Aaron Elkins - Dying on the Vine

Rocco was nodding along with him. “Right. And then who would even know where the cabin was? The family kept that to themselves. Pietro insisted on being left alone up there. Even they weren’t welcome during that one month. He kept a cell phone for emergencies, and that was all the contact he wanted with the outside world. So . . . I think maybe— if we reopened the case—we’d be looking at the family itself and any really close confidantes. That would be the place to start, anyway.”

“So that would include . . . ?” Gideon asked.

“The sons, of course—Franco, Luca, Nico . . . and Cesare, naturally . . . and Luca’s wife, Linda, I guess. And the lawyer, Quadrelli; he’s in on everything.” He’d been counting the names on his fingers as he said them, and he was on the first finger of the second hand. “Six in all. And probably some of the employees. But not a whole lot of people, at least to start with. It’s doable. You got any tips for me?”

That was Gideon’s cue to tell him about Cesare, and about the aborted Humboldt-Schlager deal. He half expected Rocco to flare up again, but he was uncharacteristically grateful instead. “You guys have been a huge help. I want to thank you. It’s obvious we screwed up the first time around, and you opened up my eyes.”

“I appreciate that. And if there’s any other way I can help, just ask,” Gideon said.

“Me too,” John said. “Count me in.”

Rocco smiled. “Yeah? What are the two of you doing right now?”

“Not a lot,” John said hopefully. He’d been getting a little bored with life in Figline.

“Good. Let’s drive back up to Florence. I’m gonna have to get my boss to agree to it, and I don’t think I can do it without you guys there to help me explain. Captain Conforti’s a tough nut to crack. He’s a very smart guy, don’t get me wrong, but he’s also a bureaucrat, and he hates it when things aren’t nice and neat. He also doesn’t like it when you tell him he got something wrong.”

“Who does?” said Gideon.

SIXTEEN

BUTCaptain Conforti proved to be a surprisingly easy nut to crack. After an unpromising start, twenty minutes was all it took. He’d made no secret of being displeased when they entered his office, which was much like Rocco’s in its unadorned functionality but three times the size and with solid walls, a real door, and two tall windows looking out on the street. The first thing he did was to glare silently at Rocco until Rocco figured out what he was driving at and responded with a jaunty, casual salute that didn’t do much to ease things. The second thing, once introductions had been made, was to declare that only twice in his career had he been party to reopening a closed case, and both times the results had been legal and political disasters. And the third was to ask Rocco just what it was that was supposed to be so different about this particular case that would make him even consider doing it again.

“What’s different, captain, is that this gentleman”—he gestured at Gideon—“showed up on the scene and didn’t waste any time telling us everything we got wrong.”

“Which was everything,” John said with an amiable smile.

“Just about,” Rocco agreed, as Conforti’s expression darkened more with every word.

But almost as soon as Rocco turned things over to Gideon, things improved. Conforti, a steely, distinguished, gray-haired man in his fifties, self-assured to the point of intimidation, proved to be an excellent and intelligent listener. Since the captain had little English and they were speaking in Italian, Rocco furnished the correct terms when Gideon couldn’t come up with them. John sat, silent and patient, his Italian nowhere near up to following the conversation. Conforti’s few interruptions consisted of brief, piercing questions. There was no argument on his part, no further defensiveness.

“You’re right,” he said as Gideon finished. “Given what you’ve found, the findings we arrived at earlier are not supportable. I will see the public prosecutor this afternoon. Damn it.” The prospect had done nothing to improve his mood.

“I’ll be glad to refer you to the relevant forensic literature, if you think it would help,” Gideon said.

Conforti produced his first thin smile. “We have heard of you, Professor Oliver, even here in Tuscany. The word of the Skeleton Detective”— il detective delle ossa —“is all the support I need.”

Modestly, Gideon dipped his chin.

“You will lead the reopened investigation, of course, Tenente .”

“Thank you, sir. With your permission, I’ll take Maresciallo Martignetti as my second.”

“Approved.”

“I believe one of the first things I’d like to do is inform the Cubbiddus that we are reopening the case and begin our interrogations. If you don’t object, I’d like to do that this afternoon.”

Conforti nodded, then stood up. The others immediately followed suit. The conference was over. There was a round of handshaking. “I have a suggestion for the second thing you might do,” the captain said to Rocco as all four men moved toward the door.

“What would that be?”

The corners of Conforti’s mouth turned down—there were better ways to respond to the “suggestion” of a senior officer—but he went on without comment. “I would send a few people up to the cliff top tomorrow morning, see if they can find the bullet, the one that shot signor Cubbiddu. It would be nice to have that, don’t you think? The one that was never found.”

“Sure, but we already went over the area pretty thoroughly, captain. Checked every tree trunk for fifty meters around, scoured the ground—”

“But you didn’t dig in the ground, Tenente . I suggest you scrape the soil down a few centimeters, say three or four. Not for fifty meters around, but perhaps for two meters surrounding the area where the skull fragments were found. It shouldn’t take long.”

Rocco looked uncertain “Ah . . . dig?”

“Dig, Tenente ,” said Conforti with the smallest of sighs. He went on with a slow, grinding show of patience. “We now know that signor Cubbiddu was already dead when shot, no? Therefore don’t you think it is reasonable to assume that he, like signora Cubbiddu, might also have been lying down at the time, with his head against the ground?”

“Mm, I don’t think so. If he had been, wouldn’t the ground have shored up his skull and prevented the bullet from exiting—as with signora Cubbiddu?” He looked to Gideon for support.

“Not necessarily in his case, Rocco,” Gideon said. “The captain’s making a good point. Remember, his skull would have been more dried out than hers, and much more likely to break and let the bullet out, regardless of what it was up against—as opposed to hers, which more readily ‘dented’—the reverse depressed fracture.”

“That is exactly correct,” said Conforti with the sort of approval one might give to a clever student, as if Gideon were reciting something he’d just learned from him, instead of the other way around. “So wouldn’t the most likely path of the bullet be straight down into the soil . . . rather than into the trunk of some nearby tree?”

“That might be a good idea, Captain. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll send a couple of men up there first thing in the morning. Anything else on your mind?”

Another sigh from Conforti, this one louder and longer. “No, Tenente ,” he said with a long-suffering smile, “that is all.” After one more round of handshaking at the door, the door was closed behind them.

• • •

“WELL, you’re right,” Gideon said as they trotted down the stone stairway, their clacking footsteps echoing off the old walls. “He’s a smart guy. I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me.”