Death in the Dolomites by David Wagner (people reading books TXT) 📗

rent skis with Bruno, his shop is just across the street.”

“I think that’s the place where I rented my skis,” said Rick.

“Did her brother have his cell phone with him?” Rick translated the question.

“He usually carries it when he skies, even though much of the mountain is a dead zone. Just habit. The phone is not here in the apartment, so I assume he has it with him. Of course he hasn’t answered it when I’ve tried to call.”

“But he could have called you,” said the policeman through Rick.

She turned to Rick. “Doesn’t the inspector understand that Cam not calling just could be one reason I notified the consulate? Is he understanding what’s going on here?”

Rick decided not to translate, instead asking his own question. “Did he always ski on the same trails in the morning?”

“When I’m not with him he usually gets on the chairlift right behind the apartment, since the runs up there are too difficult for me. He’s a very good skier. When I’m with him we walk to the gondola just up the hill from here. The trails there are more my speed.”

Luca said something in Rick’s ear while she watched. When finished, Rick asked, “Cat, do you have his office phone, and the name of his supervisor at the bank?”

“Didn’t I give you that? I think there are some of his cards in this desk.” She went to a desk set against one wall, bare save for a laptop computer and a small lamp. From the drawer she pulled out a card which she passed to Rick before sitting down again. “I don’t know anyone who works there. Cam has decided I’m not important enough to be introduced to his fellow bankers.”

“Thank you, Cat,” Rick said, for lack of any other way to react to her comment.

Rick glanced at Luca, silently asking if there were more questions. The policeman shook his head. “We will talk with her again, Rick. For now we have what we want.” Rick noticed the use of “we” instead of “I.”

They got to their feet. “Cat,” said Rick, “thanks for your time. I can assure you that the inspector will let you know as soon as he has something about your brother.”

She looked up at them for a few moments before rising from the chair. “I’m glad that you are helping him, Rick.” It was a strange thing to say, Rick thought. “Can you give me your cell phone in case I hear anything myself? I can’t call him since he doesn’t speak English.” She said it without looking at Luca.

“Of course.” Rick pulled out his wallet and passed her a business card. “My cell is on there.”

She studied the card and looked at Rick, smiling. “Translation services. And in Rome. I thought you lived up here.”

“No, I’m here on holiday and got roped into helping the inspector. Which I was glad to do, of course.”

She stuffed the card into her front pants pocket and took Rick’s arm. “Let me see you to the door.” Luca remained invisible until the two men had slipped on their coats and she was obliged to shake the policeman’s hand. “Thank you, Inspector,” she said before turning back to Rick. “I know you will find my brother, Rick. The inspector has my number, call me.”

Rick waited for her to add “when you find my brother,” but she didn’t.

Chapter Four

In the elevator Rick studied Cameron Taylor’s business card. He was a vice president, but Rick had learned once that almost everyone in a bank except the cleaning crew had such titles. The name of the bank rang a bell in his head.

“Luca, I think I know the guy who runs this bank. I did a simultaneous interpreting job at an economic conference last year in Milan and he was a panelist.”

“You know him well enough to call him about this case?”

“Sure. I had a long chat with him at the reception. Since he was new and didn’t speak Italian, he didn’t mix much with the other participants.”

“All the more reason for you to make the call, Riccardo.”

“He’s probably fairly fluent by now, Luca, that was months ago. He had a tutor.”

“I’m sure the language abilities of most of your compatriots are similar to mine.”

When they got to the street, the snow was falling more steadily, enough so that some of the passing cars had turned on their wipers, though not their lights. The strong scent of bakery goods hit their nostrils through the cold air.

“Shall we have a coffee, Riccardo?”

“And perhaps a pastry with it?”

“If you don’t tell my wife.”

“My lips are sealed, Luca.”

As in most pastry shops in Italy, a small bar ran half the width of the store, behind which stood a gleaming silver espresso machine. The other half was devoted to the pastries, the full collection rather than just the tempters in the window. The various categories—brioches, cakes, cookies, strudel, éclairs—were separated on the glass shelves by colorful sprigs of artificial flowers. As always in Italy, style was paramount.

A bell had rung when they came in, and a red-faced woman appeared from a door behind the glass display cases. She wiped her hands on a flour-spotted apron as she appeared. From her shape Rick guessed that the pastries behind the counter did not get thrown away when they became stale.

“Desidera?”

“Si, grazie,” Luca answered. “Due espressi, per favore.” He moved to the glass case and turned to Rick. “How about this mille foglie?” He was pointing at square layers alternating tissue-thin pastry with a white filling, and topped with powdered sugar. Rick nodded, and the woman took time from her coffee-making duties to put two on a plate and place it between the two customers. After getting their coffees and taking the first sips, Rick spoke.

“Well, Luca, what do you think of our American visitor?”

“A fascinating young woman, Riccardo, who clearly has a very strange relationship with her brother. Not unlike siblings in many Italian families, I should add. Two of my cousins,