“I thought of that, too, and I must say that your argument has merit. Unless . . .”
“Christ, you’re right. Unless!”
They exchanged a glance of understanding. The two of them would have worked well together, because they reasoned the same way. Stefania, deep down, would have liked that. When the opportunity had arisen, however, she hadn’t put in the request. She’d been afraid that standing shoulder to shoulder with him day in and day out, she might no longer be able to keep their relationship within the limits she wanted, since her limits were not the same as Giulio’s.
“Aren’t you going to look at the other photos?” he asked her. “Wasn’t that the reason you came?”
“I almost forgot.”
She opened the envelope. It contained a packet of numbered photos mounted on cards. Top-notch work. Selvini wasn’t only a forensic pathologist and photography expert but a sort of genius at the disposal of the forensics department who knew how to do a bit of everything. This was why Giulio had turned to him. On each card was a label summarizing the basic facts of the object photographed. She put on her glasses and started studying them. Had she not known that these were things found beside the dead body, she would have had trouble recognizing them: they’d been cleaned, weighed, measured, analyzed, and, in certain cases, identified, even in detail.
“Very fine work indeed. I’ll look at this carefully over the course of the day. Aha, he wore glasses: here’s a metal earpiece. Have a look at this, Giulio. What could it be, in your opinion?”
She handed him the card with Exhibit no. 11 written on it.
“Metal object, eighteen-carat gold, 4.722 grams, maximum diameter 3.5 centimeters, identified as handmade jewelry, the cover for an oval locket with a portrait inside.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen that kind of thing before. My grandmother used to wear one with a photo of my grandfather and her young son who died at age two. There was a little spring latch on the side, and an empty space inside for photos. I think these things were rather common at the time.”
“Sure, for those who could afford gold jewelry. And look at this other one!”
Giulio examined card number 18 and its images. The “flat metal object” in it turned out to be a slender silver cigarette case, a bit crushed and dented, but still intact. Inside were the blackened remains of a few cigarettes.
“The hand-rolled kind that people used to smoke,” she added, studying an enlargement of the specimen. “Have you seen the cover?”
“Yes.”
Etched in a simple but elegant cursive, the letters K and D were clearly legible.
4
Contrary to habit, Stefania went out for lunch that day. Slipping the envelope with Selvini’s photos into her backpack, she hopped on her bicycle and headed off towards the lake.
She crossed the entire walled city, starting at Porta Torre, taking care to avoid pedestrians and turning her gaze every so often to the balconies of the houses giving onto the cobbled alleyways. When she got to Piazza San Fedele, she stopped briefly at a brand-new bookstore right in front of the Romanesque church, its entrance under a long-storied portico. She ordered the book by De Felice that Valli had spoken about, also casting a glance at the art books, her real passion. Her visit over, she traveled the last stretch of the historic center of town, passing the cathedral and the Broletto. At last she was in Piazza Cavour. The Metropole Suisse was where it always was, in one corner of the piazza. Across the street, the lakefront was looking as best it could, with a boat putting out and some Japanese tourists pointing cameras. Her favorite spot was a short distance away, secluded, on Viale Geno, near the little square with the cable car for Brunate. She found a free bench and sat down to watch the seagulls. The sun was shining, and she decided to go down to the lakeshore.
It was still chilly outside, and the lakefront wasn’t crowded. She felt sheltered by the wall separating her from the promenade. The sun caressed her face with its warmth. She lit a cigarette and closed her eyes.
Ever since she left Giulio’s office she couldn’t get one image out of her mind: that of a young, blond man taking a hand-rolled cigarette out of his case and smoking it while looking at the horizon, unaware that death is lurking behind him. Her father, too, used to sit down alone and smoke while watching the lake. As a little girl, Stefania would sometimes sit down beside him, entering his silence without saying a word. Neither of them knew that death was lurking behind them and watching.
She felt bad for having been a little brusque with Giulio.
“Care to join me for a snack?”
“No. You know I never go out with married men.”
She could at least have said thanks, or even accepted. But she’d run away with the usual excuse: no time, the office, and all the rest. But that silent appeal, that unexpressed question in his eyes, bothered her, irritated her, made her uneasy. She was sorry about it. For his sake, not hers. The only effect Giulio’s wishes had on her was to make her want desperately to run away.
She sighed, then shrugged. A motorboat took off noisily nearby.
She reopened the envelope with the photos and looked at them all one by one. The eighteen centimeters of chain were real silver, of simple links appropriate for a man. The enlargement featured the last link in the segment, misshapen at both ends, as if the remaining part, which must have been another twenty centimeters long, maybe more—given the circumference of a man’s neck—had been torn away.
“Assuming it was in fact torn away deliberately and not accidentally, and that it was around a man’s neck and not, for example, in one of his pockets,” Giulio had said with his proverbial rationality. “As for the locket, it was not a piece of male jewelry, and it was in fact unlikely that man had worn it around his neck, especially attached to a silver chain.”
“But the average male taste in jewelry is inferior to your own, and our man might therefore have worn a gold locket hanging from a silver chain without any problem,” Stefania had countered.
But it might also have been a gift from a loved one—say, his mother—and the man might have decided to wear it in any case, keeping it perhaps hidden under his clothing.
“Why not? Or maybe he’d stolen both locket and chain, our Mr. K.D.—assuming the cigarette case was his and he didn’t steal that, too.”
“You’re insufferable, Giulio.”
“No. I’m a policeman.”
Stefania took a quick glance at the other exhibits. Most of the remaining metal fragments hadn’t been identified, not even after they’d been cleaned and photographically enlarged. All but two: the first, which looked like half of a stud from a purse; and the second, which could have been part of an eyeglass frame. An earpiece, probably. The last card display, number 24, featured photos and enlargements of some pieces of wood. The label, however, said only Wood: Still being tested.
Stefania noticed that some of the fragments had a greenish sort of patina.
What could that mean? she thought. She really must talk to Selvini again this afternoon.
The first person she ran into while ascending the stairs was Carboni.
“Ah, there you are, Valenti, just the person I was looking for.”
“Really? Nobody told me, sir.”
“The prosecutor’s office wants to know what point you’re at in the investigation.”
“Which one?” Stefania asked disingenuously.
“The one concerning the human remains found at the Valentini worksite.”
Carboni seemed to be in a bad mood.
“Ah, yes, of course. Well, preliminary examination of the evidence leads us to believe that—”
“I know that already. I spoke with Piras and Lucchesi, since I couldn’t talk to you. What I want to know is what you intend to do now.”
“Find the owners of the cottage, naturally.”
“But it’s just a ruin! Who knows how
long it’s been in that condition!”
“Yes, but it must have belonged to somebody when it was still standing. If we could find the owners, we could ask them a few questions. After all, it’s not every day that you find a corpse in your cellar.”
“You are aware that that whole area, ruins and cottages alike, belongs to the family of Senator Cappelletti?”
“Indeed, I would like to start by talking to them.”
“But they’re the current owners.”
“Clearly, and for that reason they’ll know who they bought it from, no?”
The chief inspector seemed resigned.
“Agreed, but please proceed with extreme caution, and keep me informed of any new developments.”
“Have no fear. Would you like a coffee?”
Carboni gestured no and disappeared into his office, shaking his head.
“Whichever of you two spilled the beans to Carboni is going to go on a hike in the mountains tomorrow,” Stefania said as she opened the door to her office.
Lucchesi and Piras turned around in surprise. They looked like they’d just been having an argument.
“Tomorrow morning I want one of you to call Bordoli up in Lanzo. Then you should make an urgent appointment at the town hall with the municipal engineer or the councillor in charge of construction. Have them pull out all their past and present cadastral plans, old blueprints, relief maps, deeds. Everything they’ve got, in other words. We want to know the names of the current and prior owners of all the huts and cottages in the San Primo area. I want a detailed chart of all the property transfers from, say, the early twentieth century until now. Is that clear?”
Piras blushed, cleared his throat, and said: “Inspector, I’m sorry, but I actually have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, at two o’clock.”
“Why, is something wrong with you, Giovanni?”
“It’s not for me, Inspector, it’s my wife. She doesn’t want to go alone. It’s a delicate matter.”
Stefania looked at him and smiled. “But this is the third one in seven years, Piras. If you keep on at this rate, you’ll end up having to change jobs.”
“The fourth, Inspector, God willing.”
“Yes, God willing. And you, Lucchesi, does your wife need you tomorrow, too?”
“But I’m not even married, Inspector!”
“Right, so you’ll go instead. Do you have a clear sense of what we’re looking for?”
“Yes, Inspector, I’ve written it all down.”
“Good, then we’re on the same page. And by the way, it’s best if you go in plainclothes, but don’t bring your girlfriend along, otherwise you’ll end up like Piras. But if you like, you can drop in at the Locanda del Notaio in Pian delle Noci; they make excellent venison salami and have a huge wine cellar. And you,” she then said, turning to Piras, “check and see whether the prosecutor’s office has signed the authorization papers for the interment of the bones at Lanzo cemetery, then call the institute and ask when they can have the casket ready for transport. Okay, that’s all. Now, if you’d please clear out of here, I have things to do.”
After they left she opened the file, put the packet of photos back in, crossed out the words Unknown Person, and wrote K.D. in their place.
She saw the young man again. Sitting with his back to her, smoking in silence in front of the lake. We don’t know much about you yet, my boy, but we’ll get there, don’t worry.
The following day Stefania decided to delve further into the articles of evidence.
“So, in your opinion, Selvini, you think it’s painted wood, if I’ve understood correctly.”
“Yes, they’re chips of a board that was originally painted—green, I think. Beech wood, I’d say. One of the pieces has two rather visible holes. From large nails, no doubt. I’d told Dr. Allevi to have you call me, but only because I hadn’t managed to finish the final entry in time.”
“The work you did was superb, Selvini. I don’t often get the chance to work with people as meticulous and professional as you. One last question: are you therefore certain the wood wasn’t burnt?”
“Absolutely, yes. There’s no sign of combustion whatsoever. Given the data I have, I can tell you that the wood fragments spent a long time underground, in rather humid conditions—and not the best quality wood, either. Over the years it would probably have rotted from the effects of rain and frost, even if it had been above ground.”
“I won’t waste any more of your time. You’re very kind.”
“I’m happy to have been of assistance, Inspector.”
“Bingo!” Stefania exclaimed after hanging up the receiver. “We’ve found the door.”
She lit a Muratti and opened the telephone book. No Cappellettis who could be traced in one way or another to Villa Regina.
She could understand why the senator might not want his number in the phone book, but how was she going to find him now?
For a moment she weighed whether to turn to the Carabinieri station in Lenno. Then, remembering her “colleagues” from Lanzo, she decided to wait. A moment later she remembered Tata Lucia, her former nanny.
Let’s hope she didn’t forget to turn on her hearing aid, otherwise this might take forever. She dialed the number.
“Who is it?” yelled a shrill voice at the other end.
“This is Stefania, do you recognize my voice?”
“Germania?”
“Stefania!”
A tomblike silence, followed by a din of voices and chairs.
“Pina, come here. There’s somebody on the phone but I can’t figure out who. See if you can tell,” Stefania heard in the background.
“Hello, who is this?”
Pina was a few years younger than Lucia, meaning she hadn’t yet reached the age of ninety-one that Lucia had so brilliantly passed. At the venerable age of eighty-two, Pina was still considered the baby of the family.
“This is Stefania. Hi, Zia Pina.”
“Hi, Stefanina, how are you?”
“I’m fine, how are you?”
“We’re old, but what can you do? The Lord doesn’t want us yet. And how’s your little girl? How old is she now?”
“Eleven, Zia Pina, going on twelve. Listen, I wanted to ask you something.”
“What’s your daughter’s name again? I don’t remember.”
“Camilla. Her name’s Camilla. Listen, Zia, do you remember the Cappelletti family, the ones who lived at Villa Regina? The sciuri where Tata Lucia used to go and iron when she was young . . . ?”
“Where are you living these days? I saw your mother at Mass, you know, and she said she has arthritis in her hands now and can’t sew anymore.”
“Yes, Zia, but do you by any chance know how I could get in touch with the Cappellettis?”
“What Cappellettis?”
Stefania realized she had to take the bull by the horns.
“Listen, Zia Pina, I’d like to come and see you in the next few days.”
“That’s a good girl. Will you stay for dinner?”
“No, Zia, I’ll come after dinner.”
“Good, I’ll make you risotto with perch, the way you like it.”
Forget I ever asked, thought Stefania. But deep down the prospect of spending an evening in the company of Tata Lucia and her two sisters didn’t displease her. Two hundred fifty years and some between the three of them.
I have to remember to tell Giulio that women who don’t get married live longer, she thought.
“Were they just giving you the runaround, or did they really not have anything? Because if all you need is a little help, we can have Prosecutor Arisi call them directly.”
“I don’t think so,” said Lucchesi. “I was there the whole afternoon. They pulled out a truckload of papers, but the only town plan they have is from twenty years ago. They have ca
dastral maps of the municipality, but the oldest are already from after the war. Before that the mountain cottages and huts weren’t even assessed, or maybe one out of ten at the most.”
“So what have you got to show for yourself?” Stefania asked huffily.
“This.”
Lucchesi handed her a binder with an industrial quantity of photocopies and an envelope with some photographs in it. Stefania put on her glasses and started examining the papers one by one, arranging them in orderly fashion on her desk.
After a few minutes of this she raised her head and looked up at Lucchesi over the tops of her glasses.
“I’m going to recommend you for a promotion, Antonio,” she said.
Lucchesi looked at her in shock.
“I found out you requested to be transferred to that nice little station by the sea near Palermo. I could put in a good word for you . . .”
“But I didn’t request any transfer to Palermo, Inspector. I’m Tuscan. If anything I would request a transfer to Massa so I could be a little closer to my family . . .”
He trailed off and then blushed, smiling feebly.
“Do you like puzzles, Lucchesi?”
“I don’t know, really. I’ve never done puzzles.”
“Well, then it’s time you started. There are eight plates here. The plan probably measured a meter and a half by eighty centimeters, a sort of Persian rug with the altitudes. You did a good job, Lucchesi, but you had them photocopied in handkerchief-sized pieces and didn’t number them. And you forgot the list and the general index. So now you’re going to sit down here and put all these plates together. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. If you want you can call Piras to give you a hand.”
Lucchesi looked at his watch and sighed.
“If it’s not all finished and on my desk when I return, you’d better get your towel and sand bucket ready for the beach.”
“The beach?”
“Palermo beach,” said Stefania, without adding anything else.
When she was in the hallway she smiled to herself. She was fond of those boys and wanted them to grow into their profession. She would rather intervene personally to correct whatever little mistakes or naïve blunders they made from inexperience than let the matter spill out of their office and come to Carboni’s attention.
Shadows on the Lake Page 5
