Death in the Dolomites (21 page)

“Unless Mitzi is in on it, and…” Rick waved his hand in front of his face as if he were clearing smoke. “No, never mind, that would make it all too complicated. My guess is that Bauer just forgot. And you noticed how she immediately tried to bring her ex-husband in as a suspect?”

“I did. Out of spite rather than anything concrete, I would guess. She just wants to make things difficult for him.”

Rick recalled the seemingly friendly manner between the ex-couple in the bar, but said nothing to Luca.

They reached the main thoroughfare where workers were stringing a banner from light poles on opposite sides of the street. The few cars that were out at this time of day were stopped while ropes holding the canvas sign could be pulled taut and tied into place. Two men teetered at the tops of ladders while struggling with the ropes, and another man stood in the middle of the street directing them to slide it one way or another. When it was properly centered, the man on the ground gave a thumbs-up and waved on the cars.

“I didn't know that Campiglio was on the World Cup ski circuit,” said Rick, reading the banner.

“Nor did I. Is that something important?”

“It's the best skiers in the world. It says it will take place on the trails that finish where we were talking with Gina. I trust they won't allow any children's lessons in that area when the professionals are hitting the finish line.”

“I wouldn't think so.” He checked his watch. “I'm afraid we won't find Signor Melograno in his office now. My sergeant called this morning and was told that the man had various appointments at properties around town. We could run into him, but I'll try to catch him this afternoon. I may have more questions for him after talking to the garage and seeing his vehicle.”

“All those blood stains in the trunk?”

Luca looked sharply at Rick, and then his mouth formed a grin. “I keep forgetting your American sense of humor. Perhaps by the end of the week I will be used to it.”

“At the end of the week I have to get back to Rome, Luca.”

“Then we must solve this crime by then. But I am sensing a breakthrough. Perhaps it will come when I go to Pinzolo.”

Rick wished he could be so optimistic. “I hope you're right, Luca. Where are you off to now?”

“I must return to the station for reports and to deal with my public prosecutor. It is not a part of the job that I prefer, but it must be done.”

“I'll see you at lunch at the hotel.”

“Probably not, I will get something near the station. You will be skiing this afternoon again with the lovely Signora Taylor, my friend?”

“That's right. But right now I thought I might go by Grandi's store. I have two nephews with birthdays coming up, and I saw some toys there. It won't hurt to deal with the mayor on something other than crime.”

“Very true, Riccardo.” He glanced at the sky, which was taking on a menacing gray tone. “Enjoy your skiing. And watch out for renegade snowmobiles.”

***

Rick studied the display in the window of Grandi's shop. In one corner an ornately carved
presepio
, complete with a thatched-roof manger, was surrounded by cows and sheep. Each figure, human and animal, had been painted in meticulous detail. The Montoya family nativity scene was from Naples, known for its religious carvings, but whoever carved this one could compete with the best of the Neapolitans. Rick pushed open the door and entered the shop, going from crisp cold air to the rich, warming smell of wood. The toy section was to the left, and he started walking to it when he heard the familiar deep voice of the mayor.

“Signor Montoya. And where is your assistant?”

Rick ignored Grandi's attempt at humor. “Inspector Albani is working at the station. I am not here regarding the investigation, Signor Grandi, unless there's something new which you need to pass to the inspector.”

“No, no. I was hoping you brought some news. Can I help you find something?”

“Birthday gifts for my two nephews in America. One turns nine, the other ten.”

“That should be easy. We have a number of toys for that age group.” He led the way to the display of wooden cars and trucks. “We have these, or you might be interested in some kits, if they are into working with their hands.” He pointed at some boxes stacked on a side shelf. “Or, you could get the two of them one big toy and they could play with it together.” He noticed the frown on Rick's face, and added: “I see. That might not work. Separate gifts would be better.”

Rick picked up one of the wooden cars and turned it in his hand. It was a Fiat 500, the traditional model rather than the new one. “I am without a car at the moment, Mr. Mayor, since I'm living in the center of Rome, but I'm thinking of buying something for weekends outside the city.”

Grandi looked at the model in Rick's hand. “
Un
Cinquecento
?”

“No, something larger, for the mountains. I'd like to drive up into the Apennines to hike, as I did in America. Are you happy with your Land Rover? A friend of mine had one and said that the shift is a little bit stiff.”

“It does take some getting used to, but I'm fine with it. It's out in back, would you like to try it?”

This was going better than Rick had hoped. “I don't want to put you to any trouble.”

“None at all, my assistant can cover the shop.”

Though he was wearing a thin sweater, Grandi didn't bother to get a coat or hat, but given his size, he likely didn't feel the cold. As they walked out the door of the shop it hit Rick that if the Land Rover was used to transport the body, the man would not be so quick to show it. Someone could have driven it without the mayor's knowledge, but who would have an extra key? The Land Rover was parked just off the
piazza
in a space marked with the sign SINDACO. One of the perks of being mayor.

“This does not look anything like my friend's Land Rover,” Rick said as he eyed the shiny chrome and sleek design. “His was kind of boxy. But a much older model than this one, of course.”

“This is three years old, ordered by my predecessor. He should have waited until after the election so I could make the decision. Want to get in?” He opened the driver's side door.

“Sure.” The interior was that of a luxury car, its dashboard futuristic, with a screen dominating the space between the front seats. Rick felt like he was sitting in a cockpit. He opened the door and climbed out. “Impressive. Lots of room in the back?”

“You mean the trunk? That's the best part.”

Grandi walked behind and pulled a handle, causing half the rear panel to swing up while the other dropped down. Perfect for tailgating, was Rick's first thought. Or transporting bodies. The back seats had been laid flat, and the entire space was covered with a thick, soft blanket.

When he saw Rick studying the blanket, he said: “I often use it to transport my work,” then stepped up and slammed the rear doors shut with a thump.

Rick thanked the mayor, made excuses about needing to return to the hotel, and promised to be back to pick out toys for his nephews. As he walked up the hill to the hotel, he thought about what he'd seen. The Land Rover, with four-wheel drive and snow tires, was perfect for transporting a body, no doubt about that. And Grandi was big enough to heave one in and out of it. If there had been any blood stains, the blanket covered them, but they could already have been cleaned anyway. However, the fact that the man had willingly shown off his vehicle should indicate that he had nothing to hide. Unless he merely wanted Rick to
think
he had nothing to hide. Bottom line: not much gained except to confirm that Grandi had the tools to pull off the murder. Add motive and lack of a good alibi, and the man continued to be a prime suspect. But how to prove it? The next logical step would be to get a warrant to search the Land Rover, though he wasn't sure if Luca wanted the political heat that would inevitably come with such scrutiny of the mayor. Rick passed the narrow street that led to the church, and for a moment entertained the idea of dropping in to say a prayer for guidance. It couldn't hurt. Instead, he continued up to the hotel.

Chapter Thirteen

Inspector Albani finished scanning the used car pages and put the copy of
Quattroruote
back on the table in front of him. Muller, he'd decided, subscribed to every Italian car magazine and wrote off the cost by sending the old issues to tables in his hotel lobbies. He checked his watch and looked around. This hotel, unlike the one in Campiglio, was all glass and metal, as modern as one could find in Italy. Curiously, the furniture looked like something out of an English drawing room: dark wood with large amounts of fringe and stuffing. Fortunately it was reasonably comfortable, given that he'd been waiting a long time for Muller to get out of his meeting. If indeed there was a meeting. He was about to reach for another car magazine when Muller appeared and walked quickly toward him. Once again, he was impeccably dressed. Luca started to get to his feet.

“Please stay seated, Inspector. I'll just sit over here.” He chose the chair across from the policeman that kept him at the same eye level, despite his diminutive stature. “You've come down to Pinzolo just to see me? Must be something important.”

“Actually, Signor Muller, I have something else to deal with in this lovely town, but your wife told me this morning that you would be here, so I thought I would drop by. I was hoping there might be something else you could have remembered that might have a bearing on this case. Or the attack on Pittini.” He leaned forward and smiled broadly.

Muller looked at the policeman like he'd been asked the question in a foreign language. “Inspector, I answered all your questions the last time we met, and I thought I'd convinced you that not only do I know nothing about his murder, I barely knew the man himself. Should you not be talking with people who might have had some motive to see Taylor dead?”

Luca was going to bring up the point that Muller did indeed have a motive—to eliminate the funding source for his competitor in the purchase of the property. Instead he decided to follow the thread of the man's question. “And which people would that be?”

Muller took a few moments to answer. “I would imagine that Taylor's private life is the issue, Inspector,” he said finally.

“Are you referring to his relationship with Mayor Grandi's former wife?”

“If she was indeed former when—” Muller put one hand over his mouth and held up the other. “I should not make such speculation. How do they say in the court? ‘Strike that from the record?' Yes, that's it.”

“So you think I should be talking to Grandi.”

The shrug motion was shared by most of his small body. “Perhaps it would be better use of your time than talking with me. Or my wife.”

It would be expected that Mitzi had called her husband to complain about being questioned, even if the questioners had bought coffee. “What about Pittini's attacker? Any new insights on who that might be?”

Muller may have been pleased to get away from talk of the murder, since his face went from derisive to thoughtful. “Well, I trust you have dropped any ideas that Gaetano was involved. He told me that he answered all your questions, so that should have satisfied any suspicions you may have had. And I can't afford to have my only electrician in prison.” He grinned at the last comment, but Luca remained serious and quiet. “No, Inspector, I have no new ideas. You know, of course, that Pittini runs the gondola. Perhaps his attack was connected with Taylor's death. He did fall from the gondola, didn't he?”

Luca ignored the suggestion and rose from his seat. “I should let you get back to your meeting, Signor Muller. And I must be off to my next appointment. If you think of anything, you know where to reach me.”

Muller got to his feet. “The American, he's not with you today? Has he left Campiglio?”

“Since he is on a ski holiday, he's doing some skiing this afternoon.”

“I'm pleased to hear that.”

They shook hands, and Muller watched the policeman walk through the door of the hotel before scuttling to the reception desk and picking up the phone.

***

Dark clouds were forming around peaks far to the east, but too distant to be of any concern to the groups of people enjoying nearly perfect snow conditions. Among them were four skiers—one expert, two very competent, and one novice—who had just come off the lift. They stood in pairs. Rick and Cat watched as Flavio, standing close to Lori, gently pushed her body into the correct stance.

“I had a wonderful ski instructor at Vail,” Cat said in Rick's ear. “He always just demonstrated himself the way I was supposed to lean on the skis.”

“Flavio's a very hands-on kind of guy, Cat. He knows what he's doing.”

“I can see that.” She looked at the sky, now starting to cloud up. “How many more runs do you think we can get in?”

“It's slow-going with Lori, but we should manage a couple more. You don't mind taking it easy, do you?” He looked at Cat's expression, visible even with her goggles. “Cat?”

“We can take it easy, Rick. It's just that I was looking forward to some real skiing.”

“The world can't always revolve around Catherine Taylor.”

The comment did not please her. “You sound like my former husband.”

He was rescued by his
telefonino.
He
hurriedly fumbled with gloves and pocket zippers to fish it out. “I have to take this, Cat.” He slid away from the group and opened his phone.

“Montoya.”

“Rick, this is Mark Fries. I hope I'm not interrupting something.”

Rick looked back at the group and saw that another skier had joined the trio. The man shook hands with Flavio and kissed Cat on the cheek. “No, Mark, not at all. What's up?”

“Well, I looked into that loan, the one that Cam was working on for the real estate developer?”

The new arrival pulled up his sunglasses. It was Bruno Bauer.

“Right. Melograno.”

“Correct. The loan file showed Cam's thoroughness, with every
i
dotted and every
t
crossed. He was an excellent banker. He even used our investigator to be sure everything was legit with this Melograno fellow.”

“Investigator?”

“Well, in addition to the standard credit checks, we occasionally look into people's backgrounds to be sure everything is on the up and up. Don't spread the word about that, if you don't mind.”

“Of course, Mark. Did it turn up anything?”

“Apparently not. There was only the receipt from our investigator for services rendered, so apparently everything was fine. And, in fact, the loan was approved. Cam had signed off on it early last week. So I imagine that he was planning to give the man the good news in person.”

Rick kept the phone to his ear while he closed his eyes, trying to understand the significance of the loan approval. To begin with, it shot down the scenario of Melograno going into a homicidal rage when he was told he would not get the loan. What had Taylor and Melograno talked about during their meeting in the developer's office on Thursday? Maybe Taylor just didn't like Melograno—no surprise there—and decided to keep him hanging for a few more days. And before he could give the man the good news, he got murdered. Rick was shaking his head when he looked over to see that Mary and John Smith had joined the group. Perhaps Gina Cortese would be the next to appear.

“But there is something else in the file that I found curious.”

Rick returned his attention to the phone call. “What's that?”

“There's a message slip recording that Melograno called the office on Friday. Cam was already up skiing, as you know. The man asked about the loan and Cam's assistant told him it was approved. Shouldn't have done that, of course, but apparently Cam didn't leave any instructions to the contrary and—”

“So Melograno knew on Friday morning that he had the money.”

“Yes, he did.”

Rick thanked the banker, told him he would let him know if anything broke on the case, and ended the call. He kept the phone gripped in his hand while trying to make sense of what he'd heard, but nothing came. He was about to rejoin the group when he decided he should call Luca.

“Inspector Albani.”

“Luca, Riccardo. I just had a call from the banker. Taylor's boss.”

“And?”

Rick recounted Mark's message. When he was finished he thought the line had dropped. “Luca, are you there?”

“Yes, Riccardo, I'm still here. Just trying to figure out what this means for the case. Perhaps nothing. Do you recall our first meeting with Melograno on Monday, how he was secretive about his dealings with the bank? He may simply have decided that we didn't have any business knowing about his loan approval.”

“Could be. But I would like to ask him about it.”

“I would too, Riccardo. Are you still skiing? I can meet you in town in about a half hour.”

“I'm still on the mountain, but I'll head down now. I'll see you outside Melograno's office.”

As soon as he zipped the phone into his jacket another possibility hit him. If it was what really happened, he thought, then everything falls into place, including a strong motive. He considered calling Luca back, but decided it would be better to think it through a few times on the way down to be sure he had it all straight. Whatever his conclusion, he needed to get down fast.

***

After taking Montoya's call, Luca got into the passenger side of the police vehicle waiting for him in front of the hotel and nodded to the driver. As the car moved through the streets of the town he thought about his conversation with Muller and how convenient it would be for the man if the mayor were involved in this crime. His wife's competition for the mayorship would be wiped out, and it wouldn't hurt to have his wife running the town. It was logical that he wanted to push the investigation in Grandi's direction, the only thing better for Muller would be to pull Melograno into the crime.

The policeman's thoughts moved from Muller's motives to his phone call from Riccardo. Did the new information from the bank help in any way at all?

The garage was in a section of Pinzolo designated for businesses necessary to the local economy but better located away from the eyes of the tourists. The plain, cement structure was wedged between a building supply warehouse and a lumberyard, all three sharing the same imposing line of high barbed-wire fencing. The police car drove through the fence gate and parked next to four cars lined up near the door to the building. Two of the cars had inventory tags hanging from their rear-view mirrors and pointed outward. The other two, which Luca guessed belonged to the mechanics, faced toward the building. He unwound himself from the seat, checked out a door marked “office,” but walked through the wide opening instead. The temperature seemed to drop as he entered, and he pulled his hat down without thinking.

The garage was one large open space except for a glass-enclosed office to one side where a woman with thick glasses hunched in front of a computer screen. Or perhaps hunched over a space heater. Four bays lined the back wall, all but one with cars up on lifts. The one vehicle at floor level was the only Mercedes in the shop, a late-model silver SUV, its open hood hiding the head of a man wearing insulated coveralls. He was the only one in the shop. Luca confirmed that the license plate was Melograno's before walking over and tapping on the rear fender of the Mercedes. The man extracted himself, stared at the policeman with a frown, and jerked a thumb toward the office.

“Talk to her to make an appointment.”

Luca pulled out his identification. “Inspector Albani. I have a few questions. It won't take long.” The mechanic rubbed his hands on a towel that had been covering the side of the car, though they did not appear to be very greasy, confirming what Melograno had said about an electrical problem. “We are investigating some stolen vehicles, including a Mercedes or two.”

“Does this look like a chop shop, Inspector? I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with the alternator and I'm running late. But if you want to check it out, go right ahead.” He stood back from the car as Luca peered at the VIN and made a flourish of writing the number down on his pad. Then he slowly circled the car, stopping at the rear where he looked at the mechanic and gestured toward the trunk. The man waved his hand, which the policeman took as permission to open it. The inside of the SUV looked like it had just come out of the showroom, or at least recently vacuumed, as the marks in the carpeting indicated. Luca carefully closed the trunk.

“I think I've seen all I need to see, so you can get back to your wiring. Has it been difficult to diagnose?”

“You might say that,” the man answered, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “I've been at it since Thursday morning.”

Luca had been going through the motions of making notes, but his eyes jerked up from his pad. “Thursday morning?”

The mechanic held up his hands defensively. “Yeah, I know, it should have taken less time, but this one has me stumped. I even got on the phone to Stuttgart. And let me tell you, the owner has been breaking my
coglioni
about it.”

Luca wished the man good luck and stepped out into the relative warmth of the open air, pulling out his cell phone as he walked. His driver, who leaned against the car with a cigarette in his hand, called out. “There's no signal here, Inspector.” He pointed to the mountain which rose steeply directly behind the building.

Luca walked back into the garage, pulling his coat collar around him, thankful for his warm hat. “Can I use your phone?” he called to the mechanic. The man pointed at a battered telephone in a niche near the door, and returned to his wires. As he dialed, Luca noticed that the woman in the office was still staring at her computer. The call was answered after three rings.

“Agenzia Immobiliare Melograno, how can I help you?”

The young voice sounded vaguely familiar. “This is Inspector Albani. I'd like to speak to Signor Melograno.”