Blood Will Tell - a short Milo Peretti mystery, Page 2

  He pushed the drawer shut again and sat back in the chair. He always did his best thinking in front of the piano at home but, without the familiar ivory to dance on, his fingers drummed impatiently on the arms of the chair instead. And then stopped. His outstretched feet had touched something solid and it wasn’t the wall. He dropped to the floor and crawled under the desk. How could he have forgotten to look underneath?

  Pushed up against the back wall and hidden from view in the shadow of the desk was a safe. The small hotel room kind for keeping valuables in. Dragging the box out into the middle of the room he sat back to examine it.  Thinking back to what his Uncle Fabio had taught him when his Mama wasn’t looking, he figured it was worth a shot. He pulled the safe up until it was balancing on its corner and, gripping the handle, he braced himself, lifted the safe into the air and dropped it. As it hit the floor, he tugged the handle. Nothing. Maybe he needed more practice. He lifted the safe again and let it fall a little further this time. He pulled the handle but his timing was all wrong. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He had visions of the safe making a hole through the floor and landing in Signora Vialli’s kitchen below.

  ‘What’s going on in here, Signor Peretti?’

  Maria Vialli was standing, hands on hips, in the doorway.

  ‘Ah, Signora. I was just looking for evidence in your husband’s safe.’

  ‘Well, you’re wasting your time. Giacomo never kept anything in that safe.’

  ‘One more try for good measure then.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t. My floorboards…’

  The corner of the safe hit the floor with a thud and this time his timing was perfect. There was a metallic clunk and the door of the safe swung open in his hand. Reaching inside the safe, he pulled out a book.

  Peretti opened it and began leafing through. It was a list of figures. Incomings and outgoings but no names against them, only letters and numbers. A strange feeling, not unlike excitement, fluttered in his stomach. He looked up at the widow from his seat on the floor.

  ‘Well, it looks like you were right after all. Your husband was cooking the books for someone, Signora.’

  There was a snort from Signora Vialli.

  ‘Mah! Is that it? Just more accounts.’

  Peretti jumped up and handed the ledger to the widow. There was silence as she studied the pages then shook her head and closed the book with a snap.

  ‘I’ve no idea what all this means. I’ve never seen it before and I certainly don’t recognise any of the initials. But it’s Giacomo’s writing. I’d recognise his careful hand anywhere. So, he was up to no good. I should have known.'

  She passed the book back to Peretti with a resigned sigh.

  ‘Make sure you let me know whatever you find out.’

  He nodded and headed for the stairs. Then turned back on the landing.

  ‘Signora Vialli. Do you have the spare key to the office?’

  ‘No. Angela Marin, the maid, has the key. But you’ve just missed her. She left five minutes ago. Hold on, let me make a note of her address for you.’

  Chapter Four

  Emilio Peretti sat at the kitchen table while the old woman bustled around making coffee. The rich smell of roasted beans reminded him how long it had been since the espresso on Piazza di Santa Maria that morning. The cups arrived along with a plate of walnut and raisin coffee cakes hot from the oven. Baking gave her something to do to take her mind off things, she said.

  ‘Now eat up. It would be a shame if they went to waste. Enjoy!’

  Peretti’s notepad sat unopened on the table as he did what he was told. Questions would have to wait until the mountain of cake had been mined into. It was like sitting in his grandmother’s kitchen in Tuscany again. Except there was no wood burning stove and he missed the pungent spiciness of fresh salami. But in the warm homeliness of the place there was no difference. Too many cakes later, Peretti drained the last of his espresso and picked up his pen.

  ‘So how long have you been a maid for the Vialli family, Signora Marin?’

  She smiled.

  ‘Why? Do you think I’m too old, is that it?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m just curious as to how well you knew Signor Vialli.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  She folded her arms across her ample chest. This had the look of a long family saga and Peretti made himself comfortable.

  ‘I was maid to Maria’s mother and father before she was even born. I cleaned and sometimes looked after the children when they were tiny. I was there at every birthday, every communion, every family wedding. Then when Maria’s mother passed away - rest her soul - and Maria and Giacomo got married, I began working for the Viallis instead. Well, I began working for Maria at least.’

  Peretti raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Why do you say that? You didn’t approve of Maria’s choice of husband?’

  The old woman shook her head.

  ‘Everyone tried to convince her not to go through with it. He was a lot older than her for a start and he always seemed too sly for my liking. It was those shifty eyes I think. She was in love though. Or she thought she was. But we had our suspicions that she was more in love with the money and gifts.

  I always thought it was odd for an accountant to be so free with his money but apparently he had important clients who were paying him generously. And now it looks like we were right to worry. He must have been up to something. No one kills their accountant for adding numbers up wrong do they?’

  Peretti rubbed his chin and added a few points to the notebook.

  ‘What did Signora Vialli’s father think of all this? You say he’s still alive?’

  ‘Yes, he’s still alive. He’s not in a good way now though.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?’

  The old woman sighed.

  ‘I suppose you could say that. I think his heart died along with his wife and then watching Maria’s unhappiness was more than he could take. Now he drowns his disappointment in drink but I’m not sure how well that works for him.’

  The conversation drifted into her memories of happier times when the Vialli children were growing up and Peretti listened to the stories until he noticed the time, excused himself and stood up.

  ‘Signora Marin, I have to go back to Signor Vialli’s office and I was told you have the spare key. Would it be possible to borrow it please? There are a few things I want to check on down there.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Just a moment and I’ll get it for you.’

  She shuffled out of the kitchen and came back a few minutes later. She handed Peretti a piece of string with a key attached and a brown card tag which had the word Office scrawled on it in faded ink.

  ‘Here it is. I’m sorry it took so long but it wasn’t on its hook. You can take it but just let me have it back by tomorrow. I'll be cleaning the place if the police have finished by then.’

  Peretti studied the key.

  ‘Signora Marin, has anyone else used this key recently?’

  She looked confused for a moment but then nodded.

  ‘Maria borrowed it yesterday. She had to get something from the office, I think. I remember telling her she should get a new key made but she said it wasn’t worth it because she's hardly ever there.’

  ‘I see. And what time did she bring the key back?’

  The old woman’s eyes widened.

  ‘You think she could have seen whoever killed Giacomo? That would be something. Now let me see...’

  She tapped her head as if to loosen the memory in her brain.

  ‘No, I can’t say for sure I’m afraid, Detective. It was sometime later. In the evening, I think, but my memory isn't what it used to be. I could be wrong.’

  She heaved herself out of the chair.

  ‘Don’t get old, Signor Peretti. You can remember things that happened decades ago as clearly as if you were watching a movie but you can’t recall what you had for breakfast.'

  Peretti smiled but his mind was
busy elsewhere. He thanked the old woman for her help and the cakes and then, pushing the key into the pocket of his jeans, he went out into the sunshine.

  Chapter Five

  The sun had reached its zenith and begun a lazy descent towards the horizon by the time the little man in the blue uniform of the Polizia di Stato finally left his post on the steps. The forensics team had taken their time inside the office and Emilio Peretti was on his second espresso in the café at the end of the street when he saw the last police car drive past the window. Tossing a handful of coins into the saucer, he folded the newspaper under his arm and stepped out into the afternoon haze.

  Peretti stopped in front of the sign which read ‘Studio Giacomo Vialli’ and felt in his pocket for the key. The door handle was warm from the sun’s idle touch but inside the office was cool and still. Everything was back to normal. Apart from the faint stain that clung to the wall behind the desk like the memory of a bad dream.

  A row of filing cabinets stood against the far wall, each with a neatly printed sign attached, and Peretti pulled open the drawer labelled ‘M’. He murmured the names to himself: Livia Miani, Enzo Miccio, Paolo Molinari. But no Miccoli. He went through the whole drawer to be certain but the idea of the accountant accidentally putting a file back in the wrong place was patently absurd. Peretti shut the drawer with a bang that rocked the cabinet.

  If this Miccoli character was using Vialli’s services then there would have to be some record of it. If Maria Vialli was right. If. Or perhaps there was no Miccoli after all. Maybe she had misheard or misremembered. Or made the whole thing up. Peretti ran his fingers through his hair.

  Ignoring the stain on the wall, he dropped into the big leather chair. The desk was clear. As it had been that morning. Everything neatly in its place. Yesterday’s mail was stacked in a tray and waiting to be answered or ignored or filed in the waste paper basket.

  Peretti picked up the pile of envelopes and began to read. Two bills; one bank statement; three flyers advertising a health spa, Caribbean cruises and Nicoletta’s Flower Shop. He tossed it all back into the tray on top of the old brown folder at the bottom. The brown folder. His hand froze in mid-air and then swept the mail to one side. He laid the file on the desk and read the name on the label: Francesco Miccoli.

  ~

  The girl at the reception desk toyed with a curl of hair as she waited for the call to go through. Peretti studied the company brochure. The pages were filled with the pinkest sunsets and couples on endless golden beaches. If you were looking for a luxury romantic getaway in the Caribbean then apparently this was the place to be.

  ‘Signor Miccoli, it’s me, Sofia. There’s a man in reception for you. He says it’s about the accountant, Giacomo Vialli. Do you want me to show him up?

  Yes, yes. No problem. Thank you.’

  She hung up and looked over the top of her computer screen at Emilio Peretti.

  ‘He’ll be five minutes.’

  Peretti nodded and sat back to wait. Ten minutes later he was pacing the floor. Fifteen minutes and he was heading for the stairs with the voice of the protesting receptionist fading behind him. The hum of conversation stopped as he barged into the office and heads turned to stare at the visitor. He pointed at the closed door with a brass plaque.

  ‘Miccoli’s office?’

  The heads nodded.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Peretti shoved the door open and marched in. The window was thrown wide and the only indication of life was the green leaves of a potted bamboo palm stirring in the breeze. He peered out into the street but Miccoli was long gone. Probably hopped onto the handily-placed fire escape.

  Peretti’s eyes took in the room and fell on a frame standing proudly on the desk. In it a tall, dark-haired man was standing with his arm around the shoulders of a smiling woman who in turn kept a protective hand on the head of a small boy. The boy’s eyes were the same steely grey as his father’s.

  Peretti turned it over, slid the photo out and captured a close up of Miccoli’s face with the camera on his cellphone. Then replacing it in the frame he pulled open the desk drawers.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  Peretti glanced up. A security guard stood with arms crossed in the doorway.

  ‘Looking for something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Won’t know until I find it.’

  ‘I’m going to ask you to leave, Signore.’

  Peretti closed the drawers and stepped out from behind the desk. There was a crash as his foot knocked over the rubbish bin. A mess of tissues, scraps of paper and staples fell out onto the floor.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Here, let me help clear this up.’

  He knelt down and began to collect the rubbish.

  ‘Come on. That’s enough of your games. You have thirty seconds to get out before I throw you out.’

  The security guard gripped his arm but Peretti shook it off.

  ‘OK, OK. You’ve made your point. I’m leaving.’

  The brawny guard shadowed him all the way to the exit and then stood watching through the glass. Peretti walked halfway down the street and turned down a side road. Pausing in the shadows, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the wrapper he had lifted from the pile of rubbish at Miccoli’s office.

  It was a paper bag. Peretti examined it but there was nothing printed on it and nothing left inside. So much for that. Screwing it into a ball, he prepared to launch it into the nearest rubbish bin. Then, with a shake of his head at his own stupidity, he smoothed out the bag, opened it up and pushed his nose inside.

  The paper was infused with the rich smell of coffee beans. One of the more unusual varieties too if he wasn’t mistaken. Even so, tracing any coffee back to the café of origin in Rome would be like looking for the proverbial needle. The city was a coffee lover’s heaven which was one of the things that Peretti loved most about it but just then he wished the watering holes weren’t quite so plentiful. He checked his watch and then the sky. He needed to get moving.

  ~

  ‘Yes, I know him. That’s Franco.’

  It was the fourth café where Emilio Peretti had shown the photo. No one else had recognised Francesco Miccoli. One by one they peered at the face on the screen and shook their heads. The woman behind the counter in La Casa Del Caffè had smiled and nodded. Peretti reflected the smile back.

  ‘Excellent. Has he been in today?’

  ‘He’s in here every day for breakfast. Coffee and a cornetto. Always the same. I’ve not seen him since this morning though.’

  ‘OK. Thank you, Signora.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Now can I get you anything? A coffee?’

  ‘A double, please. I could do with the extra caffeine.’

  Peretti glanced from table to table as he waited but there were no faces he recognised.

  ‘Your coffee, Signore.’

  He handed over a note and told the woman to keep the change. Then balancing his drink in one hand, he tossed the ball of brown paper into a bin and made for the door. Outside he found a table on the cobblestones and listened to the conversations that swirled around him as he sipped his coffee.

  The lovers who were mid-quarrel about whether or not mauve was an acceptable colour for painting a bedroom wall; the group of businessmen discussing the strength of the euro and the state of the economy; the two middle-aged women comparing notes on which universities their children were aiming for and the exorbitant price of the Prada handbags they had purchased that morning.

  Peretti closed his eyes and let the tangle of words sweep around him as he pondered the next roll of the dice. It didn't last for long. The men in the business suits at the next table were saying their goodbyes with raucous laughter and backslapping. One large man in pinstripes and red braces was explaining that his cell-phone was dead and asking if anyone knew where the nearest Internet cafe was so he could check his email. Peretti’s eyes opened and followed the suits as they strolled off. Then, downing the
rest of his coffee, he got to his feet and started after them.

  They walked two blocks before the man with red braces detached himself from the group and went into a dingy-looking place where posters in the window promised great deals on international calls. Peretti crossed the street and peered at the window as if he was genuinely interested in the price of phoning Islamabad. Through the grime of the glass, he could just about make out the faces of the three men hunched over computers at the back of the shop. Taking the cell-phone out of his pocket, he studied the face in the photo then pushed the door open and went inside.

  ~

  ‘Francesco Miccoli? You’re a hard man to find.’

  The businessman reached for his briefcase but Peretti leant back against the desk and clamped a hand onto the man’s shoulder.

  ‘Don’t even think about running. You’re going to talk.’

  Miccoli looked up and met his gaze.

  ‘And then what? I tell you what you want to know and you kill me anyway like you killed Giacomo. Will you make my death look like suicide too?’

  Peretti laughed.

  ‘I’m not interested in killing anyone. Who on earth do you think I am?’

  ‘I thought you were one of them. The people Giacomo warned me about.’

  Peretti folded his arms.

  ‘So, tell me, what exactly did Giacomo say to you?’

  ‘Just that he thought they might know. And if they really had found out then we’d be dead. He warned me from the start that it was dangerous but the money made it worth the risk.’

  ‘What was worth the risk? Come on, Miccoli. You’ve got to give me more than that.’

  The grey eyes looked bewildered.

  ‘You mean you don’t know anything? Then who are you?’

  ‘I’m a detective. Investigating Signor Vialli’s murder.’

  Miccoli’s head dropped into his hands. Peretti could hear him muttering under his breath.

  ‘Hey, I can’t hear you. Speak to my face.’

  ‘Do what you have to do. Arrest me. Whatever. Just don’t throw me to the animals who killed Giacomo. Please, I beg you. I’ve got a wife and kids.'