by Grace Brophy
“Four hundred euros from Rita to find me! Another two hundred euros from me to them, not to find me! What was your donation, Commissario Cenni?”
“A promise not to charge them with blackmail. Does your bishop know that you’ve agreed to talk to us?”
“The bishop and I always agree in theory, although not always in practice,” Father Breci responded. “His Excellency is concerned that I not bring scandal on the Church and suggested that so long as there’s no question of an involvement in Rita’s murder that I decline to answer your questions.”
“And you, Father, you don’t agree?” Cenni queried.
“I prefer not to embarrass the Church, my parishioners, or myself without good cause, dottore, as I’m sure you’ll understand. But in the matter of finding Rita’s murderer, I have some responsibility. She was my friend. But perhaps you’ll explain how by delving into my friendship with Rita you expect to find her murderer?”
Cenni stopped shilly-shallying. “Rita spent the night with you a little more than two weeks ago. We know from the autopsy report that she was about eight weeks pregnant when she died, and we also believe, from a receipt that we found in her purse for a home pregnancy kit, that she knew about the baby. She’d been having an affair with a married man in Assisi. Perhaps she’d threatened to file a paternity suit or tell his wife. I believe I know who the man is, but I have no proof. I also believe that he’s the murderer.” The expression in the priest’s eyes was deeply sympathetic—or perhaps Cenni just wanted to tell someone about Sophie Orlic.
He continued. “There’s a great deal of pressure on me from Rome to arrest a Croatian woman for Minelli’s murder, a straniera without money or influence. This woman had a few disagreements with Rita Minelli before Good Friday; unfortunately, she’s also the one who found the body. I’ve managed thus far not to arrest the woman despite the pressure, but I’m running out of time. I need to have identification of this married man very soon, and I’m hoping that when you met Signora Minelli in Fiesole, she may have told you about the child and talked about the father, anything concrete, perhaps even a name!”
The priest seemed for a moment scarcely to have heard Cenni’s request. He stared off into space, and Cenni could see that he was thinking about something far away, and then he spoke. “It’s difficult to believe that little Rita was a middle-aged woman expecting a child. Forty-five, you said! I thought she was years younger. She seemed such a child herself, desperate for love and incredibly persistent in seeking it out, even from an ugly creature like me.” A less perceptive listener might have contradicted the priest’s last statement, but Cenni knew that Father Breci wasn’t seeking contradiction, that he was simply making a statement of fact.
The priest continued. “In this country we lock up mothers who physically abuse their children or we remove the children from their care, dottore. But we do nothing about the mothers who emotionally abuse their children, those who can’t love anyone but themselves. God knows why these women have children. To satisfy some desire to reproduce themselves, I suppose, or because the Church tells them it’s their duty, or because they want someone to care for them in their old age. They don’t love their children; they never caress them, laugh with them, praise them, and they never let them leave. Rita’s mother seemed so average to me as she lay dying in that dark ugly room, just another old woman in need of God’s mercy. But God forgive her, she was a monster!”
He stopped and nodded apologetically. “I’m sorry, Dottor Cenni, you’re here to inquire about a murder in Assisi on Good Friday, and I’m going on about another murder that began forty-five years ago in Brooklyn.
“In answer to your earlier question, Rita knew about the child when we met in Fiesole. She cried and laughed for most of the evening after she’d told me. She glowed when she spoke about the wonderful life they’d have together—travel, theatre, books, music, all the things that Rita had never shared with her own mother. ‘I know it’s a girl, a blonde with green eyes, like her father,’ she asserted at one moment. And in the next moment, she was weeping, fearful of raising the child by herself, afraid of being alone and also, I think, afraid of turning into her mother. When I asked about her family in Assisi, she cried, ‘Oh them, they all hate me!’
“I offered her money, to help with the child. ‘Money’s not the problem,’ she replied. ‘I have plenty.’ She didn’t want to talk about the child’s father, the logical person to help, I should have thought, and I didn’t push her. From the little she did let out about the father, it was apparent that the romance was over; no love lost there, was my guess. What I do know about the man are a few tidbits she dropped in the course of the evening. Married; a rich wife; lives in Assisi. But no name. I’m sorry, Dottore, but those are the few sorry facts I have to offer.”
It was not what Cenni had hoped for, and his disappointment was extreme. He had wanted to hear Fulvio Russo’s name from an unimpeachable source, a Catholic priest, a confidante of the murdered woman, someone with a strong alibi for the evening of the murder and no axe to grind. But it was more than he’d had before and it still added up to Russo: married man, blonde with green eyes, rich wife, lives in Assisi. Further confirmation for Cenni, but nothing concrete with which to oppose the questore or any of the others who were agitating for the arrest of Sophie Orlic. He thanked the priest and was rising from his seat when Father Breci spoke again, barely audible this time. “I knew Rita had plenty of money, that she didn’t need financial help. She’d told me so that night in Brooklyn. I offered money when she told me about the child because I wasn’t able to offer anything else. I wanted the appearance of caring without actually caring. Perhaps if I had done more, if I had been a better Christian, she’d still be alive!”
“What more could you have done, Father? From Rita’s diaries and from our interview with the Etrusca detective agency, we know that she pursued you relentlessly. You did your best—” Cenni stopped in mid-sentence, surprised at how matter of fact he sounded. He’d just glossed over the priest’s guilt and pain with a rather silly, stock response. Even worse, he had joined the ranks of those who had betrayed Rita. He tried again.
“I’m truly sorry about Rita, Father. You’re right, a good many people let her down, but I don’t think you were one of them and I don’t believe Rita thought so either. In her diary she writes with great joy of the hours that she’d spent with you; they were the happiest in her life. On the afternoon of her death, a friend—a man that she’d met in Assisi—offered to marry her, to help raise the child. On the last day of her life she was happy.”
The priest had escorted Cenni to the door and stood in the doorway, watching the commissario depart, when Cenni turned abruptly and walked back.
“The day that her mother was dying, where did you come from? You appeared out of nowhere!”
“Confused you, did it? Rita asked me the same question in Fiesole, only she was under the impression that God had sent me—a Brooklyn miracle! It was through one of the curates, a classmate of mine from seminary days. We were sitting together in his study when the parish secretary handed him a request for someone to administer the last rites to Rita’s mother. My friend had confessions to hear that afternoon, so I volunteered. Even after I told that to Rita, she insisted that God had sent me, that I was her own special miracle. I certainly hope not,” he said, grimly, and closed the door.
28
IT WAS JUST before 2:00 when Cenni left the rectory. He still hadn’t eaten and he had an appointment with the Minister of the Interior in Rimini at three. That appointment he’d also made in the morning, but with the fervent expectation that he could cancel it after his meeting with Father Breci. Counting his chickens! The few bits of information that the priest had provided, although pointing to Russo, were hardly sufficient to get Carlo off his back, and to give Carlo his due, to get the PM and his powerful friends off the questore’s back. There was nothing for it; he’d have to fall back on his last resort, black-mail. But not on an empty stomach.
In summer, San Benedetto del Tronto is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with tourists. In August, the cars are double-parked, bumper-to-bumper, for miles along the Adriatic coast road, directly across from the miles of side-by-side seafood restaurants, cafés, wine bars, pizza stands, gelaterie, and pasticcerie. For a quick lunch, he needed only one to be open. But aside from a lone umbrella blocking the horizon and a few intrepid souls wading in the foamy brine—northern Europeans, he supposed, as no self-respecting Italian would be seen in a bathing suit before June—the beachfront was forlorn and most of the shops were shuttered. Finally, he spied an open café, advertised by two flying standards: the blue-and-white pennant of the San Benedetto third division team (not doing particularly well this year) and the red-and-black pennant of first division Milan (also not doing well, upon which Cenni reflected with some pleasure). He particularly disliked Milan, and when Perugia was finally out of the running for the league cup, which was almost always, he rooted for whatever team was likely to rout the red and black. He hoped the food was better than the proprietor’s taste in football.
The place was overrun with Milan paraphernalia: various-sized red-and-black pennants, team pictures, team shirts, and in the place of honor, an autographed blow-up of Paolo Maldini. Even the man behind the counter was dressed in red and black. Cenni was starved and the food in the display case looked surprisingly good: at least five different types of seafood tramezzini, including shrimp and egg, his favorite. He ordered two and a short coffee.
“Nice picture of Maldini,” he commented to the rather sour-looking proprietor who served him his coffee and sandwiches. “Great defender! Beautiful play he made last week against Inter, moving the ball behind Vieri to pass off to Rivaldo.”
The sour look immediately disappeared and the smile that the proprietor gave the commissario could have lighted the heavens. “Certo, signore. If the refereeing weren’t so biased, we would have won that game. But for sure, this Sunday we’ll be back. Perugia is a cakewalk.” Cenni smiled and asked for his bill and a “shrimp and egg” to go. Just as he reached the door, the proprietor called him back. “Signore, for you—on the house—for luck this Sunday!” He handed Cenni the largest of the red-and-black pennants that he had for sale.
29
RIMINI CAME ON him all too soon. It was already 3:00, the hour of his appointment, and he had yet to decide on a strategy. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been thinking about it since leaving San Benedetto, but his mind had refused to settle. He had the weapons to win but the stakes were high, too high for a single strategy. He’d have to stay loose, listen, feel, digest the silences He was no longer playing children’s games with the questore. Montoni was the most influential of the PM’s ministers, and rumored to be the most dangerous.
The Rimini of beaches and bars he knew very well. He had spent two summers there when he was at university, much to the distress of his mother, who thought it demeaning to have a son who managed a video arcade. Chiara had worked as a waitress in one of the posh hotels, and on the nights when they were off together, they would cruise the seedy bars and nightclubs that lay between the railroad tracks and the beach, drinking beer with tequila chasers. They told themselves they were living la dolce vita. Later, when the bars had closed, they would make their way to the beach, retching and reeling with drink, and after making love would wash off the sand and the sex in the warm Adriatic waters. Chiara had once proposed that they visit the old town for history’s sake—but they never quite made it.
Montoni’s house was in the historic part of town, a stone two-story building a few steps from the Piazza Malatesta. He rang the bell exactly five minutes after 3:00, not at all surprised that the door had not opened wide as he approached. He hadn’t been explicit on the telephone, but the minister knew why he was coming and would use psychological advantage, for sure make him wait. No matter, he was good at games.
A maid answered the door finally, took his name and his coat, and led him into a large entrance hall. He looked around, wondering what manner of lifestyle suited the PM’s most ruthless minister. Cenni imagined that Montoni would be quite good at chess, having managed to hold the PM’s shaky coalition together through five assaults in the previous year alone. He couldn’t tell much about the minister from lurking in the hallway. The furnishings were about what one would expect: all in meticulous taste, nothing bold or original, antiques or knock-offs that one sees in the better furniture stores and decorating magazines, nothing that revealed the personality of the owner—with a single exception. A pair of elephants with their trunks entwined was carved into a massive stone plaque set high above the entranceway. It was the armorial bearing of the Malatesta family.
“Buona Sera!” The voice was deep and throaty, and Cenni recognized it at once. He turned to find the minister standing directly behind him. Isotta Montoni was one of those rare women about whom the word handsome could be used without it sounding foolish or old fashioned. She was a large woman and unusually tall, just an inch or so shorter than he was, and in very high heels, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Her hair was black, a dyed, glossy raven black, and combed conservatively, straight down and pushed behind her ears. He knew she was in her mid-fifties, yet the skin of her face was taut. She showed none of the softening lines of age. Whether this was accidental—a woman too busy in pursuit of a prominent career to lie in the sun—or planned vanity, it suited her image well. Her eyes were also dark, almost black, almond-flecked and slanted in shape, giving her a Eurasian appearance, although he was aware that she claimed a long lineage in Emilia-Romagna—a direct descent from Sigismondo Malatesta and Isotta degli Atti, she had written in her recently published memoir. The experts in Italian heraldry said otherwise, but in considering Isotta Montoni’s lust for power and the infamous lusts of her ancestors in attribution, Cenni was inclined to give Montoni the edge. She offered her hand and he took it, not at all surprised by the strong grip. A consummate politician, she knew the value of a bruising handshake.
“Buona Sera,” Cenni replied. “I hope I’m not too late.” Might as well assert that he’d kept her waiting. Gain the upper hand. She smiled, recognizing the gambit.
“Traffic, Dottore,” she said. “Well no matter, you’re here now. Please come into the sitting room.”
After they were seated across from one another, in matching white leather chairs—the perfect foil for her all-black persona— he waited for her to begin. Actually, they both waited. But finally, perhaps to establish her senior position, she started. “You said on the telephone that you wished to talk about my son and that you hoped he would join us at this meeting. My son is in the house, of course, but I think we should proceed without him, at least until I understand what this is about. I’m sure you’ll agree, Dottor Cenni.” Her tight smile said clearly, We’ll do it my way.
Cenni had begun badly with Father Breci. It had taken him too long to get to the point. He took a more direct course with the minister.
“I’m investigating the murder of an American in Assisi, the cousin of your son’s girlfriend Paola Casati. During the course of my investigation, I’ve learned that your son and Paola were involved in the December bombing of McDonald’s. The murdered American was also aware of their involvement. She’d threatened to expose them, to go to the newspapers if they didn’t acknowledge responsibility for what they’d done. On the afternoon of the murder, your son and the Casati girl were seen together in Assisi. We have witnesses who heard them arguing in a bar about the American less than a ten minute walk from the scene of the murder. Neither of them have adequate alib—”
She interrupted. “Dottore, if you’re here to declare that my son is an accomplice to murder, I don’t know why you’re discussing it with his mother, although I certainly appreciate your attention to my . . . how shall we say? . . . my maternal concerns. Shouldn’t you be talking to Guilio? Perhaps I should call him— now?” The smile she directed at him was deadly venomous.
“Oh-h, but before I do that, perhaps
you would clarify one thing. After you’d telephoned this morning, I spoke to my son about your visit. Guilio tells me that you interviewed him and Paola in Perugia on Monday and that he and Paola provided alibis for the time of the murder, with a very reliable witness, a ranger from the National Park Service. Paola and my son were having it on, as my son terms it, in his car at the top of Mount Subasio when a family of wild boar attacked his car. This officer heard the noise and came to investigate. I wonder, Dottore, why one officer of the law is making assertions that can so easily be countered by another officer’s testimony? Policing alla the provinces, I can only suppose.”
Her enemies referred to Montoni as the black widow. It suits her, Cenni thought.
“Onorevole, let me clarify,” he replied. “Together they’ve offered an alibi for the time between five and seven, and Paola Casati can account for her time, with witnesses, between seven and eight when she was attending the Good Friday procession. But we have unfortunately been unable to place your son between seven and eight, and both of them between four and five—two blocks of unsubstantiated time, giving them each the opportunity to have murdered the American, singly or together. The motive we’ve already discussed. I reviewed these lapses in your son’s alibi with him at length on Monday; apparently, onorevole, he’s forgotten to mention the lapses to mamma,” he added with unnecessary sarcasm. Guilio Montoni brought out the worst in him.
He continued. “Let’s stop sparring. I can charge your son and the Casati girl with Minelli’s murder but I doubt that I’ll convince the investigating judge to jail them. I’m not even sure the questore will permit me to bring them before the investigating judge, but if I make the charge and a fuss, and I’ll do both, it’ll be in all the newspapers. And I mean all the dailies. This is way too hot for any of them to pass up, even those who don’t like offending the PM. What’s more, Paola Casati provided me with a written statement of her involvement in the McDonald’s bombing and it incriminates your son as the leader. Your son, onorevole, walked away and let others in the group take the blame!” No reason at this point to hold back, he’d decided.
