo.”
The reaction was quick, but almost imperceptible. “What about him?”
“We’ve been looking for him. Perhaps we could talk inside?”
He considered the question, shrugged, and without answering started walking up the stairs.
Rick thought about the interview with Letizia Gallo in the hotel. Would this one be different since Gallo had not been a strong suspect but Rucola could be? He suspected that the inspector’s interrogation style was the same even if the offense was jaywalking, but he’d soon find out. Before climbing the stairs she turned to Rick and said in a low voice, in English: “You play good cop.”
“Anything you say, Inspector.”
At the top they entered what appeared at first to be one large room, but a door just off the stairwell indicated at least a closet, but more likely a bathroom. If there had been a system to separate the various sections of the living space, it had been abandoned, and they were now blurred. A bed—really more of a cot—was pushed against one wall and strewn with papers. The room’s one table had become a desk, and was stacked with books and more papers, though one corner of it held a dirty bowl, a fork still inside. The papers on the table were mostly drawings of figures. Pans hung from hooks over the tiny sink where more dishes were stacked and canned goods lined the top of the small refrigerator. A dresser near the bed was the only place in the room that could hold clothing except for a set of hooks near the bed that were covered by items of apparel. Only one decorative item hung on the walls, between the two windows: a photograph of a fountain.
Without being asked, Chiara walked to one of the two chairs at the table. Rick wondered if she would brush it off before sitting down, but she did not. He took the other chair while Rucola stood in silence before realizing there was nowhere for him to sit except the bed. He moved a few papers to make room and sat down. The springs creaked under his weight, which was considerable.
“When did you last see Biraldo?”
Rucola seemed startled by her question, even though it was the most obvious one to begin things. “It was yesterday. Late afternoon. He was here.”
“Why did he come here? An old friend stopping to say hello?” The way she said it indicated that she was taking seriously her role of bad cop, but it didn’t appear to faze Rucola.
“I was expecting him to want to see me, since I owe him some money. I was starting a new line of pieces and had talked him into backing the idea. So far it hasn’t panned out, so I haven’t been able to pay him back.”
Chiara glanced at Rick, who took the cue to play good cop. “From the drawings on the table, it appears that you are an artist.” He picked up one of the sheets, which had a sketch of a fountain similar to the one on the wall. “This is quite good.” Was he overdoing it?
“Those are sketches for garden statuary I create in my studio down the street.”
“Part of the new line that Biraldo was investing in?”
“Yes, exactly. They will be larger than the ones I usually make; I think they’ll sell better.”
The bad cop spoke. “But so far they haven’t, and Biraldo was not happy when he came here to see you yesterday. Was there an argument?”
Rucola rubbed his hands together and stared at the floor. “Not really. He wasn’t happy that I couldn’t pay him. He said he needed it badly. But we didn’t really argue.”
Chiara jabbed a finger at the floor. “That’s not what the woman downstairs remembers. She said it sounded like two people were going at each other tooth and nail. Or did you have a fight with someone else here yesterday afternoon?”
“She’s an old busybody.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Signor Rucola.”
“He shouted at me. But I am a calm person.”
“Most artists have an even temperament,” Rick said. “How did you leave it? I’m sure you are as anxious to pay him the money as he was to get it.”
The man was relieved to be able to address Rick rather than the inspector. “He knows I’m good for the repayment, with interest. He’ll have it as soon as I sell a few of these pieces. There’s a shop here in town that’s interested, and it’s in a good location. Lots of tourists.”
Rick took from his answers that he either didn’t kill Biraldo or was very good a pretending that the guy was still alive. How long would it take for Chiara to bring up the murder?
“What did you do for the rest of the evening, after Biraldo left?”
His reaction to her question was puzzlement. “I kept on working, made my dinner, and worked some more.” He held up his hands and shrugged. “Look, I assume you are looking for him because of some issue other than what I owe him. It’s a lot of money for me, but certainly not enough to get the police involved. I didn’t meet him later, and I have no idea where he went after he left here.”
“He was murdered last night,” said Chiara. “Can anyone vouch for you being here?”
Rucola looked at Rick as if needing a confirmation of what he’d just heard. When Rick kept silent, the man pushed a hand through his unkempt hair and worked himself up to an answer. It took a full minute. His voice was lower, and he spoke slowly while looking from one face to the other. “Ettore was an unsavory character, but he didn’t deserve to die. And I didn’t kill him. I live alone and can’t afford to eat out very often. Unlike Ettore. So you have only my word that I was here all evening.”
“If you didn’t do it, who do you think would have had a motive to murder Biraldo?” Rick asked.
A trace of a smile crossed Rucola’s face. “A girl’s outraged father or brother? Someone he cheated in business? A cuckolded husband? Take your pick. The small sum of money I owed him was likely the most minor of motives.”
“Names?” The question was barked out by Chiara.
“I don’t know the names of his female conquests, but on the business side, you should talk to Arnoldo Fillipo. He’s a sculptor but does individual pieces that he sells in his own gallery.” He waved a finger at the papers on the table. “Not like my work that gets sold to Eastern European tourists.” The smile widened. “Arnoldo is a brilliant artist—just ask him and he’ll tell you.”
Chiara stood up. “We will do that. Don’t leave town.”