“Okay, good.” It sounded like Bartlett was not eager to dive into this one. He was giving me a rookie and leaving it in my hands. If I failed, it was all on me. If not, as soon as I was gone he’d claim the credit. Cole seemed oblivious. “What else do you have?”
“Not much, sir. Landry was well liked by his men. No trouble from that quarter. He took good care of them, if you know what I mean.”
“Unlike some other officers?”
“I don’t mean any offense, sir.”
“Don’t worry, Cole, I’m not all that big on officers above lieutenant myself,” I said with a smile that was meant to put him at ease.
“Some officers, you know, they look out for themselves first.”
“So I’ve heard. What about sergeants?”
“Harder to get away with it,” Cole said. “Everyone sees what a sergeant does. His men, his superior officers. If he screws up, it makes his lieutenant look bad, then his captain, and before too long he’s in big trouble.”
“Landry’s sergeants are a good bunch?”
“Sure. Steady guys, you know?”
“Any of them make Landry look bad? Did he make life miserable for any of them?”
“Lieutenant Landry wasn’t like that. He got his guys out of scrapes when they had too much to drink, and in the field he was always up front with them.”
“Sounds like a stand-up guy,” I said.
“So why would someone want to kill him?”
“Good question, Cole. Any of his men have a theory?”
“No, nothing.”
“What about Galante?”
“What about him? He was a doctor, he helped people. Killing him makes no sense.”
“Unlike Landry?”
“No, I didn’t mean it that way.” Cole shook a fresh cigarette out of a pack and lit it from the stub of the other one. His hand shook, the faintest of tremors sending ash onto the playing cards on the desk. I sat back and waited as he crushed the first butt out in an ashtray. A wisp of smoke curled up from it, but Cole didn’t notice. He inhaled deeply, and blew smoke toward the ceiling, his politeness a good cover for not looking me in the eye. I didn’t speak.
“What I meant was, why would anyone kill a doctor? There are plenty of captains around here. Why pick one who actually helps people?” His voice had a tinge of panic to it, as if the thought of anyone who’d murder a doctor was too much for him to bear.
“Sergeant Cole, what did you do before you were assigned to CID?”
“I was with the Third Division. Squad leader, after Sicily.”
“Been with them long?”
“Since Fedala,” he said, and brought the cigarette to his lips with his left hand. The right sat on his lap, out of sight. Fedala was the invasion of North Africa, fourteen months ago. That had been a long haul, being shot at by the Vichy French, Italians, and Germans along the way.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You got your stripes because you were the only one of the original squad still standing.”
“You learn something by staying alive, can’t deny that,” Cole said, as if he were confessing a mortal sin. “All the other guys-killed, wounded, captured. I lost track of dead lieutenants, and saw four sergeants killed before they promoted me. Replacements kept coming, most getting it pretty quick. Not much I could do about it either. They’d panic, forget everything I told them, run around when they should stay put, stay put when they should advance. They weren’t ready.”
“Were you? At Fedala, fourteen months back?”
“Hard to remember. That was a lifetime ago.” He lit another butt, unable to hide his shakes. He gripped his left arm with his right hand, over the stripes, as if he’d been wounded.
“After Sicily they made you squad leader. Then Salerno.”
“Then Salerno. Then the Volturno River crossing. That’s where I got hit. Shrapnel in my leg.”
“Not a million-dollar wound,” I said. Not bad enough for a stateside ticket on a Red Cross ship headed westward.
“Nope.” Cole smoked with a determination that was impressive. He didn’t talk with smoke flowing out of his mouth like some guys. He savored each inhale and exhale, as if the burning tobacco held the kiss of an angel.
“Anything else I should know?”
“Nope. What are you going to do next?” Cole was a cross between nervous and relieved. Relieved that I was here to tell him what to do, and nervous that he might have to do it. Buying up playing cards seemed to be his limit.
“Find where I’m billeted, dump my stuff, and get some sleep. I’ve been in the air more hours than I care to count.” I wanted to meet Einsmann and see what he’d found out, and there was no reason to take Cole away from his cards and smokes. I handed him my billeting papers and asked him how I could find the place I’d been assigned.
“On the Via Piave?” he said when he looked at the address. “Jesus, that’s Captain Galante’s apartment!”
CHAPTER SIX
Kearns had apologized, saying that the corporal was supposed to have told me. Space was at a premium, and his idea had been that I might as well be given that bunk, where I could talk to the two doctors who shared the apartment. It did have a certain logic, but I wondered what Galante’s pals would think of it. Their feelings weren’t high on Kearns’s list, so I headed out of the palace to meet my new friends and interrogate them.
I swung the jeep out of the parking area and onto the Via Roma, watching for the turn Cole told me would take me to the Via Piave, a side street of relatively intact structures, two- and three-story stone buildings, most closed off by large iron gates or strong wooden double doors leading into a courtyard. Halfway down the street, two homes were destroyed, heaps of blackened rubble still spilled out onto the roadway. The rain was falling harder now, and the smell of charred timbers and ruined lives filled my nostrils. Through the gap where the houses had been I saw a row of B-17s lined up, their giant tail fins shadowed against the darkening sky. Except for when weather like this grounded them, it was going to be a noisy neighborhood.
I found the building, its masonry decorated by a spray of bullet holes. Most centered around one window on the upper story where hinges held the remnants of wooden shingles. A sniper, maybe, drawing fire from every GI advancing up the street, as they edged from door to door, blasting at any sign of movement, not wanting to die from the last shot of a rearguard Nazi. Or a curtain fluttering the breeze, catching the eye of a dogface who empties his Garand into the window as the rest of his squad joins in, excitement and desperation mingling with sweat and noise until all that remains is the smell of concrete dusk and nervous, jumpy laughter.
I parked the jeep in the courtyard and turned off the engine. Rain splattered on the canvas top, reminding me of distant machinegun fire. I took a deep breath, telling myself this was way behind the lines, and there would be no snipers lurking in third-story windows. Wet as everything was, I swore I could smell concrete dust in my nostrils. Shaking off the memory, I grabbed my duffle and took the stairs up to the main door. I was about to knock when it opened and a short, stout, gray-haired Italian woman unleashed a torrent of language at me, beckoning me in with one hand and pointing to my feet with the other. I didn’t need to understand Italian to get it. I wiped my wet boots on the mat and hung my dripping mackinaw on a peg. She must have decided I passed inspection, and led me down a hallway into a kitchen, allowing me on the tile floor as she pointed to another room beyond. I wanted to linger and savor the smells coming from the pots on the stove, but the old woman had her back to me, busy with whatever was cooking.
“You must be Boyle,” said a figure in an armchair, seated before an old coal stove. I was glad of the warmth, and stood close, rubbing my hands. He watched me, folding the newspaper he’d been reading, as if he thought I
