“Will you?” Conti’s eyes searched Rick’s face.
“You’re correct, of course, Beppo will have to make the final call on authenticity.”
“Or we can save him the trip and have it checked by Dr. Zerbino.” He waved his hand. “But we are getting well ahead of things, are we not? We must first see if this man reappears, laden with ancient artifacts for our foreign buyer.”
Only Rick’s respect for his uncle’s profession kept him from reacting to Conti’s sarcasm. Instead he asked, “Commissario, what do you think will happen?”
“I don’t know, Signor Montoya, but if you get another call, I hope you will let me know immediately.”
At that moment a policeman entered after making a soft tap on the door.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“The call was made from a public telephone in San Gimignano.”
Conti turned to Rick. “Well, Signor Montoya, it appears that your friend Santo may be from the lovely city of towers. And he either can’t afford a cell phone or is more secretive than we might have thought.”
***
LoGuercio stood rigidly in front of Conti’s desk, his suit jacket respectfully buttoned. He started to fold his arms over his chest, but immediately realized that it was a gesture which could be taken as confrontational. Instead he let his arms hang, clasping his hands in front.
“Sir, DeMarzo was in a bind when he saw Montoya talking with the other man. He couldn’t tail both of them. His instructions had been to stay with the American for his safety, so that’s what he did.” He paused. “I told him he did the right thing.”
Conti exhaled a deep sigh and nodded. “Yes, I suppose he did. If Montoya had told me about the call I could have had someone else there, so we will blame the American. Did DeMarzo get a good look at the man?” LoGuercio relayed the description, which was the same as what Montoya had given Conti.
“Well, Detective, it appears that there may be another contact soon by this Santo, so you should have another man on call ready to back up you and DeMarzo. That is, if Montoya remembers to let us know this time.”
***
The small table in Rick’s room was there for female guests to put on their makeup, but his small lap-top fit perfectly. And the chair, while not heavily cushioned, was comfortable enough. With a bit of evening translation work in mind, he had taken a relatively light meal in the hotel dining room, even passing on wine. Rather than a pasta, he ordered the acquacotta, which, as its name—cooked water—indicated, was a light soup with some vegetables added. For secondo it had been half a grilled chicken, its crisp skin carrying just the right amount of pepper. After such a repast he deserved something for dessert, a course he usually skipped, but still he stayed with the light fare and ordered macedonia di frutta. Nothing cleared the palate, even a lightly seasoned one, like a fruit salad, its competing textures and flavors pulled together by dash of sweet liqueur.
He just finished checking his email when the room phone rang. He hoped Erica would call, but wondered why she wasn’t using his telefonino. His was charged and lay next to his computer. He picked up the phone and heard a feminine voice, though not the one he expected.
“Ricky, this is Donatella.”
“Donatella, how nice of you to call.” He said it without thinking.
“And it’s good to hear your voice too. I just finished a meeting in town, and thought I’d see if you were free for a drink before I drive back to the villa.”
“I, uh, was just—”
“Only to talk business, of course. Erica won’t mind, not that she even needs to know.”
The woman is a mind reader, Rick thought. “It would be a pleasure. Where shall I meet you?”
“I’m here in the lobby. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
He kept her waiting less than five minutes. When he got off the elevator she was sitting in one of the lobby chairs leafing through a magazine. Her coat was open, revealing a long knit dress, its hem covering the tops of calf-length leather boots. Her hair was done up more formally than when he’d seen her at Villa Gloria, and her face showed shadows of color brushed around the cheekbones. The meeting had likely been dinner. When she saw him she put down the magazine, rose to her feet, and brushed back her hair even though it was perfectly in place. They exchanged air kisses.
“So nice of you to stop by, Donatella. Why don’t we go into the bar? I trust you have already had dinner.”
“I did, but a nightcap is just what I need.”
They walked from the brightness of the lobby into a bar whose light was indirect and cozy. A few stools stood empty in front of a bar where a bored bartender looked up from his newspaper. He quickly stubbed out a cigarette while watching the couple walk to one of three empty booths that took up a side wall. Donatella slipped off her coat and tossed it onto the seat. Rick could not decide if her dress was wool, silk, or a blend of the two, not that the fabric content mattered. It clung to her body like a second skin, its long lines broken only by a wide belt that settled at a slight angle over her hips. Before sliding onto the leather she smoothed the dress as if she was used to wearing much shorter attire. When she was seated Rick sat down opposite her. The waiter approached the table, put small paper napkins in front of each of them, and asked what they would like.
“Cognac.” Donatella’s eyes studied Rick’s face.
Rick looked up from her gaze, nodded for the same, and gave the man his room number for the bill. “Do you come into the city often?” he asked, when the barman departed.
“I have friends in Volterra and my work brings me here frequently. I also drive to Florence several times a month and occasionally to Milan.” Once again she brushed her hair, sending the light scent of her perfume in his direction. “But I enjoy living alone. Well, alone except for Dario, and Anna, who cooks and cleans.”
He was not surprised that Donatella didn’t cook or clean house herself. The barman returned and placed two snifters on the table, their brown liquid sloshing slowly. Between them he set a small dish of round truffled canapés, their creamy cheese the color of fine alabaster. After clinking glasses carefully and swirling the cognac, they took small sips.
The liquid burned softly in Rick’s throat. “Did you really want to talk business, Donatella?”
She laughed. “If we are to do business we should first get to know each other better, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Tell me how you are enjoying our wonderful city. You are enjoying it, Ricky, despite your involvement in that tragic incident?”
He was surprised by the “Ricky.” Unless his memory was failing, it had been “Riccardo” at the villa. With Italians he was always called Riccardo—even his mother used it—and with his American friends and Beppo he was Rick. Only Erica used the name Ricky. Could they have talked? It would make sense if Erica had called her friend, especially after she knew Rick had gone to Villa Gloria, but exactly what would they have talked about? He tried to put it out of his mind.
“I haven’t seen much, really. The important buildings, yes, but only from the outside.”
“Not even the cathedral?”
“Well…” He took another sip of his cognac to quiet his nerves, wondering what was coming next. “Yes, I did get into the cathedral for a few minutes.” He hoped her question was innocent and coincidental. It would make sense that any local would mention the cathedral; they are the pride of most cities and Volterra would be no exception.
“The deposition—the wooden carving near the altar—I hope you had a chance to see it up close.”
“Yes, I did. A beautiful piece.” His memory wasn’t totally failing him; he recalled that it was Santo’s favorite work in the cathedral.
“And the Rosso in the art museum? I’m sure Erica told you about it, she being the Mannerist professor.” There was a hint of playfulness in her voice which Rick chose to ignore.
“I haven’t had the time for any museums.” He decided not to mention the Etruscan museum. “How did you come to settle in Volterra, Donatella? I had assumed, since you studied in Rome, that you’re from Rome.”
“My mother is a romana, but my father was Tuscan. They separated when I was in the liceo, and I went to live with her in Rome. He died a few years later and left me the villa, so after the university I returned here. I suppose I’m a country girl at heart.”
A true country girl, Rick thought as he studied her across the table. All she was missing were manure-stained jeans and pieces of straw stuck in her hair.
“But tell me about your real business, Ricky. You said you were doing this buying trip only as a favor to your friends at the gallery.” She swirled her drink but didn’t sip it.
“Translations and interpreting, English to Italian or vice versa. Sometimes tedious and boring with the written translations, but often I meet interesting people when I do the interpreting. International seminars, visiting dignitaries, that kind of thing.”
“It sounds fascinating.”
“It can be.”
“But your trip here, has it tempted you to go into the art field?”
Not the art field, he thought, but possibly police work. Here he was sitting with a beautiful woman in an ancient Tuscan city, drinking fine cognac, and all his expenses were covered. True, as a deputized art cop he was dutifully trying to get into Donatella’s head rather than her bed, but he was having a good time all the same.
“No, I’ll leave that to professionals like you. You and Erica.” Her expression changed slightly with the mention of her friend. “And your business, Donatella? From the look of your collection, it seems to be doing well.”
She shrugged. “Some months are good, some not. Like anything, the art market fluctuates greatly. The trick is to buy when the market is down and sell when it is up again. Right now it’s flat.” She took one of the canapés and gave Rick a half smile. “A good time for you to buy.” She put it in her mouth and chewed slowly before softly running a paper napkin around her lips.
“And a good time for you to sell, Donatella?”
“Perhaps, but—” She was interrupted by the faint sound of her mobile phone, which she fished out of her coat pocket. After glancing at the number she held up an index finger, the silent message that she needed to take the call. Rick took another drink of his cognac and studied the canapé dish.
She watched Rick with a blank expression while she listened, but only spoke a few words. “Si…si…capisco…certo…subito.” She closed the phone and her face returned to its previous smile. “Ricky, I’m sorry, I have to go. Something’s come up.”
They rose from their seats, and he helped her with her coat. “Nothing wrong, I hope.”
“No, no.” She took his arm as they walked into the lobby, holding more tightly than when she’d showed him out of the villa. “I hope this won’t be the last time I see you.”
“I should be able to tell you soon if the gallery is interested, Donatella.”
“I wasn’t talking about business, Ricky.”
He smiled and opened the door to let her step out to the street. The cool air felt fresh and brisk on his face, and thanks to just those few sips of cognac he didn’t need a coat. Donatella added to the warmth with a soft kiss on his cheek.
“Ciao, Ricky, a presto.”
As she spoke, he noticed a long black car parked a few meters from the hotel entrance. A large figure emerged from the driver’s seat and opened the back door. Dario, it appeared, did not worry about illegal parking zones.
Chapter Seven
His mother always said food tastes better when someone else cooks it. That is certainly the case with breakfast, thought Rick, as he pressed the button on the hotel elevator. He could make coffee as well as the next guy, but having it placed in front of him, ready to enjoy, was considerably better than lurching about the kitchen in the morning. And a very small kitchen at that. Find the coffee, find the espresso pot, add the water, add the coffee, light the stove. And then the same routine to heat up the milk. Very complicated. It was probably why Rick usually had his morning cappuccino and cornetto at a bar on Piazza Navona. But at a hotel, with all the choices, breakfast was even better. What would be on the groaning board this morning? The elevator door opened and he stepped into the lobby.
“Signor Montoya, you have a phone message.” Rick detoured to the desk as the woman reached into his key box and took out a piece of paper. “The man just called, I put it through to your room but you must have been in the elevator.”
The call was from Dr. Zerbino of the Etruscan museum, the note said, and he was inviting Rick to coffee later that morning. To offer me some stolen funerary urns, he guessed with amusement. He used the house phone to call the museum and recognized the voice of the secretary who had rescued the curator from Rick’s clutches the previous day. She knew about Zerbino’s message. Yes, could Signor Montoya possibly meet Dr. Zerbino for coffee later that morning? Excellent. Time and place were confirmed. All very efficient, but with no mention of hot Etruscan artifacts. Rick chose a newspaper from the stack on the desk and resumed his path to the hotel dining room where thick black coffee and a pitcher of hot milk arrived a moment after he was seated, without his asking. Good memory—she would get an extra tip today.
He skimmed the paper while waiting for his caffè latte to cool. The death of Canopo had moved from the first page to the cronica section where such stories are normally found. There did not appear to be anything new, which didn’t keep the reporter from speculating, using the contorted “could have” and “would have” verb tenses that were so popular in Italian journalism. Fortunately there was no mention this day of the unnamed American art dealer.
Rick stirred his coffee and looked at the newspaper without seeing the words. One side of him wanted to push Canopo’s death from his mind, but the genes he shared with his uncle would not allow it. Conti had told him little about the case other than the forensic report and being convinced that it was murder. Nothing about suspects, other than the mysterious man on the street to whom Rick unfortunately had paid little attention. Perhaps Conti would share more about the murder when he next saw him, but until then, Rick decided, he should be keeping his focus on Etruscan loot. He took the spoon from the cup and placed it in the saucer.
Waiting for the next call from Santo would not be easy. It was just as well that Rick had this invitation from Zerbino to help pass the time, and of course before it there was his call on Polpetto, the exporter. Unless he was greatly mistaken, Polpetto was now out of the running, but Rick had to continue going through the motions until there was closure to the whole caper. At least it would be fun to see Signora Angelini again, if nothing else to find what personality she would display this time. And what would the exporter himself be like? If the bare outer office was any indication, there could be trouble staying awake. Rick closed the newspaper and paid attention to spreading butter and jam on a crisp breakfast roll. His cell phone, which had been fully charged during the night, lay waiting next to the plate.
***
The last of the workers pushed open the tall wooden door, stepped onto the stone street, and walked slowly toward the car. Commissario Conti looked at him as he approached, sensing that the answers would be the same. All the men, starting with Malandro the foreman, had given him the same account for the afternoon of the murder, as well as for the days that led up to it. They could have been coached, though with the surprise visit and his sergeant watching them all inside, he doubted it. But talking with each of them a second time had been worthwhile—at least Conti tried to convince himself of that. If nothing else, he now knew more about the murdered man; not just of the work the man did, but his relationships with the others in Landi’s little organization. The reality of Canopo’s death was starting to sink in with them, bringing with it a mixture of s
orrow and anxiety. Despite the man’s Sicilian roots and the Tuscan sense of superiority over southerners, he had won over the men in his shop. As Conti knew from personal experience, that was not an easy feat.
The new arrival instinctively brushed alabaster dust off his work coat and blinked, adjusting his eyes to the sunlight. Conti was glad he’d decided to interview them out on the street, otherwise he would have been the one dusting himself off, as well as trying to get his hearing back to normal. For the final time he pulled the notebook from his coat pocket and leaned back against the warm hood of the police car, fortunately parked in a spot which caught some rays of sun on a day when few were to be seen.
“This won’t take very long,” he said to the boy who now stood before him. Conti remembered that Nino Reni, barely twenty and the youngest in the shop, had not said much during the first interview, either out of fear or shock. Perhaps this time he would be more helpful. “If I remember correctly, Nino, you’ve been working for Galleria Landi only two years.”
“Yes, Commissario, a bit less than that in fact. Twenty two months. When I finish two years I’ll no longer be an apprentice. I’ll get paid more.”
Already he was more talkative. “Tell me again about the day Canopo died.”
The boy tensed up, staring at the ground and clasping his hands tightly together. He’s going to stop talking, Conti thought, but then decided that what he saw was emotion rather than a reluctance to speak.
“It was a normal day,” he began, after taking two deep breaths. “Orlando was in the shop from eight in the morning until he went to see Signor Landi in the afternoon, except for the lunch break. A shipment of alabaster was delivered in the morning, so he was counting pieces and weighing them.”
“Did he seem out of sorts, preoccupied, different in any way than other days?” The answer was not what the policeman expected.
“If someone said he was so worried about something that he took his own life, it’s a lie!” Conti’s eyes jumped up from his note pad. He watched as the boy looked up and down the street, embarrassed by his outburst. He tried to compose himself, blinking rapidly and rubbing his hands against dirty jeans. “Orlando would never have done that,” he said, speaking more softly and slowly. “Never.”
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