Death in the Dolomites (22 page)

“Yes, Inspector, this is Alberto Zoff. I'm afraid he is not in the office at the moment.”

Luca remembered that Zoff had tried to be very helpful when questioned about his boss' movements for Saturday, though it hadn't aided the investigation very much. “Is he expected back soon?”

“I think so, sir, but I can't be sure. Things have become very busy in the last few days. Signor Melograno is moving ahead quickly to get verbal commitments for the purchase of apartments in the new building. He's meeting with some possible buyers this afternoon.”

“Are you referring to the project for the lot north of the city?”

“That's right, Inspector. And one of the prime apartments, which he had been holding back, is now for sale again.”

“Perhaps I might be in the market.”

“Really, Inspector?”

“No, Zoff, I was making the
piccolo scherzo
. I'm sure those apartments are outside of a policeman's financial reach.” At least an honest policeman, he thought. Perhaps Zoff was thinking the same thing.

“Well, sir, if you know anyone in Trento who might be interested, you can have them contact me. Should I have Signor Melograno call you when he gets in?”

“No, I'll just drop in later.” He glanced at the Mercedes. “By the way, Zoff, he told me that his car was in for repairs. How is he getting around?”

“Mostly he walks, Inspector, but I saw him driving a red vehicle.”

“He rented a car?”

“I doubt it, sir. More likely is that someone lent it to him. There are many people in this town who owe Signor Melograno favors.”

***

Rick exchanged greetings with the Smiths and Bruno before turning to Cat. “Sorry, but I have to get into town right away, something's come up.”

“In the investigation, Rick? Was that the inspector on the phone?”

He looked around and saw that everyone had heard and were looking at him, awaiting an answer. “Let's just say there may be a break, Cat. Flavio, can you see that the ladies get another couple good runs before the end of the day?”

“Of course, Rick. Nothing would give me more pleasure.”

“John and I will chaperone them, Rick,” said Mary Smith, getting a laugh from all the others except Bauer.

Rick assumed that Bruno's English was not fluent enough to follow most of the exchange, but apparently he'd understood enough. “Riccardo,” he said in Italian, “if you are in a hurry, why don't I go down with you? I really must get back to my store and I know a shortcut we can use.”

“That would be great, Bruno.” They said their good-byes and the group watched as the two skiers gained speed and disappeared over a rise.

“Rick is a very good skier,” Lori said. “I've been working so hard to stay on my feet that I hadn't really watched him ski.”

“He has come a long way,” Flavio said. “You should have seen him before I began helping him out.”

John Smith tapped his glove against his chest. “Perhaps you could give me a few pointers, Flavio.”

“Well, John, let me look at your technique on the way down.” He looked at the captain's skis. “You certainly have good equipment, so that should help.”

“Only the best from Bruno's shop. I love these skis.”

Flavio pushed himself closer and checked them out. Suddenly he pulled down his goggles and adjusted the straps on his poles. “Please excuse me, Lori. John, if you would take care of the ladies, I must go.”

Flavio ducked his head and began speeding down the slope.

***

The trail was one Rick had used a few times over the past days to get back to the base of the mountain, at least initially. When the terrain changed from wind-blown openness to forest, Bruno, who had been ahead since they'd left the group, veered to the right, a cloud of snow shooting from the back of his skis. He looked back, waving his ski pole to be sure Rick made the turn. This was the shortcut, marked by a wooded barrier and a sign, which Bruno had deftly skied around. Rick didn't bother reading the sign; he swooshed past it, keeping his eyes on Bruno.

Rick was impressed by the man's skill, but knew from Flavio that all children born in Campiglio had skis put on their feet as soon as they learned to walk. They were taught the languid style that he'd noticed the first time skiing with Flavio north of Santa Fe. It was a more fluid and elegant way of skiing than he'd seen with Americans. Even on snow, the importance of
bella figura
came through.

Dark clouds had slipped over them from the west, and a few flakes of snow showed up against the backdrop of the evergreen trees. They were now on a narrower and somewhat steeper track, so that Rick had to concentrate to avoid going into the trees while still keeping up with Bruno. The section had not been groomed, making it even trickier. As he made his turns he could see a fork in the trail about a hundred meters ahead. At the split he could just make out what looked to be a cliff, but the snow, now helped by wind, blurred his vision. He guessed they would be taking the left fork, the one his bearings told him would be a direct route to Campiglio. They were most of the way to the fork when Bruno swerved to a halt. Rick barely missed him as he skied by and stopped in the middle of the fork. Below him, after a small ledge, was a drop of about a hundred feet.

He looked up to get an indication as to which fork to take, but Bruno was adjusting his bindings. Just as well, Rick needed a few seconds to catch his breath after that last stretch. He leaned on his poles and looked at the precipice below. It reminded him of some of the cliffs he'd maneuvered under Sandia Peak east of Albuquerque, but his climbs and descents were never in the winter when snow and ice made it too dangerous. Out of habit he started to pick out a possible descent route, noting where there was vegetation or rock formations to offer a handhold.

As he peered down, Bruno slammed into him.

The blow caught Rick in the shoulder, causing him to flip toward the edge, landing on his side. Instinctively he rolled onto his stomach and spread out his body, getting as close to the ground as possible. One of his skis had popped off and lay a few feet from his head. The tip of the other, still on his boot, balanced over the ledge. The two ski poles were still looped around his wrists, but one was trapped under his body. He lifted his head and saw Bruno towering above him, his ski pole extending in Rick's direction.

“Jesus, Bruno, you could have killed me.” He took his gloved hand out of its pole strap and reached up to grasp the extended lifeline. As he stretched his hand, Rick saw a strange smile on the man's face.

Bauer slapped Rick's arm with the pole and then drove it into his side like a spear. With his free hand, Rick grasped the pole, struggling to force it away from his body, but he felt himself slowly sliding toward the edge. He untangled his other hand from the strap of the pinned pole and raked the snow, hoping for a rock or bush buried underneath that he could grasp to stall his slide. His gloved fingers found a loose stone about the size of a softball. It's a weapon, Rick thought, as he stretched his fingers to grasp it.

Bruno saw what was happening and raised his other ski pole to strike. Rick cringed and braced for the blow, but instead of the pole coming down on his hand, Bruno's body pitched over him toward the cliff. Rick ducked and Bruno's shoulder crashed into the snow just beyond Rick's head. It was Bruno's turn to grasp at anything that would stop his fall, but he found nothing but loose snow and air. His heavy boots and skis pulled him into the abyss.

Rick crawled and slid to the edge and looked down to see Bruno's unconscious body about thirty feet down, caught on a rocky ledge. The position of his legs indicated that something had broken in the fall, but he appeared still to be alive. As Rick watched, a gust of wind drew snow from the rocks and sprinkled it on the man's upturned face. Rick took a deep breath and rolled back over.

“I guess I'm going to owe you big-time for this, Flavio.”

“For the rest…of your…life.” His friend was gasping after the exertion of his descent. “I won't let you forget it.” After a few seconds his breaths came easier. “I thought he might take you down here. We used to ski this trail when I was a kid. When somebody took a dive off this cliff, they blocked it off.”

Rick gathered his equipment and got to his feet. “How did you know Bruno was going to try something? I was rushing to get down to talk to Melograno with Luca. I didn't think Bruno was involved in this at all. To begin with, he didn't strike me as having the brains to pull it off.”

“And you're right on the mark. It was John Smith's skis that tipped me off.”

Rick looked up from examining the small, round tear in his ski coat made by Bruno's pole. “
Non capisco
.”

“Bruno rented John a beautiful pair of Kolmartz skis.”

Rick shook his head. How could the guy be so stupid, or greedy, to rent out the dead man's skis? His mind flashed back to the investigation. Didn't Bruno have something of an alibi for the morning of the disappearance? And there was still something strange about Melograno in all this. They looked up to see two blue-clad members of the ski patrol descending the trail toward them.

“They must have seen me turn into this trail,” Flavio said, leaning on his poles. “Let me talk to them and then I'll get you down to the hotel. Without any more accidents.”

***

The toe of Rick's cowboy boot disappeared when he stepped out of the hotel door. In the lobby he'd seen the owner's teenage son pulling out a shovel and heard his grousing about fighting a losing battle. The kid was right, but it was a beautiful snowfall, and its powder would make Cat's final run of the day a pleasant one. His boots crunched in the snow as he walked down the hill to the station, past the churchyard, as he ran what just happened through his head. There was the phone call from the banker, after which Rick thought he had everything figured out. Unfortunately Bruno's attempt on his life knocked his theory into a cocked hat. Unable to help himself, Rick tried to think of an easy translation of “knocked into a cocked hat,” but was unsuccessful.

At the police station the man at the desk said that Inspector Albani had not returned from Pinzolo, but then Rick remembered that they were to meet at Melograno's office. He thanked the sergeant and stepped back out into the snow. Two minutes later he was on the sidewalk opposite Melograno's building. No sign of Luca. As he began to cross, a Land Rover coming up the street stopped and the driver rolled down the passenger-side window.

“
Salve
, Montoya,” the driver called. “Are you looking for Umberto?”

Rick grabbed his hat, which was about to blow off. “Yes, Signor Sindaco. I was on my way to his office.”

“Get in,” he shouted through the howling wind. “I can't hear you.”

Rick opened the door and slipped in next to Grandi. The warmth from the heater hit him in the face and felt good. He returned to a normal voice. “It's getting rough out there. Yes, I'm on my way to Signor Melograno's office.”

“He's not there, but I know where he is.” He shifted into first gear and the Land Rover started to move up the hill. “I'm heading in that direction.”

“But Signor Grandi, I—”

“Nonsense, it's not out of the way.” He jerked his thumb toward the back of the SUV. “I was on my way to make some deliveries.”

Rick looked back and saw that the rear seat had been laid flat, and the space was covered with carved figures on the same blanket he'd seen that morning. The wooden bears lay shoulder to shoulder, staring at the roof of the vehicle. “I hope you'll find good homes for all of them.”

Grandi chuckled. The Land Rover moved steadily up the main street and out of the center of town where the space between the houses began to widen. After they passed under the gondola cables the trees began to line the road, now curving slowly left and right as it climbed. Rick thought about taking out his cell phone and calling Luca, but since it would be impossible to keep Grandi from hearing both sides of any conversation, rejected the idea. Melograno was likely at one of his rental properties, perhaps showing it to a potential client. When Grandi dropped him he could call Luca to tell him where he was. He would wait there until the policeman arrived.

They were approaching a stack of single-story vacation apartments. The mayor told Rick how they had been built during the term of his predecessor, but he was hoping to get more built in the space next to them. Every plot needed to be developed, he said, to help the local economy grow, though the available space was limited by government restrictions. It was a delicate balance between maintaining the mountain's integrity and allowing more construction, but Rick sensed which way Grandi leaned on the issue. They passed under the footbridge that connected mountain trails and ski lifts on the two sides of the road, and climbed past a hotel on the right. Rick remained silent as the mayor talked, thinking that they were on the same road Rick had taken with Luca to visit the old man. He hoped they weren't going all the way to Folgarida now.

They were not. Grandi downshifted, slowing the Land Rover before turning off the road to the right. He engaged the vehicle's four-wheel drive and started through the deep snow, which was getting deeper every minute as the wind swirled the flakes. Rick could make out ahead a Toyota parked in a wide field, facing toward them. Its red color was obscured by the snow accumulating on its roof. A man stood next to it holding down a large roll of paper spread on the hood. As they got closer he saw that it was Melograno. He wore a heavy coat but his head was uncovered, its thick hair flecked with white flakes. He looked up, and upon recognizing Grandi's car, smiled and waved a greeting. As Grandi slowed to a stop, Rick's phone rang.

“Please, take your call,” the mayor said as he opened his door. “I have some business to take care of with Umberto.” He closed the door and walked to Melograno.