“My name is Riccardo Montoya, I would like to speak to the officer in charge of the investigation in the death of the American tourist. I have some information that could be helpful.”
The policeman frowned, stared at Rick’s ID, and picked up the phone on the desk.
“Just a moment.” He punched a few numbers. Someone answered on the other end and the cop repeated, almost verbatim, what Rick had said. He handed the card back to Rick. “The inspector asks for you to please wait.”
Rick inserted his plastic ID back into his wallet and walked to the bulletin board. It was the usual mix of public announcements, internal directives, and press releases, mostly written in an almost unintelligible Italian. At one side of the board, encased in glass, an explanation of the services provided by this substation was posted, as well as the few hours when the public would be received to avail themselves of them. The questura, the main police station, was located in the provincial capital of Terni, well to the east. The Orvieto operation was under the command of a commissario, but the space provided for his name and photograph was blank. Rick was moving his eyes to another part of the board when he heard a sharp voice behind him.
“We have no need for foreigners poking their noses into police business here.”
Rick stiffened and turned toward the voice, but his frown immediately turned to a smile. Before him stood a man in a tailored suit who shared Rick’s age as well as his grin. “And who have we here? None other than the renowned Detective Paolo LoGuercio.”
“It is a small world indeed,” said the policeman as he clapped Rick on the shoulder. “But that would be Inspector LoGuercio, per favore.
“And moving up the organizational ladder. No doubt due to your exploits in the north with which I am very familiar.”
“That may have had something to do with it,” answered LoGuercio, “but come back to my office and tell me what has happened in your life since then.” He led the way through a door, along a corridor, to a room that originally must have had a bed and an armoire but now held a desk, files, and a small table and chairs. The tall window looked out onto a small patch of grass and an ivy-covered wall. Rick was offered a chair at one side of the table. “These chairs are not very comfortable, but you must remember that this is a police station. Before we get to this nasty business of the American woman, tell me how you’ve been. And la bella Erica?”
Rick took his seat and briefly brought LoGuercio up to date, though he was anxious to learn about the homicide. He omitted his subsequent brushes with police work and concentrated on those people the policeman had encountered when they’d met in the Tuscan hill town of Volterra. “Beppo Rinaldi,” he concluded, “is doing fine, still chasing down art thieves, and Erica Pedana is in America. My translation business grows, so I have no plans to leave Rome.”
“And your uncle continues in a position of prominence in the police there.”
“You remember that family connection. Bravo. And your career has certainly not been stagnant, Paolo.”
The inspector shifted in his chair. “It could be better. When I left Volterra they sent me south, not my choice but of course one does not have choices in this business. And my connections among the hierarchy were minimal. The assignment did not go well. Without going into detail, let’s just say that a position was found for me here. Orvieto is a pleasant town, but a backwater for police work. By chance the commissario was transferred a few months ago and a replacement has yet to be named. So here I am when this murder happens. There is already pressure locally, and since I am the acting capo at the moment, it’s all falling on me. If this crime isn’t solved quickly, they may be sending me to someplace even more remote. Not that they are jumping to send me help with this murder, I’ve already been told to use my own resources. Depleted resources. To make things work, I’ve had to give up my conference room to the Guardia di Finanza who are conducting some kind of operation in the area. So I’ll have to run this murder investigation out of my office.”
He opened his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Rick had not recalled him smoking in Tuscany, though they hadn’t spent that much time together. Smoking was prohibited in public buildings in Italy, but who was going to complain?
“Which brings us to the reason for your appearance here today, Riccardo. Tell me what you know.” LoGuercio had been sitting across from Rick, but now he got to his feet and walked to the desk, lighting a cigarette as he walked. He took a notebook from among the papers and extracted a pen from his jacket pocket.
“I saw the victim yesterday. Twice, in fact.” He described, in as much detail as he could recall, the encounter with Rhonda Van Fleet in the funicular car, as well as what he witnessed from a distance in the piazza in front of the cathedral and the quick exchange later with the victim’s daughter. LoGuercio took notes as he listened, glancing up only when Rick mentioned that he was traveling with a lady friend. “I hope that helps,” Rick concluded.
“It helps considerably. As you know, hotels and agriturismi are required to send the police the names and identity information on their guests. Since finding the body last night we have begun to search those records for her, but now we know there are two more American women. It is most likely they were staying in the same hotel.” He re-inserted the pen in his jacket and leaned back in the desk chair. “If we track
