Death in the Dolomites (4 page)

“Thank you, no need to trouble you, we'll just wait,” said Luca, answering for both of them. She returned to her cubicle and the policeman twirled his new hat on his knee before joining Rick in studying the man in the glass room. The only real estate agents Rick had known were in Albuquerque, and they had mostly been smiling middle-aged women with ample hair, usually blond. Melograno was a large man with a jowl bordering on a double chin, his head topped with thick, dark hair that fell slightly over the back of his collar. Rick was struck by the man's resemblance to a former governor of New Mexico. Had Melograno's shirt not been a clean, starched tattersall, he could almost have been described as unkempt. The nearly sloppy image was reinforced when he stood up—his belt was only partially visible and the shirt buttons strained under pressure. The other three people were standing as the meeting broke up. Two of them left the room after pulling on coats and went directly out the door to the stairway. The other listened to Melograno without speaking, then left the room herself and walked past Rick and Luca to one of the two unoccupied cubicles. Melograno walked to the chairs and the two visitors rose. His handshake was strong, almost intimidating. Luca introduced Rick without any explanation of his presence. If Melograno was curious, he didn't show it.

“Inspector, I am at your disposal. A strange business, that of Mister Taylor.”

“It is indeed. I hope you can be of some assistance.”

“I shall do my best. Perhaps it would be better if we went to my office. Let me lead the way.”

Melograno walked to one of the doors at the back of the room, and they followed with hats and coats in hand. He opened it and stood aside to let them enter. “Please make yourselves comfortable.” He gestured at a set of thick leather chairs at one side of the room. The other side held a large desk, behind which stretched a low shelf with a few magazines stacked on it, and a standard filing cabinet. Except for a telephone and a small laptop computer, the desk was bare. The most striking feature of the room was its picture window. Its view extended vertically from the base where skiers finished their runs, all the way to the peak of the mountain. The only competition with the window was a roughly carved wooden bear, almost the size of Melograno himself. The beast stood on its back legs, its bared claws and fangs guarding a side door that Rick guessed led to the executive washroom. A few meters to one side of it was another door, probably leading to a back stairway, which would be required in a building of this size. Between the two doors, on the wall, three colorful pheasants perched proudly. Each stood on its own small shelf, looking as lifelike as the day it had been dropped from the air. The two visitors settled into the chairs, coats and hats over their laps, and their host took a seat opposite them.

“The real estate business is going well?” Luca's question was a normal way to start a conversation with a real estate agent and nothing more. Even though the man knew his visitors didn't work for the tax police, it wouldn't be the kind of information a businessman would volunteer.

Melograno shrugged. “Not my best year, not my worst.”

“But the snow must help business,” said Rick.

Melograno looked at Rick, as if debating with himself whether to ask why he was there. “Snow is always welcome in a ski resort town. The last few days have been especially helpful. Weekends are usually a busy time for real estate, when tourists arrive from Lombardy and the Veneto, and that has been the case yesterday and today.” He turned to the policeman. “But you are here about the disappearance of Signor Taylor.”

Luca flipped open his notebook. “Signor Taylor's sister told us that you met with him on Thursday. Tell us about that.”

Melograno put the tips of his fingers together in a praying gesture and tapped them against his chin. After a few moments of thought he answered. “The meeting was business-related, of course, and though I can't go into detail because of proprietary information, it is not a secret that I have applied for a loan from his bank. It isn't a large loan from their point of view, but for me it will be extremely helpful.”

“May I ask what the loan will finance?”

“That too is not a secret, since almost nothing in this town is. I want to purchase and develop a plot of land. Vacation apartments.”

“I wish you luck on that.” Melograno nodded, and Luca continued. “You had met with Signor Taylor before, I assume?”

“In addition to business? Our paths had crossed. He comes up to Campiglio frequently to ski.”

“And how was his manner this time, in comparison with the other times you had met? Did he seem different? Preoccupied?”

Melograno rubbed his chin and thick neck with his right hand to help him remember. “I wouldn't say so. He is always very serious, very correct, when talking business. Not that I have seen him in any social occasions. That was the way he was on Thursday. Very correct.”

And that matches the way his sister had described his business dealings, thought Rick. “Did you notice anything which could be a clue to his disappearance? Did he mention anything he was planning to do while in Campiglio?”

He looked at Rick for a few seconds before answering. “We only talked about the loan.”

“Your meeting was here?” Luca asked.

“Yes, Inspector, he sat where you are sitting.”

“So the meeting was cordial and businesslike?” Melograno did not answer, but nodded slowly, as if running out of patience with the questions. “And you haven't talked to Signor Taylor since that meeting?”

This time he spoke. “No, no, of course not. Otherwise I would have told the police.”

Luca flipped his notebook closed. “Naturally you would have. You don't want to have problems with the police.” Melograno's eyes narrowed but he remained silent.

***

“What was that last comment about?” asked Rick when they had descended the stairs and emerged into the cold air.

“The local sergeant told me that our friend Melograno was involved in a bribery scandal last year. Something involving a regional politician. It never made it out of the investigation stage since someone obviously stepped in to quash it. Melograno didn't seem very happy when I made what he deduced was a very indirect reference to that case. Correctly deduced, I might add.” Luca's face became even happier when he carefully placed his new hat over his head of thick dark hair and turned to catch his image in the glass of the shop window. “I'd better check in with the station. Perhaps Taylor has turned up.”

The phone call lasted several minutes and involved a few gestures that indicated he was not pleased with what he heard. As Luca was speaking, Rick looked at the merchandise in the shop window—hand-knitted children's clothing. He tried to calculate what size his two nephews back in Albuquerque would be, but without success since he hadn't seen them in almost a year. A wool sweater from Italy would be a nice gift, since their birthdays were coming up soon. As least he thought it was soon. He made a mental note to email his mother to find out.

Luca snapped the phone closed. “The mayor of Campiglio wants to see me. He just called the station.”

“Does he have some ideas to help your investigation?” They had walked to the edge of the porch and flakes began falling on their hats and clothing.

“A logical question for an American to ask. No, my friend, the
sindaco
is worried about how all this will affect tourism. The sergeant thinks the man wishes to make his concerns known to the investigative officer. That's me. We will call immediately on Mayor Grandi at his shop on the
piazza
. Perhaps you could assure him, as a tourist, and even better, an American tourist, that missing countrymen play no part in your euro spending decisions. Then we will get back to our work and interview Gina Cortese.”

Rick chuckled as they stepped off the porch. It seemed that he was now Luca's permanent sidekick. They reached the main square five minutes later and Luca marveled again at what a tiny gem of urban architecture it was, framed by the mountains. Rick pulled out his phone and checked the time. “This might be a good time to call the bank, Luca. It shouldn't take long.”

“Go right ahead, I'll check out the wares of this shop.” He walked toward a window filled with chocolate. Rick smiled and opened his phone.

It was surprisingly easy to get through to the banker. Only two secretaries, the first Italian and the second American, blocked the way. Apparently Rick had made some kind of positive impression. The man's voice boomed so loudly Rick pulled the phone from his ear.

“Rick, so good to hear from you.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Fries.”

“What's this Mr. Fries stuff? It's Mark.”

“My pleasure, Mark. Though I would rather be calling under better circumstances. I'm up here in Campiglio, in the mountains, and the local police have pulled me in to help with a missing persons case.”

“Some cloak and dagger work? I always suspected that you—”

“No, Mark, local police work, but the missing person is Cameron Taylor.”

“Cam? What's happened to him?”

“That's what the police are trying to find out. His sister is here, which is why I was asked to help, since she doesn't speak Italian.” He watched Luca enter the chocolate shop. “I can tell the police that you don't know where he might be? He wasn't called back to work?”

“No, absolutely not. He wasn't going to be back in the bank until Thursday at the earliest. Could he have been lost on some ski trail? I know he's a good skier, but—”

“They've searched the trails and found nothing. Mark, was there also some business he was doing up here?”

“Yes, that's right, I'd forgotten. It's a loan, but not a very large one for us.” The banker voice intruded, like he didn't want to discuss private business. “Cam has complete discretion on such transactions.”

It would be a big loan for me, Rick thought, and also for Melograno. “Is there anything else that might help us discover where he is? Anyone else who he might have gone to see?”

“He was going there to ski, as far as I know. And that loan, of course, but he was really taking some days off to spend with his sister. Have you met her?”

“Yes, about an hour ago. Do you know her?”

“No. She's been to Milan a few times, I think, but I've never had the pleasure.”

That confirms what Cat said, Rick thought. “Well, if you think of anything, give me a call. You have my cell number?”

“My secretary has it in her Rolodex.”

They exchanged pleasantries, with the usual promises to get together, and the call ended. Rick closed his phone and watched Luca emerge from the shop carrying a small bag. The smell of chocolate pushed out into the
piazza
before the door closed again.

“
Tartufo
?” Luca extended the open bag to Rick.

Rick couldn't resist. Mass-produced Baci were his favorites, but he had to admit that any handmade
cioccolatini
, just cooled, couldn't be rivaled. This truffle was filled with a smooth
gianduia
ganache. After enjoying one and fending off a second, Rick recounted his phone conversation with the banker.

“That doesn't help much,” said Luca before popping another chocolate ball into his mouth.

***

Mayor Elio Grandi's shop sold wood objects of all shapes and sizes. Most of its wares were handmade and carved in clean natural pine, keeping alive the artisan traditions of a snowy mountain hamlet. Rick almost expected to see elves sitting at small benches in one corner, hard at work and chattering happily in Munchkin voices. Instead, one corner of the shop revealed someone who had to be Grandi himself, chipping away at a large block of wood, its eventual shape not yet recognizable. Rick remembered the sculptor who was asked how he did his work and replied, “If I'm sculpting a hippopotamus, I just chip away everything that doesn't look like a hippopotamus.” Grandi, when he'd been told by his assistant that Inspector Albani was here to see him, said he'd be with him in a moment.

“He's the mayor, after all,” Luca said to Rick while twirling his new hat in his hand. “He can make us wait. Mayors do that.”

The two walked around the shop checking out all the wood—and a lot of it there was. The smell reminded Rick of the pine logs he used to split for his grandfather in northern New Mexico. Luca went to a section filled with carved figures, mostly animals. Rick's eye was caught by one corner near the window which had several shelves of wooden toys. Among them was a set of trucks and machines, including a crane and a steam shovel. He reached down to turn the crank on the crane, lowering a small wooden hook on the end of a string. As he did, he thought again of his nephews. It occurred to him that no little boy, after getting a toy for his birthday, had ever said he would have preferred a nice wool sweater instead. He checked the price. Wow.

“Inspector Albani? I am Elio Grandi.” Rick turned to see the mayor shaking hands with Luca. “I regret,” continued the mayor, “that you are here under these circumstances, but I welcome you to Campiglio no less warmly. I hope you will return in an unofficial capacity once this unfortunate business is resolved.”

If Grandi wanted to foster the image of the little village wood-carver, he failed, looking instead like a football lineman Rick had known in college. He had taken off his long apron and hung it—on a wooden peg, of course—in the work area, revealing a pair of well-tailored jeans and a dark blue turtleneck. He was bald, though probably by choice using his own razor, giving his appearance even more authority, but also making him appear older than his what Rick estimated to be about forty years.

“And this must be Signor Montoya,” Grandi said, turning with an outstretched hand. The word of Rick's presence was around town, no use even asking how he knew.