Aaron Elkins - Dying on the Vine

“Nothing in comparison to how it’d flow if he knew you were smoking in his conference room. But no, I won’t tell.”

“You’re a wonderful woman, Linda,” he said, but he ground the butt out on the heavy paper doily on the tray. “Wait, before you go,” he said as she turned to leave. “Do you think there’s anything to that Humboldt-Schlager thing? Is that something we should be focusing on, in your opinion?”

“No. None of those guys killed Pietro, Lieutenant. They worshipped the man.”

“Sometimes, disappointed worshippers can turn—” Martignetti began.

“They loved him too, Maresciallo . I know you two have to investigate every lead that turns up, but believe me, there’s nothing in this world, no disappointment, no resentment, no argument—and there were plenty of those—that would have been capable of leading any of them to lay a hand on him. It would have been like laying a hand on God.”

“How about on Nola?” Rocco asked.

“Well, now, that’s a different question,” Linda said, smiling. “But as Franco said, Nola had nothing to do with the Humboldt thing, so—”

“She had no say in it at all? It wasn’t a joint decision?”

Now she laughed outright, a husky, pleasing chuckle. “That, Lieutenant, was not a term in common usage around here in Pietro’s time.” She paused, then added in an undertone: “Not so common now, either.”

“Franco runs a one-man operation too?” Rocco asked. “Like his old man?”

“Very much like his old man, although he’d hate to hear anybody say it. Is there anything else you need, Lieutenant? I have to get back to the course. I’m demonstrating this afternoon, and my torta di riso is coming out of the oven in five minutes.”

“Go in peace,” Rocco said, and raised his cup to her in heartfelt appreciation. “And thanks!”

On her way out, she very nearly collided with Severo Quadrelli, who was striding buoyantly down the hall. “Linda, Linda,” he greeted her. “Lovely girl.”

Linda looked at him curiously. “Hi, Severo.”

Martignetti, facing the open doorway of the conference room, called out to him. “Hallo? Signor Quadrelli? Could we see you again for a moment, please?” He spoke in Italian.

Quadrelli stopped and came to the doorway. “Yes, what is it?”

“We realized there are a few more things we need to ask you about. Come in, please. Sit down.”

“Will this take very long? I have quite a number of things—”

“Please,” Rocco said. “Sit.”

“Very well, very well.” The chairs were a bit narrow for him, but he waggled his bulk into one of them with a sigh, smiling forbearance. “Now, then, what can I do for you?”

“Your call to Cesare’s attorney went well?” Rocco asked. “You seem pleased.”

“Very pleased, yes. She very politely thanked me for the information. She was quite subdued, as I would have been in her place. I’d venture to say that’s the last we’ve heard of signora Batelli. How could it be otherwise? This suit of theirs is founded on grievances suffered as a result of signora Cubbiddu’s “wrongful death” at the hands of signor Cubbiddu. Now we learn that he was not among the living at the time of her unfortunate death, so how can he have been responsible? Causa finita est .”

“I’m happy that we’ve been of service. The suit was against signor Cubbiddu’s estate?”

“Against Franco.”

Rocco frowned. “I understood that all three sons were beneficiaries of his will.”

“Yes, that’s so. But Luca and Nico— and Cesare, may I point out—received stipends, extremely generous stipends. Franco, naturally, was bequeathed the great bulk of the physical estate, including the winery and this property.

“‘Naturally’ because he was the oldest son?” said Martignetti.

Quadrelli correctly sensed an implied criticism and drew himself up a little. Into the armholes of his vest went his thumbs. “It is thanks to the institution of primogeniture, Maresciallo , that many historic and culturally precious properties have been kept from dissolution. Could Villa Antica have remained as it was, had it been divided among the four young men? Especially with Cesare having a quarter interest?”

“True, but it is also thanks to primogeniture—” began Martignetti, but Rocco quickly cut in. Tonino was the second oldest of seven children in the family of a wealthy publisher who also subscribed to primogeniture, and he, like his siblings, had wound up out on the street when the eldest brother inherited. Tonino was a good-humored man, but primogeniture was his bête noire, and Rocco had learned it was best not to let him get started.

“You served as the executor of signor Cubbiddu’s estate, is that correct, signor Quadrelli?” Rocco asked.

“Yes, quite correct, quite correct,” Quadrelli agreed, feathers only slightly ruffled.

“And what about the time during which the two of them were missing? The time before they were found? You acted as . . . I don’t remember what it’s called.”

“It’s called ‘conservator.’ Yes, I was appointed conservator. By the courts.”

“Right, conservator. Which means you oversaw the accounts and handled finances in general, both the Cubbiddu family accounts and the Villa Antica accounts. You saw that debts were paid and so on, do we have that right?”

“Yes, quite right, quite right. And I requested and received a judgment permitting me to make disbursements in accord with his will.”

“Good,” Rocco said pleasantly, although the lawyer was getting under his skin with his jovial, patronizing condescension. You could practically hear a benevolent “my boy” tacked on at the end of his responses. “We’d like to have copies of those accounts, if you don’t mind. Tonino, maybe you could go with signor Quadrelli to his office—”

“The accounts? But you already have them. I gave them to you—to Maresciallo Martignetti, actually—at the time of the disappearance, don’t you remember, Maresciallo ? But if you need duplicates, I’ll be more than happy to provide them. Anything at all I can do to help.” My boy.

“No,” Martignetti said, “those were the accounts up until the time the two of them disappeared. What we’d like to see now are the accounts for the time just afterward; say, October through November of last year.”

“I don’t understand. Pietro was already deceased by then, no? What possible relevance could his—his postmortem finances, so to speak—what possible relevance could they have to your investigation?”

“Well, it’s just that we have to cover every possible source of information,” Rocco said.

Quadrelli coughed gently and cleared his throat. “You’re welcome to them, of course, but I must admit to a certain hesitance. The privacy of the entire family is involved, you see, and I consider myself the custodian of . . . not that any of them have anything to hide . . . but you see, a natural, ah, prudence constrains, ah . . .”

A barely perceptible look passed between the two carabinieri . Over the years, Rocco Gardella and Antonio Martignetti had developed a highly productive interview routine when the situation called for it. Not bad cop vs. good cop so much as dumb cop vs. smart cop; or maybe friendly, easygoing, what-you-see-is-what-you-get cop (think Columbo) vs. streetwise, don’t-mess-with-me cop (Kojak in a smaller, quicker, better-looking version). Martignetti was the nice guy, Rocco was the dangerous one.

The roles came naturally to them: wearing a leather bomber jacket, Rocco would pass more easily as a hood than as a cop. But when he was a cop, everything about him practically said out loud that he knew you were lying, and if you weren’t lying you were covering something up, and if you weren’t covering something up you were, at the very least, fudging the facts. And you’d better shape up if you knew what was good for you. Martignetti, five years older and ten years longer in police work, took a more tolerant view of human nature, and his kindly, world-weary mug and intelligent, blue-gray eyes told you he was more happy than your average police officer to take you at your word and less eager to toss you in the clink if you inadvertenly said something you hadn’t meant at all. At least until contrary evidence came along.