He checked his phone, saw that he had been sitting for a half hour, and wondered if he should inquire at the desk about Conti. Just at that moment the desk sergeant answered the phone. When he heard the voice his body stiffened slightly and he glanced over at Rick while nodding at the unseeing person on the other end of the line. After hanging up he looked back at Rick and smiled, again nodding slightly.
Twenty minutes later Rick was the only occupant of the bench, like the worst player on the basketball team. He glanced up and saw a man in his sixties appear at the doorway and walk to the desk. The color of his baggy suit matched his thinning hair, and he walked as if his feet hurt. Must be another pensioner needing a permit of one sort or another. The sergeant, now on his feet, silently pointed to Rick with his chin and the new arrival strode to the bench. Rick stood up and shook the man’s hand.
“Signor Montoya? Conti. Piacere. I very much regret that you have been kept waiting. Unfortunately it could not be avoided. Please come to my office.” Already annoyed by the wait, Rick was now disturbed by the thin smile on the Commissario’s face as they shook hands. Was Conti late on purpose, to show who was in charge? If the man got his enjoyment from such games, this could become a tedious exercise. Rick murmured an answer about not minding the wait and followed the man through the door, then along a wide corridor with doors off it at regular intervals. At its end was Conti’s office. The policeman motioned Rick to sit in a chair in front of the desk. Rick was expecting to be offered a coffee, but no offer was forthcoming.
“An unfortunate accident delayed me, Signor Montoya.” Conti settled into his institutional metal chair, leaning back with a slight squeak. “A man jumped to his death from a high wall at the north side of the city.” He looked at Rick as if waiting for him to answer.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rick said, for lack of anything more profound.
Conti continued to gaze at Rick for several seconds before speaking again. “Signor Montoya, I spoke to the man’s employer.” Another pause. “It seems that you were the last person to see the dead man before his fall.”
“Canopo?” Rick immediately remembered the encounter outside the shoe shop and the man rushing off down the street.
“That is correct. Signor Landi said that you had left his store to visit their workshop. We checked, and apparently neither of you arrived there. Can you tell me what happened?” Conti eased his chair back and folded his hands over his stomach, but kept his eyes on Rick. The chair gave another squeak.
“We were together only briefly,” Rick began, trying to recall the details while gathering his thoughts. But they were difficult to gather. He had spent barely ten minutes with Canopo, but in that time they had somehow connected, like two strangers in a foreign land. “After we left the shop we went into a bar on the street and had coffee. As we were leaving he stopped to talk to someone, and—”
“Who was that person?”
“I have no idea. It was a man, I’m sure of that.”
“Did you hear any of the conversation?”
“No, Commissario, Canopo stepped away from me and spoke to him at the entrance to a shoe store. When he finished the conversation and came back, he asked to postpone the visit to the workshop until tomorrow, since something had come up. Then he rushed off.”
“What did the man look like?”
“I didn’t really see much of him. He mostly had his back to me, and was inside the entrance to the shop.”
“Did Canopo leave with this man?”
“No, after he gave me his excuses and hurried off, I didn’t see the other man.”
“Which way did Canopo go?”
“Down the street, away from the shop, I think that would be—”
“I know. It would be toward where his body was found. What did you talk to him about?”
“Nothing of any importance. The weather. He complained about the cold, being from Sicily, I remember that. And a bit about my purchasing Etruscan artifacts.” Conti’s eyebrow raised. “Well, not artifacts, just Etruscan art that the store sells.”
“Did he appear upset? Disturbed by anything?”
“Not at all. He was very friendly and talkative in the bar. But after he talked to this man, he seemed in a hurry. Nothing more than that. I assumed it was something to do with his work.” Rick’s chair was as hard as the bench, and he shifted in it to gain a bit of comfort. “There is something else I remember he said when we were in the bar.” Conti leaned forward slightly, but waited for Rick to continue. “He compared the Sicilians and the Tuscans, saying there are good and bad people in both places. Said the Tuscans can be just as bad but think they’re better, something like that. I found it strange.”
Conti’s face showed puzzlement. Was he wondering if Rick was making this all up? He nodded and swiveled in his chair, stretching out his legs, all the while keeping his eyes on Rick. “Where did you go after he walked away?”
“I had an hour or so to kill before our appointment,” Rick answered, immediately regretting his choice of words. “So I walked around the center of town for a while before coming here. My last stop before coming here was the big park.”
“The archeological park, the highest point of the city.”
“It seemed that way. If I have time during my stay I want to explore that castle. It is very impressive.”
Conti frowned and then his mouth turned upward to form that half smile Rick had seen in the waiting room. “Obviously you are not aware, Signor Montoya. That castle is a federal prison.” This was the first change in the man’s expression since they had sat down. “Did you talk to anyone as you walked the streets?”
Rick understood the inference of the question but he tried not to show it. “I spoke to no one. Do you suspect foul play, Commissario?”
Conti hesitated before answering. “It does seem strange that the man would take his own life. And thanks to the cold weather, the streets of the city were deserted, including, it appears, those near the scene of the accident. So we have no witnesses to the fall, though we are still trying to find anyone who might have been in the area. I had hoped you could be of help.” He noticed Rick’s expression and added, “Of course what you told me will help in completing the picture.” He bent forward and placed his forearms on the desk. “But you have not come here to discuss the death of someone you just met. We should be talking about your undercover work, should we not?”
Rick detected an edge of sarcasm in the man’s voice when he said the word “undercover.” Beppo had told him that the local police would not be happy about the ministry’s encroachment on their turf, so Conti’s tone was to be expected. Rick thought about how his father would have reacted, and he opted for the diplomatic.
“Commissario, I know that the ministry very much appreciates your cooperation in this matter. And I will be keeping you apprised of my progress and look forward to your suggestions.” Conti’s expression did not waver. So much for diplomacy. Rick pulled his leather notebook from his pocket, opened it and reviewed the local people who Beppo had given him to contact. Conti listened carefully but without comment, until Rick mentioned Arnolfo Zerbino, the museum curator.
“Zerbino? The ministry doesn’t think he could have anything to do with this, do they?”
“No, no, I didn’t mean to give that impression, Commissario, his will be more a personal contact. Beppo, that is, Signor Rinaldi, knew the man when they both studied at the university. He thought Zerbino would be someone I would enjoy meeting.”
“That is reassuring. Dr. Zerbino has been helpful to us in the past with cases of missing artifacts. That was before the ministry got involved.” The sarcasm again. “Well, Signor Montoya, it appears that you are off to a good start, despite this unfortunate incident. We are at your disposal for any support you might need, and I look forward to hearing of your progress. You have my telephone number and now you know where I can be foun
d.”
He held up one finger and tapped his cheek in thought. “In that regard, it might be better if in the future you do not come into the building through the main doors used by the public. We don’t want to give your new business associates the impression that you are cozy with the police, in case they may be keeping an eye on you. I will have one of my men show you a back entrance and get you cleared to use it from now on.” He was about to rise from his chair when Rick spoke.
“Commissario, who do you think is behind these stolen artifacts?”
The policeman eased back into his chair, reminding himself that although Rick spoke Italian without an accent, he was very much an American. Italians rarely asked such direct questions, instead priding themselves in the use of subtlety and nuance. He sat for a few moments in thought before answering, slowly and deliberately, as if talking to a child.
“Signor Montoya, I know the ministry is convinced that these items have come from this area, and been discovered recently, but I am not. The people living around Volterra have been raiding Etruscan tombs for centuries. Who can be sure that these pieces are not from the secret collection of some noble Italian family, fallen on hard times and in need of cash? And that is only one possibility. So I am skeptical. But that does not mean that I wish you anything but the greatest success in your endeavor.”
The thin smile that had greeted Rick in the waiting room earlier returned to Conti’s lips, and Rick sensed that the meeting was over. Both men rose to their feet and Conti came around to the front of the desk. “You are staying at the San Lino, I understand? It is a fine hotel.”
***
After Rick left the room with one of Conti’s men, the commissario returned to his chair and stared at the window for a few moments before picking up his phone. “Ask Detective LoGuercio to come in.”
The young detective, in another well-tailored dark suit, appeared almost instantly, as if he expected to be called. And indeed he had, having walked past Rick when he was sitting at the bench in the waiting room. Conti was looking through his files and nodded at the detective before continuing to study the papers.
“The American was just in here, so you and DeMarzo should start the surveillance.”
“Already done, sir. I noticed Montoya in the lobby and told DeMarzo to follow him. He just called me to say that he was leaving through the back entrance.”
Impressed, Conti looked up at the man and nodded. “Very good, very good. I don’t think he will give DeMarzo any trouble, but if by any chance there is a problem, you should have someone else ready to assist.” He noticed the look on the detective’s face. “But you had probably already thought of that.”
LoGuercio, who was still standing, shifted nervously. “As a matter of fact, I did, sir. And we also have a contact in the hotel to help us track his movements.”
This elicited another nod from the commissario. “You impress me, LoGuercio, I am pleased that you have the situation totally under control.” He couldn’t help himself and added, “It allows me to go back to more serious police work.”
LoGuercio hesitated before speaking. “The suicide, sir? I just heard about it.”
Conti frowned and looked down at the file. News always traveled quickly around the building, and it was not every day that the police in Volterra investigated a death.
“Suicide is what we assumed when the body was found, but the more I’ve learned about this man and his final movements, the less it seems likely that he would take his own life. In Sicily didn’t you have deaths that first looked like suicides, but turned out to be murders?” He looked up at the detective who was staring at the wall. “LoGuercio?”
“Sorry, sir. Yes, that happened on occasion in Palermo.” He added, “Sir, if you are busy with this suicide case, perhaps I could get more involved with the fake artifacts investigation we talked about a few days ago. When I’m not following Montoya, of course. I went over the file as you requested.” He studied Conti’s face.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, LoGuercio, but for the moment that case is well covered. I will continue to keep you in mind.”
“Thank you, sir.”
When he was alone again, Conti stared at the papers on his desk without reading them. He tried to organize his thoughts as they bounced from stolen relics to deadly falls and back. After a few minutes he pushed the papers into their file and again picked up his phone.
“Gemma dear, I’m leaving now. Buta la pasta.”
Chapter Five
Rick surveyed the long table, wondering when it was that Italian hotels began laying out such a spread of breakfast foods for their clients. He remembered staying in Italian hotels as a kid when the fare was simple and brought to the table; bread, caffè latte, butter, and some jam. Sometimes too many choices was not a good thing, especially when the one choosing was not quite awake, which was the case this morning. He had stayed up late getting some work done on his computer, plus a bit of Facebook updating with New Mexico, but no emails to his parents. He would tell his mother about this trip when he got back to Rome, putting it in a very benign light. “Finally got to see Volterra,” that kind of thing. So today he’d slept in until seven thirty, not like him at all. At his fraternity at UNM he was always the first one up, and unlike all his friends, without exception, he loved eight o’clock classes. I must be getting old, he thought.
He put his newspaper and room key down on an empty table, ordered a caffè latte from the waitress, and walked to the buffet. Small metal pitchers of hot coffee and milk were awaiting him when he returned to the table carrying a plate of rolls, butter, and jam, along with a yogurt. Good service, and his favorite flavor of yogurt. Why didn’t they make bran yogurt in the States? Probably someone did some outrageously expensive market research and decided against it. Strange, one would expect that all the health food nuts would love it. He certainly knew enough of them in Albuquerque. While pondering this he poured equal amounts of the two liquids into his cup, their aroma hitting his nostrils as they mixed. After adding sugar he took a sip and spread out the newspaper, his eyes going immediately to a story below the fold.
LOCAL MAN PLUNGES TO HIS DEATH.
In the photo, two men with their backs to the camera looked down at a large rectangle of cloth on the ground. One, who appeared to be Conti, leaned against a chunk of marble, its gray surface contrasting with the bright white of the sheet covering Canopo’s body. Rick stared at the photo and remembered other times he had encountered death. His Italian grandmother died when he was in college, and two years ago his father’s oldest brother had fallen from a horse and never recovered. So death was not new to him. But those were old people, and dying was to be expected. Canopo should not have died.
He returned to the story and took a sharp deep breath when he reached a sentence in the final paragraph. It has been revealed that the last person to see the victim alive was an American art dealer who is in Volterra on business. Without thinking he looked quickly around the room to see if anyone was looking at him, but everyone seemed more interested in their coffee.
He shook his head, opened up the paper, and forced himself to read more local news. A political crisis in the Tuscan regional government mirrored the situation in the national parliament. There were rumors that a local soccer star was in negotiations with a team in Milan. The city tourist bureau announced the summer’s cultural events, including July concerts in the main square. He folded the paper and pulled back the cover of the yoghurt, trying to put the death of Canopo out of his head.
It was not a good start to the morning, but he brought his thoughts back to the day’s schedule. He would have to return to Landi’s shop. Beppo had put the man at the top of Rick’s list, apparently convinced that he could be involved in the ring, or at least be close enough to the action to point Rick in the direction of the actual tomb robbers. But given the death of Landi’s employee, it might be politic not to show up immediate
ly this morning. Instead, Rick would continue down the list of Beppo’s names. He pondered the second person on the list, Donatella Minotti. When her name came up in the ministry briefing he had failed to tell Beppo that the woman was Erica’s college friend. Nor had he told Erica afterward about Donatella’s appearance on the list. If Donatella was just an honest art dealer, as Erica believed, it wouldn’t be an issue with either Beppo or Erica. Under the opposite scenario it could be difficult, to say the least, if Donatella turned out to be involved in trafficking. But no use worrying about it now. Rino Polpetto, the exporter, was the third name. Rick decided to drop in on him after breakfast, but first he would call Donatella.
***
“Signora Minotti? My name is Riccardo Montoya, I am visiting from Rome.”
There was hesitation on the other end of the line. Perhaps she noticed a slight Roman accent and was puzzled since the name was not Italian. “Yes, Signor Montoya, how can I be of assistance?” Rick went through his routine, and she listened to it patiently. “Possible purchases for a gallery in America? Yes, I would be pleased to talk with you.” There was another pause. Had she seen the story in the paper? It was almost impossible to get a sense of the woman over the phone, without the gestures, body language, and facial expressions which define Italian personalities. Her voice revealed almost nothing, which he decided was intentional.
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