Aaron Elkins: Dying on the Vine

And a little later he lifted his eyes, and softly said, “I wonder . . .”

• • •

HALFan hour later, having followed directions from Nico, whom he’d run into in a hallway, he had found a farmacia on the town’s main street, which, as in half the towns in Italy, was Corso Vittorio Veneto. There he made two purchases, which he brought back unopened to Villa Antica. He got two glasses from the tasting room, went out to the back terrace with them, and sat down at one of the tables. He removed from the paper bag two half-liter bottles that held purple liquid. One them had Giorniquilla on a bright red background; this was the same cough medicine he’d seen Cesare guzzling. The other, identical except that its label was moss green, said Dormiquilla. He undid both screw caps and poured some from each into separate glasses. He sipped from one, then the other. Thought a minute. With his eyes closed, he switched the bottles themselves around enough times to turn it into a blind tasting. Sipped directly from the first bottle that came to hand, then from the other. Opened his eyes. Thought again.

He got on his cell phone to call Rocco, but got a secretary instead: The lieutenant was out of the office. Could she take a message?

“Would Maresciallo Martignetti be available? My name is Gideon Oliver.”

Martignetti was available. “Hello, Dr. Oliver, what can I do for you?”

“Make it Gideon, will you? I was calling Rocco to suggest that he have the lab run another couple of tests. Can I leave it with you?”

“Let me get a pad. Okay, shoot.”

“First, have them do an analysis on the cough medicine that was on Cesare’s nightstand.”

“Okey-doke.”

“Second, and more important, I’m assuming that Cesare’s toxicological screening didn’t include testing for cocaethylene, would that be right?”

“I don’t know. Far as I know, they did the usual routine screening, the regular tox panel.”

“Then they probably didn’t include it,” Gideon said. “They usually don’t in the States. So would you see if you can get them to test specifically for it?”

“For what again?”

“Cocaethylene.”

“Co . . . You wouldn’t happen to know how to say that in Italian, would you?”

Gideon laughed. “Hell, I can barely say it in English, Tonino. But they’ll know what I’m talking about. It’ll be spelled something like c-o-c-a-e-t-h—”

“Gideon, hold on a minute, will you? The switchboard’s trying to get me.” He was back after a few seconds. “I’m sorry, there’s another call coming in that I need to take. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s it. You’ll let Rocco know? Sooner the better.”

“I’ll take care of it for you myself.”

“You can do that?”

“Not really, but I’ll sign Rocco’s name to the requisition; no problem. Appreciate the help, Gideon.”

• • •

“OKAY, Pino,” Martignetti said in Italian once Gideon had disconnected, “I’ll take that call.”

On the line, the carabiniere at the switchboard had told him, was a man who identified himself as Philario Tognetti, representing Scacco Matto Investigazioni—Checkmate Investigations.

The private-eye firm and the man were both familiar to Martignetti. Philario didn’t “represent” Scocco Matto; he was Scocco Matto: a one-man operation a few blocks south of the Arno, in the Oltrarno District. Philario was an ex- carabiniere , an old friend, never close, but a friend. They had gotten to know each other as rookies attending the Cadet Training School in Rome in 1992. But Philario wasn’t made for the work. He’d scraped through the academy by the skin of his teeth, then lasted only a year in the corps before resigning at the suggestion of superiors that he might be better suited to another line of work. There wasn’t anything dishonorable or particularly bad in his record; he just wasn’t up to the job. Mentally. Not to put too fine a point on it, his sewing machine, as the old saying went, was a little short of thread.

He’d started Scacco Matto after trying a few other things that hadn’t worked out for him, and, as far as Martignetti knew, he’d made a go of it; he’d found his niche.

“Hey, Philario, thanks for calling back.”

“So what can I do for the mighty Carabinieri ? Are you in need of the services of a good private investigator? I can give you a special rate.”

Martignetti produced the required chuckle. “Actually, I just need a little information from you. I’ve been working on the Cubbiddu case, Philario”—he sensed a sudden wariness on the other end of the line—“and your name has come up.”

“In what way?”

“I got their financial records from their executor, and on them is a bill from you for twelve hundred euros that was received in October of last year, not long after their deaths. All it says is ‘for services rendered.’ You want to tell me what that was for, please?”

“Ah . . . I’d like to help, but I don’t think I can do that, Tonino. It’s a matter of professional ethics. Whatever passed between signor Cubbiddu and me is privileged information. You know that.”

“Of course. But Cubbiddu was your client?”

“Ah . . . yes.”

“And can you tell me what he engaged you to do?”

“As I just said—”

“I wouldn’t ask you to tell me what was said in confidence, but can’t you at least give me an idea of the work you were doing for him? This is a murder investigation, Philario, a double murder investigation. Any help you can give us would be very much appreciated.”

He expected more hedging, but Philario came through. “He suspected his wife of cheating on him. I was engaged to find out if this was true.”

“And was it?”

“It was. It only took me two days to establish it.”

“Did you get to tell Cubbiddu that before he died?”

“I did. Called him on September second—maybe the third. And that’s it, Tonino, really. That’s all I can tell you. I shouldn’t have said that much.”

“I only have one more question, Philario.”

“Philario, I remind you again that your client is dead and it is his murder we are investigating. And his wife’s as well. Surely you can see that a lover of signora Cubbiddu would be a person of interest. I appeal to you as a citizen and as a friend.”

Rocco Gardella had just come into his cubicle and, seeing that Martignetti was on the phone, started to turn around, but Martignetti waved him to the chair. “One minute,” he mouthed, holding up a single finger.

“Yes, certainly, I can see that,” Philario was saying, “but I cannot . . . I’m sorry, we must end this conversation now.”

Martignetti spoke quickly before he hung up. “I am not asking you to tell me anything that signor Cubbiddu told you in confidence. I am only asking what you told him .” Was there a difference when it came to privileged information? Martignetti doubted it. But he did know that splitting hairs was not one of Philario’s strengths. He heard a sigh at the other end and held his own breath.

“Oh, all right. If I were to give you this information, Tonino—could my name be kept out of it?”

Martignetti couldn’t help punching the air, a little gesture of triumph. Good old Philario, still the same guy, still not the brightest crayon in the box.

“Absolutely.” He meant it too.

“Very well. His name is Severo Quadrelli. Would you like me to spell that for you?”

• • •

“SOMETHING interesting?” Rocco asked when the call had ended.

“I’ll say.” He told Rocco what he’d just heard.

Rocco was as surprised as Martignetti. “What do you know: Quadrelli. Well, at least now we know why he didn’t want to turn the accounts over to us.”