Cold Tuscan Stone David Wagner (acx book reading .txt) 📖

When he found himself alone, Rick got up, walked to the window of the office and looked down on the piazza. A group of tourists were staring back at him, probably thinking he was a cop if they somehow knew this was the city’s police station. Would Conti have left him here by himself, with the papers on the desk, if he didn’t know about Uncle Piero? He knew Conti hadn’t actually talked to his uncle, or Rick would have had a call from Rome immediately after the two had spoken. But it was clear that whatever Conti’s source about Rick’s family, the man was now more comfortable around him. As he pondered this development, he heard Conti’s voice in the hallway.

“Is this door,” he said in English, and pair of seniors entered the office ahead of him. They were dressed for comfort, including running shoes, white for him, black for her. Both wore zippered wind-breakers, good for warmth as well as protection against anything but a heavy rain. Very practical. They had probably researched weather history for Tuscany before leaving on the trip, and packed accordingly.

“I present Mister Montoya, my colleague.” Rick was considering the use of the term “colleague” when Conti turned to him and switched to Italian. “Signor Montoya, this is Signor and Signora Rudabeck, they are from Iowa.” He pronounced it ee-OH-wah.

As he shook hands with Rick, Mr. Rudabeck spoke.

“WE DON’T SPEAK ANY ITALIAN.”

Rick had witnessed this before, especially with Americans: if you just talk louder, the person will understand your English. Translation through volume.

“You don’t need to shout, Mr. Rudabeck, I’m an American. The Commissario has asked me to help with his interview since his English is, well, somewhat rusty.”

“See, Herb, I knew they would have someone who speaks English. Where you from, Mr. Montoya?”

The classic question from an American tourist. “I live in Rome now, but went to school in New Mexico.”

“We’ve been to Phoenix,” Herb said in a normal voice, relaxed after hearing Rick’s English. “We’re from just outside Davenport. On the river.”

Rick was deciding how to reply to the Phoenix reference when a look from Conti indicated it was time to get to the business at hand. The couple was invited to sit at the conference table at the other side of the room. Rick and Conti took the chairs opposite them. Coffee was offered to the Rudabecks and they politely declined. Conti said to Rick that what he needed was simply a description of what they saw, and the couple was ready when Rick relayed the question in English. As they spoke, Rick kept his eyes on their faces and gave a running translation into Conti’s ear. Thanks to his work, the routine was second nature to him.

“I’m the one who saw the accident, Herb, so let me tell him. We were coming back to our car in the parking lot. We have a rental car, we picked it up in Florence.”

“They don’t need to know about the rental car, Shirley.”

She ignored the comment. “It was just getting dark, and my husband was putting the key into the lock to open the door. I was looking up at that moment, back toward the town, and that was when I saw the man falling off the wall. I didn’t hear anything, but it may have been too far away. Do people usually scream when they fall, like in the movies?” From the look on her face, she was beginning to understand it had not been a movie.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Rudabeck,” answered Rick. “Did you see anyone up on the wall after he fell?”

“I’m not sure. It was dark, like I said, and I think my eyes naturally followed the man as he fell. If there was anyone up there, he might have left before I looked back up. I did look up at the top of the wall, I know that, because I remember thinking how long a drop it was. But I can’t recall seeing anyone.”

“We had just walked along that very street when the sun was starting to go down, about an hour before that,” added her husband, who seemed oblivious to his wife’s growing emotion. “Looked down at the Roman ruins. It’s a long way to fall.”

So the length of the fall was well established.

Conti relayed a few more questions, trying to find out what else, if anything, the tourists had seen. When it became clear to him that they had nothing more to add which could be of any help, he stood up and gave the couple an appreciative bow.

“I thank you very much.” Conti hesitated, trying to think of something else to say in his limited English, and repeated, “I thank you very much.”

“You’re very welcome, officer.” Mr. Rudabeck turned to Rick. “And thank you for your help, Mr. Montoya. We’ll be telling this story to our friends when we get back to Davenport, that’s for sure. It’s even better than what happened to Shirley on the bus in Florence.”

The bus incident did not appear to be something Shirley wanted recounted. She quickly stuck out her hand to Rick. “Be sure to look us up if you come through Davenport. We’re in the phone book.” She turned to Conti and took his hand in both of hers. “That poor man,” she said to the silent policeman.

Rick volunteered to see the couple to the building’s front entrance, much to Conti’s relief. When he returned, the commissario was sitting at his desk looking at papers in a file, and Rick took the seat facing him.

“Was that helpful, Commissario?” He knew the answer, and Conti confirmed it.

“Not helpful, but necessary. It confirms what we knew already, which is always a good thing, but didn’t give us anything new. Now if she had seen someone above…”

Conti’s voice trailed off. Rick watched the man’s eyes, which were pointed at the papers in front of him.

“You think it was murder, Commissario.” It was not a question.