The Fine Art of Murder (18 page)

Maresca checked his watch. “They’ll be bringing in Lombardi and the stand-ins in twenty minutes.”

“I wish I didn’t know his name,” I said.

“Why?” asked Lippi.

“It makes it, well, somehow personal.”

“This young punk is
personal
?” Curso said. To the detectives: “Mrs. Fletcher called him a young punk.”

“Please,” said Maresca, “don’t say such a thing in front of his defense attorney.”

“He’ll be here?” I asked.

“Of course. Offer him nothing in the way of comment, Mrs. Fletcher. Simply view the lineup, pick out the man who murdered Fanello, and leave.”

“Whatever you say,” I said, keen to get the whole matter over with.

A uniformed officer entered the room and announced that the participants in the lineup were ready. Curso stayed behind as we followed the officer to a small room with a floor-to-ceiling window that spanned the wall. A heavy green drape was drawn across it. I was introduced to the prosecutor, a handsome young man with a pleasant demeanor. There was another man in the room, considerably older than the prosecutor and dressed more elaborately. His dark blue suit looked expensive, as did the multiple thin gold chains on his wrist and a gold tie tack that glistened in the room’s lights. Introduced to me as the alleged shooter’s defense attorney, he had a perpetual sneer on his deeply tanned face; I wondered whether it was for my benefit.

Up until now I’d been relatively calm, but as the moment of truth arrived, I felt a slight quivering in my legs.

“Ready, Mrs. Fletcher?” Maresca asked.

“Yes.”

“The curtain will be opened and the men will file in. There are six of them. Take your time and look closely at them. What is most important is that you be absolutely sure of your identification.”

“If there is one,” the defense attorney said.

“That’s right, Counselor, if there is one,” Maresca agreed with a sigh.

“Where do you get the men to take part in the lineup?” I asked.

“Mostly police officers who look somewhat like the accused, although we sometimes go out to the street to enlist a look-alike. Here we go.” He said into a microphone, “Open the curtain and bring them in.”

I watched with fascination as the six men entered the brightly lit room on the other side of the glass. The room was devoid of any furniture. Behind the men was a marked chart on the wall against which their height could be judged. They were dressed similarly, in jeans, dark T-shirts, and sneakers. None wore a hat or glasses.

“All right,” Maresca said into the microphone, “stand up straight and face the window.”

He said to me, “Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, step up to the window and take a long, hard look. There’s no rush. Take your time.”

Although the six young men looked alike, I immediately recognized the one from L’Aquila. But I withheld announcing it because I didn’t want to appear to have rushed to judgment. I methodically took in each man’s face, going from left to right, from subject number one to subject number six. I could sense the tension in the room. My declaration had significant ramifications for the accused.

“Mrs. Fletcher?” Maresca said.

“Number two,” I said.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I’d recognize him anywhere.”

“If you’d recognize him anywhere,” the defense attorney said, “why did it take you so long to make the ID?”

“I didn’t want to appear to be too hasty.”

“I suppose you saw his picture in the paper along with yours.”

Maresca interrupted the defense attorney’s challenge by speaking into the microphone. “Number two, please step forward.”

The young man, whose name I now knew was Lombardi, took a few steps toward the glass. His expression was one of sheer defiance and anger, the same expression as when we had locked eyes in L’Aquila. Although I knew that he couldn’t see me, I had the feeling that he was challenging me.

“You’re sure, Mrs. Fletcher?” Maresca said.

“Yes, I am positive,” I said.

“Thank you,” Maresca said to the men through the speaker system. “Please leave now.”

The curtain closed.

The defense attorney laughed. “This is a joke,” he said. “The event happened more than two months ago. It was a chaotic scene, people breaking into a church, guns being fired, a man shot to death right in front of you. Don’t tell me that you have a clear vision of him. It’s nonsense.” With that he stormed out of the room.

Before I left, I gave an official deposition indicating that I had identified the suspect.

“All I can say is thank you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Detective Lippi said.

“I’m happy I was able to help,” I said. “Now, if you gentlemen don’t mind, I’d like to leave.”

“Of course.”

Detectives Lippi and Maresca accompanied Curso and me as we walked out of the building. Before we parted, Maresca asked how long I would remain in Italy.

“I intend to book a flight for tomorrow,” I replied.

“I ask because now that you’ve made your identification, I’m sure Felice and his men won’t be bothering you. Their intention was to intimidate you, to scare you off, which didn’t work. There’s nothing to be gained by threatening you again.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

“
Buona fortuna
, Signora Fletcher.”

Curso and I drove to the hotel, where he looked for Vittorio. The big man wasn’t there; he hadn’t left a message for Curso, nor had anyone seen him.

“Something is wrong,” Curso said.

“You said he wasn’t especially punctual, Tony. Maybe he had too much to drink and fell asleep, or perhaps he simply forgot.”

“Possibly, Jessica, but I’ll be uneasy unless I find out what happened. I’m going to drive up to Calcata.”

“I hope everything is all right,” I said.

“Will you be returning to Chicago?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“Well, I hope I’ll see you again.”

He kissed my cheek and started across the lobby.

“Wait, Tony,” I called after him.

He stopped and turned.

“I’ll come with you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. If I don’t, I’ll just spend the time worrying and wondering where he went. After all, you’ve drawn me into Vittorio’s life and your plans for him. I feel like—well, like part of the team.”

“Good,” he said. “I would be grateful for the company.”

He drove fast and skillfully, maneuvering the powerful sports car through Rome’s impossible traffic and really speeding up once on the highway. We parked where we had left the car the night before and walked into the village. The plaza wasn’t as busy as it had been during our previous visit, and I wondered why. We approached Vittorio’s cave, and I paused outside.

“Something the matter?” Curso asked.

“I had a chill, that’s all,” I said, looking around.

“Stay here,” he told me as he entered the cave. “I will call for you if everything is all right.”

I shivered, shook it off, then followed him into the gloomy interior.

At the entrance to Vittorio’s studio, I saw the outline of Curso’s figure standing in the center of the room and turning in a slow circle. It was eerily dark in there; the lights were off and the only illumination was a shaft of light coming from the outside entryway, which I was partially blocking. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim surroundings. The first thing I noticed was that the paintings that had been stacked against the wall were gone. Then I saw the brown form crumpled against the opposite wall.

“Tony?”

“Yes?”

I pointed.

Curso muttered a string of profanity in both Italian and English and knelt beside the large man.

“Is he—?”

“Yes,” Curso said. “He is dead.”

Chapter Twenty

V
ittorio had been killed execution style, with a single gunshot to the back of the head. Whoever had done it—and there was no doubt in my mind that the Mafia was behind it—had added a cruel afterthought. Grappa had been poured over Vittorio’s face and the half-empty bottle left propped against his cheek.

I sat down heavily in one of the director’s chairs. “How horrible,” I murmured, more to myself than to Curso, who stood over the body, fists clenched, an anguished expression on his face.

With a pained sigh, he pulled out his cell phone and called Detective Maresca at police headquarters, informing him of the murder in Calcata.

“They’re sending a squad,” he said as he sank into another chair.

“I assume they want us to wait,” I said.

“Yes,” Curso replied, “but not in here.”

We left the cave and walked to the plaza, where activity had picked up. If any of the villagers were aware of the murder that had taken place in their midst, it wasn’t evident by their demeanor. There was a festive atmosphere. Musicians performed, artists set up their works in front of the small shops, and children ran around with abandon while their parents sat in cafés drinking wine or coffee in the late-afternoon warmth.

Curso approached one of the artists, a matronly woman dressed in a flowing yellow caftan, and asked if she knew Vittorio.

She laughed. “Sure, I know him, the big fool.”

“Did you see him today?” Curso asked.

“No.”

“Did you see anyone leave his studio carrying many paintings?”

“No.”

I was curious about the same thing. There had to have been at least two dozen works in the cave when we’d first visited Vittorio. The only exit from the cave faced the plaza, and ferrying those works to a vehicle would have required someone to move directly through the center of town and across the square. Surely someone had to have seen the paintings being taken.

Curso questioned a few other people, all of whom gave the same response. No one had seen anything. I decided to do some questioning of my own and approached a group of men seated at an outdoor café. There were four of them, three in their twenties or early thirties and the fourth an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair. Although the temperature was warm, the older man was wrapped up in what looked like a gray horse blanket, its color matching his unruly hair and shaggy beard. A thin half-smoked cigarette hung from his lips.

“Scusi,”
I said.
“Lei parla inglese?”

The old man stared at me through cold, dark eyes while two of his younger companions giggled, maybe because of my faulty pronunciation.

“Does anyone speak English?” I asked.

“Me,” a young man said. “I speak the English, a little.”

“You know the artist Vittorio?”

He looked at the old man before answering. “
Si
. Yes.”

“Did you see him today?”

Again a glance at the old man. “No. I don’t see him.”

“His paintings. Many of them.” What was the Italian word for ten? “
Dieci, si?
Maybe two times
dieci
. They are missing. Vittorio is—he is, ah, dead.
Morto
.” I remembered the Italian word for “dead,” having used it in a book. “Did you see any men take his paintings away?”

The old man in the wheelchair had observed our exchange without reacting or responding, with just that cold, hard stare. Now he waved a gnarled hand to end the conversation.

I ignored him and said, “Surely you saw what was going on. Vittorio is dead, shot to death. Didn’t you hear anything? Any of—”

The old man’s action cut off my words and caused me to gasp. He’d withdrawn his other hand from beneath the blanket. It held a handgun, which he pointed directly at me.
“Se ne vada!”
he rasped, waving the weapon at me. “Go! Go!”

Curso, who had witnessed the conversation, grabbed my arm and pulled me away. “Come, Jessica,” he said. “Leave them alone.”

“But why would he—?”

“He’s Mafia,” Curso said. “They are everywhere, even in a town like Calcata. We have to get out of here. Now.”

“But the police will be coming.”

“They know where to look. We’ll talk to them back in Rome. Please, let’s leave. It’s dangerous to stay here with them.”

We drove back to Rome and went directly to police headquarters, where Detective Lippi was in his office. He’d been informed of the murder in Calcata and wanted a statement from us. Curso provided most of it, although it wasn’t necessary to go into detail about the documentary and Vittorio’s part in it. Curso had been working closely with the police from the first day, and I learned that Lippi had already been interviewed on camera.

Back at my hotel, Curso ushered me into the d’Italia bar, where he was warmly welcomed by the bartender. We settled at a table and he ordered his usual martini while I chose club soda with lemon.

“I’m so sorry, Jessica,” Curso said.

“About Vittorio? I’m sorry, too.”

“That, and about how your trip has turned out. Too many bad things have happened.”

“I certainly never expected to have another gun pointed at me, or to have the Mafia boss personally deliver a threat on my life, but it isn’t your fault, Tony.”

“You’ll leave tomorrow?”

“Yes. If I can.”

“To your home in Maine?”

“To Boston. I’ll have to arrange for transportation home. What about you? Are you staying extra days in Rome?”

“No. I think I’d better get back to Chicago and figure out how to proceed with the documentary now that Vittorio is dead.” He took a sip of his drink and looked at me with sad eyes. “Thank you for not being angry with me.”

“Why should I be angry with you?”

He shrugged. “Bringing you to Vittorio. Trying to push you into my documentary. And then it ends up like this. I thought if I could get him out of Italy, I could make sure he was safe, but instead they got to him first, and I put you in danger at the same time. You’re a brave lady, Jessica Fletcher, a real trouper.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Tony, but I don’t deserve it. However, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go upstairs and make arrangements for my flight.”

“May we have a last dinner together tonight?”

“If we make it early and light.”

“Then that’s what it will be. Six? That’s early for dinner here in Italy.”

“Six will be fine.”

We ate in an intimate brasserie a block from the hotel. Naturally, the conversation revolved around the events since I’d arrived in Rome and our reactions to them. It was after Curso had paid the check that he asked, “Did you succeed in getting a flight tomorrow to Boston?”

“No.”

“The flights are full?”

“No, there was available space, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m flying directly to Chicago.”