Free A Florentine Death by Michele Giuttari

letter had been connected to the Micali murder.
    He made up his mind to stick to the line of action he had decided on with his men.
    He decided he wouldn't ask his friend Fuschi in Forensics to examine this second communication. He remembered only too well the strange look he'd given him when he had brought him the results of his analysis of the first message.
    'I thought it was best to come in person,' he had said, the Monday after the Micali murder. 'I haven't done a written report. It's best if this thing doesn't get into the records.'
    'Thanks.'
    'Don't mention it. But there's not much I can tell you. The paper is ordinary A4 paper, the bloodstains are red paint, very easy to find, and the glue is the kind you can get in any stationer's. There were no prints of any kind, not on the letters, not in the glue, not on the paper. None.'
    'That's fine. Thanks a lot.'
    That was when Fuschi had looked at him with that strange expression on his face. 'Did you understand what I just said?' 'Yes, of course.' 'There were no prints.'
    'I heard, I'm not deaf,' Ferrara had said, tensing.
    'All right, you're the policeman, and I'm just a layman. But I can't help wondering how come the dead man's prints weren't on the paper. He must have touched it . . .'

'Obviously the killer must have wiped them off afterwards,' Ferrara had said, defensively.
    'Instead of taking the paper away with him? He starts wasting time, when someone could come in at any moment and catch him red-handed? And for what? To let everyone know that he'd threatened him?'
    Ferrara cut him short. 'Let me sort that out.' He realised that he wasn't handling this very well.
    Maybe he'd have done better to show it to Massimo, who was fond of puzzles, he'd thought at the time.
    Promising himself he'd talk to Massimo as soon as they got back from Vienna, Ferrara had put on a CD of arias sung by Natalie Dessay, Petra's latest discovery, determined to finish the evening with music and his wife.
     
    2
     
     
     
    The Ferraras had not been the only ones to interrupt their holidays.
    Valentina Preti had hurried back to Bologna from San Vigilio on 29 December, two days before New Year's Eve. Exactly a week after she had arrived.
    She had been close to a nervous breakdown when she left Bologna, but by the time she got back she was more confused and uncertain than ever. But one thing she knew was that she had to end the relationship that was threatening to ruin her life for ever.
     
    Valentina went back at least twice a year to the beautiful Art Nouveau hotel her family had owned for three generations: at Christmas and either at Carnival or at Easter. Not usually in summer.
    Having practically been born with skis on her feet, she loved hurling herself down the long pistes that surrounded the peak of the Plan de Corones. But in summer she preferred the beaches of southern Italy or the Greek islands, or going for weekend breaks in the Cinque Terre or on the Golfo dei Poeti.
    She had been living in Bologna for four years, sharing an apartment with her friend Cinzia Roberti. After finishing school at the age of eighteen, she had enrolled on an Arts, Music and Drama course at the University of Bologna: at last an opportunity to move away from the narrow horizons of that corner of the Dolomites.
    Her friendship with Cinzia had made it easier. Two years younger than her, the daughter of a Bolognese surgeon, Cinzia Roberti was almost her exact opposite. A wild animal', was how her father had described her indulgently, as if that were an excuse for her behaviour. Short and thin, with black hair, she was at least as impulsive, independent, stubborn and determined as Valentina was docile and indecisive. They had known each other since they were children. The Robertis had been coming to San Vigilio di Marebbe since 1990, the year that they had discovered the Hotel Passo Selva. They had been impressed by Valentina's parents, who always welcomed their guests as if they were part of some ideal