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

darkening sky. There was a slight hum coming from the wires, as if messages were being transmitted along them.

“There may be some clearings under the cabine,” said one of the boys, “let’s get over there under the cables and we should be able to get down faster.”

“I hope so. If I get home much after dark my mother will kill me.”

Ten minutes later the foursome broke into a strip of clearing underneath the cables, its trees cut down years earlier when the towers had been erected and the cables strung in place. New trees were starting to sprout up, and there were uneven sections where boulders jutted from the snow, but the relative open area would be considerably faster going than the thick forest. A light snow, which had been falling all afternoon, swirled in the gusts in the center of the clearing. As the boys slid down the hill, they cut through the deep drifts built by winds crossing from one valley to the next, the same winds which had cut bare spots around boulders. They moved deftly to stay on the snow, threading between the obstacles.

“This is way better than the main trail, and—Lando, are you okay? Did you catch a rock?”

Behind him the second boy in the line had fallen hard. He pushed himself to his feet with a groan, snapped his boots out of the board and rubbed his leg. “After I fell I hit this rock, but it wasn’t a rock that made me fall. I ran over something.” He trudged back to where he had taken his spill and scraped his boot over the snow. A piece of dirty white canvas appeared. “There’s something under here.”

“Forget it, let’s keep moving.” It was the boy who had worried of his mother’s tendency toward infanticide. The other boy bent down and pushed away the snow with his gloves, revealing more of the thick materials, and then a zipper.

“It looks like a sack.” He looked up at the others. “It could be full of Nazi gold, hidden here by the Mafia.” Two of the others laughed, kicked off their boards, and joined in the dig until the top of the bag was completely uncovered. One of them pulled off his glove and reached for the zipper.

“Wait a minute, shouldn’t we tell the police or the ski patrol?”

“Then they’ll pull our ski passes for being fuori pista. Let’s just look to see what’s inside, then we can decide what to do.” He reached over an pulled on the zipper. It was either frozen or rusted from being under the snow, but after some harder tugs it finally opened with a low growl.

“Cazzo!”

***

The square had begun to fill with the late afternoon crowd, many still wearing ski outfits but shuffling about in soft, puffy boots or sturdy street shoes. The tall streetlamps had come to life, their yellow light picking up the flakes as they fell to the ground. The old men that Rick and Luca had seen earlier were gone, replaced by clumps of teenagers who talked loudly and kept their eyes moving about the square to see if anyone of interest had appeared. Except for their clothing, they could have been standing in any piazza in Italy.

“It is very comical, Riccardo.”

Rick looked at the policeman. “And what is that?”

“I was just thinking. If this snow were coming down in Rome, the city would be in chaos. Buses would not run, traffic would be snarled, everything would come to a halt. I have been there when the snow came, and it was not enjoyable. But here, look at everyone in the piazza. There is a smile on each face.” Rick was about to respond when Luca continued. “Do your towns in America have squares like this, Riccardo?”

Rick instinctively glanced around before answering. “Where my father comes from, in the Southwest, we do have them, but they are usually square or rectangular, and at the center of a grid. The Spaniards liked geometric street plans. It was something they picked up from the Romans, I think.”

Luca smiled as he adjusted his hat, which was serving its purpose to keep the falling snow off his head. “There’s no getting away from us Romans. Despite our inability to deal with snow.” He checked his watch. “I think we have time to call on the last person on our list before dinner. This should be a good time to find Signor Lotti at his apartment, and we already know the way.”

By the time they reached the apartment, darkness had fully covered the valley. The streets were full of cars leaving the town center, skis strapped to racks on roofs, starting their descent to the Po Valley or beyond. They were watched from the sidewalks by those fortunate enough to be starting their holiday week. Unlike the rest of Italy where shops were closed, Sunday evening was a busy time in Campiglio. Tourists who weren’t shopping or strolling the streets sat in bars sipping a hot chocolate or something more potent. Rick and Luca worked their way through the people to reach the apartment. The policeman found the nameplate and pushed the button.

A man’s voice crackled from the intercom. “Who is it?”

“Signor Lotti?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

“Inspector Albani.”

They waited, and when Luca was about to push the button again the voice returned. “Apartment 4B.” The door buzzed open, they walked into the lobby and pressed for the elevator. When they reached the top floor and emerged, they saw a man peering out from the door.

Daniele Lotti’s appearance was not what Rick expected. Would an elegant and beautiful woman like Cat Taylor be dating—if that was the right term for their relationship—someone like this guy? He was tall with red curly hair, immediately reminding Rick of a basketball player at UNM who only got to play when the game was clearly won or lost. Lotti stared at the two men, his ping-pong ball eyes darting from one to the other.

“Is this about Cam Taylor?”

“Yes, it