Roman Count Down Read online

  The commissario kept the same serious look on his face. “I can understand your frustration, Countess. It is matched by our own. Be assured that we are doing everything possible to find the guilty party, but the randomness of the crime makes our investigation very difficult.” It wasn’t exactly true, but he hoped it was enough to hold her off while they made another attempt to track down the killer. He disliked rounding up suspects purely for the sake of demonstrating that something was being done, but it might be needed to placate the woman.

  She looked back without speaking, giving the policeman the sense that she was weighing her thoughts before responding. He hoped it would not be another disparagement of the police, but the hope was weak. He waited, and her eyes moved around the room. A sumptuous room it was, as would be expected for an apartment at this address.

  The Teatro di Marcello started its life two millennia earlier when the Emperor Augustus decided to take over a project started by Julius Caesar, and dedicate it to his late nephew Marco Claudio Marcello. The theater, with its classical half-circle design, had held fifteen thousand spectators, but over the centuries it suffered the fate of so many monuments in the city. Its stone was recycled to construction sites around Rome, became a fortress for powerful families, and fell into various states of disrepair. But real estate values being what they have always been in downtown Rome, it was eventually renovated and became a location which many per bene Romans would kill to call home.

  “I have discovered something that could help with the investigation.”

  It was not what the commissario had expected, but he was pleased to hear her words. He leaned forward. “And what would that be, Countess?”

  “My husband was a traditionalist. Perhaps old-fashioned would be a more accurate way to describe the count. He kept a journal and he wrote letters. In long hand. In going through the papers in his study I came across them in a file. They were not locked up, mind you. Umberto had nothing to hide from me.”

  The policeman considered the last comment. How could she be so certain that her husband had nothing to hide? He spent a mere ten minutes with the woman and it seemed like an hour. Did the count seek out other companionship? He put the thought out of his mind and returned to what she had said. “We would be interested in the material, Countess. It might be helpful, even though it appears random violence took your husband from you. Have you found anything of interest to the case in these papers?”

  “I haven’t read them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She spoke slowly, as if talking to a child, or someone who should understand without her telling him. “Commissario, my husband’s mother was British, he had a British nanny, and he spent much of his youth, including schooling, in Britain. English was effectively his first language. So his journal is written in English, as were the letters from his British schoolmates.”

  “And you don’t read English.”

  Her reply was an annoyed frown. “I don’t suppose you have anyone on your staff who could do the work? This is not the sports pages of the tabloids, unfortunately. Whenever I see a policeman sitting in his squad car he seems to be either reading the sports pages or a comic book.”

  Fontana let the comment pass, and an idea jumped into his head. “We have an American who we sometimes contract for translations. He does not come cheap, so if you can pay him directly, it would avoid my having to justify the expense in the bureaucracy.”

  She waved a hand, as if shooing away a flying insect. “Of course.”

  The policeman took her answer as a welcome end to the conversation. He got to his feet. “I will have him contact you in the next few days.”

  “What’s his name, Commissario?”

  “Montoya. Riccardo Montoya.”

  The policeman stole a look at his watch. Too late to get to the airport. Damn this woman.

  “The line for Italians is that one, Mister Montoya”

  The agent pushed the passport back through the opening in the glass with one hand and jerked his thumb with the other. Rick was in the wrong line, but did the guy have to be so rude about it? After all, he was still groggy from the flight, since no amount of airline coffee could make up for being jolted awake by the sudden glare of the cabin lights while bouncing over the Alps. And he had merely stood in the line he always used when arriving in Rome, like all those other times when he was using his American passport. This time, since he was going to be working, it seemed proper to use his Italian one, so could you really blame him for getting in the wrong line?

  It was an inauspicious arrival. So much for Rick Montoya, suave international traveler.

  He crossed over under puzzled looks from people of many nationalities, especially the Italians of the new line where he took his place. Fortunately, everyone was as tired as he was, and they held their tongues as this column of arrivals, now all Italian, edged forward at the speed of an aging turtle. Several minutes later he realized that he was truly back in Italy when his Italian passport was pushed back by a uniformed agent who paid him no attention whatsoever. And why should he? More important was the conversation about the previous Sunday’s soccer game with his colleague in the booth behind him. Rick had no doubt that the agent would be more attentive to the young lady who was next in line. He noticed her as well—long, dark hair and a slim figure—but was too tired to strike up a conversation. He left the cubicle pulling his carry-on bag, stopping only to glance back at the girl. As expected, the agent was checking her document carefully and carrying on a conversation, no doubt to be absolutely sure she wasn’t a terrorist using a false passport.

  Yes, he was back in Rome.

  The various passport control lines merged into a human stream flowing in the direction of the baggage claim area. The Americans moved faster, thinking that after waiting so long in line to get their passports stamped, their bags would already be making turns around the carousels. The Italians, knowing better, took their time, many already talking on their cell phones. Rick stopped and pulled his own from the zippered pocket of his bag. He powered it up and was pleased to see, as promised back in Albuquerque, that it worked. The first message on the screen was a text.

  BENVENUTO NIPOTE. UNABLE TO COME TO AIRPORT. HAD TO MEET WITH A COUNTESS. SENT A DRIVER. KEY WITH DOORMAN. BACI. ZIO PIERO.

  Rick assumed the encounter with a countess had something to do with his uncle’s police work, but he couldn’t be sure. Getting to know Piero better was something he looked forward to on this adventure, if that’s what one could call picking up stakes and leaving a decent job in Albuquerque to try his hand at working in Italy. He could do the translation jobs anywhere that had an Internet connection, so why not move back to the city of his youth and get on the interpreting circuit? He kept contact with a classmate of the American School of Rome who’d encouraged Rick to give it a shot.

  His mother, as usual, had mixed feelings—pleased that he would be reconnecting with her native Italy, but worried about his leaving a reliable job and jumping into the unknown. That he would be staying, at least initially, with her brother helped her accept what his father had said was inevitable.

  “Rick is an adult,” the elder Montoya had said. “He can make his own decisions.” Which was a very American reaction, as would be expected, just as his mother’s ambivalence was molto Italian. Business as usual in the dual-national Montoya family. Since his parents were now in Brazil, they couldn’t complain about being separated from their son, and his sister in Albuquerque encouraged him to take the leap. She would miss him, but with a husband and kids, she had enough family close by to keep her busy.

  Rick checked the electronic boards at the end of each carousel, passing flights arriving from Paris, Dakar, Bogota, and London before finding his own. The Paris flight was the only one with a moving belt, but it held only a few bags, and none that remaining passengers wanted to claim. The suitcases moved slowly around the loop, disappear
ed into the hole in the wall, then reappeared with renewed hope that someone would take pity and give them a home. He got to his aisle, recognizing passengers from his plane. Most stared at the flaps covering the opening of the conveyor, others talked on their cell phones, still others struggled to keep awake.

  He pulled out his own phone again to check e-mails. One was from a friend who regretted missing the goodbye party at an Albuquerque watering hole. Just as well that he was out of town, Rick thought. The guy was a notoriously ugly drunk. Another was an inquiry about translating an article for a scientific journal. That was good, since it meant income, though Rick hated translating scientific jargon. A third asked if he’d arrived safely, and she couldn’t wait to hear how he was adjusting to life in Rome. He was glad to be out of that relationship.

  A loud buzzer and a flashing red light brought him back to the business at hand. The conveyor belt came to life and the people gathered around it began pushing ahead like lemmings nearing a cliff. His bags were among the first to appear, and he elbowed his way to the front, snatching them off under the annoyed looks of fellow travelers. He slung the duffel over his shoulder, pulled out the handles of the carry-on and roller suitcase, and headed for customs.

  He went through the “nothing to declare” line without incident before emerging into the hall where lines of people waited along a railing. Like buyers at a cattle auction, they watched the herds of travelers who plodded their way along the line. Several held signs indicating businesses or travel agencies, some with just a name. Toward the end he spotted someone holding a hand-lettered sign: MONTOYA.

  He hadn’t expected a woman. When Rick owned up that he was Montoya, she shook his hand and introduced herself as Carmella Lamponi. The handshake was firm, as would befit someone who, despite her years, could easily be taken for a professional wrestler. Bleached, close-cropped hair added to the impression. She wore jeans, a Metallica sweatshirt, and red sneakers.

  “These all your bags?” Without waiting for an answer she continued. “Not much for someone who’s moving here. The car’s out there.” She pointed to one of the far doors and started walking.

  “I’m having other clothes sent.” Rick tried to keep up. “How did you know I was moving here?”

  “The commissario told me.” They reached the door, which opened automatically, and she pointed toward a large, dark blue Alfa Romeo sitting in a space marked with a crossed-out P indicating a no parking zone. “It’s that one.” She pulled a key from her jeans, pressed it, and the trunk popped open.

  “Have you, uh, worked for my uncle before?” He watched while she heaved his larger suitcase into the trunk with one hand, the duffel with the other.

  “Put that little one in the backseat,” she ordered, pointing at the carry-on bag, and got into the driver’s seat.

  Rick did as he was told and climbed into the passenger position. “I said—”

  “I heard you. Have I worked for your uncle? He’s my boss. One of many. I just do this to earn a little extra money when I’m not on duty.”

  “So you’re a policewoman.”

  She glanced at him before pulling into the traffic. “You’re pretty sharp, kid.”

  They were still inside the airport compound, passing the Leonardo Da Vinci statue, when Rick asked Carmella how she got into police work. It became immediately apparent that she was not averse to sharing her life story with someone she’d just met, even the nephew of her boss. Even the friendliest of New Mexicans would have waited a few encounters before getting into such details. As they passed slower vehicles, which included every other car on this section of autostrada, she talked. She spoke with the thick Romanaccio accent, almost a dialect, that he remembered hearing on the street when he was a kid. He had to concentrate to get it all.

  Been working at the Polizia dello Stato for twenty five years. Just made sergeant. Married and divorced. Her former husband, a cop, was a bum. Her son, who just turned twenty and lived with her, was a student at the university. He was lazy and too often took after his father. She was trying to pound some sense into his thick skull.

  Rick wondered if she meant it literally. An Italian mamma who was also a cop—definitely a formidable combination. By the time the car pulled onto Piero’s street, she was describing her extended family, but was forced to stop when they reached the door to the building. She got out and opened the trunk.

  “When you need a taxi, give me a call.” She handed him a card. “My cop shifts change, so I may be available day or night.”

  “Thanks, Carmella.” He reached into his pocket. “What do I owe you?”

  “Your uncle got it.” She slid into the car and drove off.

  Rick pulled his hand out of the pocket, realizing it was just as well the fare was covered since he had forgotten to stop at an ATM at the airport to get euros. It was his second rookie error of the day.

  Chapter Three

  Rick knew from experience that the trick for beating jet lag was to stay awake the entire day and through the evening. No napping allowed, no matter how tired you got, and then you might be able to sleep through the night. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. The rule of thumb held that a day was needed to recover from every time zone crossed, meaning it would take him about a week to get his body off a New Mexico clock and functioning on Rome time. He hoped it would be less. So far so good, but the bottle of expensive wine Uncle Piero ordered to celebrate his nephew’s arrival wasn’t going to keep Rick’s eyes open.

  Piero had picked a restaurant near his apartment, perhaps in consideration of his nephew’s jet lag. Il Commissario was well known to the waitstaff, who struck the right balance between the familiarity given to a neighborhood regular and the deference required for a senior policeman. The warmth of their greeting to him this evening had been extended to Rick: they politely made a point of not staring at his cowboy boots. Piero was dressed more casually than during working hours—he wore a tattersall shirt and paisley tie under a blue blazer—but still looked like he’d just left his tailor. Rick, with a sweater and sports shirt, knew from previous encounters with his uncle that he could never match the man’s fashion sense. He was sure that if he looked up the term bella figura in a dictionary there would be a picture of his Uncle Piero.

  “Tell me about this countess, Zio. I was intrigued when I got your message on my phone this morning at the airport.”

  “It is a curious case, that of Count Zimbardi.” Piero took a sip of the wine, a dark red from Piemonte. Unlike Carmella, the man spoke the Italian of a cultured university graduate, which he was. “It is understandable that his widow is frustrated with the lack of progress in the investigation. I am, as well. Let me start at the beginning.”

  Before he could begin, the pasta course arrived and conversation moved back to food. Rick had ordered his favorite local dish, spaghetti alla gricia, made with pancetta, olive oil, grated pecorino cheese, and black pepper. One bite and he felt at home. Piero had opted for lighter fare, a simple tomato soup. They wished each other buon appetito and started to eat. After a reasonable exchange of comments about the dishes, the policeman returned to the subject at hand.

  “The night the body was found, the assumption was that Count Zimbardi was the victim of a mugging that went bad, since his wallet and watch were missing. But that could be what the attacker wanted us to think, and it wasn’t a mugging at all. The back of his head hit the pavement, and that, according to the medical examiner, caused his death, though there were other bruises which indicated a struggle. We think he was surprised by the attacker but there was no way to know if he tried to flee the pursuer. He hadn’t been sweating, according to the autopsy, but of course he was a count, so we don’t know.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Italian nobility. Because they have done no manual labor for so many generations, their sweat glands have become vestigial organs.”

  “Really? I didn’t know
that.”

  “It’s a joke, Riccardo.”

  Rick hoped this instance of his gullibility would stay with his uncle, and not be shared with anyone, especially not with Carmella.

  Piero took a spoonful of soup and then patted his mouth with the napkin. “Anyway, three Swedish tourists found him on the Ponte Fabricio. Do you know where that is?”

  “One of the oldest bridges over the Tiber, connecting the Tiberina Island with the east side of the river.”

  “You still know the city well.”

  “It’s a hobby of mine, Roman history.” He swallowed a forkful of the spaghetti. “From the way you described it, I get the sense that you think there may be more to it than a mugging.”

  “Perhaps. There are some puzzling aspects—the most curious one was the bus ride. We found a bus ticket in his pocket, and from the stamp it appears that he rode down the Lungotevere, got out at the island, and was struck down while crossing the river to get to the Teatro Marcello where he lived.”

  “So a regular route to get home.”

  “Not according to the countess. She said he never took the bus, always used his own driver or rode taxis. Didn’t want to mix with the unwashed masses. His driver was off that night to celebrate the anniversary of the founding of the city. She said the count had called, as he always did, to tell her he’d be home soon, and she assumed he was going to take a taxi.”