Aaron Elkins - Dying on the Vine

“Homicide, you mean? Why would you suspect that?”

“Melio, this guy was Pietro Cubbiddu’s stepson; Nola’s kid. We’d been wondering if he was somehow involved in their deaths. And then, he also happened to be suing the hell out of the Cubbiddus.”

“ Was he? Yes, I can see why you’d find this a bit suspicious.”

“The only reason we’re here right now is that Tonino came by to bring him in for questioning on the murders. And this is what he found.”

“Oh my. Well, all I can tell you is that I’ve thus far found no signs of violence on the body, and nothing to suggest forced ingestion. But that doesn’t mean we won’t find something when we get him on the table and have a more thorough look. And when the laboratory tests are analyzed.”

“When can you do the autopsy, Melio?”

“I’ll do it today. I’ll call you later with results and have the written report tomorrow; all part of the cheerful Bosco service, my boy. Oh, I can also tell you, for what it might be worth, that he appears to have died right there in his bed. Livor mortis is consistent with his not having been moved.”

“In other words, you haven’t found anything at all so far to indicate that we’re looking at a homicide. A murder.”

“Which doesn’t mean one didn’t occur, of course.”

“Of course. What, Tonino?”

Martignetti had appeared at his side bearing two glossy booklets. “These were in a drawer in the kitchen.”

Rocco looked at the cover of the top one: Manuale ufficiale all’uso dell’Acro PC 1420. He shrugged. “So? A computer manual.”

“Right.”

He glanced at the other one; an owner’s manual for a printer. “And these are significant for some reason?”

“You’ve looked around the place, Tenente . You remember seeing a computer anywhere? Or a printer?”

“No, but maybe they’re out in his car, or in another drawer somewhere, or—”

Martignetti flipped the computer manual open to the photo on the first page. “It’s a desktop, not a notebook; it’s not going to be in any drawer. The printer’s full-size too. It’s not there either. There’s also no keyboard, no mouse, no cables, no nothing.”

“Well, couldn’t it be that—?”

“But there is an empty space on the desk in the other room that would just fit them. Just about the only empty surface in the whole room.”

Rocco nodded slowly. “So you think somebody came in and took his computer, along with everything that goes with it, after he died, is that what you’re getting at?”

“Or before,” Martignetti said.

“Or during,” said Bosco, and the three men looked at one another.

TWENTY-ONE

“HOW do you know they haven’t been missing for weeks, or months?” Gideon asked.

Rocco shook his head. “Nah. Look, the whole place was covered in dust an inch thick. All except the desk, which was squeaky clean where the stuff had been. You could see the outlines—even the mouse—just like somebody drew them right on the wood.”

“So what’s your hypothesis? Why take them?”

“Obviously, to keep something on the computer from coming out.”

“Okay, but why take the printer, the mouse?”

“Because if they’d left the printer and the mouse, we’d know right away they took the computer, wouldn’t we?”

“We do know they took the computer.”

“Yeah, but only because they forgot about—or didn’t have time to look for—the manuals.” He paused, holding up the spoon he’d been using to scoop up his beef stew. “Hey, what did I tell you: is the food here good, or what?”

They were having lunch at Il Cernacchino, an out-of-the-way eating place on an out-of-the way street a block from the Piazza Signoria, that fully lived up to Rocco’s “mom and pop” description. (“Hole-in-the-wall” would have been equally apt.) No more than fifteen feet wide and twenty feet deep, Il Cernacchino had two levels, with a window-side eating bar and stools on the ground floor along with three small tables, and another five tables squeezed together in the minuscule loft above. Behind a cafeteria-type counter at the back of the ground floor were Mom and Pop in person, smilingly ladling out soups and stews, deftly whipping up panini , and looking as if there was nothing in the world they could possibly have been happier doing.

The panino that Gideon was in the process of demolishing was indeed mouth-wateringly good, although it had taken Rocco to overcome his initial reservations. A hot chicken-liver panino? But Rocco was right; the panino con i fegatini was wonderful, a five-napkin affair, dripping with olive oil, but well worth the risks to his shirt. They each had a glass of rough, anonymous red wine as well— vino a bicchiere, €3,00 —that would probably have delighted old Pietro, but would never have made it on the lunch table of today’s Villa Antica, not with Franco in charge. But for what they were eating, nothing could have suited better.

But Gideon chewed almost absentmindedly. The news about Cesare’s death was still sinking in. “Rocco, does the family know yet? I’m heading back to the villa right after lunch. Would you like me to tell them?”

“No, Tonino will do it. He’s on his way there now.”

A few more slowly masticated mouthfuls, and then Gideon asked, “Did the medico have any preliminary opinion? Accidental overdose? Suicide? Murder?”

“All he could say was there wasn’t anything to indicate violence or that anyone forced the dope into him.”

“Which doesn’t mean they didn’t happen.”

“Which was what he said. What’s your take, Gid?”

“Personally? I think he was murdered, one way or another. Whatever it was he had on his computer that made someone nervous, Cesare himself had to have known about it too. So they both had to go. I don’t see that there’s much doubt about it.”

The spoon stopped on its way to Rocco’s mouth. “I’m surprised. I mean, it’s not that I don’t think you’re right—we’re looking at murder here, I can feel it in my bones—but that’s not exactly your style.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, hell, you haven’t even seen the body. Where are all the qualifiers, the tend to s, the in most case s, the—”

“I’m not speaking as a scientist here, Rocco. I’m not giving an expert opinion; I’m just giving an opinion. I’m talking to you, not to the court.”

“Fair enough, and I agree with you, but based on what, really?”

Gideon put the panino down and snatched another handful of napkins from the dispenser to wipe his fingers. “You’ve got a newly reopened murder investigation going into the deaths of two people. One day after the investigation starts— two days after the stepson brings a gazillion-dollar suit based on the murders—said stepson, who also happens to be your number-one suspect in the case—dies of an overdose. His computer and its contents are seen no more. It all has to be related, Rocco, and to suppose that his death was a mere inadvertence seems to be stretching coincidence to its limits. There must have been dozens of times in the past he could have died from an overdose—but he didn’t. Kind of provocative, wouldn’t you say, that it happens right now?”

“Well, maybe, but, you know, that suit throws a new angle into things. Maybe it’s not all related. Even if it’s a murder, it might not tie back to the old murders. Maybe it strictly has to do with the suit. A lot of people, that whole family, stand to lose a ton of money. Especially Franco. I’m not sure we’re not confusing things by balling everything up into one package.”