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

body being dumped. He even could have thought someone was just getting a ride on the gondola so he could ski down without paying.”

“Could be.”

“And now that everyone knows what really happened, the murderer needs to eliminate a key witness.”

“But he may not have succeeded. Pittini is still alive, thanks to your quick action. Let’s hope he pulls through and can tell me something that will explain the attack.” Luca noticed Rick looking up at Cat’s window. “Are you going back up to see her?”

Rick shook his head. “Not now. She should be asleep, if the sirens didn’t keep her up. And I don’t want to tell her about this. She’s upset enough. I’ll just go back to the hotel.”

Luca nodded in agreement. “I’d ask to meet you in the bar later, but the crime scene here could take a while.” He showed a small grin. “You’ll likely have this crime solved by the time you reach the hotel. But you can tell me in the morning.”

Rick nodded silently. He was exhausted both mentally and physically. As he began walking toward the hotel, Luca’s voice stopped him.

“Riccardo, something else. A possibility you may not have considered. Did you notice that Pittini’s coat and hat were very similar to yours, and he’s about your height? Be careful.”

Chapter Six

“Yes, that’s my brother.”

The funeral director pulled the sheet back over Cam Taylor’s face and stepped away from the others standing around the body. Rick instinctively put his arm around Cat’s shoulder and she pushed her head against his chest. There were no tears. Luca inclined his head toward the door, a silent message for Rick, and the three walked out into the waiting area where the warm air contrasted with the chill of the other room. Cat separated herself from Rick and massaged her face and eyes with both hands.

“I’d like to go back to the apartment.”

Of course, Cat.” Rick looked at the policeman who nodded.

“We’ll talk later,” Luca said in Italian.

***

They had spoken just a few words as they walked along the streets of Campiglio. Cat stared at the sidewalk, only occasionally glancing at the sky, with her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her ski coat. The snow was taking a break. A few rays of sunlight knifed through the cloud cover over the eastern mountain, casting shadows that had been rarely seen the past few days. The sun would bring joy to the skiers who passed Rick and Cat on their way to the piste.

“Why don’t you come up, Rick. I’ll make us coffee.”

“That would be good.”

Cat pulled a key chain from her pocket when they emerged from the elevator. As she slipped one of the keys into the door they heard a noise behind them and both turned to see the long face of Daniele Lotti staring at them. Rick saw that he still wore the red turtleneck. Perhaps he slept in it.

“Daniele,” said Cat. It was an acknowledgment of his presence, nothing more. She glanced at Rick and turned back to Lotti. “This is—”

“Yes, Cat, I met him and the other policeman yesterday.”

Rick was about to correct him when Cat spoke. “I’ll talk to you later, Daniele.”

Lotti’s eyes darted from her face to Rick’s and back. “But I thought we—”

“I said I’ll talk to you later, Daniele.”

***

“Does he know what’s happened?” asked Rick. They were in the small kitchen of the apartment. Water in the bottom of a small espresso pot was beginning to boil, pushing up through the tube to packed coffee above it. The aroma spread through the room.

“Yes, I told him this morning before you came. Sometimes I wonder why I ever paid any attention to him in the first place.” She leaned against the counter while Rick sat on one of the stools. “He was one of the few men I met who spoke English. Not the best of reasons to start a relationship.”

“Probably as good as any, Cat.” The gurgling of the pot had stopped, and Rick got up from the stool and turned off the fire under it. Using a dish towel to keep from burning his fingers, he took it from the stove and poured the steaming, black liquid into the two cups. “Sugar?”

“Just one.”

He put a spoonful of sugar into her cup and two into his. They both picked up the saucers, stirred the cups, and smelled the brew before taking tentative sips.

“Do you always wear cowboy boots, Rick?”

“They’re comfortable.”

“That’s what a friend in college always said. I thought she was trying to make a statement about being from Oklahoma.”

“Nothing wrong with being proud of where you’re from.”

“I suppose not. Tell me about where you’re from, Rick.”

She was trying to get her mind off her brother, and he was glad to help, even if it meant talking about himself. Or to himself—her eyes were hollow.

“I’m from various places. Spent a lot of time in Italy, since my mother’s Italian, but also much of my life in New Mexico, where my father is from. I went to high school in Rome but college in New Mexico. Piles of relatives in both countries. Dad’s a diplomat, so we moved around. A couple times we lived in Washington when I was in grade school. And then South America. Washington was the hardship posting—no live-in help.” It was a joke, but her face showed that she didn’t get it. Of course, he thought; growing up she’d always had Maria or someone else to pick up after her.

“That must have been very…interesting.”

“I guess you could say that.” And people often did say just that, Rick thought. Foreign service life was something most Americans couldn’t get their head around. Next she’ll say something about traveling a lot.

“You must like traveling.” She had taken a seat on one of the stools.

“Actually, Cat, I hate plane rides. Most times my family stayed put where we were living. Our vacations were by car to someplace close by. You probably did more traveling when you were a kid