Adam's Rib (8 page)

HE THREW OPEN THE DOOR TO INSPECTOR RISPOLI'S
office.

“Give me some good news!”

Caterina was at her computer. She leaped to her feet. “About what, Dottore?”

“The gift.”

Caterina smiled, pulled open a desk drawer, and extracted a magazine. “Take a look.”

Rocco grabbed the weekly. On it was the logo of a hotel in Chamonix, France. Pictures of a swimming pool and a girl lying half-naked on a massage bed, with an Asian woman rubbing her back. “What's this?”

“Three days of total relaxation at the romantic Hotel Aiguille du Midi . . . ayurvedic beauty treatments, shiatsu massages, three heated pools, chromotherapy, all in the magnificent setting of the French Alps.”

“You talk like a travel agent.” The deputy police chief laid down the magazine. “And you're suggesting I give her this for her birthday?”

“It's a romantic hotel. You'd have three wonderful days, Dottore. And you'd definitely make her happy.”

“I don't have three days to spare.”

“A long weekend.”

“Thanks, Caterina, but it's too big a deal. Believe me. Too much. Shit, it's six o'clock and I'm back where I started from.”

Caterina nodded.

“What do you say to a pair of shoes?”

Caterina made a face. “If you put it like that, it seems like a consolation prize.”

“But not just an ordinary pair of shoes. Tell me, as a woman, what kind of shoes would any woman be happy to receive?”

“Personally? Prada. Or Jimmy Choo. Though I wouldn't rule out Manolo Blahniks either. But you have to try shoes on. Do you at least know the lady's shoe size?”

“Thirty-eight,” said Rocco.

“Are you certain? Because I can tell you that it's no simple matter with shoes, there are half sizes, different foot widths, in other words—”

“Worst case, she can exchange them. Now, tell me what shop to go to here in Aosta.”

“In the center of town; otherwise you won't get there in time.”

“We're late as it is. In fact, put on your jacket and come with me.”

Caterina walked around the desk. “Actually, any minute
now D'Intino and Deruta are going out for their stakeout and I'm supposed to be—”

“They'll do fine without any help from you.”

“Ah, and then there are all the interviews that Scipioni and Pierron did with the Baudos' neighbors.”

“Not now, Caterì, not now, or the stores will close!”

OFFICER CATERINA RISPOLI AND DEPUTY POLICE
Chief Rocco Schiavone strode briskly down Via de Tillier, the broad shopping street in central Aosta, lined with boutiques and restaurants. A few pedestrians glanced at them in alarm, convinced they must be on the trail of some particularly urgent case.

“Where is this shop, Caterì?”

“We're almost there!”

They narrowly avoided colliding with a couple walking out of a pub flying the Irish tricolor and other green flags with emblems of shamrocks and the Celtic harp. As the two policemen veered around them, a Yorkshire terrier covered with a Scotch tartan coat yapped madly at them.

“Couldn't we just have driven here?”

“It's a pedestrian area, Dottore.”

“But we're the police, and that's got to be good for something, don't you think?”

Then Rocco came to a sudden halt like a stubborn mule, and stood gazing at the sign outside a shop.

“This isn't the place, Dottore!”

But Rocco wasn't listening to her anymore. “Just wait for me, I'll be right back,” he said, and hurried off toward a menswear boutique called “Tomei.”

It was an “English-style” shop, with faux antique paintings of golfers, horsemen setting out on fox hunts, cricket gear mounted on the walls, and the inevitable canvas Union Jack behind the cash register. They sold suits in tweed and glen plaid, lots of colorful cashmere sweaters stacked on wooden shelves. The place was wallpapered with something resembling a Scotch tartan. Set on the blue-green wall-to-wall carpeting were pairs of Church's English shoes, and hanging on pegs along the shop's long wall were Burberry jackets. A man in jacket and tie came over to the deputy police chief. From the way he walked, he clearly believed he resembled some member of the Spencer family. But to Rocco he was reminiscent of a night porter in a seedy, two-star hotel. “Can I be of any assistance?” said the counterfeit English lord, dry-washing his hands.

“Maybe you can. I want to see your sacks.”

The man didn't seem to understand. “What do you mean, our sacks?”

“The sacks you put the things you sell in, for the customers to carry out of the store.”

“Ah, our shopping bags. But we don't sell those.”

“And I don't want to buy one. I just want to see one.”

“It's a rather odd request, don't you think?”

“Certainly,
mister
, but it just so happens that I'm the deputy chief of the mobile squad of the Aosta police force, and I'm in the middle of an investigation.”

“Are you a policeman?”

“I suppose I am, since a deputy police chief does work for the police.”

The proprietor looked stunned. “Oh Jesus . . . Of course, of course . . . please come with me, right this way.”

He rushed over to the cash register. He bent down and finally pulled out two lovely red shopping bags, big enough to accommodate a heavy sweater.

“No, smaller. The smallest one you have.”

The man smiled, bent over again, rummaged around a little more, then pulled out another shopping bag. It was black, with rope handles, and the Tomei logo enclosed in laurel branches. “Like this?”

“Exactly! That's it. Now let me ask you to concentrate for a moment. You might be very useful to me.”

“Of course. Ask away.” Signor Tomei leveled his pale blue eyes at Rocco's.

“Yesterday or sometime in the past few days, a woman came to see you, perhaps you know her, Esther Baudo? About thirty-five, with curly hair?”

The man looked up. “No . . . I don't remember. A woman, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Certainly, if you had a photograph . . .”

“Try to remember.”

“Look, right here and now? I couldn't say, nothing comes to mind. And I'm not always present in the store. Sometimes my wife takes over for me, or my son . . . and mornings there's a salesclerk . . . and she works
part-time
.” The way
he pronounced the English word in Italian, rounding his
r
's and hitting his
t
's especially hard, was clearly meant as a proud display of his splendid and hard-won Anglo-Saxon pronunciation.

“Shall I leave you the number of my
mobail
?” drawled Rocco, cocking an eyebrow and twisting the English word into a mockery in Italian.

“Yes.”

“Here, I'll write it down.” And he stepped over to the briarwood table where the cash register stood, between the electronic credit card reader and two baskets piled high with cotton lisle socks. Rocco was almost tempted to buy a pair, but twenty-three euros seemed too high a price, no matter how nice they might be. Any market stand would sell you three pair for ten euros. Sure, they might not be made of cotton lisle or cashmere, but as long as he was wearing his Clarks desert boots, those socks weren't going to last long anyway. After he jotted down his phone number he turned to look at the proprietor of the shop. “I'll arrange to send over a picture of the person who might have been here.”

“All right. I'll show it to my wife and son and my
part-time
salesclerk,” he replied, once again with the impeccable English pronunciation.

“Just to get an idea, what could you fit into such a small shopping bag?”

Signor Tomei turned the bag over again in his hands. “Well, I'd say a necktie, or possibly a pair of suspenders.
Or even a pair of socks. If you wear Church's shoes, maybe a pair of shoelaces. I can't think of anything else. Oh, yes, cuff links. Brass cuff links, you see? They're on display in the window.” He pointed at a small set of wooden shelves full of shiny buttons. “They have replicas of all the flags of the British navy. They're made of brass and enamel; do you want to take a look?”

“No, thanks. Now, this is important: call me if anything occurs to you.”

“Well, tonight we're about to close. And tomorrow I only work a half day. It's a holiday, you know?”

“A holiday?”

“Yes, it's a holiday because my wife is Irish and we celebrate it. It's March seventeenth.”

“I'm still not following you.”

“It's St. Patrick's Day!” And once again, he uttered the name of the saint in perfect English pronunciation.

“Ah, I see. That's why the pubs have flags with shamrocks on them downtown,” said Rocco.

“Sure, it's a holiday now in Italy too. But you know why? It's just an excuse to drink, not for any other reason . . .” He laughed long and loud. And alone.

“Just another piece of information: do you sell women's shoes?”

“No, we sell only clothing for men, strictly
Made in England
.” Again with the accent.

“Elementary, I daresay. Thank you very much.”

And he exited the shop.

CATERINA WAS OUTSIDE, CHECKING HER WATCH. “YOU
were inside forever.”

“I know,” Rocco replied, resuming the forced march. “But you know that I have the bad habit of mixing business with pleasure.”

“Which was the business and which was the pleasure?”

“The business was doing my job and buying a gift for Nora.”

“And the pleasure?”

“Doing it with you.”

Caterina blushed but Rocco didn't notice because he was half a yard behind her.

HE KNOCKED ON NORA'S DOOR, THE GIFT-WRAPPED
shoe box with the ribbon on it under his right arm and two bottles of Blanc de Morgex purchased from Ugo cradled in his left arm. The wine had cost practically nothing; the shoes had cost a month's salary. Nora opened the door. Beaming. “My love . . .” She planted a kiss on his lips. She tasted of cigarettes and sugar. “You came to my party . . .”

“You do have a certain spirit of observation.” He immediately put the gift into her hands. “For you. Many happy returns of the day.” He'd finally rid himself of that burden.

Nora's large eyes gleamed. It was a nice big box, and she
turned it over and shook it, trying to guess what it contained. “What is it? A dust buster?” she asked, laughing.

“No, it's a steam iron.”

“Too light.”

“Carbon alloy construction. Very high tech. Can I come in or are we having the party here on the landing?”

Nora stood aside but gave Rocco another kiss; at last the deputy police chief was able to enter the apartment. While she eagerly unwrapped the present, Rocco set down the bottles and took off his overcoat. “You know what, Rocco? There's another person here you know. I thought you'd be happy to see him here tonight.”

“Who's that?”

“The chief of police.”

Rocco's eyes opened wide. “You invited Corsi?”

“Yes. I sold him his daughter's wedding gown. It just seemed . . . oh
Madonna
! Jimmy Choo?” she cried with a little scream. She sat right down on the chair by the front door and opened the box.

Caterina had selected an elegant pair of plum-colored shoes with five-inch heels, insisting that these were the epitome of sexy footwear. “Oh my God, they're beautiful!”

Nora wasted no time. She took off the shoes she was wearing and immediately tried on the new ones. She looked at them, admired them in the mirror, and walked back and forth. “My love, they're wonderful.”

They really did look good on her. They slimmed down her legs, showing off her narrow ankles. And now that he looked closer, even her ass looked better in those shoes.

“How do they fit?”

“Excellent, my exact size. You want to know something? I made a bet with a girlfriend of mine. And I won. Come on into the other room; everyone's already here.”

And striding across the parquet floor in her new shoes, she led Rocco into the living room.

She'd prepared an aperitif, a pre-dinner cocktail party. Two ice buckets with champagne, bottles of Aperol and tonic water standing nearby, finger sandwiches with caviar and smoked salmon, and a Spanish
pata negra
ham to be sliced on a side table. There was a little lounge music in the air, which would have gone just as well in an elevator or a first-class airport waiting room. “Everyone, I'd like you to meet Rocco.”

Rocco looked around at the other guests. He immediately counted them. Three men, four women. Police Chief Corsi wasn't among them. He shook hands all around, forgetting each name the minute he heard it; as he did, Nora walked over, showing off her new shoes to Anna, a very nicely put-together woman in her early forties, with wolfish eyes, skinny muscular legs, and a buttery white bosom that peeped out of the low neckline of her black T-shirt. “What do you think?”

“Oh, oh!” said her friend, “they're wonderful.”

“I won my bet!” Then she turned to Rocco. “Anna bet that you'd give me a weekend's worth of massages. I told her you'd do much better than that.”

Rocco smiled slyly. “Massages? Well, that wouldn't have
been a bad idea . . .” he said ironically. “But your friend must not have a very high opinion of me.”

“Am I wrong?” Anna replied, winking at him and crossing a pair of legs sheathed in black stockings. Her defiant half smile and her half-lidded gaze were adorned with dark eye shadow, giving her dangerously alluring eyes an even more exotic look and making the police officer ridiculously horny. He'd have gladly thrown her on her back right there on the hardwood floor and licked her like a lollipop for a couple of hours at least. But that image of cheap and decadent sex was dispelled by the delicate touch of a hand on his shoulder. “Hello, Schiavone.”