The Last Enemy (23 page)

When Cenni first reviewed the pictures that the forensic team had taken of the vault, he’d experienced the exhilaration of discovery. But when the significance of the empty vases dawned on him, he came crashing down. On Saturday, Sophie Orlic had described her weekly routine to him in very precise Italian. “I remove the dead flowers from the vault, replace the water, and arrange the new flowers.” He’d been so sure that Sophie was not Minelli’s killer, even surer that she was not capable of murder—although he was not as precipitate as Elena, who just that morning had staked her professional reputation of two years and three months against Piero’s five years and his fifteen, that Williams was not the murderer. Women’s intuition! Well, he might have to adjust his own intuition. Someone had removed the flowers before Minelli’s body was discovered. If the action had nothing to do with Minelli’s murder, why were there no prints on the vases? And if Orlic was not involved, why hadn’t she mentioned the missing flowers? Flowers were her business. She had to have noticed!

He began calling Piero, for the sixth time, as soon as he exited the building. He wanted to order a search of all the cemetery’s dumpsters, the closest to the Casati vault first, but not until he knew exactly which flowers they were looking for. Luckily, today was a holiday of sorts—what days weren’t?— which meant the dumpsters hadn’t yet been emptied of Friday’s trash. He also needed to talk to Sophie Orlic again, but department rules were clear: He needed another officer with him during the interrogation. Sergeant Antolini. He leaned over and tapped his driver’s shoulder. “Assisi, Mario.
Subito!
”

8

THE REAR EXIT of the Assisi police station is located behind the file cabinets, hidden from general view unless you happen to be on a stepladder, filing, which is where Sergeant Antolini happened to be when she saw Russo rounding the corner and leaving through the back door. She froze and crouched low on the third step of the ladder, until he returned a few minutes later. He was empty-handed both coming and going. She stayed where she was another few minutes, waiting to see if he would return, lost in thought, remembering yesterday: Easter Sunday with Piero.

She had dressed in street clothes at Piero’s request. “Better not to attract too much attention. Too many journalists about.” They had gone into every bar and restaurant in Assisi, or so it had seemed, questioning every busboy, waitress, and proprietor who might have seen something or someone on Good Friday. By 2:30, her feet were killing her—she was wearing the latest in needlepoint toes—and Piero suggested that they stop and rest.

“We deserve a break, and besides I have something for you. It’s in my car.” After he retrieved the package, they sat together on the wooden bench outside Porta San Giacomo, and Piero watched, deadpan, as she unwrapped the oddly shaped package. When she saw the marzipan bunny’s ears, she gasped in delight and he broke into a huge grin.

“Oh Piero, how grand! But it’s way too big. I’ll never finish it by myself. Help me,” she said, breaking off the bunny’s right ear. “Here,” she said and laughed at the expression of horror on his face. “Of course, now I remember, you hate marzipan. Well there’s got to be something here you do like,” she said, ripping off the rest of the wrapping.

“Look Piero, chocolate feet—dark chocolate too, your favorite. Oh dear, the bunny is missing a toe. Poor crippled bunny,” she said, making him laugh.

After eating the chocolate, the discomfort of the previous two days vanished. They were friends again. Well, not quite friends. Piero flirted with her outrageously. At one point, he noticed some marzipan on her cheek and leaned over to clean it with his handkerchief. She could smell the chocolate on his breath and closed her eyes, waiting for the kiss.

“Shit, that’s done it,” he exclaimed.

“Well, that’s rude!” she said, opening her eyes.

He pointed to the back of a blonde walking away from them toward the cemetery. “Sophie Orlic,” he said, despondently.

“Is that all? What does it matter to Sophie Orlic if you kiss me? And if it did matter to her, why does she matter to you?”

“It’s not Orlic I’m worried about,” Piero replied. He pointed to a man walking a short distance behind Orlic. “That man who just passed, the one who bowed to us, he’s a detective, Antonio Martini. Alex assigned him to watch Orlic. The biggest gossip in Perugia. Tomorrow it’ll be all over the building that he caught me kissing you, and on duty, too. Alex’ll have my head! Oh well, never mind.” He laughed, his good humor returning when he saw how concerned she looked. “They’ll all be jealous. Even Alex!”

His last remark reminded him of what he had been stewing over for most of the day, and he turned serious. “I’m worried, Genine. Yesterday, Alex couldn’t take his eyes off Orlic. I’ve never seen him go so easy on a suspect. During the interrogation, he let her get away with murder, no pun intended,” he added, noting Genine’s raised eyebrows. “Orlic managed to avoid answering most of his questions. She’s the obvious suspect: she found the body, she threatened the American, and even Alex thinks that a woman staged the rape. What more does he want? And late last night, the questore called me to ask what’s going on. He quizzed me about Orlic. Wanted to know if she had an alibi. I said no, and now he wants Alex to arrest her.”

“So how come she’s still free to walk around Assisi?”

“Because Alex refuses to arrest her. And I’m caught in between. The questore wants me to spy on Alex and report back to him.”

“Will you do it?” She hesitated before speaking further. “I suppose it could be good for your career . . . you know, to have the questore’s confidence,” she said flatly, pulling away from him ever so slightly.

“What do you take me for? It was because of Alex that I got promoted—a full year ahead of time too. He’s the only brass above the rank of inspector who isn’t solely concerned with his own career. Of course I won’t do it. I talked to Elena about it, and she thinks we should tell Alex, but I’m not so sure. Alex can be damned stubborn when he gets his back up. If he finds out the questore is going behind his back, he might do something really stupid, like quitting. I told Elena we should manage this on our own. I’m just not sure how.”

“I don’t know, Piero. Elena could be right. Does she agree with you, that Orlic is the killer?”

“Elena, the feminist? Not a chance! Not after Alex told her that Minelli was two months pregnant. She’s been reading the diary. She says there’s plenty of evidence that the American was having an affair with a married man.” He lowered his voice. “And with a priest! Elena says whoever got Minelli pregnant is the killer. For Alex’s sake, I hope she’s right.”

“Piero, do you remember what I told you about
Il Lupino
? How he’s always hitting on me? Well it’s not just me, you know. He does it with every woman who comes into the station if she’s halfway good-looking. You never saw Rita Minelli when she was alive. Dark and exotic, big black eyes, and petite, the type men like to protect. Built, too,” she added and colored.

“After the New Year, she came into the station twice while I was there and asked if she could see the commissario privately. He rarely agrees to see anyone in his office, but he saw her, and very willingly, even came out to escort her into his office. I think they were having an affair. So does Franco.” They stared at each other, dumbstruck for the moment.

“Oh my God, Piero, what if he’s the killer!”

9

ANYTHING THAT PUT
Il Lupino
in a bad light seemed perfectly plausible to the sergeant whereas anything positive, such as his coming into the office to do some work on a holiday, was highly suspect. There was nothing at the back of the station of interest to anyone, just a weed-filled dirt track and a large green dumpster. The dumpster was emptied of its discarded food wrappers, plastic bottles, soiled bathroom towels, and crumpled office papers every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, unless a public holiday or a general strike intervened. Sergeant Antolini might have concluded that
Il Lupino
was garbage picking had there been anything in the dumpster worth picking, but she decided instead that he had gone to the dumpster to rid himself of something that he wouldn’t want found in his own trash, something small enough to conceal on his person. Perhaps something connected to Rita Minelli’s murder.

The garbagemen would empty the dumpster the following morning, shortly after 7:00, and deposit the contents in the huge landfill outside Città di Castello. Impossible once that happened to find anything, although at the moment she had no idea what “anything” might be. Sergeant Antolini put nothing beyond
Il Lupino
, not since he had blocked her promotion a year ago, shortly after he had groped her and she had threatened to report him for sexual harassment. She knew that if he caught her going through the dumpster without a reasonable explanation her promotion would be blocked again. “Screw him!” she murmured to herself, absentmindedly massaging a cramp in her right thigh, “he’ll probably block it anyway.”

At the end of five minutes when Russo hadn’t reappeared, she decided that it was safe to search the dumpster. A few minutes earlier, she’d heard his office door open and shut again, so he might have already left the building. He had been in the building since half two and it was now half four, a holiday record for him, but it seemed safer not to walk by his office to check, just in case he was still around. No point in drawing attention to herself.

Boxes of latex gloves were kept in the bottom drawer of the right-hand file cabinet. She opened one of the boxes and removed a pair, just in case. She took the stepladder, too; she would need it if whatever it was had slipped to the bottom of the dumpster. Please God, I hope there’s nothing too disagreeable in there, she thought, remembering the elaborate mayonnaise lunches that Franco’s mother prepared and which he rarely finished. Her uniform was fresh from the dry cleaners.

The dumpster was full. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but decided to ignore all the papers and envelopes that were stamped with the imprimatur of the Polizia di Stato. She could check those later if she found nothing incriminating first.

Three-quarters of the way down and still nothing! She was now surrounded with the debris of three days of police work: mistyped
soggiorno
applications, mistyped envelopes, mistyped letters, empty water and coke bottles, grease-stained pizza boxes, even a depleted perfume vial that had once held a cheap rose-smelling scent. Lucille! The new typist doused herself with the stuff. Better she should learn how to type, Antolini thought dispiritedly, as she plowed through another pile of mistyped letters.
Niente!

Nothing for it! She couldn’t reach any further into the dumpster without tumbling in headfirst; either she’d have to abandon her search or climb in. She looked around and decided quickly. Russo would have left by now; the only other person in the building was Sergeant DeGiulio, the duty officer. No worries there; it would take a direct hit by a howitzer to get him off his rear.

Seven euros to clean her uniform and that with a twenty percent police discount. She removed her uniform pants and folded them neatly over one of the ladder rungs. It was a mildly cool day in late March yet she was flushed, warm, even stripped down to panty hose. Nerves, she concluded. She climbed into the dumpster backward, feeling her way carefully, groping with her right leg for a secure footing. Once she reached bottom, she worked quickly, pushing the office papers to one side. She still had no idea what she was looking for. And then she saw the plain manila envelope stuck to the side of the dumpster, three-quarters of the way down—about as far as an arm could reach—and was sure she’d found it. She slipped on the gloves that she’d shoved into her pocket and, after prying the envelope loose, opened the flap gingerly, heart pounding. Perhaps it contained Minelli’s love letters or, better yet, an accusation of paternity!

Ugh! Of course, he’d be into porn, hardcore too. Easier for him to discard it with the police trash then get rid of it at home. Her disappointment was acute, and she dropped the envelope in disgust, then quickly changed her mind. The girls were young, all of them easily under sixteen; one of them, with tight black ringlets and tragic eyes, looked no more than ten.
Il Lupino
was a commissario of the state police after all! The photos could be useful, particularly if they were covered with his fingerprints. She knelt down to retrieve the envelope and that’s when she saw the black scarf, coiled under a pizza box. She pushed the box aside and lifted the scarf with great care. Cashmere! A crumpled paper was lying beneath the scarf, and she retrieved that as well, smoothing it out. Another of Lucille’s mistyped letters. It had Good Friday’s date at the top, an indicator of when the scarf had been thrown into the dumpster. Late Friday evening after the cleaning woman emptied the trash baskets into the dumpster.

A few weeks back,
Il Lupino
had accused just about everyone in the station of stealing his cashmere scarf, finally settling on the Polish cleaning woman, a migrant worker who was frantic with worry that she’d lose her job. Sergeant Antolini had felt sorry for the woman and the two of them had searched everywhere, even in the dumpster, but it hadn’t been found. And now here it was, possibly the murder weapon. Piero had told her only yesterday that a black fiber had been found on the American’s body, a particularly long one, caught in an earring. Sergeant Antolini straightened up, pumped her fist in jubilation, then wrapped the scarf around her neck and turned to climb out of the dumpster. That’s when she saw him. He was holding her pants.

“Cold in there, I should think. You’ll want these.”

10

SOPHIE ORLIC LIVED right before the San Giacomo gate, which opened out into two country lanes, one leading directly to the cemetery and the other to a small, deconsecrated church in the valley below. There was little about Via Metastasio to distinguish it from any of the other secondary streets in Assisi other than its precipitous incline. The building in which Orlic lived was undistinguished. Like most stone residences in Assisi, it had been sandblasted to pink and white perfection with money donated after Umbria’s last killing earthquake. Orlic lived alone, above a small shop that sold trinkets: postcards, plaques, statues, keyrings, embossed napkin rings, coffee mugs, tablecloths, ceramic cutlery, almost all decorated with pictures of St. Francis feeding the pigeons, a bird now roasted to pink and white perfection over open fires and served as a delicacy in the best Assisi restaurants.