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

She took the last sip from her cup and walked it to the sink. “Well, we skied in Vail every winter and there was also the trip to the Bahamas. Summers, it was Maine.”

Poor thing, he thought. “I rest my case.”

“Do you think this policeman is competent? He didn’t say much when he was here with you yesterday, and the same this morning.”

“Cat, he doesn’t speak English, so he’s not going to be chatty with you. But to answer your question, I think he knows what he’s doing. I can say that now, after being with him for a full day.” He took his cup to the sink and ran some water in it, considering her question in his own mind. True, Luca was somewhat eccentric, if for nothing other than his taste in hats, but he appeared to know his business. And if the guy had a poor reputation in the ranks of the police, Uncle Piero would have called to warn him rather than encouraging his nephew to assist.

“I hope you’re right, Rick.” She rubbed her eyes, red from lack of sleep and tears. “I really have to get some rest. I shouldn’t have had that coffee.”

“Espresso doesn’t keep you awake, it’s all the water in American coffee that brings out the caffeine. Scientific fact.”

“Really?”

“Really. Go lie down, you’ll drop off quickly.”

She wandered to the one small window of the kitchen. It looked out over the roof of the building behind and beyond to the evergreens of the mountain. A sliver of trail was visible through the trees, its whiteness outlining a red snowcat that was finishing its morning grooming chores. Soon the first skiers would cut smooth grooves into the lines left by the machine. When the snowcat disappeared behind the trees she turned to Rick.

“I’m supposed to be devastated, grieving, falling to pieces, but all I feel is exhaustion. I guess that’s because I never really got along that well with my brother. We went through the motions. He was supposed to be protective, like big brothers are, and I was supposed to appreciate it. We played that game well, especially around my parents, but there was no substance to it. We didn’t dislike each other, Rick, we just never were friends. Maybe someday I’ll feel some regret that we never were close, but right now I don’t. Is that wrong?”

Rick thought about his own sister. With all the moves they’d made growing up there was a bond between them, something unique to foreign service families, and that bond remained. Except for the pictures on the walls, home had changed every three years. Home was wherever he and his sister found themselves, and they’d made the best of it. Rick knew that his early years were very different from Cat’s, but he still had trouble fathoming her feelings toward her brother.

“It’s not wrong,” he said. “Everyone is different. Perhaps it’s better that you feel that way. It will help you get through this.”

“Thanks, Rick. That helps a lot.”

As he let himself out he realized he hadn’t told her about the previous night’s violence on the street down from her building. And she had not said anything about the sirens, or if she’d heard them, didn’t think much of it. Probably a good thing. She had enough to think about without adding something else. Something which likely had nothing to do with her.

***

Rick walked the few short blocks to the police station, dodging skis swinging from the shoulders of those heading for the mountain. The sergeant on duty waved him past the front desk and pointed toward a door which was half open. Taped to it was a handwritten sign: “Inspector Albani.” He pushed the door open and heard Luca’s voice.

“Come in, Riccardo, welcome to my mountain empire. Please make yourself comfortable, if that is possible in these chairs. The body of Signor Taylor is on its way to Trento for the autopsy, so I have been going over what we know about the case. It’s not a lot.” He tapped his hand on a file. “And now we have a second crime.”

Rick looked around the room and took a seat at one end of the long conference table that served as Luca’s temporary desk. The walls were bare except for a calendar whose pages had not been flipped to the present month, and a local tourism poster that showed a busty blond skier. One of the poster’s bottom corners had come loose from its thumbtack and curled up to cover the tips of the girl’s skis. The room had no windows.

The inspector’s shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark arm hair that matched the hair on his head. The suit jacket draped the chair next to him, the overcoat lay on the next chair, but his new hat had a place of honor at the end of the table. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back, surrounded by files, papers, and a few empty paper cups. It appeared that Luca was not especially neat, which somehow did not surprise Rick.

“Thanks to your quick reaction last night, Riccardo, Guido Pittini is probably going to survive the attack. But he is in critical condition and has not regained consciousness. The wound was from a small knife, according to the attending doctor. He was attacked from behind and stabbed in the neck over the shoulder. But you know where he was stabbed. Ironically it may turn out that the blow to his head on the cement will be the more critical of Pittini’s injuries…that is what is keeping him unconscious. If the snow had not cushioned him slightly, he could have been killed.”

“Did your men find anything last night?”

“Un bel niente. There wasn’t anyone around at that hour to question, and any footprints along the sidewalk were already covered. You remember how hard it was snowing.”

“And no bloody knives lying in the snow.”

“Not a one.” Luca twirled a pencil between his fingers