Blood Will Tell - a short Milo Peretti mystery

by David Bastiani

  ‘Signor Ricci?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  The man’s shirt was unbuttoned and Peretti could see a food-stained vest underneath. The smell of alcohol was heavy in the air, even from a distance, and a half-empty bottle hung from tobacco-brown fingers.

  ‘Emilio Peretti. I’m a private investigator, Signore. I’m investigating the death of your son-in-law and I wanted to ask you a few questions.'

  ‘I don’t have a son-in-law, Detective. But I’ll happily tell you about that fool, Giacomo. I heard the news this morning. It’s good riddance to bad rubbish as far as I can see. But look at me making you stand out there on the step. Come on in.’

  He turned and disappeared into the gloominess of the room behind him. Peretti followed as best he could but the place was a mess. He was in the kitchen but it seemed to be littered with enough chairs and tables for two houses and most of them were broken. He heard Signor Ricci’s voice calling through from the next room.

  ‘Don’t mind the furniture. I’m using the kitchen as my workshop now. I’ll soon have it all fixed up and then the place will be cleared out.’

  Peretti followed the sound of the voice and went through to the lounge. The old man had his head in a cupboard and was muttering something about a glass and holding a fresh bottle in his hand. He gave a shout of triumph and emerged with a cut crystal glass that looked as though it hadn’t seen daylight for years.

  ‘Something to drink, Signor Peretti?’

  ‘Not for me thank you. It’s a bit early for vodka.’

  There was a grunt and the glass disappeared back into its exile in the cupboard. The door slammed shut.

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  With a scowl, he dropped into his chair and took a swig from the half-empty bottle.

  ‘You’re a policeman you say?’

  ‘No, a private detective.’

  ‘And you want to know about Giacomo.’

  Peretti shook his head.

  ‘Actually, I’m here to ask about Maria.’

  The man’s face brightened at the name and he passed Peretti an old picture frame. The photo inside was faded but there was no mistaking the subject. A much younger Maria Vialli, or Maria Ricci as she would have been then, was sitting on the shoulders of two older boys. She was captured in a moment of laughter, eyes still dancing at some long-forgotten joke.

  ‘She was ten there, Detective. Full of life and of promise. Like a flower with her first petals opening towards the sun.’

  He shook his head and went on.

  ‘But that was before. She reached high school and my little girl disappeared. Boys. That was the problem. Too many boys. And none of them any good for her. She started getting into scrapes. Nothing too serious, or not that I knew of, but she was heading down a bad path. A dangerous one. It scared me if I’m honest, Detective.

  Her mother had passed away not long before and I was left to bring up Maria on my own. What did I know about raising a teenage girl? Nothing, that’s what.

  And then Giacomo came along. He was older than Maria but he had a steady job and I hoped maybe it would persuade her to settle down. And it did. For a while at least. But then she started drifting away from me again. She never came round. Stopped seeing her friends from school. And it was all because of him.

  He took my only daughter from me, Signor Peretti. He promised to give her everything she could ever want and then he let her down. And he knocked her about. Can you believe that? My little girl! Not that I could ever prove it of course. And she would never admit that he hit her. But I heard the gossip like everyone else. Shouting matches and fighting inside the house. She always laughed it off. Said it was nothing. But I knew what he was doing. I knew it.'

  The old man sighed.

  ‘Maybe it was no less than I deserved after all. I was a bad father and a worse husband. Do you believe in karma, Detective?’

  Peretti shook his head.

  ‘Divine retribution then. Call it what you will. It comes to us all in the end.’

  Peretti waited for an explanation but there wasn’t one. The old man took another long swig from the bottle.

  ‘So now he’s dead. And good riddance. Maybe I’ll finally get my daughter back.’

  ‘Signor Ricci, where were you last night?’

  The bottle lifted again and there was a sigh as it was added to the crowd of empties on the table.

  ‘I was here I guess.’

  ‘You guess?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe I’d had a few drinks. I can’t quite remember.’

  Signor Ricci squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced as he rubbed his face with trembling hands.

  ‘Wait, I went for a walk, I think. For some fresh air.’

  ‘What time would that have been, Signore?’

  ‘Late, I think.’

  ‘Can you remember where you went?’

  The older man sat silent for so long that Peretti wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But just as he was getting ready to prod him to be sure, his eyes flickered open again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Detective. It’s all a bit hazy. I think perhaps I was headed for Maria’s place; I’m not sure.’

  ‘Ah, I see. You’re not sure?’

  ‘Well, I think I did.’

  ‘You would have walked right past Signor Vialli’s office?’

  Ricci nodded.

  ‘I guess I would have done.’

  ‘And did you go in? Speak to Giacomo?’

  ‘No, no. I’m not crazy. The police were there.’

  Peretti looked up from the notes he’d been scribbling.

  ‘The police? But they weren’t called until early this morning.’

  Ricci threw up his hands.

  ‘See what I mean, Detective? Hazy. I must be remembering what I saw on the TV earlier on today.’

  He pointed to the ancient relic in the corner.

  ‘Maria always says I watch it too much but what else does an old man like me have to do with his time?’

  A straight answer was on the tip of Peretti’s tongue but he swallowed it back down.

  ‘Did you go into the office or not?’

  ‘No. I went straight to Maria’s. Or as straight as I could.’

  Signor Ricci chuckled at his own joke and looked surprised when Peretti didn’t join in.

  ‘How long did you stay at Maria’s?’

  ‘Oh, not long. Not long at all. Because there was no answer.’

  ‘Maria wasn’t at home?’

  ‘No. And so I came straight home. Or as straight…’

  ‘As you could. Yes, I understand. OK, you’ve been very helpful. Thank you, Signore. I won’t take any more of your time.’

  Ricci hauled himself out of the chair and made his way back through the mess. He shook Peretti’s hand and then opened the door.

  ‘Good luck, Detective. And when you find the killer give him a pat on the back from me.’

  ‘You have no idea who that would be, Signor Ricci? No name comes to mind?’

  Peretti watched the bloodshot eyes as they stared up at the neighbours’ freshly washed sheets, flapping like ghosts on the line above the street. The old man scratched his chin in thought.

  ‘One name for you. Try Pietro De Angelis. He worked for Giacomo as a gardener until he sacked him. De Angelis was a bad apple too. Did time for robbery if my memory isn’t playing tricks on me. You know what they say. A leper never changes his spots.'

  Peretti smiled.

  ‘Thanks. But I’m pretty sure it’s a leopard who can’t change his spots. Any idea where I’ll find this De Angelis then?’

  ‘No idea, Detective. But last I heard he was still working as a gardener so he shouldn’t be too hard to find.’

  Chapter Ten

  Pietro De Angelis was waving his arms and pacing like a madman. More than once he’d jabbed the trowel in the detective’s direction to make a point. The remains of massacred weeds were lying on the path at his feet. He couldn’t seem to settle on either pointing and waving or
tidying up the flowerbed and he was trying to do both at the same time. It wasn’t working.

  ‘Well, of course he’d tell you that I did time. But did he tell you why he’s a worthless drunk? No? Then I’ll tell you myself. It’s because he killed his wife. That’s the real reason his only friend is a bottle of whiskey. He couldn't handle the guilt.’

  Peretti held up his hand.

  ‘Wait. Take a breath, Pietro. You’re saying that Signor Ricci murdered his wife?’

  ‘Not exactly. But it was his fault she died.’

  ‘How so?’

  De Angelis rolled his shoulders and the trowel cut a savage circle in the air.

  ‘Look, I work all over. I talk to people. I hear things. And everyone knows he was a bully. It was all kept behind closed doors of course. No one really saw anything so nothing was done but sometimes his wife would have bruises on her face which no amount of make-up could cover. She always claimed she’d tripped in the house but we all knew what was really going on. When she fell down the stairs I don’t think too many people were surprised. And as for whether or not she was pushed, well, I’m not sure it makes too much difference does it? Even if he wasn't guilty of that, he was guilty of plenty more. So, maybe instead of coming around here and pestering me, you should go back there and talk to a real suspect.’

  Peretti stepped back as the trowel stabbed the air once more for emphasis.

  ‘A wife beater. That’s interesting if it’s true. It might explain why Maria left home as soon as she could. Although Signor Ricci accused Giacomo of doing the same to his daughter. Maybe Maria and Giacomo had a marriage that wasn’t so different from the one that Maria grew up with. What is it they say about daughters marrying men who are like their own fathers?’

  The gardener shook his head.

  ‘I was always outside in the garden when I was working for the Viallis, so I didn’t see anything that went on indoors. I did hear them arguing sometimes though. Shouting. Smashing things. But that was always Maria. I don’t think I ever heard Giacomo raise his voice.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘So tell me. Why did Giacomo let you go?’

  ‘Giacomo? No, no, no. You have it all wrong.’

  Peretti raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Maria is the boss. She says how it is and everyone else does what they’re told.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No one argues with Maria.’

  ‘Apart from you.’

  De Angelis scuffed at the dirt with his boots.

  ‘Look, I’ve had more than my fill of being told what to do. All my life it seemed like I had someone on my back. My parents and teachers too when I was just a kid. Then I started running with a bad crowd. Robbery and fraud – that sort of thing. It was fun and exciting to start with but I soon found out that it wasn’t so different after all. I still had people telling me what to do and when to do it. And then I ended up in the clink and had guards telling me when to eat and when to sleep. I swore that when I got out I would never take orders from anyone again. That's why I do what I do.’

  He gestured round at the garden.

  ‘No one on my back. Just me and the plants.’

  ‘What was it that Maria Vialli was asking you to do?’

  De Angelis crouched down and yanked a weed out of the flowerbed.

  ‘She asked if I wanted to earn some extra money. I said I didn’t.’

  ‘Extra money doing what?’

  De Angelis straightened up and looked Peretti in the eye. He nodded as if deciding that the detective was worthy of his confidence.

  ‘I didn’t ask. But when I turned her offer down she got nasty. Said I had to contact some of my old friends for her. Or else.’

  ‘Or else what?’

  ‘I’d lose my job.’

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘That there are plenty more gardens in Rome.’

  Peretti slipped the notepad back into his pocket and held out his hand. De Angelis held up his palms which were stained brown from the soil.

  ‘Best not.’

  Peretti laughed.

  ‘Very true. Well, you’ve been very helpful. Thanks, Pietro. I’ll let you know if I need anything else. Nice garden by the way.’

  De Angelis smiled and went back to the weeding.

  Chapter Eleven

  Emilio Peretti thought about catching the tram back into the heart of Trastevere but the day was still glorious and it seemed a shame to waste any of it wedged into a tin can with a crowd of tourists. Strolling along the cobbled streets as they baked in the sun, he was glad for the cool breeze ruffling through his unruly shock of hair. The air stirred and with it, the drifting scent of the flowers which blossomed in a riot of colour from the window boxes on either side of the street.

  Peretti had always loved summer in Rome. Ice cream in countless flavours, the whine of a Vespa hurtling past, the car horns in the distance, cafés that never seem to close, the noisy chatter of late night diners as they enjoy the balmy heat and local vino at tables in the street. He hadn't realised how much he’d missed it.

  He checked his watch. It was well past noon. Although he could tell that by the rumbling of his stomach. He needed another caffeine fix too. Not for the first time, he was grateful for Rome’s love affair with the café. In fact, one of his favourites was close by. If he hurried he could still make it for lunch.

  He had just finished the last forkful of gnocchi, which tasted even better than he remembered, when the first few notes of a Scarlatti piano sonata sounded from his pocket. Maybe it was time to choose a new ring-tone. Something more seasonal. Summer from Anotonio Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, perhaps. He took out the cell-phone and checked the number before accepting the call.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Signor Peretti. It’s Gianni D'Ambrosio again. I’ve been told that Giacomo has been released half an hour ago. I’m sure he’d want me to pass on his thanks…’

  ‘Released? Already? But I needed more time.’

  ‘More time for what, Detective? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Gianni. I have to go.’

  Peretti ended the call and searched for Miccoli’s number. It went straight to answerphone.

  ‘You’ve reached the voice-mail of Francesco Miccoli. Please leave a message and I will get back to you. Thanks.’

  ‘Francesco, this is Milo Peretti. I need you to call me as soon as you get this message. It’s really urgent. I know who killed Vialli but I need your help. Call me.’

  Peretti slipped the phone back into his pocket as the waiter arrived with his main course. Steam swirled up from a plate piled high with cacio e pepe. The smell of sheep’s cheese and black pepper made the wolf in his stomach howl. Stabbing his fork into the pasta, he prayed that Miccoli wouldn't call back. Not until he had finished eating at least.

  ~

  As it happened, Emilio Peretti’s cell-phone was silent all afternoon. A tour of Trastevere later and the detective was none the wiser. There was no sign of Miccoli at the travel agent’s, his home address was still deserted and he hadn’t visited his favourite café since the day before. Peretti headed back to Via del Moro and spent what remained of the afternoon pacing the floor of his apartment and staring at the writing on the wall.

  By five o’clock Peretti had lost count of how many times he had tried the number. Always with the same result: the bored drone of Miccoli’s recorded voice. Peretti was sick of hearing it but every half an hour or so he hit redial anyway. More because he had nothing else to do than out of a genuine conviction that Miccoli would pick up. When the call tone finally ended and the voice cut in, it took Peretti’s brain a moment or two to adjust.

  ‘Yes?’

  Peretti leaped to his feet.

  ‘Francesco?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s this?’

  The line was terrible. Either that or Miccoli was out in the open air. The detective strained to work out the nois
es in the background.

  ‘It’s Milo Peretti. Did you not get my message?’

  ‘No, I’ve only just turned my cell-phone on. What did the message say?’

  ‘That I need your help. It’s about Maria Vialli.’

  There was a long pause at the other end.

  ‘Maria Vialli? What about her?’

  ‘She was the one you were working for wasn’t she?’

  Another long silence. Followed by what sounded like water and an angry voice in the distance that Peretti couldn’t quite make out.

  ‘Hello? Francesco?’

  There was a crackle and the angry voice came back, only louder this time. The noise of a scuffle was followed by a gurgling sound and the line went dead.

  Chapter Twelve

  Peretti stared at the cell-phone for a moment then shook his head.

  ‘Idiot! What have you done now, Miccoli?’

  Running for the door, Peretti grabbed his kitbag and the keys from the table in the hallway. He sidestepped an old woman who was carrying shopping bags into her apartment and made for the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, the sound of his boots echoing thinly off the stone walls. Peretti stopped in the street beneath his balcony and unlocked the Vespa. It sputtered and coughed but started on the third attempt and turning the machine around, he sped off across the cobblestones with little regard for the suspension or the rattling of his own teeth.

  He reached the end of Via del Moro and zigzagged right, left and right again onto the street that led towards the Tiber. Peretti slowed the scooter down and cruised onto Lungotevere Raffaello Sanzio, which ran parallel with the river. Driving onto the pavement, he abandoned the Vespa and jogged along the line of sycamore trees, stopping every so often to peer over the wall down to the river’s edge. The pathway along the bank was deserted for as far as he could see.