Carmella broke in. “Did he seem any different from normal that last day you talked? Preoccupied? Nervous?”
She thought about it. “Not really. He said he was finishing up his research and would be moving on to another street. But he promised he’d be back to say hello when he was in the neighborhood. He would have, too. Very thoughtful, Umberto was.” She had returned the tissue to her pocket, but now it reappeared. “Here I am talking about him in the past tense.”
“Were you able to help him with his project?” Rick asked.
“A little,” she said with a sniff. “I grew up here, so I told Umberto what I could about the street.” She pointed upward. “Still live on the second floor in the apartment I inherited from my father. He ran the store until he died.”
Probably broke his hip, Rick thought. “Are many apartments on the street lived in by people like you, who have been here all their lives? That was the count’s interest, we understand.”
She thought before answering. “Avellone, across the street, he bought the business from someone else, and he’s been here for only about twenty years. Signor Leopoldo, who fixes motorini, he’s been on the street even less time, maybe a decade. He’s from somewhere in the south.” The way she said it, south sounded like another country. “Ahmed, the pizza guy, is from North Africa, so I don’t think he was much help to Umberto. Which leaves the Stampelli family. Three generations and they’ve always lived above their print shop. Eugenio, the nonno, must have filled Umberto’s ear since he likes to tell stories. It drives Ludovico crazy. Ludovico is his son, who’s about my age, and he’s always complaining to me about his father living in the past. Silvio, the kid, just tunes out. Earphones.” She put her hands over her ears in case they didn’t understand.
As she had done across the street, Carmella handed Pina a card and asked her to call if she recalled anything that might help with the case. The woman placed the card on the counter next to a display of anchovy jars and promised she would.
“Men are pigs,” Carmella said to Rick when they were back on the pavement. “I hope you won’t take that personally, Riccardo.”
“Of course not. But what caused you to make such an observation?”
“The count didn’t spend his time with Pina because she was good at slicing mortadella. Did you notice what she said about him being so generous? Even a kid like you should know what that means. And she has the apartment above the shop.” She rested her case with a deep, cackling laugh.
Rick tried to come up with a rejoinder to demonstrate that he was a man of the world. “That takes her off the suspect list,” was the best he could muster.
They crossed the street again and went two doors down to the place that sold pizza by the slice. Ahmed was putting out the first tray of the day in hopes of luring someone in for a mid-morning snack, but given the amount of foot traffic on the street, it appeared that his hopes would come to naught. He was dressed in a tee-shirt covered by a white apron, already spotted with tomato sauce. The shop had no doors or windows. It had once been a garage—or a storage area before the era of cars—and was protected by a rolling metal shutter that now hid itself above the doorway.
Ahmed looked up at the two people approaching his shop. A toothy smile that contrasted with his dark skin disappeared when he noticed Carmella’s police uniform. He caught himself and re-flashed the smile. “Would you like a slice? Fresh out of the oven, it is, very tasty. Just the thing to hold you until lunchtime.”
“Not today, Ahmed.” Using his first name clearly rattled him, which was Carmella’s intention. “We are investigating a murder and need to ask you some questions.”
Rick studied the man’s face and thought he detected relief. If Ahmed was potentially in trouble with the authorities, it wasn’t for homicide.
“Someone I know? I mean, knew?”
“Count Zimbardi,” said Rick. “He was doing research on this street, talking with people. He must have spoken with you.”
“This I do not recall.”
Carmella reached in her pocket and took out a photograph. “This is the guy,” she said, passing it to Ahmed.
He stared at the photo and rubbed his chin. “Yes, I remember this man. He came in twice and bought pizza. No anchovies. He made a point of asking for his slices without anchovies. It was not a problem, I never put anchovies on my pizza. Too expensive.”
“He didn’t ask you anything? About the street?” Carmella was ready to move to the next store.
“About the street? Why would he ask me about the street? I am not understanding.”
“I think we can take that as a no,” Rick said to Carmella.
She nodded. “Thank you for your help, Ahmed. We’ll be back when we’re ready for pizza without anchovies.” She was out in the street before he could reply.
“That was useless,” she said to Rick as they stood in the middle of the street. A Fiat Cinquecento appeared and they moved aside to let it pass. It was the closest Via Anacleto would get to gridlock. “Let’s see if our motorino mechanic can be more helpful. What did she say his name is?”
“Leopoldo, I think.”
“Right.”
The shop was about as wide as Ahmed’s place, but unlike the pizzeria it was open all the way to the back of the building, forming a deep, dimly lit cave. Leopoldo was the cave man, and he filled the part with long hair and a scraggly beard. But instead of animal skins, he wore overalls with a dirty tee-shirt under the bib. He was working on a small engine that sat on a wood bench against the wall. Sensing immediately that Carmella and Rick were not there to get their moped repaired, his expression was a scowl, though Rick guessed it was his normal face, even for customers.
“Signor Leopoldo?” He nodded and sized up his visitors in silence. “We need to ask you some questions,” Carmella continued. “We are investigating the death of Count Zimbardi, and we understand he spent some time on this street in the weeks before he died. Did he talk to you?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“We didn’t say you did.” Rick took on his role as the lieutenant. “Do you remember when you saw him last?” It was the question Carmella had used with the others, so he felt comfortable posing it.
“A couple weeks ago. He asked me how long I’d been here, and when I told him he didn’t seem that interested in what I had to say. I’m from Basilicata and I’m not a count.” He wiped his hand across his nose, leaving a greasy mark.
“Did he seem at all agitated when you saw him last?” Rick was getting into the rhythm of the questioning routine. He looked at Carmella who gave him a bored sigh.
“Nah. He asked me a few more questions, about working on the street. He wanted to know what was in the space before I started renting it.”
“And?”
“The people who lived upstairs used it for storage and as a garage.” He pointed upward. “When they sold the apartment and moved to Rieti, they decided to keep this and rent it out. I was looking for a larger space and I took it.”
Larger? Did you work out of a closet before renting this place? Rick suppressed the desire to ask that question, instead turning to Carmella. She took the cue.
“If you think of anything that might shed some light on the count’s murder, this is my number.”
Leopoldo studied her card before slipping it into one of his pockets and nodding in silence. Carmella inclined her head toward the street and led the way out. They looked up and down, but the only traffic, foot or vehicle, was a man in brown working clothes who entered Pina’s mini-mart.
“One more and then we are off to see Rospo, the bookie. I hope this one gives us something, otherwise it will be a bust. Do you remember the names of the men in this print shop?”
“Three generations of Stampatelli. Eugenio is the grandfather, his son Ludovico, and Silvio the kid.”
“You’ve got a good memory. Does that
come with being a translator?”
“I never thought of it that way, Carmella. Perhaps you’re right.”
“My son has a very selective memory, and it’s always what serves him. He’s just like his father.”
“You mentioned that once.” He gestured toward the door of their last stop on the street. “Shall we go in?”
She stepped to the door and opened it. After breathing the odors of varnish, salami, pizza, and gasoline, they were now bathed in the smell of ink, which after the gasoline had a certain sweetness. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust again to the light, or lack of it, after being outside. Once they focused, forms began to appear. A press filled the rear space from floor to ceiling. It looked like several metal drums had been stacked sideways and connected by gears, and it emitted a steady thump every second. As they looked closer they could see paper shooting out from under the lowest drum into a basket, as well as someone standing next to it watching the basket fill. It had to be the grandson, whom Rick guessed to be around eighteen. The boy wore blue jeans and a Rolling Stones tee-shirt, and his hair grew down over his neck. Two smaller presses were silent, and against one entire wall was a long table stacked with paper. A man, this one certainly the grandfather, was putting the paper in brown cardboard boxes under a row of neon lamps that gave the room its eerie light. He was a large man, dressed in brown overalls over a neatly pressed work shirt. After the mechanics shop and the furniture restorer, the place looked like a hospital operating room. There was no sign of Ludovico, the middle generation.
The boy noticed them first and removed his earbuds. “Nonno,” he called out, but then frowned and shook his head. “He wears earplugs,” he said under his breath to the two visitors, and walked over to his grandfather.
A tap on the shoulder got the old man’s attention. He looked at the boy and then saw Rick and Carmella. As he walked to them, he reached into his ears and pulled out pieces of spongy material from each. “I use these to keep my hearing sharp,” he said to them. “It’s as good now as when I started working here almost seventy years ago.”
“Prevention is the best medicine,” said Rick.
“What?”
“I said prevention… I said my name is Montoya, and this is Sergeant Lamponi.” Rick spoke louder, wondering if turning off the press would ruin the print run. “We’d like to ask you some questions. You are Signor Stampatelli?”
The man’s normal posture was bent, but he leaned forward even more. He was someone who took authority seriously, and Carmella’s uniform symbolized authority. “Stampatelli, Eugenio, at your service, Officer. This is my grandson, Silvio. He is the fourth generation of Stampatelli printers; the business was started by my father before the war. My son, Ludovico, is out at the moment.”
The last sentence may have been said with either annoyance or nervousness, Rick couldn’t be sure which. The boy watched as his grandfather spoke, occasionally checking on the sheets still popping from under the printing drums.
“We are investigating the death of Count Zimbardi,” Carmella said. “And we understand he was talking to people on this street just before he died.”
“Are you talking to everyone on the street?” He suddenly turned to his grandson. “Silvio, turn off that printer, they can’t hear what I’m saying.”
The boy complied, and then walked back and stood next to his grandfather.
Rick tried to think why that would be the first question out of the man, and decided it was just nosiness. “Yes, Sir, yours is the last stop. Do you remember the last time you saw Count Zimbardi?”
Eugenio stroked his chin. “It was about two weeks ago. I remember reading in the papers about the murder and thinking that he had been here the day before, in the morning. We had had a long conversation about the printing business. He was going to write a book about the history of the street. Did you know that?”
“Yes, we did,” replied Carmella. “Did he seem different from the previous times that you talked? I assume there were other times.”
“Oh, yes, many other times. I was the best source for the street’s history of anyone. I started working here when I was younger than Silvio, just after the war. That last day I saw the count I told him about my father fooling the Nazis.”
“Really?” said Rick. His history curiosity was piqued, and it was obvious that the elder Stampatelli would not mind telling the story again. The grandson, however, managed to contain his enthusiasm.
“Nonno, the police aren’t interested in that old story.” His grandson’s plea was to no avail. When the old man started to talk, the boy gritted his teeth in frustration.
“It was late in the war, after Mussolini had been removed from office by the king who then fled south to join the Americans. The Germans took over the city and there was no pretense anymore about we Italians being their allies. The Nazis were the occupying army and ran Rome from their command post on Via Veneto. Many collaborated with the Germans, but many others resisted, each in their own way. For my father it was printing.”
Rick was fascinated. Even Carmella was intrigued. Silvio groaned and disappeared behind the presses. Eugenio continued.
“Everything was controlled, as you can imagine. You needed a form filled out and stamped by the proper authorities to do anything. What was the name of that movie with Humphrey Bogart?”
The question took Rick by surprise. He thought of the African Queen, since Bogart and Hepburn were fighting the Germans in that one. Then it hit him. “Casablanca?”
“Right. You remember that it all centered around the papers to get the guy on the plane to Portugal?”
“The letters of transit,” said Carmella. Rick was impressed.
“That’s right,” said Stampatelli, pointing a finger at her. “That was just the kind of document that my father printed, right here in this shop. Fake, of course, but they were such good copies the Nazis never caught on.” He paused to let it sink in.
“How about printing money?” Carmella asked. “He could have used it to finance the resistance.”
“Much too difficult. Special kind of paper, unique watermark, just the right ink colors. No, he stuck with documents, in black and white. Not that they were that easy to counterfeit, mind you.”
“I’m sure they weren’t,” said Rick. “Was that the kind of story the count was looking for?”
“It certainly was. He wrote down a lot when I told him my stories.”
Carmella’s voice showed annoyance. “You didn’t say yet whether the count appeared any different the last time you spoke. Was he agitated? Disturbed? You may have been the last person on the street to speak with him.”
Grandfather Stampatelli closed his eyes tightly as he tried to remember. When he opened them again he said: “Now that you mention it, he did appear preoccupied with something. Let’s see, Silvio was sweeping up and I was telling the count about my father’s work during the war, when my son came in. The count said he had to get to an appointment and left. It was not like him.”
“Was it something your son said?”
“I don’t think Ludovico had said anything.”
The boy reappeared from behind the machinery. “I remember that day, Nonno, but I don’t think he acted strange at all. He just had to go somewhere.”
Carmella’s mood changed from annoyance to impatience, though there was little difference between the two. “We also have to be somewhere else.” She pulled out a card and handed it to the grandfather. “If you think of anything else, I can be reached at this number. When do you think your son will be here so we can interview him?”
“He should be here now, I think he’s making a delivery. Do you know when he’ll be back, Silvio?” But the boy had again disappeared behind the large printing press. The old man shrugged and smiled weakly.
Rick and Carmella thanked him and walked back out to the street. In the distance the man who ha
d gone into Pina’s mini-mart came back out, glanced down the street at them, and walked in the opposite direction.
“See that guy, Riccardo? I’ll bet you my week’s pay that he’s the missing Ludovico Stampatelli. He’s dressed the same as his father, and if he was making a delivery, I’m guessing it was to Pina. Except Pina doesn’t need any printing work. Did I mention that men are pigs?”
“I believe you did, Carmella.”
She made a sound something between a chuckle and a harrumph. “Enough of our count’s street meanderings, we’re off to see his bookie Rospo. I think you’ll find him interesting.”
Back in the car it seemed for an instant that the traffic had lightened up, but it was a cruel illusion, serving only to bring them out to Corso Vittorio Emanuele, which looked like a parking lot. Carmella turned sharply and looked out of the rear window, then jerked the car into reverse. “Get out the lollipop; it’s in the glove box.”
Rick wasn’t sure what she meant, but dutifully opened the glove box where there was a round red piece of cardboard, like a bull’s eye, on the end of a stick. It was what the police used to direct traffic. Carmella had managed to turn them around completely so that they were facing the opposite direction. It was the wrong way on a one-way street.
“Put down your window and wave it.” She pressed a button somewhere and the car’s siren came to life, bouncing its wail off the surrounding buildings. Five exciting minutes later they were driving past the Circus Maximus and stopping at a traffic light in front of the FAO building. It was the first red light that Carmella had decided to give its due. They turned left and drove along the side of the Palatine Hill toward the Colosseum, passing rows of buses waiting for their tourists to return. At the end of the line Carmella made a sharp U-turn and stopped behind the last bus in line.
“I thought we were going to the track,” said Rick, happy to put his feet on solid ground. He looked down at his hands and saw that the blood was returning to his knuckles.
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