“It is if you become a danger to other drivers.”
Betta looked up at Rick. “What do you mean?”
Rick kept his eyes on the unsteady figure before them. “Carlo knows what I mean. You were trailing Sarchetti for your boss weren’t you?” There was no response. “But then you saw Bettta and me on the motorcycle, and that got your interest, didn’t it? You decided to follow me instead.”
“What I do for the bank is no business of yours,” he repeated. He was obviously clenching and unclenching his fists.
“You said that already. You even got up early to see where I went jogging. Someone could have been hurt.”
“Riccardo, what do you—?”
“I’ll explain later, Betta. I want Carlo to know that what he’s been up to the last few days hasn’t gone unobserved.”
“My boss will—”
“Your boss is on his way to jail, Carlo. He won’t be able to help even his most loyal employee. Now go home as Betta suggested.”
Rick knew what was coming and had planned to react. Carlo stepped forward and pulled back his fist to strike. Rick smacked him in the knee with his boot with a cracking sound. The man howled in pain, giving Rick a look of hate just as Rick’s fist caught him square in the jaw. He crumpled to the ground.
“Let’s get you home, Betta, Carlo will be a while getting up.”
A slurred shout reached their ears, but they were too far away from the man on the pavement to understand it. Betta squeezed Rick’s arm as they turned the corner. Later, as they walked into Piazza Monte Vecchio, Rick was still answering Betta’s questions. “I didn’t want to worry you. The wire was a nasty prank, but nothing came of it, and at that point I didn’t know if it was intended for me or Caterina. The way she reacted, not wanting the police to be told, makes me think that she’s into something nasty herself.”
Betta stopped and looked up at the lighted windows of her father’s apartment. “Will we ever find out about Caterina? This morning my father was wondering the same thing.”
“The mystery woman. My guess is that she’s returned to Milan after the excitement of her morning’s run, and we’ll never know what she’s really been up to.”
Betta slipped her arm inside Rick’s coat and around his waist. Her hands were cold, but he didn’t complain. “Riccardo, this sounds terrible, but all this excitement has given me an appetite.”
“A bowl of pasta does sound good. I have something to do at the hotel but then I’ll be back. Think about where you’d like to dine.”
“And you will tell me your theories about the missing Jacopos.”
By then, they may not be theories.
***
The hotel lobby was deserted except for one person sitting in a chair on the far side. Unfortunately for Rick it was Erica, and as usual she was dressed perfectly. She stood and waved, and he reluctantly walked to her and planted the required kisses on her cheeks. There was that perfume again. He noticed that her smile was brighter than he’d seen it since she’d barged back into his life. Had it only been a couple days?
“Come sit with me for a moment, Ricky. I have something to tell you.”
“Sure, but for just a minute.”
He sat down next to her on the sofa and was surprised when she took his hand in hers. “Ricky, I have decided to stay with Jeffrey.” Rick opened his mouth to speak but she held up her hand to stop him. “But what I want to tell you is that I couldn’t have made the decision without your help.”
“Erica, I did nothing.”
“Oh, yes you did. I will always be grateful.” She squeezed his hand. “Jeffrey has been pushing me to set a wedding date, and now we will. Sometime before the summer, I think. You will be invited, of course. You’ll come, won’t you? He wants to rent a villa in Tuscany and invite all our friends from the States. Destination weddings in Italy are very much in vogue these days, but I’m thinking Umbria. Tuscany has been overdone. ”
The woman will never change.
“Erica, that’s great news, and it will be an honor to be invited to the big event, wherever it takes place. Listen, I really must go. Dinner appointment. Give my best to Jeff.” He got to his feet. “Ciao, bella,” he said before walking off. “Tanti auguri.” Though it might be Jeff who needs the good luck, he thought as he approached the reception desk. Erica was making the right decision, but probably for the wrong reasons. Still, if the outcome was the correct one, did it really matter? That’s the question—was it truly the correct decision?
His mind moved quickly to the next issue at hand. The clerk looked up from his computer, passed over the room key without being asked, and returned to the screen. Rick weighed the heavy metal number in his hand before getting the clerk’s attention.
“Is Professor Gaddi in his room?”
The clerk checked the various cubicles. “His key is out, so he should be. If you’d like to call him it’s room 214.”
“Grazie.” Rick walked past the niche where the house phone sat and continued to the elevator. He got off at the second floor and walked past several doors before reaching the right one. After taking a breath he rapped twice. He heard footsteps and then a voice.
“Chi è?”
“Riccardo Montoya, Professor.”
When the door opened Rick was struck by Gaddi’s appearance, beginning with the man’s hollow eyes. They looked like they hadn’t seen sleep for days, and the stubble on his face added to the haunted look. A tie hung loose from the frayed open collar of his wrinkled shirt. The smile was forced, for appearances’ sake.
“Riccardo, I was not expecting visitors. Let me invite you in. Fortunately they have given me a room which allows me to do so. Two chairs, if you can believe it.” He stood back to allow his visitor to enter. The small sitting area had the chairs as well as a television that was tuned to the national news. The usual generic mountain scenes were framed on the wall. Beyond another doorway would be the bedroom and a bath. Rick thanked him and took a seat.
“We are still under house arrest, Riccardo.” He rubbed his chin as if just realizing its need for a razor. “Let me turn off the news, there’s nothing that will cheer us up.” He pressed the remote that had been sitting on the table between them and the screen went dark. When he put it back down he noticed the glass of wine on the table. “Can I offer you some wine, Riccardo? It’s from the little refrigerator, so it’s not the finest.”
“No thank you, Professor.”
“And what brings you here, Riccardo? To share the misery of our forced confinement? Bassano is a lovely town, but not when one is required to remain in it.” He picked up the glass and brought it to his lips.
“The forced confinement has come to an end, Professor. The murderer of the two men has been apprehended.”
The glass, still full, returned to the table. “Really? Grazie a dio. I shall be able to return home. How do you know?”
Rick saw no reason not to recount the scene in the bank warehouse, though he did not go into detail about the struggle. He watched Gaddi carefully when he came to the part about the two paintings, now each with a bullet hole. The professor listened and sipped his wine.
“You were fortunate to get away safely, Riccardo. But how strange that Porcari would have resorted to such violence. It makes sense now that you’ve tied everything together, but I would never have suspected him.” He studied the ruby liquid in his glass, lost in thought.
“My friend Betta thinks that the two paintings are the missing Jacopos.”
Gaddi came out of his trance. “Does she?”
Rick leaned forward. “But I do not think either of those paintings is a Jacopo, Professor. And I believe you don’t either.”
The weary cast of Gaddi’s face was now mixed with sadness. The two men looked at each other in silence, broken after a few moments by the older man. “I don’t understand what you mean, Ric
cardo.” The indignation in his voice, if that’s what is was, appeared forced.
“I saw Sarchetti last night after dinner, before he was killed, and he was in high spirits. The visit to Bassano had gone surprisingly well, he told me, without going into details. But since he was a businessman who dealt in buying and selling art, my assumption was that he had made a deal, and a very lucrative one. Today Detective DiMaio mentioned in passing that you had met with Sarchetti yesterday afternoon.” Gaddi’s face remained unchanged. Rick continued. “My friend Betta’s name is Innocenti. She works with her father at their gallery in Piazza Monte Vecchio, Arte Innocenti.” A flicker of something appeared in the old man’s eyes. “You went to the gallery and made some vague inquiries about buying and selling art. I found that curious. But it started to make sense when I heard about your meeting with Sarchetti. I had always found it strange that the man was at the seminar in the first place, but now it all comes together. What better place to meet to talk about selling paintings by Jacopo Bassano than at a seminar about the master himself?”
Rick watched as Gaddi got to his feet, walked slowly to the other side of the room, and stopped. He spoke to Rick but his eyes were somewhere else. “Riccardo, two memories of my childhood have stayed with me all my life, and they both deal with my father. The first was his activities in the war. He was barely a teenager when he slipped out of his home in Padova and joined the partisans. He never wanted to talk about it, even when I asked him. It was that way until he died. But my uncles filled me in, and at the funeral I met many of the men he’d fought beside, one of whom told me how my father saved his life.”
Gaddi walked to the table and took a long drink of the wine while Rick waited. “My other memory is of my father’s love for art. Where he acquired it I never discovered, but since he worked in a factory, everything he knew was self-taught. He was certainly not a rich man, but he collected whenever he could, and our home was filled with color. I would sit in front of a painting on a small stool and he would tell me about it—the use of color, the composition, the symbolism. When I am in front of a class I always think of those times. The love of art was what he passed on to me, and I made it my life work. He died after I got my first professorship and taught my first class. I remember him sitting in the back of the lecture hall.”
The old man swallowed hard and did not meet Rick’s eyes. He stayed on his feet.
“One day when I was about ten, I got into the attic of our house. I had been told never to go up there alone, since it was dark, dusty, and dirty, but like any child I was curious. Among all the old furniture, boxes, and books was an ancient trunk. I thought it would have treasure or something equally valuable, and when I opened it I found two paintings wrapped in cloth. They were beautiful works, even at that age I could recognize it. The next day I wanted to ask my father about them, why they weren’t on the walls with our others, but I knew I would be in trouble if he found out that I had gone to the attic by myself.
“I forgot about it, grew up, went to the university and started my profession. It was only when my mother died and I was forced to go through my parents’ belongings that I got into the attic again and again came upon that trunk. By that time I had taken on Jacopo da Bassano as one of my specialties, and when I unwrapped the cloth from the two paintings I realized what I had in my hands.”
For the first time since starting his story, Gaddi looked directly at Rick. “But I also realized how the paintings had come into my father’s hands. My emotions were a mixture of elation and shame. For weeks I wrestled with myself over what to do, and I finally decided that my father’s reputation was more important than returning the two works to the world of art. So I kept them, knowing that some day it would all have to come out, but long after my father was gone.”
He walked out of the room and Rick could hear water running in the bathroom sink. Gaddi returned with a filled glass and set it down next to the now-empty wineglass. Rick waited as the man put his thoughts together to continue.
“Last year my wife became ill. I believe I told you about that when we met at the museum. When she could not be cured by our local doctors, I became desperate. They told me there was a specialist in Switzerland who might be able to help, if I could get the money together from friends and relatives. I knew that would be impossible, but I remembered the two Jacopos. I made some discreet inquiries, without revealing anything, and was told about Franco Sarchetti. I contacted him and we agreed to meet here in Bassano.”
Rick waited a few moments to be sure that the professor had finished. “From what I’ve heard about Sarchetti’s reputation, he was probably the perfect man for the sale.”
Gaddi returned to his chair and took a sip of water. His voice now was hoarse. “He knew he had me over a barrel, and I’m sure he had some prospective buyers in mind. In that meeting yesterday we finally settled on a price. It would have taken care of my wife’s treatment, but I’m convinced it was a small fraction of the true value of the two. What made me most ashamed was that these masterpieces might never see the light of day again. They’d be prisoners in the private collection of some millionaire. For a scholar, that was like a knife in the heart.” Rick was about to speak, but Gaddi held up his hand. “Let me show you. You will understand.” He walked into the other room and Rick could hear a door opening, then closing. When he returned, Gaddi was carrying a long, thin suitcase. He laid it on the carpet and pulled a zipper that went around three sides. Carefully he opened the flap and removed two cloth sacks. His hands were shaking as he pulled the two painting from the sacks and set them against the wall.
Rick had seen slides of Jacopo’s works during the seminar and looked at them up close at the museum, but being with these two in a small room made him feel like he was almost with the master in his workshop. Rick wanted to be excited. It should have been a special privilege to study two paintings that had not seen the light of day for more than half a century. But as he focused on the two works, he felt sadness and guilt. The man before him had been put in the terrible position of choosing between the ethics of his life work and saving the woman he loved. The truth about what Gaddi had done would have come to light eventually, Rick knew that. He only wished he hadn’t been the one to make it happen. Why couldn’t Captain Scuderi have appeared on the scene when needed? Rick pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrated on the paintings.
Jacopo’s genius flowed out from the canvases with movement and color. Both had religious themes, but the biblical stories they told were too obscure for Rick to recognize them. The scenes were filled with people and animals coexisting in harmony, as if the religious subject was merely a pretext for the artist to create an idyllic representation of rural life. Rick learned at the seminar that Jacopo was a man who remained loyal to his roots, and especially to his hometown. He had never left Bassano for any long period, despite the temptations of Venice and other larger cities. It was here that he’d raised his family, teaching his sons to paint and carry on the tradition. Rick’s eye moved from the figures to the landscape behind them, wondering how many of the hills and mountains were the same that surrounded the town today. He knew it would be a question that Jacopo scholars would debate in the future, though after this seminar the art community should let Jacopo rest in peace for a few years. Two murders, a man in prison, and another man’s career in jeopardy. Was it all worth it for works of art? He studied the two canvases in an attempt to get an answer, knowing there would be none. He was so immersed in them that he almost forgot that Gaddi was in the same room.
“They are magnificent, Professor. I understand completely how painful your decision must have been. These paintings should be displayed where anyone can see them.”
Gaddi barely heard Rick’s remark. His head was in his hands. “Sarchetti was my last chance to save Pina. What will I do now? Not only will I not have the money for her treatment, I will be arrested for hiding stolen artwork.”
Ri
ck extended his hand to touch the man’s shoulder but then pulled it back, taking a deep breath. After another gaze at the paintings he reached into his pocket, took out his cell phone, and punched in a number. It took four rings before it was answered.
“Beppo? I’ve got something for you.”
Chapter Fourteen
“I was sure Inspector Occasio would be with you so that he could personally thank me for tying up his murder investigation.”
DiMaio and Rick looked out over the Brenta, its ripples catching the reflection of the spotlights trained on the bridge. They could hear the faint sound of the early newscast from one of the houses that lined the riverbank close to where they stood. Perhaps the murder was already being reported since there had been a crew setting up on the street when Rick and Betta slipped out of the warehouse.
“I’m certain the inspector would have sent his warmest thanks had he known I was going to be seeing you, Riccardo. You must forgive me for neglecting to mention it to him. He was extremely busy trying to sort out the details to his advantage.”
“The poor man will no longer have a contact in the bank.”
“Al contrario, my friend. When I left Occasio, he was talking with the bank president himself, no doubt assuring him that he would be doing all he could to contain the scandal.”
Rick leaned his elbows on the railing. “That may be tough to do with Porcari taken off in handcuffs.”
“My capo will find a way, I assure you. But enough about him. Now that you are no longer a suspect, we can return to the issue of your future in the police.”
Rick chuckled. “There will be none, my friend. I am perfectly happy to work occasionally on the periphery. Keep in mind, if I had been a cop this week I would have had to take orders from the inspector.”
DiMaio nodded as he stared at the light far down the river. “I have no way to respond to such an argument, Riccardo. But let me say that it has been a pleasure to work with you this week, even if you were on the periphery.”
Murder Most Unfortunate Page 17
