Cold Tuscan Stone by David Wagner (best books to read in your 20s txt) 📕

Commissario, that this is highly irregular. Surely you don’t believe that the man’s bank records could help with your investigation.”

Why the hell do you think I’m here? Conti wanted to say, but instead he chose to be soothing. “We try to be as complete as possible. No stone unturned, as it were.” Getting a judge to sign off on this would take forever, and what he’d just said about the widow was true, she didn’t need to be involved in this. Was the man going to help him or not? Conti contained a smile as the man reached into a drawer and took out some papers.

“Very well. Signor Canopo had three accounts with us. One was a normal checking account, with his wife as co-signatory on it. You know that of course.”

Not specifically, but he let the comment go with only a nod, and the manager continued.

“The other was a savings account that I know they were using to build up for a home purchase. They started it several years ago when their daughter was born. I remember when they came in to open it.”

“And the third?”

“That one is a bit more curious.” He shifted the papers in front of him on the desk. “Canopo came in one day by himself and opened this one, his wife did not sign any of the documents. It is also a checking account, but separate from the other. Of course the widow will have access to it now. After doing the required paperwork.” Conti ignored implied criticism delivered with emphasis on the word “required.” “She likely knows about it,” the manager added.

Conti raised an eyebrow. “When did he open this third account?”

“About a year ago.” He checked the papers. “No, I’m sorry, eight months ago. Every few weeks he made deposits. No withdrawals have been made on the account since it was created.”

“Do you have copies of the checks deposited?”

The man again consulted the paper again and gave Conti a sheepish look. “No checks, it was always cash.”

***

“The phone’s ringing, I have to go.”

Detective LoGuercio snapped the cell phone closed and walked quickly to pick up the telephone that sat on one corner of his bare desk.

“LoGuercio.”

“Detective, this is Sergeant DeMarzo.”

“Yes, DeMarzo, no problems with the American, I hope.”

“No, sir, none at all. On the contrary, he has settled into his hotel for the afternoon. He told the woman at the front desk—”

“Woman at the front desk?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve gotten to know her well and she told me that when Montoya picked up his key just now he asked if the room was made up, since he was planning to work there on his computer for a few hours.”

“That should make it easy for you, DeMarzo.”

“Yes, sir, it’s why I was calling. My wife was going to pack something for me this morning, but the baby spilled her food on the floor, then my mother-in-law called, and—”

“Do I really need all this domestic information, DeMarzo?” LoGuercio was a bachelor, and ate his breakfast at a bar near the police station. Nothing ever spilled on the floor.

“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. What I meant to say is that I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast, so I wondered if I could get a quick panino. There’s a small bar just down the street from the hotel, and—”

“Of course, go ahead, since he’s holed up in his room.”

“Thank you, sir, it will only take a few minutes, then I’ll return to the lobby of the hotel. There is no other way out for him than through it.”

***

Rick stood up, watched the leaves blowing around the empty swimming pool outside his window, and slipped on his wool overcoat. He was a good translator, but for some of the more knotty phrases he still needed his English-Italian dictionary, at least to be sure that there wasn’t some nuance he might have missed. He hadn’t yet found an online edition he trusted. There was nothing like paper and ink, even in the electronic age. But sure enough, he’d left the thick book in the trunk of the rental car, parked in the back of the garage next to the hotel.

Putting his computer on sleep, he descended to the main floor, walking quickly past the front desk and out to the street. He pulled his collar around his neck when he felt the wind coming down from the main square, a river of cold flowing past him and out of the city through the stone gate. Reaching the end of the hotel façade, he turned right and started up the ramp into the garage, squinting to adjust to the gloomy space. Two small bulbs hung from wires in the cement ceiling, enough barely to make out the various cars parked on either side. He walked to the end of the row, found his rental, and reached into the left coat pocket for the keys. He found his GPS and shifted to the right pocket, pulling out the keys. The trunk popped open easily, and fortunately its small light helped him find the dictionary wedged into one corner near the jack. He slammed the trunk shut and headed back toward the street. The cold wind was now hitting him directly in the face, and he lowered his head.

As he turned up the street a dark red Opel drove up from the right and braked directly in front of him. Rick froze in his tracks, clutching his dictionary as if it were his wallet. The driver’s side window lowered slowly, and Rick saw a dark-haired man dressed in a leather jacket. He wore sunglasses and had a stubbled face which in Italy could be either fashionable or sloppy. The man looked vaguely familiar, but then his was the type of face Rick passed a dozen times a day on the street. He looked Rick up and down, the gaze pausing briefly on the boots and the dictionary.

“Signor Montoya, I think you are expecting me. Get in please, I have