Cold Tuscan Stone by David Wagner (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

his feet. “We are working through the evidence. These investigations are often slow and tedious.” Her face, already grim, became darker. Her lips tightened, and again she looked down at her daughter.

“I know you’ll do your best, Commissario,” she said as she stroked the girl’s hair.

“Thank you, Signora. As soon as I know something I will call.”

He suspected that she didn’t really want to hear any news of the investigation, knowing it would only make her feel worse.

They shook hands and she walked toward the heavy door, her daughter still clinging tightly and hiding her face. Conti watched as they disappeared inside. An already bad day had been made worse.

***

“Signor Montoya, buon giorno.”

Claretta Angelini, Polpetto’s secretary, stood when Rick was buzzed into the office and reached across the desk to shake his hand firmly. We have a new Claretta, he thought, a third one somewhere between the efficient cold fish of his last office appearance and the bubbly lady on the street. Same glasses, however, but with different matching earrings. Maybe all her earrings were red pendants.

“And a good morning to you, Signora Angelini.” Rick retreated to one of the two chairs against the wall. She sat down again, hands clasped together on the desk, examining Rick.

“Signor Polpetto is on the phone and will see you shortly. I hope we will be in the running for your business, Signor Montoya, I’m sure there is competition out there.”

Whose side was she on? It was a strange thing to say, and he wasn’t sure how to answer. “I’ve only started making my contacts, Signora, so it is difficult to gauge the competition, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I assume you’ve been to Galleria Landi?” She became more serious, more concerned, and her next statement showed why. “I read in the paper that the man who fell to his death worked for Landi, and since you were the last one to see him—”

“I don’t believe my name appeared in print.”

“Didn’t it? I must have assumed…” Her voice trailed off but she glued her eyes on his face, waiting for a reply.

Rick didn’t want to get into the murder case again. “To answer your question, yes, I have been in contact with Landi.” Mercifully the phone on her desk rang, and she excused herself to take the call. As she spoke, the phone tapped against her dangly earring. Distracting for her and for the person at the other end of the line. Rick’s eyes drifted around the room, shifting his attention from the earring.

This morning the ceiling lamp above him was turned on, but most of the room’s light still came from the small window above his head. The only magazine on the table next to him was a worn copy of Famiglia Cristiana. Rick picked it up, hoping that reading would forestall further communication with the lovely Claretta. Had he ever seen an issue of the magazine anywhere else but on sale inside the doorways of churches? Not that he was a regular churchgoer, he went just enough to keep his mother happy. These days, when she called from Brazil where Rick’s father was stationed, she invariably asked about his attendance at mass. She had even enlisted the family priest at the church in Rome where she, as well as Rick and his sister, had been baptized. The topic of Rick’s church attendance was as inevitable as her reminding him about his sister and her family back in Albuquerque, and what a terrible burden it was having one’s grandchildren living on another continent. About as burdensome as having a son in his thirties who wasn’t even married yet. He was musing on Italian mammas when the inner door opened.

Polpetto was definitely not what Rick expected, despite scrutinizing his photo at the ministry. The man’s body almost filled the doorway, and his face radiated a smile that went with his size. He wore a wrinkled blue blazer with a pair of dark brown slacks which had not seen a hot iron since leaving the hangar at the clothing store. No fancy tailor for this guy. He was off the rack, though if ever someone needed to have clothes measured to fit, it would be Polpetto. At least the tie was fashionable, though it barely went with the striped shirt.

“Signor Montoya. Please come in. Signora Angelini has told me that your Italian is fluent so I won’t have to expose my terrible English.” He crushed Rick’s hand in his as he guided him into the office past the secretary’s frown. Polpetto noticed her and said, “Let me chat for a moment with Signor Montoya and then you can come in when we are ready to discuss the, uh, business issues.” Her expression did not change as the door closed.

Rick was analyzing that little exchange when he was stopped in his tracks. The contrast with the sparse outer room was so dramatic that he and Polpetto could have wandered into another building. Shapes, textures, and colors covered the walls, like a tourist shop in Old Town Albuquerque. It was all drawn together—spatially if not chromatically—by the bright orange carpet that covered the floor. The only uncluttered space was the ceiling, but given his size, Polpetto may have worried about bumping into anything hanging from it. Shelving was so extensive and cluttered that Rick couldn’t be sure what color the walls were painted. As his visitor took in the scene, Polpetto maneuvered his way to an old sofa and lifted a stack of magazines to clear a place. After looking around for a moment, he dropped them with a thud on the floor behind his desk, where apparently there was some rare space.

“Please, please.” He stretched his hand to the sofa. When Rick sat, Polpetto took his place behind the desk and moved papers to clear his view. “I fear that my habits are not the most organized, despite all of Claretta’s efforts.”

So now it was ‘Claretta.’ Had the woman really made any attempt to clean up