Murder Most Unfortunate

by David P. Wagner

  Rick wasn’t ready for another sip of his drink, but he took one to give him time to figure out an answer. What could he say? It came to him. “It may be a cultural thing, Jeff.”

  “A cultural thing?”

  “Right. She’s thrust into another culture, and let me tell you, you can’t underestimate the difficulty of adapting to a new country. I’ve seen it dozens of times with Americans coming over to Italy. At first they love it—all the food, history, and art. But then they start to feel homesick. Some little thing touches it off, like not being able to find a good cheeseburger or an encounter with a shopkeeper that doesn’t understand English. They go into a funk. The same thing can happen to foreigners who have moved to America. I saw it with an Italian friend of mine at the university.”

  “So Erica is going through culture shock?” He grinned and took a long pull of his beer as his mind worked on the concept. “She comes back for the first time and is reminded of what she left behind. What has been welling up inside her for months comes rushing out. ‘Have I done the right thing?’ she asks herself.”

  “Uh, sure. That could be happening.”

  “So it may not be the idea of getting married. Or me.”

  Rick gave Randolph as noncommittal a shrug as he could muster and swallowed some more from his glass. It was the last. “Jeff, I’m glad we had this chance to talk, but I have a telephone appointment set up with a client in New Mexico. Can’t be late for it.” He reached for his wallet.

  Randolph waved him off. “Don’t be silly, I invited you. And thank you for letting me bend your ear.” He shook Rick’s hand warmly and allowed him to escape. As he left the bar Rick wondered once again if he’d done the right thing.

  When he reached the reception desk the clerk looked up from his computer. “Signor Montoya, a message was left for you.” The clerk turned around, retrieved an envelope from the rows of boxes behind him, and handed it over with the room key.

  Rick pulled open the envelope and wondered, in the era of cell phones, who would be leaving a handwritten note. It came to him as he unfolded the paper, and its contents confirmed his hunch. SOMETHING HAS COME UP. MEET ME AT 6:00 AT VIA LOMBARDIA 11. It was signed Fabio Innocenti. So the old man has found something regarding the two missing Jacopos. The break they needed may have finally appeared, and it turned out to be Betta’s father who caught the break. He checked the clock behind the desk and realized it was almost six.

  “Is Via Lombardia nearby?”

  The clerk smiled as he pulled out a map. “It is in the centro storico, so it is very close.” His finger ran over the map and stopped. “Right here. About ten minutes away—on foot, of course.” The phone buzzed below the counter and the clerk answered it. As he listened he looked up at Rick. “Just a moment, I’ll check,” he said into the phone before putting the call on hold and turning back to Rick. “It’s the questura, Signor Montoya. Inspector Occasio is requesting that you call immediately.”

  From the way the man pronounced the title of the policeman, Rick sensed that Occasio had not made a friend during his visits to the hotel. “Please tell him I just left and you’ll leave a message to call him.”

  The clerk smiled and spoke to the person on the line before putting down the phone. Rick looked up again at the clock, thanked the man, and handed back his room key. He started toward the door but stopped halfway across the lobby, pulling out his cell phone and hitting a few buttons. The call went to voice mail, causing a frown of annoyance to appear on Rick’s face. He sat in one of the lobby chairs and intently tapped in a message before hitting SEND. He put the phone back in his pocket and strode toward the door.

  Early evening was already spreading over the sky. A layer of clouds had pushed the darkness into making an early arrival while bringing the possibility of more rain. The people on the streets, more savvy to the vagaries of local weather, sensed this and scurried toward their destinations. He thought he heard a roll of thunder, but it might have been the sound of a motorbike a few streets away. That made him think of Betta and her brother’s motorcycle and then of her father. What could the old man have found? He hoped it was something that might cast some light on the mystery of the missing paintings, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. There wasn’t a single expert in the seminar who thought they would ever see those two masterpieces, so who was Rick to dispute them?

  He turned off onto Via Lombardia, which was more of an alley than a street. The large, metal trash cans—almost mini-dumpsters—that Italian municipalities used sat at various angles near the doorways. These were the back doors of apartments or businesses which would have more ornate façades on the opposite side of their buildings. What would bring Innocenti to a street like this? Something wasn’t right. A memory jumped into his head—a narrow dirt street in a rough part of southwest Albuquerque. That night had not ended well. He blocked out the thought, but a tinge of fear remained and his breaths shortened.

  The pavement was narrow, but a few small cars were wedged close enough to the buildings to allow others to pass. He checked the numbers as he passed. Fortunately there was still enough light to see them, though it was fading fast. Number eleven would be close to the end of the block.

  The door was ajar. Rick pushed it and peered into a room filled with what appeared to be office supplies. Lights on the walls illuminated the scene. Cleaning equipment, including mops and buckets, had been pushed into one corner next to a sink. Beside the sink sat three large bins marked with triangular recycling symbols. Two were empty, the other overflowing with shredded paper. About a dozen boxes of supplies lined a set of metal shelves or were stacked neatly on the floor.

  “Signor Innocenti?” His voice wavered.

  There was no answer, but he thought he heard something coming from the far corner. He walked toward it and found another door, also slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped into another room that was well lit by a large overhead fixture, its light glaring off the tiled floor. A shelf on one side of the room held more boxes of supplies, but also two paintings whose style was strikingly familiar to Rick. His heartbeat quickened. Sitting in a wood chair opposite the two works sat a man who now turned his attention to Rick. As he did, he lifted a pistol from his lap and aimed it at Rick’s chest.

  “You were expecting someone else, Mister Montoya?” Stefano Porcari’s face showed indifference but then broke into a grim smile. “Don’t be alarmed that Innocenti may be in any danger, Riccardo, he and his lovely daughter are safe. It is only you who have gotten yourself into this predicament.”

  “What kind of predicament, Signor Porcari? Did you think I was coming to rob your bank?”

  “That is exactly what I think. How good of you to come to that conclusion so quickly. I trust Inspector Occasio will do the same when the evidence is handed to him on a silver platter.”

  Rick surveyed the room and felt his palms beginning to sweat. Next to Porcari were more boxes, these with stenciled marking for the Banco di Bassano. Forms, Rick guessed; all banks needed forms. This must be the rear part of the bank building, the storage area. Otherwise, except for the two paintings, the room was bare save a pointed metal object on one of the boxes next to the chair.

  “I’m sorry that I do not have another chair for you, Riccardo, but the floor will serve when the time comes.”

  The room was not large. Rick calculated that the banker was about a dozen feet from him, too far to charge and get away with it. He would get Porcari’s eyes somewhere other than on him, so he could edge closer.

  “I suppose you think I was going to steal those paintings.” He gestured at the two framed works on the shelf and the banker glanced at them. Rick moved a few inches toward him.

  “Those paintings? You could have had them just by asking.” He stared at the bright colors on the two, as if in a trance. Rick inched closer. “They are the reason all of this started, my dear Riccardo. Look at those wonderful masterpiec
es. But of course you know all about them, Sarchetti told you at the bridge.”

  Rick couldn’t keep from looking. What did the man mean? What did Porcari think that Sarchetti had told him? “Sarchetti told me nothing about any paintings at the bridge. I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “That charlatan sells me these pieces of trash and then gets drunk and brags about it. I know that’s what happened.” He turned his attention back to Rick, who had managed to move an inch closer, but still not close enough. The gun moved back and forth in the man’s hand. “That’s of no consequence now. Everything will work out for the best. Who would have thought that the interpreter would be the murderer of two men? Perhaps you learned such skills in America. Such a violent country.”

  The words drove home the fact that this was a man who must have killed two men already. This time it would be with a gun and not a knife. Rick concentrated on his plan. It was the only way to save himself. “Why would the police think I was a murderer, Signor Porcari?” He was stalling for time, but the situation did not look promising.

  The narrow smile returned to the banker’s face. “It’s too perfect. You break into the bank to steal paintings like those that you admired on the walls of my office. I happened to have mentioned to you, when you visited, that I had two new masterpieces in our storage area.” He noticed the frown on Rick’s face. “Of course I neglected to say that when we had coffee, but the police will believe me. Inspector Occasio considers me the very picture of honesty.”

  Rick’s breaths were coming shorter now as he understood Porcari’s plan and realized the genius of it. The banker, aware of his guest’s discomfort, smiled and continued.

  “The security cameras near the outer door will show you entering. And the door has been jimmied open by nothing less that the knife that killed Sarchetti.” He waved his hand over what Rick now realized was a short, wood-handled dagger. “Your fingerprints will be on it, of course. And I, working late, heard noises in the back of the bank, and came to investigate. Fortunately, I am armed with this gun which I have a license to carry. We law-abiding citizens must be sure to follow the rules, and you know that we always have to be prepared for an attempted bank robbery. Usually the thieves are after cash, but why not paintings?”

  “You thought everything out, Signor Porcari. But one part of all this I don’t understand.”

  “The least I can do for you, Riccardo, given this final service you are about to perform for me, is clear up any misunderstandings. What is it?”

  “Why did you have to kill Fortuna?”

  The question caused Porcari to shake, making Rick regret the question, even if it bought him a few precious seconds. The gun wavered while remaining trained on Rick’s chest.

  “The man would have ruined me,” he said through clenched teeth. “That’s all you need to know.” He lifted the gun with unsteady hands.

  Rick raised his hands defensively, in a reflex movement, when Betta screamed behind him. Porcari’s head jerked toward the doorway and Rick leaped at him. The chair collapsed under the weight of the two men, but Rick grabbed the wrist that held the gun and forced it up. He was surprised by the strength he felt in the man’s arm.

  “Betta, get out of here!”

  His voiced was drowned out by shots from the waving pistol. Two bullets slammed into the opposite wall as the men struggled on the floor. Rick kept his two hands on the man’s wrist, pushing the gun away, but the banker had better leverage, gripping it firmly while pressing the barrel back toward Rick. Porcari growled as his free hand struck out at Rick’s face, punching him above the eye. A few drops of blood dripped into the corner of the left eye, blurring his vision. The man was on top of Rick, pulling the fist back for a second punch, when his arms sagged limp and surprise stiffened his face into a grimace. He groaned in pain and the gun clattered to the floor. Rick shoved the man off, grabbed the pistol, and got himself to his feet. He was ready to aim at Porcari, but immediately saw that the man was no longer a threat. The knife protruded from Porcari’s shoulder and he gasped in pain. Betta stood above him, arms taut, breathing heavily.

  “A doctor…a doctor. You must help me.” Porcari clutched at his bleeding back but the knife was just out of reach. As he twisted in pain the weapon dislodged by itself and hit the tiles with a metal clank.

  Betta kicked it expertly to the other side of the room, far from the man’s reach. “It doesn’t look that serious. I’ve had worse injuries falling off a motorcycle. Keep that gun ready, Riccardo.”

  Rick trained the pistol on Porcari with one hand and pulled out his cell phone with the other. “I’ll call DiMaio.”

  “No need, I already did when I got your message on my phone. I knew my father wasn’t planning on meeting you and the address was strange, so it smelled like a trap. With two dead bodies already, I thought you shouldn’t take any chances.”

  They kept their eyes on Porcari as they talked, oblivious to his short, groaning breaths. “Did you tell DiMaio that you were coming here yourself?”

  “He didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell him.” She gave Rick a quick grin. “He would not have approved, and if I hadn’t come, where would you be now?”

  Rick nodded, and watched Porcari writhe on the cold tiles. “You’ve got a point, Betta.” They both looked up when the faint sound of a police siren made its way into the room. “DiMaio and the cavalry.”

  “Riccardo, look at that!”

  Rick tensed and his eyes jerked down to Porcari. “What?”

  She was staring at the shelf with the two paintings. “The missing Jacopos, the cause of all this, and now they’re damaged.” She walked to the shelf and raised her finger to touch the bullet holes. One was almost in the center of the left painting, the other at a corner of the second. “Was he aiming at them? They make it intact through wars and revolutions and now, after all those centuries, this happens.”

  Rick shook his head. “Unless I’ve got everything completely wrong, Betta, those two paintings are not our missing Jacopos. They are—” The sound of brakes, doors slamming and feet in the outer store room cut off his sentence. DiMaio appeared in the doorway, stopped, and took in the scene.

  “I thought you’d never get here, Alfredo. Did you stop for a coffee on the way?”

  ***

  Rather than the deluge of the previous day, only a few thick drops splashed over Bassano as Rick and Betta walked slowly along the stone street, her shoulder tucked under his arm. Bassano’s good citizens, expecting the rain, were now nowhere to be seen except for an occasional soul hurrying home. The street lights had been on for an hour, but their rays did not reach into the darkened doorways of this narrow lane that was mostly shops and offices, now closed for the day. They had not spoken since leaving behind the flashing lights of the police cars on Via Lombardia, but now Rick felt Betta breathe a deep sigh and knew she was ready.

  “How can you be sure that those are not the missing Jacopos?”

  She could not see his smile. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask. Those two works had been sold to Porcari by Sarchetti, he as much as told me so when he trained the gun on my chest. But Fortuna told him they were fake. Porcari knew that the nasty professor would have broadcast to everyone that he had spotted the forgeries. The banker would have been exposed as having used bank money to buy forgeries, which would have ended his career at Banco di Bassano and eliminated his chances of working in any other bank. Just as bad, the man’s reputation among art collectors was ruined. Fortuna had to go. As did Sarchetti, for having sold him fakes in the first place. And when he thought Sarchetti had told me about the whole affair, I was going to be next.”

  Betta stared at the pavement, a frown crimping her red lips. “I got that, but what you haven’t explained is why you believe that the two damaged paintings couldn’t have been our missing Jacopos.”

  “I might be wrong, but I think the two Jacopos, ha
d they been offered to Porcari, would have been outside the bank’s price range. He told me as much when I visited him at the bank.”

  “So they remain missing. The mystery continues.”

  “I have a hunch about who has them.”

  The comment had the expected effect, Betta stopped short and turned to face Rick. “What? Riccardo Montoya, you tell me everything this instant.”

  “You sound like my mother.” He tousled her hair. “Let me check something out after I drop you off. I don’t want to give you my theory and then have it turn out to be my imagination. One way or another, I’ll tell you everything when we have dinner.”

  She reached up and patted the bandage above his eye. “Are you sure you don’t need that looked at by a doctor?”

  “Now that you have touched it, the healing is complete.”

  “What a romantic scene.” The slurred voice growled from a darkened doorway before the man lurched out into the street, blocking their way. He wore a dark suit under a leather coat, his tie knot loose and askew.

  Betta clutched Rick’s arm. “It’s my ex-fiancé.”

  “We’ve met.” I hope this one isn’t armed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Carlo, you’re drunk.” Betta clutched Rick’s arm. “Go home, you’ll get yourself in trouble.”

  The man swayed slightly and his eyes shifted between Rick and Betta. “And who will give me any trouble? Certainly not him.”

  Rick watched Carlo’s body swaying before him and noticed the bloodshot eyes, making it easy to size up the situation. If he were careful he should not have much trouble with the guy. He had successfully faced bigger challenges in Albuquerque bars, and many of those weren’t as drunk as Carlo. So why not tie up some loose ends? His hands dropped to his sides and he rubbed his palms slowly along his coat. “Is this what you do for Porcari, follow people around?”

  Carlo’s body stiffened, like he’d just been slapped. It was just the reaction Rick had hoped for. “What I do at the bank is of no interest to you.”