The Fatal Touch by Conor Fitzgerald Page B

parked a few meters from him.
    The driver, a Maresciallo, had positioned the vehicle below a plane tree, and was leaning on the half-open door. As Blume came up beside the car, a small swirl of smoke floated out from the passenger seat behind.
    Blume bent down to see inside, shading his eyes like he was saluting the occupants. The windows were slightly tinted, and he could just make out two or maybe three men filling up all the space in the backseat. Someone grabbed his shoulder, but Blume stayed relaxed.
    “Take your hand off me,” he said. “I am a police commissioner.”
    The grip eased, but the Carabiniere did not let go completely. Blume straightened up, turned around, and pushed down the Carabiniere’s extended arm.
    “If you’ve been on duty in Rome for any length of time, you probably know my face,” said Blume. “So there should be no need for me to have to tell you to step back, now.”
    The Carabiniere took a step backwards, and nodded.
    From behind him came the whirring sound of a car window being lowered, and a blue cloud of cigar smoke swirled over Blume’s shoulder.
    Blume turned around and looked into the car. The backseat was filled to capacity by a single man.
    The voice was slightly throaty, soft, and calm, the face creased and brown like a hickory nut. “I imagine you are Commissioner Blume.”
    Blume had seen people this large when traveling as a boy with his parents through towns in Iowa, Indiana, and Ohio, but everything they wore was elasticized; and he had seen obese Neapolitan criminals with Velcro straps on running shoes they couldn’t see, but he had never seen a man with so much bulk dressed in such a nicely cut silk suit.
    “And you must be Colonel Farinelli,” said Blume.

Chapter 9
    “You put the place off limits,” said the Colonel. “Good. I like a sealed environment.”
    “I hope my Sovrintendente extended you every courtesy during your search,” said Blume.
    “Oh, he did his best to stop us,” said Farinelli. He let out a cloud of smoke and nodded from inside it. “But what could he do? The magistrate tried to send him away, but he wouldn’t budge. He even insisted on watching us as we gathered evidence.”
    “What evidence?”
    “Why paintings, of course. That’s why I have been called in. Art fraud is my special area.”
    “Murder is mine.”
    “Yes. I’m sure you’ll have a murder to look into sometime soon. What’s the average in your district, two, three a month?”
    “Are you saying Treacy was not murdered?” said Blume. “Do you have evidence for that?”
    “Of course not. That’s up to you, Commissioner. It should be clear within a few hours, or tomorrow after the autopsy, no? Meanwhile, I’m looking after this.” The Colonel tossed his cigar butt out the door. His suit began to ripple as he began the process of heaving himself across the seat toward the door.
    Blume walked away in the direction of Grattapaglia, leaving the task of pulling his boss out of the car to the Maresciallo.
     
    “You did try to stop them, right?” said Blume as he reached Grattapaglia.
    “Stop a team of Carabinieri, a colonel, and a magistrate with a search warrant? I did my best.”
    “OK, OK. I should have answered when you called. Get back to the station now.”
    Grattapaglia nodded over Blume’s shoulder. “Here they are again. And I can see Inspector Mattiola looking a bit lost at the end of the street.”
    “Take her back with you.”
    “So it’s all working out? She’s a big help?”
    “Get lost. Write that report on this morning’s incident.”
    Grattapaglia moved away, leaving Blume face-to-face with Colonel Farinelli who was holding two solid white boxes with “Franchi” written on them in blue cursive letters. He caught Blume’s glance and raised the boxes slightly. “A break for lunch, Commissioner. That’s where I was just now. Do you like Franchi’s take-out fare?”
    Blume did—who didn’t? But he said nothing.
    Blume pushed open the