Columbo: The Hoffa Connection Read online

  I will continue our inquiries and may have something further to report.

  Galeazzo Castellano

  “See what I mean?” asked Martha. “A quick trip to Italy might not be a bad idea. I bet the department would authorize it.”

  2

  LAPD did indeed authorize the travel. As Captain Sczciegel put it, “If it was anybody but Regina who was dead, no way. But the news guys are beating us around the head, and the chief wants to close this case fast. There’s a goddamn demand for the head of whoever killed Regina. The news guys and gals are in a feeding frenzy.”

  So much were they that twenty reporters and cameramen accompanied the casket to Italy on an overnight flight from Los Angeles to Milan. Columbo flew on the same plane, and it proved impossible for him to avoid the attention of hungry reporters. They hounded him through his dinner, so much that his two seat companions accepted the offer of a flight attendant to move to other seats. When the flight attendants dimmed the cabin lights, the reporters left him—some of them grumbling that he was either the most cleverly cryptic man they had ever seen or was the stupidest.

  The movie was in Italian, and though he could understand it, he was not interested in it. He leaned his seat back and closed his eyes.

  “Lieutenant Columbo.”

  He opened his eyes to find a woman sitting beside him: an extraordinarily attractive woman with green eyes and red hair, wearing a spectacularly short green minidress. It was Adrienne Boswell.

  “I hope you won’t mind talking to me.”

  “I never refuse to talk with a beautiful woman. Only thing is, I never know what to say.”

  “Say, ‘Adrienne, I’m going to Italy because—’ and then finish the sentence.”

  Columbo smiled and tugged at his earlobe. “Adrienne, I’m goin’ to Italy because I figure I might find out something useful if I have a look at Regina’s hometown.”

  “Let me be more specific. Lieutenant,” said Adrienne Boswell. “You are going to Marino di Bardineto because you hope to learn the identity of the elderly man who lived in Regina’s house.”

  “Well, Adrienne, I really don’t think I should go into details like that. You understand, police work has gotta be partly confidential. You’ll probably say the public has a right to know. And I agree, they have a right to know. But not yet.”

  Adrienne glanced up at the Alitalia flight attendant who was coming along the aisle. “You like champagne, Columbo?” she asked.

  “To be honest with ya, no.”

  “Signorina! Vorrei mezza bottiglia champagne, per piacere. How about you, Columbo?”

  “Uno Scotch con ghiaccio, per favore. ”

  “So, you speak Italian. I might have guessed.”

  “That’s why I’m the one going to Italy,” he said.

  “How are you getting from Milan to Marino di Bardineto?”

  “I’m renting a car.”

  “A waste of LAPD money. I’m renting a car. Why not ride with me?”

  He knew what she had in mind: to have him alone in the car all the way from Milan to Marino di Bardineto, so she could cross-examine him all she wanted. On the other hand, back in L.A. they would sure appreciate it when they saw no automobile rent on his expense account. He accepted her offer.

  It worked out just as he’d expected. On the autostrada between Milan and Genoa she began to question him. At first he only smiled at her and didn’t answer much. It was difficult to talk in the open Alfa Romeo she had rented, travelling at high speed and passing just about everything on the highway. Then a spit of rain began, and she pulled off to raise the top. Inside the closed car, he could no longer pretend he did not hear her questions.

  “Why did somebody try to kill Bob Douglas?” she asked.

  “If I knew that, I’d know who did it.”

  “You do believe there’s a connection between that shooting and the murder of Regina.”

  “Doesn’t seem like a coincidence,” he said.

  He stared around him, at the Italian countryside. Though his parents had been Italian and he spoke pretty good Italian, he had never before come to Italy. It wasn’t much like what he’d expected—at least it wasn’t between Milan and Genoa on the A7 autostrada.

  “Columbo, let me explain something to you,” Adrienne said abruptly. “I’m damned successful at what I do. I never got a Pulitzer and probably won’t, but I’ve won some other awards. I’m a good reporter. Mostly, that’s because people know they can trust me. You can trust me.”

  He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “I never figured otherwise.”

  “No. I know how you figure. You’re a typical cop, and you figure I’m the enemy. You figure if you’re not careful you’ll tell me something I’ll use to foul up the investigation, or something that’ll embarrass you. If you give me something as background and tell me not to use it, I won’t use it.”

  He turned and looked at her. Her spectacularly short skirt had crept up as she drove, and he’d been trying not to stare at her legs. “I really haven’t got anything much I could tell you,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she muttered skeptically. “Well, let me tell you something. Then maybe you’ll feel like opening up a little more for me.”

  “Okay…”

  “Okay. Incidentally, Columbo, if it offended me that you were looking at my legs, I’d pull down the skirt. Or I’d have worn a longer one to begin with.”

  “I’m kinda old-fashioned,” he said.

  “I’ve been investigating the Regina story for a long time,” said Adrienne. “I was planning on writing a book about her, an ‘unauthorized’ biography. I had been working on it for months before she was murdered. To be brutally frank, her death is going to make my book worth a whole lot more money.”

  “Everybody makes money out of murder but me,” he remarked. “To me it’s just a job.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully, but did not respond. Then went on with what she had in mind. “You’ve probably heard the story that there was money behind her at the beginning—I mean, before she began to make any on her own. I went after that aspect of the story. I talked to a couple of men who received some of that money. I asked them how they were paid. Checks, they said: personal checks written out by Regina with a ballpoint pen. On what bank? One of them remembered.

  I won’t mention the name of the bank. See how I can keep people’s confidences? I went to see the bank.”

  “They won’t tell you anything without a court order,” said Columbo.

  Adrienne smiled. “There are ways of persuading a tight-lipped banker to tell you things in confidence. What I wanted to know was where the money came from that made it possible for Regina to write checks for tens of thousands of dollars. And you know what? The bank didn’t know. She’d come into the bank herself, carrying a briefcase full of cash. She’d insist on seeing an officer of the bank—in a private office. He’d sit and count the money, then make out a deposit slip for it. All very illegal.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The law requires banks to report all cash transactions over ten thousand dollars. By the time I got to the bank, I suspected she’d been depositing cash, and I pretended I knew. I promised them I wouldn’t publish the story if they’d give me the dates and amounts. Actually, all I wanted was confirmation of my suspicion that she’d been depositing cash.”

  “Any idea where all that cash came from?” Columbo asked.

  “What generates loads of cash? Dealing in narcotics. Skimming off casinos. And when you’ve got a lot of cash, you’ve got a serious problem: how to get rid of it, how to spend it, how to keep the IRS from finding out about it.”

  “Maybe you can play a bank game for me,” said Columbo. “There’s a bank in Cleveland that won’t tell us where the money came from that bought a big cashier’s check.”

  “They’re not supposed to tell,” she said.

  “Well… maybe you can find out.”

  Adrienne grinned. “In case you wondered, I don’t persuad
e people the way Regina did. You’ve heard that story?”

  “Oh, yes. Understand, I never supposed you did.”

  3

  The fishing village was as picturesque and as beautiful as he had expected. Fishermen had drawn up a score of small fishing boats on a narrow strip of pebbly beach and had moored larger boats alongside a short stone quay. The village extended two kilometers between the sea and the mountains that loomed behind. The narrow coastal highway was the town’s main street. The A10 autostrada was silent and out of sight, since behind Marino di Bardineto it ran through a tunnel. A church stood tall and dignified to the west side of the town square. The town hall was on the north side, a big but less-dignified building. In the center of the square stood the town fountain, kept full by the thin stream of water that issued from the penis of a long-haired bronze boy, reminiscent of Donatello’s David, who for centuries had stood with his hands on his thrust-forward hips and blandly peed in public. Generations of tourists had stopped long enough to photograph the fountain.

  The houses were much alike: stone or brick, most of them stuccoed, with red tile roofs. One of them was the Albergo di Golfo, the only inn the town afforded. Adrienne had booked one of its ten rooms and offered to share it with Columbo—on a Platonic basis, she insisted. She was astonished to discover that Columbo had a room of his own. That had been arranged by Galeazzo Castellano, who had used his police authority to take it from God-knew-which American reporter and assign it to the Los Angeles detective.

  She sat at a table with three other reporters, looking petulant—even sullen—as Columbo sat at dinner with Castellano. The tall, slender, graying, elegantly dressed Italian made an interesting contrast with Columbo, who, she observed, seemed to know little and care less about things she cared much about.

  Columbo and Castellano spoke Italian.

  “In the morning we will speak with Lorenzo Savona,” said Castellano. “The funeral is in the afternoon. I have arranged for him to break away from the mourners and come here.”

  “Maybe he’ll be able to answer the question,” said Columbo. “Who was Capelli?”

  4

  Columbo’s room had a tiny balcony that overlooked a small lush garden where a dozen cats lounged in the morning sun, scratching and yawning. Although he hadn’t asked for anything, a boy brought a tray to his door, so he sat on the balcony sipping strong dark coffee and nibbling on a light roll he had spread with butter. He wished he had a hard-boiled egg.

  Last night Castellano had pointed out the villa where Regina had lived with the old man. Bigger than any house in the village proper, it looked comfortable but not grand: a one-story stucco house planted on a steep slope. It was within easy walking distance of the town square. Everything in Marino di Bardineto was within easy walking distance of the town square.

  As Columbo was shrugging into his raincoat, he heard a rap on the door. Galeazzo Castellano had come to help him find his way around town.

  “It is never like this,” Castellano said as they emerged from the hotel onto the street. “This is going to be like a circus.”

  The town was filling with people. Some came on buses. Some had walked. Most came in cars, and the traffic overwhelmed the police force of Marino di Bardineto: three men in Napoleonic cocked plumed hats and crossed white bandoliers. Fortunately, they were reinforced by a busload of national police brought up from Genoa.

  Overnight, carpenters had built a platform in front of the church, for television cameras. Tapes or discs of Regina’s music blared from speakers mounted on the balcony of the town hall.

  Hawkers sold Regina souvenirs, some of them discs of her performances, most of them pictures, scarves, black bras and panties embroidered with her name, Regina dolls dressed in black underwear, and even crucifixes with a tiny portrait of her mounted in the center.

  “Lorenzo Savona doesn’t want to see us,” Castellano told Columbo as they worked their way through the crowd to the quay where Regina’s father was welcoming people aboard his glass-bottom boat. “He plans on making a lot of money today and doesn’t want to waste any time.”

  It was true. Lorenzo was still working the old game of nude sponge divers, using Regina’s youngest sister and a niece; and this morning he was selling a complete assortment of souvenirs on the quay and on the boat. He told Castellano rudely that he did not have time to talk to detectives today.

  “You’ve never been prosecuted for selling your daughters in prostitution,” said Castellano. “But it’s not too late.”

  Lorenzo shook his head. He was a squat, bald man with only four yellow teeth in the front of his mouth. He wore a dirty black suit and a dirty white shirt buttoned up to his throat, without a necktie. “I am an honest man,” he said. “Regina Celestiele went away and made a fortune and never shared a lira with me. Can this American understand what I am saying?”

  “Capisco,” Columbo said.

  “Today, is my chance to recover something of what she cost me.”

  “If you answer straight questions with straight answers,” said Columbo in Italian, “we won’t waste much of your valuable time.”

  “What could I know?” Lorenzo Savona shrugged. “She was killed in America. I hadn’t seen her for six years.”

  “You sold her to the old man who lived in the villa,” said Castellano. “Who was he?”

  “Signor Capelli,” Lorenzo answered. “She wanted to move to the villa and live with him. I allowed it.” He shrugged. “What else could I do? She was twenty years old and rebellious.”

  “But he gave you money for her,” said Castellano. Lorenzo shrugged again. “He gave me a present. Now, gentlemen, I must go aboard my boat. People are waiting.” He started to walk away.

  “Uh, I’ve got one little question, sir,” said Columbo. Lorenzo Savona turned impatiently.

  “I can’t help but wonder how your daughter came to meet Signor Capelli. Or how you came to meet him.” For a moment, Lorenzo fixed a hostile stare on Columbo. Then he shrugged once more and said, “It’s a small town, signor.”

  The mayor was no more helpful. He didn’t know who Signor Capelli was or where he came from. He knew only that it had been good for the town to have him there. He’d been a quiet citizen and spent a good deal of money. The chief of police said the same thing.

  5

  In a scene reminiscent of a traditional New Orleans funeral parade, the town band led the 1930s-vintage hearse containing the coffin of Regina Celestiele Savona to the church. The hearse was followed in procession by the priest and acolytes, followed by the family: Regina’s mother, Maria Savona, two of her brothers, a heavily pregnant sister, and her grandfather, Vittorio Savona. Lorenzo was not with them. He was too busy. Columbo and Castellano stood for a moment at the gate of the villa and stared down at the spectacle in the village. They saw many genuine mourners. Apart from the family, scores of Regina wannabes were there, some of them dressed in short black teddies, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels, wailing over the loss of their idol. Academics from Britain and America were on the platforms, solemnly explaining for the television cameras that Regina had been an underappreciated genius. The world would one day recognize her significant and lasting contribution to American music, they promised.

  Castellano turned and rang the bell. After a minute or so, the gate opened. A spare woman with a hard face and stare stood looking skeptically at the two detectives. Castellano explained who they were, and she admitted them to the villa, just inside the gate, onto the lawn before the house.

  Yes, she had worked there when Signor Capelli was in residence.

  Columbo spoke Italian. “The question is, who was Signor Capelli?”

  “I am a servant,” the woman said indignantly.

  “And we are policemen,” said Castellano. “Regina Savona was murdered. It is our duty to find out who killed her. It is your duty to help us. Who was Signor Capelli?”

  “He was not Italian,” she said. “I know that much. He spoke only a few' words.”


  “But men of honor came to see him,” said Castellano. She shook her head. “I never saw that.”

  “Could he have been an American?” Columbo asked. “Tell us what he looked like.”

  “He could have been an American. Or a German. He had the manners of an American—that is to say, he was demanding, abrupt, and loud. He was a little man, not so tall as I am. He wore his hair cut very short. He had a wide mouth, and when he smiled, he showed his teeth. He dressed like an American: checked jackets, knit shirts. I never saw a suit.”

  “What of Regina Savona?” asked Castellano.

  "Squaldrina,"the woman sneered—a squalid woman, a slut. “He was an old man. He was lonely. She did the most shameful things to entertain him.”

  “Signor Capelli was the kind of man who would enjoy the company of a squaldrina, though, wasn’t he?” Columbo ventured.

  The woman turned down the corners of her mouth and turned up the palms of her hands. “He was smitten with her.”

  “But you don’t know who he was?” Castellano persisted.

  “Signor. I did my work. He paid me. All my life I have been a servant. If I had shown much curiosity about who my employers were, how they earned their money, and so on, I would soon have been discharged and would have had no references. Being nonobservant is an element of my trade.”

  “Well, I guess we better not take any more of your time,” said Columbo.

  She stood in the open gate and looked down at the town and the funeral crowd as Columbo and Castellano walked down the steep street.

  “She’s lying,” Castellano muttered.

  Columbo turned around. “Signora,” he said, walking back a few steps. “I did have one more little question. If you don’t mind. Just a small point, nothing important. But… how did Signor Capelli pay you? I mean, did he give you checks, or—?”

  She planted an unfriendly stare on him for a moment, then said, “Signor Capelli paid me in cash.”

  “Did he pay all his bills that way? I mean, for the groceries and things.”