Murphy's Law (11 page)

“So, if I’ve got this straight, Professor Kobbel, at dinner last night at the Certosa
,
there was you, Professor Kane, Griffin Ball, Faith Murphy and Professor Gori.”

Madeleine Kobbel nodded.

“And what was the atmosphere like at the dinner table?”

She frowned. “Atmosphere?”

“Yes. What did you talk about?”

“The upcoming conference mostly. Professor Gori asked about our flight and we also discussed what remained to be done before the opening session. There is a great deal of hard work that goes into organizing a conference such as ours. And this year we have people coming from as far away as Japan. The Quantitative Methods Seminar is very well known in our field.”

“Were there any disagreements amongst the diners?”

“If you’re intimating that one of us stood up, screamed ‘I hate your guts!’ at Roland and then left the table, only to slip a knife in his heart later, well…no. There was nothing like that. Roland was his usual unpleasant self, but we’re all used to that. And he’d had so much to drink on the flight over and during dinner that he wasn’t too cogent anyway. I hardly noticed when he excused himself from the table and left.”

“How soon after did you leave, Professor Kobbel?”

Hello.
Unexpectedly, she blushed. It was fascinating to watch a young girl’s blush steal over the features of a more than mature woman.

“I—ah, actually, now that I come to think about it, I must have left soon after him. It was after 10:00 pm and I’d had a hard day. I was jet-lagged and we’d already made plans with Professor Gori to meet the next day. So when Roland left, I thought that could be my cue to leave, too.”

“You left soon after him—or with him, Professor?”

“After. I could hear his footsteps ahead of me. Are you familiar with the layout of the Certosa,
Commissario
?”

Dante nodded his head. He’d once come very close to losing his virginity at the Certosa before it had been restored. He still had fond memories of the abbot’s cell.

“Well, as you know, there’s an arcade around the central courtyard. The rooms assigned to us are on the other side of the cloister from the refectory. I followed Roland around the cloister and up the stairs, but then our ways parted. My room was along the northern corridor and his was along the eastern side.”

“So, the two of you didn’t talk on your way up to the cells?”

“Why on earth should we? We’d spent almost twelve hours traveling together and we’d just had dinner together. And I repeat, he’d had so much to drink he wouldn’t have made much sense anyway.”

Dante watched her for a moment. She hadn’t answered the question, but she didn’t have that cagey look of a witness who’d lied and got away with it.

“So you retired…when, Professor Kobbel?”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, reflecting. “Well, I guess it must have been about a quarter past ten. I was in bed by 10:40. I remember looking at my alarm clock before turning out the light.”

“Did you happen to hear anything unusual during the night?”

“No, nothing. As I say, I was jet-lagged and I’d…ah…taken a melatonin pill to sleep better. I woke up around a quarter to eight and went downstairs for breakfast an hour later. It was around ten when I heard the news that…that something had happened to Roland.”

A long, thin something. Plunged straight into Roland Kane’s heart. Dante changed tack.

“So, I guess we can sum up by saying that you saw nothing, heard nothing and knew nothing. Am I correct?”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “Put that way,
Commissario
, I sound guilty as hell. But actually, that’s the way it is. You’ll find the same holds true for the others as well. We were all tired from a long journey, we all had dinner together and we all went to sleep afterwards.”

“Except one of you got up later and killed Professor Roland Kane.”

Madeleine Kobbel started. “Well, ah—” she stammered. She shook her head sharply. “Surely it doesn’t have to be one of
us
who—who killed Roland? Surely it could have been—I don’t know…one of the staff perhaps? An outsider who sneaked in? Why one of us?”

He sighed. “Because, Professor, ninety percent of homicides are committed by someone the victim knows. This year a new company won the contract to cater the conferences at the Certosa. The staff started in April of this year and they had never met Professor Kane—or any of you for that matter—before.

“The Certosa was locked up last night. Of course, any building can be breached, but the walls are fifteen feet high and have glass embedded along the top. There are flowerbeds all around the perimeter of the walls and so far there are no signs of a break-in.” Dante looked at her, all affability gone, a cop. “We’re checking.”

“Well.” Madeleine Kobbel blinked slowly once. Twice. She opened her mouth then closed it again. She didn’t look like a woman who was often at a loss for words. “Well, I, ah—” She sighed. “Put that way—”

“Put that way, Professor Kobbel, the list of suspects narrows considerably.”

“Put that way I guess it does,” she agreed.

Dante put on his most charming smile. “But we don’t necessarily suspect
you
, Professor Kobbel. And forensics will be telling us a little bit more about the method of the murder which will undoubtedly bring us closer to who killed him. In the meantime, Professor Kobbel, I have asked the Public Prosecutor’s Office for a warrant to sequester your passports.”

This was true and technically Dante had the approval of Marcello Sestini, the public prosecutor. The only thing was Marcello’s lazy secretary, Sonia, wasn’t going to draw up the warrants until tomorrow, something Madeleine Kobbel didn’t necessarily have to know.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to keep your passport and the passports of Faith Murphy and Griffin Ball for the duration of our inquiry. I would also ask you not to leave the confines of Siena for the next few days.”

“I’m hardly likely to,
Commissario
Rossi,” she said. “We’ve got a conference to organize and during the conference itself we rarely leave the Certosa.”

“The conference isn’t going to be called off?” Dante asked.

For the first time, a true expression crossed Madeleine Kobbel’s face—surprise. “Of course not,” she said blankly. “We’ve been working for a year for this. Something as—” She clamped her lips shut.

Dante could figure out the rest of the sentence himself.
Something as trivial as murder certainly isn’t going to stop us.

“Well, Professor, I’m sure you will receive your passports back in a few days,” he said smoothly, rising. He stretched out his hand. Hers was dry and bony. “Thank you for your cooperation, Professor Kobbel. I might want to question you further in the next few days.”

“That’s fine,
Commissario
.” There was a minute relaxing of the lines around her eyes. “I understand you’re just doing your job. Am I allowed to go now?”

“Most certainly, Professor Kobbel. And I’d be grateful if you would send in Professor Ball.” Dante accompanied her to the door, keeping behind a few steps. When her hand was on the door handle, he said, tone casual, “By the way, how did you know Roland Kane’s heart was punctured? We didn’t give out that information.”

Her hand tightened on the handle, then she released it and turned around. “Faith Murphy told me.” She gave a tight, thin smile. “Good-bye,
Commissario
Rossi.” She walked out.

Dante went back to his desk, picked up the Kane file. His cell rang. “Rossi,” he said.

“Gianni the pharmacist saw Nerbo buying a new, expensive sweater. Armani,” his brother Mike said without preamble.

Dante shut the file and sat up straight, electrified. “Damn.”

Nerbo had absolutely no virtues save the fact he was a magnificent horseman. He was quick to anger, had problems holding down jobs and was in trouble more often than not. He was also totally incapable of handling money. Any money that crossed his small, tough, leathery palm was usually illicit and was immediately blown. If Nerbo was buying Armani, someone had bought Nerbo.

“Fucking Turtles,” Mike said grimly. “How much do you think they sprung to bribe him?”

“I’m not too sure it was the Turtles,” Dante said thoughtfully. “It might have been the Tower. If Nerbo had been bought by the Turtles now that we have Lina, he’d be pricing a Mercedes.” The Turtles would pay any sum to keep the Snails from winning.

Dante took a perverse pleasure in knowing that the Turtles and the Snails had been arch enemies for almost as long as there had been a
Palio
. He had no doubt whatsoever that his great-great-grandfather had complained regularly to his brother about those treacherous Turtles. It gave him a warm, solid feeling in the pit of his liver.

“Have someone keep an eye on Nerbo,” he told his brother.

“Already did,” Mike answered. “Gianni’s second son, Beppe. He failed two classes this year in high school and he’s in the doghouse. Gianni promised him that he’d forgive him and let him go to the beach after the
Palio
if he keeps tabs on Nerbo. Nerbo won’t be able to take a shit without Beppe knowing about it.”

Dante grunted. Gianni didn’t need to sic his son on Nerbo. The whole Snail
contrada
would be watching the jockey’s every move.

As soon as all the details of a
Palio
had been decided upon by the drawing of the lottery, the
partiti
began—that ever more slippery series of formal and informal deals with the enemy of one’s enemy contrada, forming temporary coalitions with other contradas to ensure that one’s enemy not win, approaching a rival contrada’s jockey…

There was a discreet knock on his door.

“Stay on top of the situation,” he said to his brother and hung up.

“
Avanti
,” he called out.

The door opened and an elegant man slipped in, closing the door quietly behind him.

Dante rose, all affability. “Professor Ball?”

“Griffin Ball,” the man confirmed with a nod. “I understand you’re
Commissario
Dante Rossi. I also understand you’re Lorenzo Rossi’s nephew. Your uncle is a very dear friend of mine. He’s a wonderful man.”

“That he is,” Dante said as he indicated the chair for Ball to sit in, and sat down himself. “If you know Uncle Lorenzo, I imagine you also know my cousins, Niccolò and Lucrezia.”

Ball frowned a moment, then smiled. “Nick and Lou. Sure. They’re great. My partner, Carl and I had them over for dinner recently. We had to be really inventive with the menu because Nick had just broken a finger.”

“Niccolò has always just broken a bone,” Dante replied. “I’m surprised he can stand upright.”

While they were having their little chitchat, Dante studied Griffin carefully. He’d seen Griffin’s passport. If he hadn’t read the birth date, he wouldn’t have put the man’s age at much more than forty, but he was approaching sixty.

Ball was immaculately dressed in light tan chinos and a cream-colored, short-sleeved linen shirt. Despite the heat and the fact it was afternoon, his clothes were crisp and spotless. Ball straightened his trousers carefully so they wouldn’t crease and Dante noticed the skin on his hands was smooth and unspotted.

Clearly, the man had made a pact with the devil. Or with an extremely clever plastic surgeon and very talented hairdresser. His dark brown hair was well-cut and showed no signs of white hairs. His skin was clear with only a few smile lines around his eyes.

Actually,
Dante thought uneasily as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window,
Griffin Ball looks younger than I do.

Dante had been meaning to make it to the barber for weeks now and his hair touched the back of his collar. It wasn’t fashionably long, just slovenly. It was against the natural order of things for an American to be more elegant than an Italian. Unthinkable.

Dante brought his mind back to the business at hand. “So, Professor Ball, I wonder if you could go over the last twenty-four hours with me.”

Ball folded his hands calmly. “Certainly,
Commissario
.”

Griffin Ball’s recollections of the trip and the dinner dovetailed with Madeleine Kobbel’s. And he, too, had heard nothing, seen nothing and knew nothing.

Ball wound down and Dante sat back in his chair, carefully aligning his pen with the side of the notepad.

The two men looked at each other. Griffin Ball, like Faith Murphy and Madeleine Kobbel, was cool and apparently unflappable. Dante decided to see if he could conjure up a response.

“What was your relationship with the dead man, Professor Ball?”

“I beg your pardon?”

It wasn’t a difficult question. “I said, what was your relationship with Roland Kane like? You worked together in the same department for—” Dante made a show of looking at the sheet of paper in front of him, though he knew the answer. “—for eight years. That’s long enough to get to know someone very well. Were the two of you friends?”

Ball smiled. “Clearly, you never met Roland Kane, Captain Rossi. I doubt whether Roland Kane ever had a friend. I doubt he even fully realized what friendship was. The man was so emotionally stunted I wouldn’t hesitate to define him as a sociopath.”

“Harsh words, Professor,” Dante said mildly.

“And one never speaks ill of the dead, right? Well, in Roland Kane’s case, it would be very hard to speak well of him. I’ll spare you having to go check back with the authorities in Southbury,
Commissario
, and tell you straightaway that I had good reason to hate Kane. Probably to kill him, too, if I were a violent man.” He shifted elegantly in his chair. “Which I’m not.”

Dante had always envied gays their style, as if they were all—every single one—Italian. Being an Italian heterosexual took a lot of work to keep up the image and Dante wasn’t always up to it. But any gay, from more or less any part of the world, managed to look more elegant than he did without breaking a sweat.

“I’ve had problems with Roland Kane since my arrival at Southbury,” Ball began. “And I bitterly regret the day I left Virginia.”

Dante didn’t have to check his notes. Griffin Ball had resigned his post as assistant professor at Virginia Tech and had been hired on the tenure track at Southbury.