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

was Flavio’s Latin Lover persona that Rick had not seen since they’d frequented the bars on Route 66 those many years ago. The vice consul would have none of it.

“I really must contact Ms. Taylor immediately. If you could please give me her address?”

Her demeanor, which was so common in young American professionals, was something that drove Rick crazy. And it was why he’d had only one date with Linda Chavez.

“This is Italy, Ms. Shafer, and we go through certain niceties before charging into business. Call it Old World, if you’d like, but that’s the way Italians are. Apart from that, Catherine Taylor is resting now after a very difficult morning, and she shouldn’t be disturbed.”

Flavio watched the two, fascinated by the exchange. His grin was wider than ever.

“I don’t think you understand the function of United States consular officers, Signor Montoya.”

Rick took a deep breath. “My father is the American Consul General in Rio, Ms. Shafer. He’s told me about his work over the years.”

Her mouth dropped open. “He’s…Wait a minute, there was a Mr. Montoya who lectured in my Italian area studies course. Was—”

“He’s done some lecturing at the Foreign Service Institute.”

“So you…you’re American.”

“Brava. So why don’t you relax, call me Rick, and call this guy Flavio. And we’ll call you Lori. We’ll get you over to see Catherine Taylor in good time. She goes by Cat, by the way.”

For the first time Lori Shafer’s frown somewhat softened. “Thank you, Rick. And Flavio. I guess I was a little short. I just want to be sure to do the right thing for this poor woman. Milan is my first overseas assignment.”

“Somehow I guessed that,” said Rick.

Her face was returning to normal from the previous blush. She checked her watch. “Since there’s no rush I’ll get settled in my room. Will you be here when I get back?”

“Yes, I will be in the bar,” said Flavio quickly.

She took the handle of her bag and rolled it toward the elevator while the two men watched.

“She’s a fire biscuit, isn’t she?” Flavio, without realizing it, was still stuck in English.

“The expression is ‘firecracker,’ Flavio, and let’s get back into Italian.” He glanced at his friend’s attire. “Aren’t you going skiing?”

“Not now, Rick.”

***

Inspector Albani stepped out of the police car, adjusted his hat, and looked across the field. The area was just as Lorenzo had described it, surrounded by trees, but open and flat. He pushed away the snow with his boot to reveal dormant grass. The regular clanking of a distant ski lift’s chairs was barely audible. He looked toward the sound, and through a break in the trees could see skiers coming down off the mountain into a large valley. In the summer, the driver had told him, it was a nine-hole golf course. Luca Albani was neither a skier nor a golfer.

The tire tracks made by the boys’ car were still visible. Little snow had fallen in the hours since they had made their pit stop, but it was starting again. The same for their footprints, now small but regular dips in the snow. They were the only indentations in the blanket of white that covered the field. Luca sighed, confirming that any marks made by the vehicle that brought Taylor and his murderer to this spot had long since disappeared. Was this where the violence had taken place?

“Come out here, Lorenzo.” The boy squeezed his body from the backseat and zipped up his ski coat. “Now, take me through what happened.” Luca looked toward the driver, and the occupants of a second police car. “Listen to what he’s saying,” he said as they got out of the car.

The boy looked around, getting his bearings. “We parked there. You can still see some of the tire marks. Then the four of us walked over to the edge and pissed near those trees. I was on the end, and when we were walking back I noticed something blue sticking out of the snow. You can just see the tracks from where I walked over and got the cap. It was right over there.” The others looked where he was pointing. “I brushed the snow off it and walked back to the car to join the others. We drove back out to the road and into town. That’s all.”

Luca rubbed his chin and tried to picture the murder scene. It was unlikely that the wind had blown the hat from somewhere else, given the protection of the surrounding trees. Equally unlikely was that someone had come up here to dispose of the hat after Taylor had been killed. More probably, Taylor and his assailant had driven here, and it was in this field that the murder took place. In the struggle the hat had fallen to the ground and the murderer had not noticed. Or he did notice and either didn’t care or was too busy figuring out what to do with the body. Where exactly had the struggle taken place? Near, but not next to where the hat was found? If they drove into the middle of the field, rather than stopping at the edge where the boys had, then their vehicle could have had four-wheel drive to get through the snow. And they would not have walked very far from it. He turned to the driver of the second car, a sergeant.

“You’ve got the shovels, right?”

“Yes, sir, they’re in the back.”

“Start from over there, where he said he found the cap. Dig through the snow to see if you can find anything else. Like skis and poles. Or some object that could have been used to crack the victim’s skull. Or any sign of struggle. Work out from that point until you’ve covered the whole area.”

They began the search and something was found almost immediately. It was not the murder weapon, but potentially almost as useful.

“Sir, you’d better come look at this.” The policeman stood stiffly, pointing toward his feet, not wanting to disturb what he’d found. The snow