The Last Enemy Read online

  When they pulled up next to the newsstand in Piazza Santa Chiara, they could see that Elena had arrived before them. Her yellow Volkswagen was blocking the entrance to police headquarters. The relationship between Fulvio Russo, Assisi’s Commissario, and his counterparts in Perugia was generally acrimonious. Cenni was sure he’d hear tomorrow about his officer’s lack of courtesy.

  Inspector Elena Ottaviani was one of the new issue of woman officers who had come into police work within the last ten years. Cenni had worked closely with a number of EU police organizations in the fifteen years since he had joined the Polizi di Stato, and he inevitably made comparisons. He was impressed with the way Italy had accommodated its women officers without turning them into shorter versions of their male counterparts. They patroled the streets, manned the computers in the back room, answered questions at the front desk, took their places in the front lines of the riot police, and did so in long hair, short hair, painted nails and lips, even occasionally doused in perfume, and generally they performed their duties well and without complaint. Piero could take a leaf from their book, he reflected.

  As he started to get out of the car, Elena emerged at the top of the stairway. She noticed at once the glance Cenni gave to her Volkswagen. “Mi dispiace, capo. I only intended to be there a minute. I’ll move it.” Elena was the only one of his officers who didn’t address him by his first name. He assumed it was a piece of her generally complicated nonconformist attitude.

  “I’ll repark the car and ride with you to the cemetery. The body’s already there. Convenient, don’t you think?” After reparking her car, she slid into the back seat, still talking. “They found her shortly after seven-thirty AM. The police surgeon was called almost immediately, and he’s there too. Appears they don’t read directives very well,” Elena opined, a reference to the bulletin that had been issued nationwide at the beginning of the year.

  Cenni needed no reminders. The wording of the directive had been unambiguous. All police organizations will immediately report any serious crime involving Americans to the Polizi di Stato Task Force on Terrorism. A regional phone number and name had been appended and Cenni’s name was listed for the Perugia Questura. He wondered why Fulvio Russo had waited so long to call, and why he had called Carlo Togni and not him directly. No doubt, it will come out during the investigation, Cenni thought. Whether it would have serious repercussions was another matter, one he preferred not to think about at the moment.

  “Do you think we should go inside first, to introduce ourselves?” Piero inquired anxiously.

  “The sergeant’s up at the cemetery,” Elena replied, nudging Cenni in the back. “You can introduce yourself up there. I’ll fill you in on the details before we get there. I have a copy of the murdered woman’s application for a soggiorno. They gave it to me—after some arm-twisting,” she appended, this time directing her words to Cenni.

  On the short drive to the cemetery, Elena filled them in on what she had just learned. “The victim’s American. One Rita Minelli, niece of Umberto Casati. Old Assisi family, friends in high places. Oh, and he still refers to himself as Count Casati. Guess he was out to lunch when they passed the Act of 1947,” she added, referring to the law enacted at the end of the war abolishing Italian titles. A fervent antimonarchist, Elena had been raging for the past two weeks. A member of the PM’s party had suggested in Parliament that the time was ripe to bring back the monarchy. Cenni had ducked into the men’s room at least twice in the past week to avoid one of her tirades.

  Elena ignored the pained look that passed between the two men and continued her recital. “Minelli was forty-five, if we’re to believe what she wrote on her application,” she tacked on needlessly. Cenni reflected that Rita Minelli would have had to submit some evidence of her age when she applied for a permesso di soggiorno, probably her U.S. passport. Elena knows this, he thought, but he also recognized that they each had their own way of dealing with violent death. Elena’s was to establish an immediate distance between herself and the victim. It was one of the few criticisms he had of her police work.

  “She arrived in Assisi last June to bring her mother’s body home for burial and never left. She’s been teaching English since July at her uncle’s language school here in Assisi. Lives with him and his family. Two of the ladies who arrange flowers at the cemetery found the body shortly after seven-thirty AM, in the Casati family vault. Her head was bashed in, probably with a statue from the altar. Looks like rape! That’s sum total of what I got from the officer on desk duty. Sergeant Antolini will be our liaison on the case. She can fill us in on the rest.”

  An aficionado of American culture, she finished by humming “Love Is in the Air,” a deceptively benevolent look on her face. Piero grinned but said nothing. Cenni was still struck by the amount of teasing Piero accepted from Elena. She needled him constantly, yet they remained friends. It appeared that she was also his confidante on the subject of Sergeant Antolini. But Piero was not the only one to get the needle.

  “Say, capo, you travel in exalted circles, perhaps you’ve met this woman?”

  “Perhaps,” he replied, not responding to Elena’s teasing. But it had been with something of a start that he’d heard the Casati name when he’d spoken to the questore earlier that morning. He had met Artemisia Casati at an art reception in Perugia a few months back. Under the circumstances of that first meeting, it might be a bit awkward to meet her again, but that was a problem to be dealt with only if it arose. The commissario was not one of those people who embrace trouble before it arrives.

  3

  THE ASSISI CEMETERY is located immediately below Rocca Maggiore off the back road that leads to Gualdo Tadino. Cenni knew the cemetery well although he had never been there on police business. Hanna Falkenberg, his Swedish grandmother, had an affinity for Italian cemeteries. He could still hear her. “Alex, caro mio, if you want to understand the national character of a people, visit their cemeteries.” When he was still too young to understand the nature of blackmail or to withstand the force of his grandmother’s personality, she had often lured him and his twin brother Renato on her cemetery jaunts with the promise of chocolates and Coca-Cola. He would sit next to her while she drove her red Bugatti, a large box of handmade chocolate truffles on his lap, listening in wide-eyed gluttony while she instructed him and his brother on life, love, and the pursuit of the Etruscans.

  They didn’t find any Etruscans in the Assisi cemetery. It hadn’t been opened until the 1700s, so was too recent to house any of Umbria’s earlier inhabitants, but it was there that Hanna Falkenberg had met Renato Cenni in 1931. Shortly thereafter, his grandparents had merged their interests, first in the bedroom and later in a chocolate factory. After his grand-father’s death, Hanna (she refused to answer to “Nonna”) liked to walk through the cemetery grounds, her grandsons by her side, and reminisce about that day long ago when their grandfather had watched her pluck four long-stemmed red roses from a large bouquet decorating one of the more elaborate mausoleums and place them on one of the simpler flat stones. “Taking from the haves to give to the have-nots,” she had said, when he had protested. “Petty theft!” was his response. They had quarreled good-naturedly about it until his death in 1961.

  Cenni stopped his reminiscing when Piero parked their car near the cemetery’s main entrance, next to an ambulance from the Assisi Hospital. Apparently, it doubles as a mortuary van, he thought, noting the two attendants in white coats sitting inside. As they walked toward the cemetery gates, they could see three police officers surrounded by a small crowd of women, all carrying some type of flower arrangement and all talking at once. He was too distant to hear what they were saying but could guess. They had come to the cemetery to decorate the graves of their loved ones for Easter, and a dead American, whatever the circumstances, was no excuse for keeping them from their familial duties. One of the officers, a woman, approached.

  “We’ve been wondering when you’d arrive,” Sergeant Antolini said brusquely, loo
king at her wristwatch. “The medical examiner is waiting at the mausoleum. He’s been there since shortly before ten. The mortuary van has been here even longer. And we can’t let any visitors into the cemetery until you give the okay.” Cenni noted that she had directed her comments to him and Elena without once acknowledging Piero.

  “Mi dispiace, Sergeant,” Cenni said, smiling deferentially. “Lots of traffic on Easter weekend between Perugia and Assisi.” It had taken him only forty minutes to get to Assisi from the time he’d received the first call from the questore, but he would need all the help that the Assisi police could provide. He also surmised that at least some of her hostility was directed at Piero.

  “Why don’t we walk there together, Sergeant? You can fill me in on the details. Your knowledge of the people involved will be very helpful. Inspector Tonni can stay here and assist your officers in calming the ladies,” he said, motioning to one of the women who appeared particularly agitated. “Inspector Ottaviani will accompany us to the mausoleum.” He avoided looking at Piero while he gave his orders.

  The apology and accompanying smile worked. Sergeant Antolini’s rancor receded. “Perhaps we should walk around the walls and go through the side gate,” she suggested. “It’s faster that way and we can avoid the crowd at the front.”

  “Grazie, Sergeant. What can you tell us about the murder victim? Did you know her?”

  “I knew her as well as I know most people in Assisi; better actually. She’s been into the station five or six times since she arrived in June, the first time to apply for a soggiorno. There were no problems there—her mother was Italian, the uncle is prominent in Assisi, and from what I remember, she had a substantial bank balance. The second time was in August. She filed a complaint against one of the ladies who arranges flowers in the cemetery.” She paused for dramatic effect before continuing.

  “I think you’ll find this interesting, Commissario! One of the two women who found the body this morning, Sophie Orlic— well, she’s the flower lady that Minelli complained about in August. Minelli accused Orlic of blackmailing one of the other flower ladies, a woman from Orlic’s own country.”

  “Which is . . . ?” Cenni inquired.

  “Croatia,” the sergeant responded. “Minelli had gone to the family vault to see if the engraver had completed the inscription on her mother’s sarcophagus and found this other woman—an Irene Rapaic—sitting on the portico crying.”

  “Was it?” Cenni interrupted.

  “Was what?”

  “The sarcophagus, was it engraved?”

  “Of course not,” the sergeant replied matter-of-factly before continuing. “I was surprised that she was able to get a coherent story out of Rapaic. Minelli’s Italian is—scusi—was quite good. Rapaic’s is terrible! We had to hire an interpreter when we conducted our investigation.”

  “Was it blackmail?” Cenni asked.

  “Technically! Orlic was holding Rapaic’s passport. They’re from the same village. But Orlic hired herself a lawyer, one of the good ones,” she added flippantly, “who said that Orlic had paid the other woman’s travel expenses to Italy and was paying her living expenses in Assisi. The lawyer argued that his client was only holding the passport as security until the debt was repaid. Orlic agreed to return the passport, which we made sure she did. Rapaic left Assisi after that; she’s now working in Foligno.”

  “You said she came to the station five or six times. A bit often to be visiting the police I should think.”

  “The third time was right after the New Year. Minelli came in to complain that Orlic had followed her home one evening. They had words in the street. Orlic called Minelli an interfering American putana. After that, whenever Minelli came in, she’d ask to speak directly to Commissario Russo. You’ll have to ask him why she was there so often,” she said, avoiding Cenni’s eyes.

  “What happened after Orlic threatened Minelli?”

  “Nothing. I told Minelli I’d have a word with Orlic, that she should go home and forget about it.”

  “Did anything come of it?”

  “No, and that was almost three month’s ago. É vero, I can understand Orlic’s anger. From what she’d told me, Rapaic never repaid the travel money. On top of that, Orlic had to pay her lawyer’s fee. She was out at least a thousand euros, probably more.”

  “Tell me what Minelli was like. Did you like her? I sense from what you’ve told me so far that you had at least some sympathy for the Croatian.”

  “Vivi e lascia vivere!” she replied to Cenni’s question.

  “Live and let live!” Cenni repeated, his tone puzzled.

  She explained: “I don’t think Minelli understood the concept. What happened between the two Croatians goes on all the time. Orlic made some sacrifices to get here. She works hard, does okay, then sends money home to a relative or neighbor to bring them here. Like everyone else, she wants a return on her money.”

  “So you agree then, Minelli was an interfering American putana,” he stated provocatively.

  Antolini laughed. “Interfering anyway. She liked to get involved in other people’s business. The first time Minelli came into the station, one of our clerks was having some trouble at the computer. Minelli walks over, uninvited, and starts explaining the ins and outs of Microsoft Word. Lucille was embarrassed. She didn’t want the rest of us thinking that she couldn’t do her job.”

  “And the two women who found the body. Where are they now?”

  “Orlic’s back at the station. Been there since nine this morning when we brought her there from the cemetery,” she replied, looking at her watch again. “We told her she’d have to wait to talk to you.”

  “And the other one?”

  “I sent her home. She’s just a kid, really; she was very upset. She’s Albanian, married to a local from Bastia. They have a six-month-old baby. I didn’t think it would serve any useful purpose to hold her at the station. She didn’t even know Minelli.” The defensive tone of Sergeant Antolini’s reply suggested that she was expecting a reprimand for not following procedures strictly.

  Cenni smiled affably as he held open the side gate for her to enter. “Very kind, Sergeant, just what I expect from all our officers. We can take her statement later today, or tomorrow, when she’s up to it.”

  “Grazie, Commissario. Sei molto gentile,” the sergeant said. She looked up at him and smiled. Ah Piero, Cenni thought, catching his breath. Your days of eating mamma’s rich food are surely numbered!

  4

  THE ASSISI CEMETERY is built in the form of an amphitheater. The highest tier, guarded at its back by a stone wall, provides an unimpeded view of the small towns and checkered farms that lie between Perugia and Assisi. The rich always get the best views, Cenni groused to himself as they approached the vault. Located at the far end of the top tier and separated from its nearest neighbor by a row of towering cypress, the vault was a smaller version of the Temple of Minerva in the Piazza del Comune. Its entrance porch, built of Assisi pink stone, was fronted by four Corinthian columns surmounted by a pediment inscribed in Latin: Novissima autem inimica detruetur mors. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death, he translated to himself. Safe and unimaginative, he thought, recognizing it as New Testament, probably Corinthians.

  A reception committee of three waited on the porch. Cenni recognized the medical examiner at once. They had worked together on previous cases, not always with success. Marcello Batori had been in the civil service for more than thirty years. Early in his career, he had established a reputation as a creative forensic pathologist but also as one who too often jumped to premature conclusions. In the last few years, he had become forgetful, he had always been slow. Some of Cenni’s colleagues had recently circulated a petition asking that Batori be replaced by someone younger. Cenni hadn’t expected the petition to be successful, wasn’t even sure that he wanted it to be, and had refused to sign. Article Eighteen was sacrosanct in Italy, unless the PM’s party had its way. It protected the employment right
s of the weak and vulnerable as well as the incompetent. Cenni could only hope that Minelli’s autopsy would pose no unusual problems for Batori and so no regrets for him.

  From the photography and equipment cases sitting on the portico floor and the plastic sheathing on their shoes, Cenni recognized the two younger men as forensic science police. Their happiness at seeing him was evident from their chorus of enthusiastic buongiornos. Cenni nodded in return. The number of cigarette butts on the portico floor indicated to him that they’d already swept the place clean of fingerprints and were waiting for permission to leave. Batori advanced to meet Cenni, a wide smile on his face, his hand extended.

  “Alex, come stai, it’s been a long time! The Ronchitti murders, wasn’t it? We did a good job there. Put him away for life. Ah, but this one! Sad, very sad. A young woman, still in the prime of life. But you’ll want to see for yourself.”

  The burial chamber was long, narrow, and dark. The only natural light came from the midday sun that filtered through the decorative grilles, splashing a lacy pattern on everything in its path. The outer walls were lined with sarcophagi, the dates and names of those who had died engraved in simple script. In the center was a stone altar, its only ornamentation two vases of the same stone flanking an altarpiece of surpassing beauty, a copy of Cimabue’s Crucifixion from the upper Basilica. The artist had not just copied the original, he had recreated it, adjusting for the size of the vault. The kneeling figure of St. Francis in the original had been painted out, giving greater emphasis to the contorted figure of the dying Christ and the pleading gestures of those who waited below to receive his body. The sepia figures in Cimabue’s masterpiece, the result of centuries of oxidation, had served the imitator well. In a space that received little natural light, the faded browns and ochres provided quiet relief for those who came to pray.