Good Blood (23 page)

“Do you recognize any of them?” Caravale asked, tilting back in his chair and crossing one stocky thigh over the other.

Gideon glanced along the row. “Is one of these the one who tried to strangle me?”

“Ah? What makes you think so?”

Gideon shrugged. “Because they look strong, and they look dumb. And why else would you be showing me photographs? Anyway, no, I don’t recognize any of them. Which one did you think it was?”

“This one.” Caravale leaned forward and put his finger on the set of mug shots that was second from the left.

Gideon scrutinized them more carefully, thinking that perhaps he had caught a glimpse of the man’s face without realizing it, and that it might come back to him. The man had oily, receding black hair, eyebrows like caterpillars, a jowly lantern jaw, and a glowering aura of bull-headed obstinacy.

“Sorry, not familiar at all. Doesn’t look like anybody I know,” Gideon said, which wasn’t entirely true. What the guy looked like was a muscle-bound version of Tullio Caravale. “Sorry.”

“Too bad. It would have been better if you could verify it. But he’s the one, all right. We have someone else who picked him out.”

“You found a witness? I thought it was too dark, I thought they were too far away.”

“Not a witness to the attack, no… not exactly. But we have someone who can verify his breakfast.”

“Verify his… Tullio, you’re losing me again.”

Caravale smiled. “Ham and cheese, remember? Coffee with grappa. You’re the one who told us.”

“Yes, sure, but…” He shook his head. “Help me out here. I’m still a little slow.”

At five forty-five in the morning, Caravale explained, the only cafe in Stresa that was open was old Crossetti’s stand next to the ferry building, which started serving at five o’clock for the benefit of the ferry workers.

“Where I got my coffee,” Gideon said.

“Right. And that’s where Big Paolo here”-he tapped the photo again-“got his ham-and-cheese panino and his caffe corretto half an hour before that. We described the order to old Crossetti, and old Crossetti promptly described the buyer to us. There’d been only two orders like that so far-five fifteen is a little early for panini -and the other person was an old lady with a goiter-Crossetti has a keen eye for his customers. And when we showed him the photographs I just showed you, he picked out Big Paolo without hesitation.”

“Big Paolo. You even know his name.”

“Paolo Tossignano. Also known as Dumb Paolo, but not to his face. Another thug-for-rent from Milan. As I thought,” he reminded Gideon.

“Tullio, you don’t waste any time, do you?” Gideon shook his head in genuine admiration. “Two hours after he came out of the ground, you had Domenico identified. And now you figure out who this guy is almost as fast-without any eyewitnesses. No wonder you got to be a colonel.”

Caravale’s pouty, pock-marked face gleamed with pleasure. “You haven’t heard the most interesting part. We didn’t just happen to have Paolo’s picture handy, you know. Would you like to know why we had it?”

“That would be nice,” Gideon said.

“Because,” Caravale said, enjoying himself, “he’d just been identified as taking part in another recent crime. You see, there was one reliable witness to Achille’s kidnapping-a grocer, Muccio. He got a good look at the one kidnapper without a mask, and a few days ago he was able to identify him as-”

“Dumb Paolo.”

“Correct, the very same.”

“But that would mean… that would mean…” Maybe he was groggy. He was having a hard time sorting out the implications. “What would it mean?”

“It would mean,” Caravale said, “that there just might be something to this theory of interconnected whatever-it-is after all.”

“Monkey business,” Gideon said.

“Whatever. But the one thing we can say for sure is that Big, Dumb Paolo Tossignano not only tried to twist your head off, but was also one of Achille’s kidnappers.”

“So,” said Gideon, thinking out loud to clarify his thoughts, “that leaves us with the de Grazias again. We know that they were the only ones who knew where the bones were and that I was working on them, so it had to be one of them that sicced him on me. And unless he got himself hired to do the kidnapping by somebody completely different, somebody unconnected to the first person-which would put a hell of a strain on the interconnected monkey business theory-it must have been the same person-a de Grazia-who hired him for both things. Is that the idea?”

“That is the idea.”

Gideon shook his head. “Whew. So one of them is hooked up in both Domenico’s murder and Achille’s kidnapping?”

“It looks that way.”

“But it seems so… I don’t know, I guess I can imagine one of them murdering the old man for his money or something, but the idea that one of his own family had Achille kidnapped? That’s too… too

…”

“It might be too-too,” Caravale said a little impatiently, “but I can tell you on good authority that it happens. Now would you like to hear something really interesting?”

“You mean it gets more interesting? I don’t know if I can stand it.”

“Remember Luzzatto?”

“The doctor-the one who was going on about what Domenico had on his mind before he was killed. Have you talked to him?”

“He’s dead.”

“Good God, that can’t be. He was just-”

“I know, I know. He was alive yesterday, how can he be dead today? Well, so were you, almost. That’s the way it works. First you’re alive, then you’re dead. He went off the road on his Vespa, going up to where he lives in Gignese.”

“Luzzatto drove a motorcycle? The guy must have been eighty.”

“In America that might be strange. Here, a lot of old people do it. A Vespa is not exactly a Harley, you know.”

“And you think it was-you don’t think it was an accident?”

“The timing’s a little suspicious, wouldn’t you say? What was that theory again? I’m starting to really like it.”

“I don’t know, Tullio. An eighty-year-old man riding a motorcycle on a mountain road, you have to expect-”

“An eighty-year-old man who’s been driving a Vespa since before either of us was born, and he’s never been killed before. He certainly picked an inconvenient time for it. Inconvenient for us, quite convenient, I’d say, for someone else who had something he didn’t want to come out.”

“Coincidence?” Gideon offered weakly.

Caravale snorted. “God doesn’t like coincidences like that.”

That was pretty much what Gideon thought too. “Tullio, if he was really murdered, and it was because of what he said at the consiglio yesterday, that has to mean the person who killed him was also somebody who was there. One of the de Grazias-again. Or am I not seeing this clearly?”

“You’re seeing it the same way I am.” He suddenly banged his desk with the side of a hammy fist. “I should have interviewed him right away. I never should have put it off.”

Gideon shook his head. “I don’t see how you can fault yourself for that. There was no way of knowing what was going to happen to him. We were talking about a crime from ten years back. Who could guess somebody else was going to be killed?”

“All the same…” He leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Listen, my friend, it’s almost dinnertime. What would you say to a glass of wine and some antipasti, and we can talk this through a little more? I have a few more ideas I want to try out on you.”

“No, sir!” Gideon said firmly. “This is your case, not mine. I’ve done my job, I’m out of it. My head hurts. I’m going back to bed.”

Caravale shrugged good-naturedly. “As you like. I’ll give you a lift.”

The following day, Monday, was the final day of the Pedal and Paddle Adventure. At 7:30 A.M. the bus for which the ever-efficient Phil had arranged arrived at Lake Orta to pick up the members, most of whom were showing serious signs of having been cooped up too long with the same small group of people, and to take them to Milan’s Malpensa Airport. Gideon, who had intended to go along to help out, overslept-something unusual for him-and went down to the breakfast room with mixed feelings of relief (Paula Ardlee-Arbogast no longer clouded his horizon) and guilt (had he purposely, if subconsciously, overslept to avoid her?). Liberal helpings of ham, brioche, and soft Bel Paese cheese from the buffet table took the edge off his guilt, however, and the usual enormous serving of caffe latte, with the coffee and the hot milk brought to the table in separate steaming pitchers, left him feeling quite fine. The fact that he would soon have Julie back to himself undoubtedly had a lot to do with it too.

After a walk around the town-the lakefront promenade didn’t appeal to him this morning-and a stop to pick up some fruit at the GS supermercato on Via Roma, he settled down to spend the day at his notebook computer, happily catching up on e-mail and munching green grapes.

Phil and Julie, both looking frazzled, showed up at 3 P.M. Phil went up to his room to nap (“Call me when it’s time for dinner”), and Julie announced that she was in extreme need of three things: a truly scorching shower with water that would stay hot for more than three minutes at a time; a chance to buy some new non-camping-style clothing, preferably involving a skirt, and shoes that didn’t take laces; and a decent meal in an actual restaurant that served things on nondisposable plates. ln that order.

Gideon returned contentedly to his computer, having only briefly considered offering his assistance, if needed, in the shower. She had been pretty explicit in her priorities, and right now it was more than enough just to have her around again.

At five thirty, with Julie looking splendidly dewy and fresh in a crisp, new, just-above-the-knee sleeveless dress and new sling-back, open-toed, leather-weave sandals, they met Phil in the lobby of the Primavera.

“Where to?” Phil said. “There’s a great pizza place right around the corner-What?” He had caught Julie’s grimace.

She looked from Phil to Gideon and put on her wistful face, the one with the pouty lips and the puppy eyes. “Could we eat someplace-no offense, Phil, I enjoyed all those stews and pizzas-but do you suppose we could eat someplace really nice? You know, with actual courses?”

“Oh, jeez,” muttered Phil.

“Having thoroughly researched the matter,” Gideon said, “I know just the place. You’ll love it.” He turned to Phil. “But you’ll need to get some long pants, buddy.”

Phil glowered at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“There’s a nice men’s shop up the block at Via Roma,” Julie told him.

“And you probably ought to wear a shirt with a collar,” Gideon said. “I can lend you a shirt with a collar.”

Phil looked wildly around the lobby, as if for help, found none, and gave in, letting his shoulders sag in utter dejection. “What I don’t do for my friends.”

During his morning walk Gideon really had researched the town’s restaurants, and it was to the Grand Hotel des Iles Borromees that he brought them. The graceful, wedding-cakey Belle Epoque pile had been open for business since 1863, with a well-publicized celebrity guest list that had included the usual European royalty, plus Mussolini, the Rothschilds, Clark Gable, and ambulance driver Ernest Hemingway, who had recuperated there from his wounds in the First World War, and had later used it in A Farewell to Arms as the peaceful retreat where Frederick Henry lies low, planning his escape to Switzerland. Nowadays the celebrity clientele was mostly rock bands with names that Gideon couldn’t keep straight and frequently couldn’t believe.

They had before-dinner drinks on softly padded Empire-style chairs in a gleaming lobby with gilded wall and ceiling sculptures, huge chandeliers, and terrazzo floors ornamented with Oriental carpets. Naked marble infants- putti -stood on one chubby foot atop pedestals, holding multibranched bronze candelabra. The drinks were carried from a teal blue bar by a tuxedoed waiter who wore rubber-soled shoes and spoke in whispers.

“It’s wonderful,” Julie sighed as her Cinzano was set down on a low marble table. “Just what I had in mind.” She rubbed her bare arms. “I feel so clean. ”

As expected, Phil didn’t agree. “I think I remember this place. My grandfather used to take us here for lunch sometimes, in the days when he still went off the island sometimes. I always felt like I didn’t belong.” He held up the glass of Beck’s beer he’d ordered and shook his head. “Seven bucks for a beer, and you don’t even get the bottle. Sorry, folks, but this place is not going to make it in the On the Cheap guide.”

“I’m sure they’ll be desolated,” Julie said. “Didn’t some superstar chef kill himself a few years ago when his restaurant didn’t get into On the Cheap?”

“No, that was Michelin, ” Phil said seriously. When it came to On the Cheap, his sense of humor was rarely in evidence.

They paused to watch half a dozen slim, attractive, trendily dressed people in their twenties and thirties come out of an elevator and sit down at the far end of the lobby, chattering and laughing like movie extras who’d been told to look rich and happy. “Look at them. So confident, so… entitled. They act like they think they deserve to stay in places like this, like they have it coming to them-”

“Strange talk coming from a bona fide representative of the gentry,” Gideon said. “You sound like your buddy, Dante Galasso.”

“Representative of the gentry, where do you get that from? Bite your tongue, man.”

“You are, though, Phil. You’re a member in good standing of the de Grazia clan. I’ve seen you at their consiglio with my own eyes. You might as well face it.”

“Might as well own up to it,” Julie said. “No point in denying it. What’s true is true.”

“I,” said Phil, squaring his shoulders, “am an Ungaretti and damn well proud of it. As far as I’m concerned, you can take that whole bunch of patronizing, condescending, self-satisfied… well, except for my grandfather… you can take them and… hell…” He subsided, muttering, into his Beck’s.