Rules of Deception

23

The clock read 4:41 a.m. when Jonathan drew the car to the side of the road and killed the motor. Rain pounded the windshield. In front of him, a three-story stone and terra-cotta building sat cloaked in mist.

“But it’s not even open,” said Simone. “There’s no one here.”

Jonathan pointed out a pair of laundry lines strung from the second floor window. “The station manager lives above the office.” He put out an open palm. “You have it?”

Simone fished Sergeant Oskar Studer’s identification out of her purse. “What if he doesn’t believe you?”

“It’s five in the morning. The last thing in the world he’s going to do is question a cop who comes to his door. Besides, I can’t go flashing that ID in broad daylight unless I put on forty pounds, shave my head, and break my nose a couple times. Take a look. What do you see?” Jonathan held the ID next to his face. Simone moved her head backward and forward, squinting to focus on the thumbnail-sized picture. He gave her three seconds, then flapped the wallet closed. “So?”

“It’s too dark. I couldn’t see anything.”

“Exactly.”

Simone, however, was not so easily convinced. “But how do you know you’ll find something?”

Jonathan slipped the receipts from his pocket and tucked them into the ID holder. “No one sends that kind of money without a way of getting it back.”

Simone shook her head. Arms crossed, shorn of her earlier bravado, she appeared smaller, older, no longer his willing accomplice. “Really, Jon, I think we should wait.”

“Get in the driver’s seat. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, take off.”

He opened the door and stepped into the rain.

“Sì?”

An unshaven man dressed in flannel pajamas stared bleary-eyed through a crack in the door. Jonathan held the policeman’s badge up so he could see it. “Signor Orsini,” he began in workmanlike Italian. “Graubünden Kantonspolizei. We need your help.”

Orsini snatched the identification from Jonathan’s hand and brought it near his face. His eyes snapped into focus. “What is it that it can’t wait until morning?” he asked, his gaze going back and forth between the ID and the man standing in front of him.

“It is morning,” said Jonathan, grabbing the ID right back. He crowded the doorway, forcing the station superintendent to step back into his home. “A murder. A fellow officer. My partner, in fact. You may have heard about it on the news.”

He waited for Orsini to comment on the photograph, but Orsini only looked peeved. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “No one called me about this.”

Jonathan barreled on, as if he couldn’t be bothered by who had or hadn’t called. “A few hours ago we discovered that bags belonging to the suspect were sent on a train originating from your station. We have the baggage receipts. We need the name of the individual who left them with you.”

“You have written authorization?” asked Orsini.

“Of course not. There wasn’t time. The murderer is headed in this direction.”

The news didn’t affect Orsini one way or the other. “Where’s Mario? Lieutenant Conti?”

“He asked that I come directly to the station.”

Orsini considered this, as he sniffed and hitched up his pajama bottoms. “Give me a minute.” The door closed.

Orsini emerged five minutes later, hair neatly combed, face washed, dressed for the day in gray trousers and a porter’s sturdy blue jacket. Jonathan followed him around the outside of the building to the ticket office.

A minute later, Orsini was seated at his desk, tapping the numbers of the baggage receipts into his computer. “Let’s see…sent to Landquart…bags picked up yesterday afternoon. Basta! Too late. Once the bags are picked up, the file is automatically deleted. I can’t help you.”

Orsini’s look of resignation infuriated Jonathan. “Is there another record of the transaction?” he demanded. “Maybe when the customer purchased the ticket? This is a murder we’re talking about. Not a stolen purse. Get me that name!” He slammed his palm against the table.

Orsini recoiled, but a moment later he was banging at the keyboard like a madman. “Tickets were paid in cash…had to fill out a receipt…hold on…” Standing, he pushed past Jonathan to a row of filing cabinets. Humming nervously, he pulled out sheaf after sheaf of bundled receipts, examining each in turn before tossing them onto the table next to him. Suddenly, he slapped his fingers against a chosen receipt. “Got him!”

Jonathan stood at his shoulder. “Who is it?”

“Blitz. Gottfried Blitz. Villa Principessa. Via della Nonna.” Orsini’s voice was plumped with victory as he studied the receipts. “So, are you happy now, Officer?”

But when he turned around, he found his office empty.

Jonathan had already left.