A Thousand Tombs

by Molly Greene

  When she couldn’t find it, she upended the contents onto the bed. Everything tumbled out. But when she dropped the purse beside the pile, she heard a distinct movement within the bag. Something was still inside. She spread the top and looked.

  It appeared to be empty.

  She shook it and the movement was repeated, so she pulled out the lining and shook again. Again the sound came. She examined the material and found a slit on one side, then stuck it back inside and pushed two fingers through the hole and grasped something soft that was nestled against the leather. She pulled it out.

  It was the velvet bag.

  The coin was in her purse.

  There was only one way it could have gotten there, and that was by the hand of Vincenzo Vitelli. She carried it back into the kitchen and held up the square of velvet on the flat of her palm.

  “Mack.”

  He glanced at her, smiling, but did a double-take when he realized what she was showing him. He put down the spatula and reduced the flame beneath the pan, then turned around and crossed his arms over his muscular chest.

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “Good question.” She tossed the bag on the table. The heavy clink of the gold inside was almost ominous, like the sound of a lock closing on a heavy door. She sat down. “Mr. Vitelli must have stashed it in my purse before I left.”

  “Why would he do that?” Mack picked up his coffee, then pushed off the counter and sat down across from her.

  “Beats me.” The minute the words cleared her lips, they both smiled. She’d almost forgotten about her eye. “The only plausible explanation is that he wanted it out of the house so the Italian detectives wouldn’t find it. But if that’s true, he must have stuck it in there before they even showed up.”

  Mack nodded. “How’s that eye feel today?”

  “Good enough to let me forget about it once in a while. But I bet you can’t, staring at it like that.”

  “I’m staring at what’s behind it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m trying to imagine what you’re thinking.”

  “Aside from the fact I can’t seem to get rid of this” – she held up the coin – “I’m thinking I hope the bacon doesn’t burn.”

  He leaped from the chair to grab a hot pad and shoved the pan to the back burner. “We’re good,” he said. “But that’s a problem, that coin. What to do with it now, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” Gen replied. “The Italian cops say he’s importing illegally, and Vitelli says they’re wrong. If I give this to the Italian cops, it might be a mistake.”

  “But the real question is why does Vitelli want it out of his house so bad he loses that bag twice.”

  “That’s the million dollar question.”

  The hinges on the guest room door squeaked and Luca came slowly down the hall. His hair was flat on one side and bushed out on the other, as if he’d fallen asleep with one cheek on the pillow and hadn’t moved an inch all night.

  “Good morning,” Mack said. “Sleep good?”

  Luca nodded. From the looks of it, he wasn’t fully awake.

  “Do you drink coffee?” Gen asked, then gave their host a quick glance.

  Mack grabbed a mug and poured two more cups, then handed one to Gen and the other to the boy. “Yeah, let’s get the kid all jacked up and see if maybe after breakfast he’s interested in finishing the job.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the garden. “Milk is in the fridge.”

  Luca started toward the refrigerator, but stopped and stared as if he’d seen a ghost. He put his coffee down on the table and lifted the bag, then closed his fist around the coin and held it. “I thought you took this back,” he said.

  “I thought so, too,” Gen replied.

  He seemed to be worried. “What’re you gonna do now?”

  “We’re going to eat a nice breakfast.” Mack poured a bowl of whisked eggs into a waiting pan. “Then Genny and I are going into the city to have a talk with Mr. Vitelli.”

  Chapter Nine

  They left Luca pulling weeds in the garden. Mack drove separately in his truck and followed Gen over the Oakland Bridge and into North Beach. She’d told him she would be all right alone, but he insisted he accompany her and wait outside, just in case she needed reinforcements. He said he wouldn’t go in, but he wanted to be there.

  He wanted her to know he had her back.

  Vincenzo Vitelli’s house looked unchanged from the previous morning. Gen parked at the curb and watched in the rearview mirror while Mack pulled in a few houses down. She got out and gave him a little wave, then tucked her pepper spray into her cleavage and saw the flash of teeth that meant he was smiling.

  Gen wasn’t sure how this meeting would go. She’d brought the coin, but left it hidden in the trunk of her car. Next week she’d take it to her safe deposit box. Mack said he had a good hiding place, but she’d argued that it might be better if nobody had direct custody of it until its true ownership was clear. They decided they’d wait to hear what Vitelli had to say before they made a move.

  He answered the door after her first knock. His expression was dour and haggard. That said he hadn’t slept much last night and that he wasn’t at all happy to see her standing there, but he waved her inside nonetheless.

  “Come in.”

  “I think you know why I’m here.”

  “To ask if I am truffatore. Crook. Is that the word you use?”

  “That word will do, but that’s not the only question I have. The coin, Mr. Vitelli. I found it in my purse. I don’t know when you had time to hide it there, but I’d like to know why you did.”

  “I am not sure I understand your meaning.”

  “Please, Mr. Vitelli. You don’t seem to realize the predicament you’ve put me in. If the coin is, in fact, illegal, my having it makes me an accessory after the fact. If I hand it over to the Italian cops and the gold piece turns out to be legitimately yours, that means I’ve done you a disservice. But it’s hard for me to believe everything is on the up-and-up. If it’s rightfully yours, why have you made sure – two times now – that it isn’t in your possession? You see my dilemma.”

  Vitelli scrubbed a hand across his unshaven jaw, then went to the couch and sat down.

  “Mr. Vitelli?” Gen took the chair across from him. “Will you please tell me what is going on.”

  “The Carabinieri confiscated the statue.” He didn’t elaborate.

  “But you hid the bag in my purse long before they showed up.”

  “Yes, while you were on the phone in the kitchen.”

  “You must have known they were coming and what would happen when they did, and you didn’t want them to take the coin.”

  He raised a hand and his eyebrows at the same time, then let them fall.

  “Is that Italian for ‘I had a feeling’?”

  He nodded. “I did not know they were coming, but I thought someone would.”

  “I’d ask if the coin is rightfully yours, Mr. Vitelli, but I know you will simply tell me yes.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  “Because I have what looks like an ancient Roman artifact in my possession that doesn’t belong to me. And it doesn’t take a heap of smarts to see there’s more going on that you want to admit. I wanted to ask for your story one more time so I can try to decide what to do. So. Please tell me.”

  “I am an old man who is loyal to my country.” His voice grew weaker and a bit uncertain. Still, he seemed determined to speak the words. “I may have been blind. Naïve. But I am committed to preserving my Italian heritage for our children’s children.”

  She could tell he believed it deep down, and something about his speech inspired a rush of sympathy. Her voice conveyed her softer side when she said, “And just how does that speech and an old coin and a crated statue here in the States accomplish that? I’d like to think you’re on the right side, but you’re not giving me any proof.”

  He seemed so strong, and so
vulnerable at the same time. She felt bad he was in the middle of whatever was happening. He should be playing bocce ball in the park with other aging Italian gentlemen.

  “You will have proof, in time,” he replied. “Please. Keep the coin. Stay away until the danger has passed. I am begging you. You will only make things worse if you ask questions.”

  Gen’s eyebrows spiked. “I’ll hang onto it for now, but I’m going to make it my business to find out what’s happening.”

  “No.” He looked as adamant as Luca when he’d insisted he wouldn’t go to the police. “You must not. It is unwise. You do not understand how carefully I must tread.”

  If he’d known Gen well, he would have known that telling her not to do something only made the prospect of doing it sweeter. “Won’t you tell me why? I can help. It’s what I do for a living.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Then tell me about the men you argued with Friday night. That’s the danger part, obviously. Who taped you to the chair, and why? What were they going to do with you, keep you trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey forever? And who was the moron who hit me?”

  “I would not be doing you any favors to give you an introduction.” Vitelli shook his head. “I must handle this.”

  “Oh, right. It looked as if you had everything under control when I showed up yesterday morning.”

  Vitelli’s hand trembled as he adjusted his glasses. For a moment she could see her grandfather in him again, and it made her sad the man was alone in this.

  “Miss Delacourt,” he said. “Go now. Tend to your eye. It is my wish that this is the only injury you receive from this situation.”

  Gen took in some air and thought, then let it go without a challenge. “All right. We’ll see.” She pulled a business card from her purse and handed it across to Vitelli. “The coin is going in my safe deposit box next week. When you change your mind about sharing and you want to get in touch, call my cell.”

  He took the card and followed her to the door.

  “I’m not any wiser than when I came in,” she said.

  “You are wise to question everything and everyone.”

  “That’s been my experience, too, about life in general. Mr. Vitelli, what did they want? The men who tied you up. Was it the coin?”

  “When you live as long as I have, you make enemies.”

  Gen’s smile sagged. Again with the indirect answers; she’d tried enough for one day. “I just hope the authorities aren’t ticked off with me for not handing this over if the judgment goes against you.”

  They shook hands. Gen opened the door and walked through, and Vitelli closed it behind her.

  When she was clear of the shrubbery she looked toward Mack’s truck. It was there, where he’d originally parked. He was still in the cab, but he wasn’t looking her way. She could see the object of his attention from where she stood.

  A woman leaned against the driver’s door, wearing a wide smile and a low-cut dress that hugged her hourglass figure.

  It was Carla Salvatore.

  Gen was a little far away to tell, but her gut suggested Mack might be a bit too enthralled for her comfort. She struggled to beat back a flare of jealousy as she crossed the street and strolled toward the truck. Mack kept the smile in place as his eyes slid between her and Carla.

  “Genny, this is Carla Salvatore. Carla, meet Gen Delacourt.”

  “Miss Salvatore and I have met,” Gen replied. “What brings you here today?”

  When Carla turned, her eyes flicked from the top of Gen’s head to her feet, then away. Gen got the distinct impression she was not impressed.

  Then Carla looked at Mack and gave him a lazy smile. “Providence,” she replied. Her eyes swung back to Gen and they lost their glitter and went hard again. “And you?”

  “An interest in learning the truth. You should try it sometime.”

  Salvatore’s eyes narrowed. “You would be better off staying far away from Vitelli and his troubles,” she replied.

  “Is that a threat, Miss Salvatore?”

  Carla opened her mouth to reply, but Mack cut her off. “Hey, it was a pleasure to meet you, Carla. Genny, you ready to go? Climb in, let’s take a drive. I’ll bring you back to your car later. I think we should go grab some lunch.”

  Gen complied without a word. As they drove away, she looked in the side mirror and saw Carla standing in the center of the street, where she stayed until they turned the corner and her figure was lost from view.

  “Did you make a new friend?” Gen asked.

  Mack turned his head and looked at her, then back at the road.

  He didn’t answer.

  Chapter Ten

  The pawn shop was right where Luca said it would be, just off Grant on a side street that was close enough to the main drag to draw traffic. It was a relatively un-remodeled area, meaning the building showed its age.

  A battered sign announcing the store was open hung in the dingy glass door. The striped awning over the entry was ripped, and the goods in the window display looked as if they hadn’t been dusted for weeks. From the outside, it appeared business was a bust.

  But looks can be deceiving.

  As soon as she walked in, her first impression dissipated like smoke in a magic act. Three customers were hunched over locked cases, perusing the merchandise. A fourth pushed a gold wedding band across the counter and waited as an employee examined it carefully with a jeweler’s loupe. Chances were good he was the appraiser.

  A middle-aged man stood apart, watching over it all. Gen figured him for the owner. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet like a fighter, as if he was keyed up and nervous as hell. He seemed to be trying to look at ease, just busy supervising his minion, but the up-and-down motion was an odd behavior for a man Gen imagined must tip the scales at close to two hundred pounds.

  His hair was nearly gone, aside from a Friar Tuck fringe around the sides and back and a single tuft that sprouted from the middle of his skull. He wore reading glasses on a chain around his neck, and as he bounced, the glasses did a jig on the burgundy sweater vest stretched tight across his midriff. The patch of hair on his forehead followed suit, waving like a sea anemone in the current.

  Another day she might have found it humorous. Gen tried not to stare, and, lucky for her, the movement ceased as she approached.

  “What can I help you with today?” he asked.

  “My name is Gen Delacourt,” she replied. “Are you the owner?”

  “Ralph Zuccaro, at your service.”

  “Mr. Zuccaro, I ah–”

  “Excuse me for a moment.” One of the customers had raised a hand. Gen nodded, then turned her attention to a nearby display of earrings on a wheeled case on the counter. It was stocked with every imaginable design and stone, including diamonds and amethysts and citrine. They all sparkled a welcome.

  Gen was mesmerized by a pair with delicate dangling gold chains that ended in a spray of dark red rubies. She assumed they were rubies, anyway. Not that she’d know the difference between red glass and the real thing.

  The appraiser gave the ring back to the waiting customer and stood, then sauntered over and leaned his elbows on the countertop. “They’re lovely,” he said. Something about his tone made Gen look up. He was tall and languid-looking and focused on the earrings she held.

  “Yes,” Gen replied. “I’m not much of a jewelry person, but my sister would love these. Ruby is her favorite color.”

  “Not shopping for yourself?” he asked. “What a shame. I can see you wearing those.”

  And then Zuccaro was back, adding, “They’d make a lovely Christmas present.”

  Gen laughed and replaced the earrings in their former place in the display. “You’re both great salesmen, but the holidays are still months away and I’m not that organized.” She turned to face Zuccaro. “I’m actually here to ask about a boy and a coin.”

  The appraiser was about to move on, but he halted within earshot and made himself busy. Logic told h
er he’d been in the shop the day Luca came in, and he had also seen the coin. He wanted to hear what she had to say.

  “Luca.”

  The owner’s mouth curved downward and he started to bounce again. Luca was apparently not a subject that made him happy.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “An interested party told me.”

  His frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either, that’s why I’m here. Will you tell me what happened before he came in to show you what he showed you?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I found Mr. Vitelli taped to a chair Saturday morning and got this black eye for my trouble. I’m taking it personally.”

  Zuccaro’s standoffishness melted just a bit, but Gen wasn’t sure why. “The boy had been playing his guitar for tips. Just up the street there. He was talented. People stopped to listen, and the music was good for business. I even sold a couple of guitars I’ve had hanging around here for years. He seemed like a decent boy, so I tipped him once in a while. Then he came in with the coin, and my opinion changed.”

  “Is it valuable?” Gen asked.

  Zuccaro’s frown morphed into a downright scowl. “It’s priceless.”

  “Priceless? As in rare?”

  “Beyond rare. Museum quality. Irreplaceable. Is that an adequate description?” His voice grew strained, and he began to fiddle with a button on his sweater vest. He was clearly nervous, or afraid. But of what?

  “How do you know?” Gen asked.

  “I’m an avid coin collector. I recognized it from a numismatics text I own about ancient Roman currency.”

  “So you assume he stole it from someone.”

  “He told us a story about an old man, but only a fool drops a medallion worth a quarter of a million dollars into a penniless musician’s guitar case as a gratuity.”

  “How did you know to call the Italian brass?”

  “I didn’t call anyone. But in case you were not aware, the United States has an agreement with Italy not to allow the import of plundered antiquities.”