The Fine Art of Murder (17 page)

Chapter Nineteen

I
couldn’t remember a time in recent memory when being alone was so appealing. So much had happened since I’d arrived in Italy that had sent my mind swirling, my imagination soaring.

I found myself almost resenting Anthony Curso. While he was a delightful gentleman with a wide range of interests, he was also someone who obviously enjoyed intrigue. I’d been drawn into his mysterious life without the benefit of being forewarned. I could only assume that he’d kept from me the “surprise” he’d promised until it was too late for me to decline to be involved. The documentary about big-time art theft and forgery must have been in the works for a long time; filming in Vittorio’s cave had already taken place, and now the artist was being flown to Chicago for more, and presumably to get him away from any people in Italy who didn’t want him to expose their business. It was also clear to me from what Curso had said about arranging financing for the project that he was the force behind it.

I had to remind myself not to feel used by him. My arrival on the scene in Chicago came late in the game, which meant that including me in the documentary had to be a last-minute thought. Why he felt that I would add anything to the project was beyond me, unless he was hoping my relative fame as a writer of mysteries would help enhance the documentary’s appeal. Of course, the fact that I’d witnessed firsthand the theft of a piece of art, and the cold-blooded murder that accompanied it, may have given me the sort of credentials that he felt warranted my inclusion in the tale. But I knew one thing: I would not be roped into participating in the making of any documentary.

I was deep in these thoughts when the phone rang. I looked at the clock. It was close to midnight. Someone from home? It was late for anyone to be calling from Rome. Carefully, I lifted the receiver. “Yes?”

“Go home, signora,” a male voice said. “It is safer there.”

“Hello? Hello.”

The line had gone dead.

As I pondered what to do, it rang again.

The same voice said, “Mind your own business, signora. You are too lovely a lady to end up in a Dumpster.”

“Who is this?” I said into the lifeless line.

I called the front desk and asked that no calls be put through to my room.

Where was my alleged security?

I placed a call to police headquarters, but of course Detectives Maresca and Lippi had been long gone for the evening. I tried to explain to the officer who took the call that I’d been receiving threatening messages and that I was scheduled to view a lineup the following afternoon. He sounded interested, although my limited Italian and his limited English got in the way of what I was attempting to get across. We finally reached an agreement—I hoped. He would try to reach Maresca or Lippi at home and ask one of them to call me at the hotel.

“Grazie,”
I said. “Thank you very much.”

It was after I’d hung up that I remembered having banned calls from being forwarded to my room. I dialed the desk again and explained that I wanted that prohibition to stay in place, but that if a detective named Maresca or Lippi called, he was to be put through. I wasn’t sure the clerk understood my intention, but he agreed nonetheless.

The anonymous threats had set my nerves on edge. Every sound from the hallway caused me to flinch. I turned on the television, but a war movie, with its explosions, whistling bullets, and cries from the wounded, was hardly the sort of background I needed.

I paced the room, stopping repeatedly to open the drapes to see whether the young man with the cigarette was anywhere in sight.
Calm down, Jessica,
I told myself a number of times.
Nothing is going to happen to you. You’re safe here in this room.

The problem was that I wasn’t convinced.

Detective Maresca called a little before one a.m. I told him about the threatening messages and asked what I should do. “Inform the desk that no calls are to be put through,” was his suggestion. I told him that I’d already done that. “There is nothing else that can be done, certainly not tonight,” he said. “If the calls persist tomorrow, I can arrange for a trace to be put on your hotel phone. In the meantime, try to get some rest. Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, there will be a plainclothes detective assigned to you tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you at the lineup.
Buona sera
.”

Over the next hour, I fluctuated between edginess and anger, concern and relief. This roller coaster of emotions took its toll, and by two o’clock I felt as though I’d been awake for two days. I collapsed on the bed in what I was wearing and awoke at seven the following morning.

I was groggy from so little sleep, but a long session beneath the shower did wonders to revive me. My shoulder was mildly sore and my head wound looked less angry. I dressed for the day in clothes I hoped wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. While I did want my police escort to see me, I didn’t want to give any criminal elements an easy target.

My growling stomach dictated the need for a hearty start to the morning. Downstairs, as I crossed the lobby to the dining room where breakfast was being served, I noticed a man dressed in a gray suit who sat reading a newspaper. I don’t know why he attracted my attention, but he did, and I took a moment to observe him. He seemed engrossed in the paper, and I decided I was being paranoid. But after I passed him I stopped suddenly and turned. He’d placed the paper on his lap and was looking intently at me. I glanced past him to where two other men sat talking.
They
looked like policemen; were they the ones assigned to keep an eye on me? Just their presence relaxed me.

The maître d’ seated me at a table for two next to a spectacular vase of tall, colorful flowers and handed me a menu. I looked around the pretty, sunny room. Most of the tables were occupied and waiters moved quickly to serve everyone. Moments later, with coffee and juice in front of me, and my order given for two eggs over easy, bacon, and wheat toast, I settled back and drew a deep breath. My adventure was almost at an end, and that realization swept a wave of relief over me. I was eager to participate in the lineup, put it behind me, and board a plane home. The contemplation brought a smile to my face as I sipped the steaming-hot coffee. I’d allowed my imagination to run rampant last night, something I’m usually able to keep reined in.

Breakfast was delicious, the eggs perfectly cooked, the bacon crisp and flavorful. As I pondered how to spend the morning—was there time for a little shopping before Curso picked me up?—a man who’d been sitting with three others at another table approached. He smiled and said, “Please excuse me, signora, for intruding on your breakfast, but I have been told that you are Jessica Fletcher, the famous American writer.”

I returned his smile. “I don’t know about famous, but I am American and I do write books.”

He was a large man with a craggy face accented by a large, broad nose, high cheekbones, and pink cheeks. Something about him was familiar. An actor perhaps? Or a politician? But he had all the trappings of a wealthy Italian businessman: three-piece suit, silk tie, large gold cuff links protruding from his jacket sleeves. What was also noticeable about him was the heavy aroma of aftershave.

“You are much too modest,” he said. “May I?” He indicated the vacant chair.

“Actually, I was about to leave and—”

He sat. “I just want to tell you how much my wife and my daughters enjoy your books, signora. They are all translated into Italian and I believe that my wife has read every one. She anxiously awaits publication of the next.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” I said, smiling. “Please tell them I write as fast as I can.”

“I am sure you do,” he said. “I was wondering how you come up with your stories. You must be a very creative person.”

Since he certainly didn’t fit the profile of most of my fans, I assumed he wanted more details to take home to his wife and daughters. I could have explained how I worked, but I didn’t want to prolong the conversation, as pleasant as he might have been. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I really must go,” I said, motioning to the waiter for my check, folding my napkin and placing it next to my plate.

“A woman like you must lead a very busy life,” he said.

I nodded but didn’t reply as the waiter placed a small silver tray next to me on which was a pen and the check showing my breakfast charge.

I started to sign my name and indicate my room number when my uninvited visitor leaned closer. The man’s voice changed dramatically and he said in a low, menacing tone, “Go home, signora. Go home now and write your books. Don’t be a fool. If you stay and cooperate with the police, you will never get to write another book.”

I looked up sharply and noticed that his three breakfast companions had risen and taken a few steps in our direction. I pushed back in my chair to put space between us, ready to make a commotion if necessary.

The man stood and his smile returned. It was at that moment that I recognized him. His photograph had appeared in the newspaper Detective Lippi had shown me. What was his name? It came to me. Felice. Enzo Felice. The Mafia boss.

“Buon giorno, signora,”
he said. “It has been a pleasure talking with you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” I muttered as Felice and his three colleagues walked from the room, stopping to say hello at a table of people who seemed to grovel in his presence.

“Everything was satisfactory?” the maître d’ asked as I headed for the exit.

“What? Oh, yes, everything was fine, thank you.”

When I emerged from the dining room, Felice was still in the lobby, greeting people like a popular politician, shaking hands and slapping backs, his cohorts surrounding him, one on either side, the third bringing up the rear. The two men who’d been in the lobby when I’d arrived, and who I’d assumed were police officers, had gotten up and followed Felice and his entourage outside, where a long black limousine waited. Felice and his bodyguards got in; the men I’d assumed were police climbed into an unmarked car also parked at the curb and fell in behind as the limo joined the traffic.
Well, they weren’t here on my behalf,
I thought, disappointed.

But someone else was. As I stood watching, a young man tapped my elbow. I jumped.

“
Scusi
, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “I did not mean to alarm you. I am Detective Amato. I have been assigned to be with you for the day.”

“Did you see that man who just left?”

“Enzo Felice? Of course. He’s everywhere. We have tails on him twenty-four hours a day.”

“He came to my table and threatened me,” I said, not realizing that my voice was louder than I’d intended. Several people in the lobby turned to see what was happening.

Detective Amato led me to a pair of chairs and indicated I should take one while he sat in the other; he removed a notebook and pen from his pocket. “Tell me, please, signora. What did he say?”

I related the scene at breakfast as best as I could remember, my anger rising as I relived the conversation.

“I am so sorry this has happened to you,” the detective said. “I assure you that he will not bother you again. I will stay out of your way, but please be confident that I will always be close.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, meaning it. But the threatening words Felice had used haunted me as I went through the rest of the day.

Despite the unpleasantness in the restaurant, I was determined not to let it send me scurrying back to my room to cower behind a bolted door. I purposely went shopping, defying those who tried to bully me, and bought small gifts to take home. I chose an outdoor café at which to have a leisurely light lunch while I watched the colorful parade of Romans and tourists enjoying the city. From time to time, I noticed Detective Amato trailing me, staying at a discreet distance, and I was grateful the police had kept their promise.

At two thirty I returned to the hotel and waited in the lobby for Curso’s arrival. I recognized the red Ferrari when it pulled up to the entrance. Detective Amato escorted me to the car and opened the door, checking to make sure no one other than Curso was inside. Curso motioned for the detective to come closer. “I am driving Mrs. Fletcher to police headquarters,” he said. “I suggest you meet us there.” I half expected Curso to invite him to ride with us, but I couldn’t see how another person would be able to fit in the sports car. Even if he could have squeezed in, the detective undoubtedly would have declined the offer.

I recounted for Curso the calls I’d gotten the night before and my confrontation with the Mob boss.

“Yet here you are,” he said. “Others might have run away, gotten on the first plane out of Italy.”

“I considered it,” I admitted, “but I feel even more strongly now about helping convict this young punk.”

He laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Calling him a ‘young punk.’ It doesn’t strike me as a term you would use.”

“I’m sure you’d be surprised at some other terms I use when I’m angry. Have you seen Vittorio today?”

“No. Typical of him to be late. We were supposed to meet at your hotel for lunch, but he never showed up. He’s probably at the bar now, drinking his beloved grappa. We’ll look for him after you take care of your business with the police.”

Detectives Maresca and Lippi were waiting for us when we arrived along with Detective Amato. They led us to a conference room where coffee and biscotti were served by a female officer. When we were seated, I described for them my encounter with Enzo Felice.

“Unusual for him to deliver such a message personally,” Lippi said to Maresca.

“It says to me that he’s especially concerned about what happens to Lombardi.” Maresca turned to me. “Generally, he’d have sent one of his goons to try to scare you off.”

“Well,” I said, “I think he may have tried yesterday, but he didn’t succeed.”

“What do you mean, Signora Fletcher?”

I gave the detectives a brief account of the incident at the Spanish Steps, then waved away their apologies for not ensuring my protection. “It’s not important anymore,” I said. “I’m here. Are we ready for the lineup?”