temptation in florence 05 - seaside in death (11 page)

He nodded without looking at her.

She gave his shoulder an awkward pat, then pulled herself up.

He put out a hand and stopped her. “Carlina.”

“Yes?” Her heart made a little skip. Was he finally going to relent?

“Thank you for coming to see me.” A sigh went through his whole body. “It's . . . hard, growing up, isn't it? I . . . I'd thought it would be easier.”

She stared at him, then she crouched down, so he would hear her voice, even though she almost whispered. “It's easier if you share the burden.” Her voice was raw.

He turned away and shook his head. “I can't.”

Defeat swept over her. “All right. But don't forget: I'm here if you need me.”

Slowly, she returned to the hotel with all summer gladness gone from her heart. Ernesto was in trouble, but he wouldn't confide in her. She had no idea what to do or how to help him. The only thing left for her at the moment was to hope that Stefano would find more information and would manage to dig out up parts that Ernesto was trying to hide so desperately. The prospect didn't appeal to her at all. Not that she didn't trust Stefano to do a good job, but she hated to sit on the sidelines, a passive watcher of the proceedings, seeing Ernesto suffer.
Drat it all.
She was glad it was time for lunch already. The food would help to steady her, and things wouldn't look so bleak anymore once she'd eaten and rested. Surely she would find a solution. She just needed a bit more time.

While Carlina spent the morning trying to talk to Ernesto, Garini was sitting in the dustiest police station he'd ever seen in his life. The office was small and stuffy. All four walls were filled with cabinets that had been crammed full with files until some of the doors couldn't close anymore. On top of the cabinets, more files were stacked in piles threatening to spill to the floor. There wasn't a single free space anywhere, and the one attempt at decoration – a small cactus perched precariously on top of one of the files – was coated so thickly in dust that it was impossible to tell what color it had ever had.

The morning had started off badly because Pucci's superior had overslept – no doubt a result of the previous' night's activities - and didn't appear until an hour later. But now,
Signor
Lampone was sitting bolt upright in a rickety chair right in front of Stefano. When he heard the man's name, he had to smother a smile. He didn't envy the man. It must be difficult to go through life – and as a detective at that – with a name that translated as Mister Raspberry. At least
Signor
Lampone didn't have the slightest resemblance to a raspberry – instead of being round and red and jolly, he was tall and desiccated and nervous. His thick, white hair stood up on end all by itself. The only thing that might have a connection to raspberries was the color of his eyes – they were of a curious light brown color, like home-made raspberry jam that had been exposed to too much to light.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your vacation,” Lampone jumped up, took a hasty turn around his desk and went back to his seat, where he sat down again with an expression as if he expected it to explode beneath him at any given moment. He had a quick, tumbling way of talking, like a brook that hurled itself down a steep slope. “But
Commissario
Pucci has called in sick, and seeing that you were halfway involved already, it made a lot of sense.”

Garini's eyebrows climbed all by themselves. “
Commissario
Pucci is sick?”

The cooked berry eyes disappeared beneath flickering eyelids. “Yes, unfortunately. He has a sore throat. A serious inflammation of the vocal cords. The doctor has forbidden him to speak.”

“How unfortunate.” Secretly, Garini was relieved. At least, Pucci wasn't going to mess with his investigation. He would have had to exert his imagination to keep him from the investigation for good, to avoid him causing any more damage.

“Of course, Ambrosiano will be at your service.”

“Ah, yes.” Dimly, Garini remembered the bony assistant with the throaty voice. They sure had a knack for hiring police officers with odd names down here in Forte dei Marmi. He wasn't sure if Ambrosiano was going to be any more help than his assistant Piedro in Florence, but he was willing to give him a try. He couldn't be much worse.

“As soon as he's back,” Lampone added with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders.

“As soon as he's back?” Garini blinked.

Lampone lifted both hands. “He's sick, too. Same thing. He can't talk. I'm afraid Pucci got it from him.”

“Is there anybody else who can assist me?”

Lampone shook his head. “We didn't expect a murder for
ferragosto
. Everyone's gone on vacation.” He jumped up again, took another turn around his desk, then went to the cactus, lifted it up with one hand, and pulled a file from beneath it with the other. “Here's the file on the murder of Alfonso Rosari.”

Ah, now Garini understood the Cactus. It was a sort of sign that showed where to find the current files. Ingenious. He took the file and opened it, then started to glance through the sheets of information.

Lampone jumped up again.

If he's going to circle that desk again, I'm leaving.
Garini didn't voice his thought, but he gave Lampone a hard stare.

However, Lampone didn't notice because he was busy pulling at his collar with hasty jerks. “I'll leave you to it. If you need me or have any questions, just call.” He was already halfway across the room, when an exclamation from Garini stopped him in his tracks. “Yes?” He licked his lips.

Garini stared at the paper in his hand. He found it hard to believe, but the text was in front of him in black and white. “You've found another gun at the hotel? One that has been used recently? And it was in Aunt Violetta's room?”

Chapter 8

Lampone cleared his throat. “Yes, it was in the old lady's room. Didn't Pucci tell you? When he could still speak, I mean?”

“No, he didn't tell me. He couldn't, after all. I wasn't in charge of the case.”

“Yes, of course. I forgot.” Lampone gazed at the cactus as if it would give him some much needed answers.

“Could you give me some more details?” Garini looked at the sheet in his hands that didn't tell him anything but the bare facts.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Lampone went back to his desk, sat down again with the same nervous expectancy as before and said, “When Pucci searched the hotel, he also searched the room of the old lady in the wheelchair, and they found a gun. It was hidden in the space between the mattress of the bed and the wall. They tried to question her, but she was extremely . . .” His voice petered out. He pulled at his collar, then added, “. . . unhelpful.”

“I can imagine.” Garini's voice was dry. “Is the gun registered in her name?”

Lampone shook his head. “No. It belonged to her husband who died twenty years ago.”

Garini frowned. He'd never heard of any husband of Aunt Violetta, but maybe her overpowering presence had wiped out the weak memory. He would have to ask Carlina. He nodded at Lampone and said, “Is there anything else I should know right away? How about the other leads? Did Pucci investigate them?”

“Other leads?” Lampone gripped the desk with one hand and held onto it as if he was afraid he would fall off his chair without the added support. “What other leads?”

Garini stared at him. “The ex-manager of the hotel who was fired when Rosari got the job. That would be the first. And Rosari's wife, of course. Any of the other guests at the hotel.”

Lampone nodded. “Oh, yes, I know what you mean. Pucci said he would talk to them.” He took the file from Garini's hands and ruffled through the pages. “I'm afraid he hasn't yet found the time to write it down. That's it. He must have been so caught up with the details of the investigation, making sure that the trail wasn't getting cold . . .” his voice petered out when he met Garini's incredulous look.

“I have to talk to Pucci,” Garini said.

Lampone's lips twisted. “He can't talk, I'm afraid.”

“He can write notes. And nod “yes” or “no” to answer my questions. Surely that won't be too strenuous for
Commissario
Pucci?” Garini didn't care that his voice had taken on a biting tone.

“Listen,” Lampone jumped up and circled the desk once more. “I know you think we're doing a bad job. The truth of the matter is, we've not investigated a homicide for many years. We're a bit out of our depth here.”

“Then why didn't you call in help right away?”

Lampone winced. “
Commissario
Pucci said he could do it. He said the case was clear and easy. He's only worked here for a year, and he said he used to have cases like this all the time in the south, so I trusted him.” He eyed the file in Garini's hands. “Now that I think about it, it's possible that he hasn't talked to the people you mentioned.”

Garini closed his mouth with a snap to avoid saying what he thought. When he had mastered his emotions, he said, “All right. I'll stay here and read everything. If I have questions, I'll call you. I'll also leave a report for you every night.”

Lampone's eyes widened. “That's . . . that's great,” he stuttered. “I'd appreciate it.” He turned to go.

Exasperated, Garini looked after the man's departing back. Then he turned to the meager file. When he had finished reading it, he came upon the report about the gun that was found underneath Ernesto's bed. He glanced through it and was already putting it aside when he realized that something about it was odd. His hand froze, and he lifted the piece of paper to his face to scrutinize the details. He knew the lab that had analyzed the gun, and the top of the page with the company's logo looked genuine enough. But something was off. He frowned and stared at the paper. What was it? Then he saw it. The company's stamp was missing. There was an illegible scrawl for a signature, but the distinctive stamp that was put on every report wasn't there.

Garini's heart started to beat faster. Could it be that
Commissario
Pucci had falsified the report to get a quick conviction? If yes, Ernesto was safe – or at least, he was saved from immediate arrest.

He dialed the number of the lab and ended up listening to a voice mail recording. The lab was closed. Garini swore. Of course, it was Saturday, and the day after
ferragosto
. Nobody in Italy who could avoid it worked today. He sighed and racked his brain to remember the name of the contact person he usually talked to. It was something typically German because the guy's father had come from Germany. What was it? It had been some months since they'd last worked together, but Garini was fired on by the instinctive feeling that he was on the right track.

Stefano took a turn around the dusty office and straightened the limp cactus, then went to the bathroom and trickled cold water down his neck. Anything to take his mind off the problem, so his subconscious could grapple with it and spit out the name. If only he were at his own office. He had access to his e-mails there, to his address book, everything. With a sigh, he looked out the window and wondered what Carlina was doing now. She would be awake now, maybe she was even at the beach in that little leopard print bikini of hers. He sighed again, and with the sigh, the name he'd been looking for popped into his brain. Giorgiono Schmidt.
Yes!
He ran back to the office and looked up
Signor
Schmidt's private number.
Please, let him be listed.

He wasn't, but there was only one other entry in the same name, so he decided to call it and trust his good luck. He was lucky – it was Giorgiono's mother, and she was more than willing to get her son on the line.
Thank God. “Signor
Schmidt, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you on your vacation like this, but I need a piece of information very urgently.”

“No problem,
Commissario
,” Schmidt sounded relaxed and happy. “I should have known that you would dig up my whereabouts, no matter where I was on
ferragosto.
”

Garini had met him once and knew that he was always cheerful. “Again, my apologies,” he said, “but I need to know if you issued a report for a gun that was sent in from the police station in Forte dei Marmi yesterday.”

“I'm sorry,
Commissario,
but I can't tell you that.” It was clear from Schmidt's voice that he felt bad about not being able to give an answer. “I've been on vacation since Monday.”

Garini's heart sank.
Drat it all
. He'd been so sure he was on the right track, but every step he took forward dragged him two steps back. “Do you know who might have been on duty?”

“I could find out,” Schmidt said. “You say it's urgent?”

“Very urgent.”

“Okay. Let me make some calls, and I'll get back to you in fifteen minutes or so. I take it you're at the station in Forte dei Marmi?”

“Yes, but--” Before Garini was able to give him his cell phone number, Schmidt had hung up. Great. Now he had nothing to do but to wait for a return call. He wondered if he should just leave and let a colleague take the message, but then, he decided that the information was too sensitive to bandy around the office

To pass the time, Stefano made a list of the things he would have to do. Top priority was Rosari's wife. He copied her address from the files and found out how to get to her, then realized that his way would take him straight past the hotel. He might stop for a few minutes and squeeze in a short talk with Aunt Violetta. She had a nerve, to take a gun on the family vacation. Garini shook his head. When would the Mantonis ever cease to surprise him? Hopefully, he would also be able to see Carlina for a few minutes. Next time, they would book a vacation in Timbuktu. Far, far away.

He dragged his thoughts back to the case. Next on the list was the owner of the
Albergo Giardino
. He found his name and address and realized that he lived more than an hour's drive away. He would be lucky if he managed to talk to them all today. Maybe he should call them in advance to make sure they would be there . . . no, better not. He wanted to have the element of surprise on his side.