Cold Tuscan Stone

by David P. Wagner

  “You know my name?”

  “Yes, Signora,” answered LoGuercio. “And when you are finished with the tour of the amphitheater, if you would be so kind, we would appreciate your presence in my office. We have some questions. It should not take long.”

  Rick turned just in time to see Dario’s dark figure lunging toward them at a speed unimaginable for such a large man.

  It all happened very fast.

  Erica gave a short cry of pain as Dario’s thick fingers grabbed her arm and pressed the gun into the small of her back. “You will not move, any of you, or Signora Erica will be shot.” He spoke with the calm of someone who had used a pistol before, and the other four men did not move from where they stood. “Signora Minotti and I will walk from here to the car, with our friend here, and you will remain where you are.” To emphasize his point he twisted the barrel of the gun again, causing Erica to wince.

  “Dario,” said Donatella, in a barely audible voice, “let her go. There must be some misunderstanding.” She turned to the others, not hiding the look of fear on her face. “He is very protective, he’s been like that since I was a child.”

  “Put the gun down, you know you won’t be able to get away.” Conti tried unsuccessfully to use a soothing voice. Dario’s eyes swept from one policeman to another, but the hand on the gun did not move.

  “Dario, don’t do this, it isn’t worth it.” Donatella again, her face now almost white. She spoke in short gasps.

  Dario kept his eyes on the other men as he spit out the words. “Not worth it? Not worth it? You have never seen the inside of an Italian prison, Signora. If you had, you would not say that. Come, we have no time to lose.” But Donatella remained frozen in place, like the stones that ringed the theater.

  “This will only make your situation worse, Dario.” Conti kept his eyes locked on the gun in Erica’s back as he spoke. “Give me the gun now or your time in prison will be considerably longer. And it will not help Signora Minotti.”

  Dario glanced at Donatella and his eyes narrowed even more, if that was possible. Conti was smart, thought Rick; play on Dario’s loyalty to his boss. Donatella’s next words did not help matters.

  “Commissario, I never thought there would be violence. I swear it.”

  The look on Erica’s face showed that she was finally making sense of the confusion, understanding that this was not about stolen artifacts after all. It was about murder. She stared at her friend in disbelief.

  If Dario was disappointed with Donatella’s lack of loyalty, he didn’t show it. The expression on his face had not changed since he had pulled out his gun, and it did not change now. Nor did his voice, still cold and raspy.

  “Then we will leave you out of it,” he answered to Donatella. He cast her a glare full of venom before returning his attention to his hostage. “Come, Signora, you will be my ticket out of here.” Erica cried out again as the barrel jabbed into her back, causing LoGuercio instinctively to move toward her. He caught himself and stopped immediately.

  “You will not arrest me,” said Dario. “No one will.” He spit on the ground just short of LoGuercio’s polished shoe.

  “Don’t try to stop him, detective.” Conti’s words were quiet but firm.

  Dario and Erica had to maneuver through two stone steps and a narrow drainage ditch before reaching the flat grass of the stage. Rick’s fists hung stiff and tight as Dario shoved Erica, the gun digging into her body. Conti hurriedly raised his hands toward the gate. Rick realized he was signaling to his men on the street to stand off and let Dario and Erica pass. If they got to the car, anything could happen.

  As she was forced down the steps Erica’s left shoe slipped on the smooth stone. She screamed and collapsed to the ground, extending her arms to break the fall. Dario stumbled, feet tangled with hers, lurching him backward until his head smacked the flat stone of the step. He shook his head and recovered quickly, raising his gun while pushing himself up with the other elbow, his widened eyes assessing his situation. His reflexes were quick, but not as quick as those of LoGuercio. When Erica and Dario tumbled, the detective dropped to one knee, drew the pistol from his belt, and fired, all one smooth motion. Blood spurted from Dario’s neck, a mortal wound. He blinked at the LoGuercio’s gun barrel in disbelief before sinking back on the rock, his head turned toward Donatella. She had crumpled to her knees and was sobbing as his blood pooled slowly on the stone.

  Oddly, Rick thought of police training. The drop and shoot was one polished act, no doubt practiced until it was expert and natural. LoGuercio might have won honors in shooting competitions. Did they only teach them to shoot to kill and not shoot to wound? He would have to ask Uncle Piero.

  Erica pushed slowly to her knees, rubbing her skinned hands. She avoided looking at the crumpled body next to her. She stood, wrapping herself in Rick’s arms. “Is he—”

  LoGuercio, standing over Dario, answered. “Yes, Signora, he’s dead. He could have shot you. Or any of us. If he had reached the car—”

  “We all saw what happened, LoGuercio.” Conti’s face filled with concern. He turned to Donatella, who locked her hands over her mouth as she stared at the body.

  If this were the States, thought Rick, Conti would read Donatella her Miranda rights. But instead the commissario opened his cell phone and called for an ambulance.

  Chapter Eleven

  Erica was right. The huge painting was as spectacular as she said it would be, almost enough for him to drop his distaste for her beloved Mannerists. The scene had been painted hundreds of times, but Rosso Fiorentino’s take on Christ’s descent from the cross was so striking that Rick understood why it was considered his finest work. Though Erica spoke in hushed tones in keeping with the darkened ambiance of the museum, he could hear the passion in her voice. He’d heard it before, less than a week earlier, when she had urged him to take on this assignment. Help save the country’s artistic patrimony, she had said. Now he heard it again.

  The visit to the museum was doing more than give Rick another opportunity to hear Erica’s passion for art. They needed to take their minds off what they’d seen among the cold stones of the amphitheater. Unspoken, but understood. They would have to talk about the ugliness eventually—they both knew that—but at this moment they worked to keep their minds and eyes focused on beauty.

  He and Beppo listened while she talked about Rosso. The artist had been a bit of a kook, even more than other Mannerist painters, and Rick could see that there was an element of the bizarre in this canvas. But despite the quirkiness of his style, Rosso had created a masterpiece in his version of the deposition. The only face in the painting not contorted in sadness or pain was that of crucified Christ himself, as the other men struggled to bring his body down from the cross. That one face showed only dreamlike tranquility. His peace contrasted with the turmoil of the others, especially the grief of his mother, barely visible in the shadows while comforted by three women in bright robes. Erica sat between Rick and Beppo on the wooden bench, silent after going through her long explanation of the work.

  “Your minicourse on Rosso was excellent,” Rick said, “but I’m not sure one needs it to appreciate this work.”

  Beppo reached behind Erica and rapped Rick lightly on the back of the head, something they used to do to each other in school. “What Rick means, Erica, is that he loved your explanation. I know I did. I must have missed the Mannerism seminar at the university. Perhaps I could audit your course in Rome.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Beppo, but I understand what Ricky is saying. The best paintings, after all, are those that pull you in even if you know nothing about the subject or the artist. Not that I’m trying to talk myself out of a job.”

  “You can always get work with the police,” said Beppo, “after your experience on this case today.” They continued to study the large work of art on the wall in front of them. Unseen by Beppo, Rick squeezed
Erica’s hand, as if to say that it was time to return to reality.

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for police work, Beppo.” She managed a tight smile. “And remember, it was Ricky who uncovered your gang of relic thieves.”

  “But,” added Rick, “Beppo was the one who dreamed up and designed the whole scheme. I trust he will be advancing at the ministry.” He leaned forward on the bench and looked past Erica at his friend. “Is there a better office in that building?”

  “Only the minister’s.”

  Rick returned his gaze to Rosso’s painting. “I don’t suppose he’ll want to give it to you, Beppo.” More staring, more silence. “The museum can’t top this one. Let’s go to lunch.”

  “I am taking you both to a late lunch,” said Beppo, jumping to his feet.

  “You mean the ministry is inviting us?” Rick grinned at Erica.

  “No, no. Beppo Rinaldi himself. I will do it with great pleasure, after all that the two of you went through this morning. I have already made a reservation at a place which comes highly recommended on the Via dei Prigioni. It seemed appropriate considering the various people who will end up in prison after today.” They walked out of the darkened room toward the entrance. The weather had cleared, allowing some sun to push through patchy clouds as the trio stepped onto the street’s stones.

  Rustic was again how the restaurant décor would be characterized in most circles, though given the age of the town, almost every building in the center fell into that category. The room’s white walls changed to brick and joined above the diners’ heads in rounded vaults, giving the impression that they were eating in what had been a storage room. That is exactly what the space had been, centuries earlier, but those same centuries had obscured the exact details as to what had been stored and sold here. It was probably just as well they didn’t know. And the three Roman diners weren’t curious; after the usual quick arrival of bread, wine and mineral water to the table, their attention was now on the menu. It was Tuscan fare, as would be expected.

  “Shall we split a fiorentina?” asked Beppo, “I haven’t had a good steak since my last visit to Florence.”

  “I could go for that,” said Rick, “the steak I had last night only whetted my appetite for red meat.”

  Erica quickly agreed, so the second course was set; now for the all-important pasta decision. Erica opted for soup, a simple tomato, but the two men needed something more substantial. For Rick it was pici, a freshly rolled and cut Tuscan pasta, but with a meat sauce instead of the traditional garlic and bread crumbs. Beppo opted for paglia e fieno, cream sauce tossed with a mix of spinach and semolina fettuccini which really looked like hay and straw. Decisions made and wineglasses clinked, conversation turned back to what could not be avoided. Rick began.

  “Erica, you have to tell us, was your stumble an accident, or did you fall on purpose so you could trip Dario?” He wondered if he’d made a mistake to bring it up, but he needn’t have worried.

  She smiled and sipped from her wine, a smooth white. “How could you think it was anything but an accidental fall, Ricky?” The normal Erica, full of mystery, had returned.

  “That answers my question. Sei brava.” He tapped her wine glass with his. “But let the record show that I was about to fall upon Dario and wrestle his gun away. I can never hold myself back when there is a damsel in distress, especially one—”

  “Ricky, we shouldn’t be joking about it,” interrupted Erica. “I will never forget the look on poor Donatella’s face.”

  “She was just as guilty of Canopo’s murder as Dario,” said Beppo softly. “It was she who ordered him to do something to the man.”

  “But I can’t believe she really thought Dario would kill him. Scare him, yes, murder him no.” She took another drink of wine, more than a sip.

  “That may be her defense,” said Beppo, “but with the murder and her whole operation of fake antiquities, she should be spending quite of bit of time behind bars.”

  Rick thought it was time to shift the talk away from Erica’s friend. Or more accurately, former friend. “I have to say that I’m relieved that Polpetto is free of illegal activity. I kind of liked the guy.”

  “You just feel bad that he was being betrayed by his secretary,” said Erica. “That’s just the reaction I would expect from a man.” She shook her head slowly with dramatic disgust.

  At least she didn’t say “a man like you,” thought Rick. It was something.

  “By betrayal are you two referring to Claretta trying to send business to her boyfriend?” asked Beppo. “Or just that she had a boyfriend?”

  “I meant both, I guess,” answered Rick as he pulled a bread stick from the basket.

  “You two seem to have overlooked,” added Erica, “that Polpetto was cheating on his wife himself.”

  “Significant,” Beppo said, “that the woman in our midst brings up that minor detail.”

  “So,” said Rick, “if we hang poor Polpetto with that peccadillo, the only one of our original group of suspects without sin is apparently Signor Landi. And he was the one I always suspected to be the main culprit. I will not quit my day job to become a detective.”

  “Good,” said Erica and Beppo simultaneously, followed by general laughter.

  “But one thing about Landi,” said Beppo, once they all had regained their composure. “He has to work on his hiring skills. Two of his employees, Canopo and Malandro, were secretly working for Zerbino.”

  “Good point,” said Rick. “That couldn’t have helped productivity.” He refreshed all their wine glasses and held up the empty bottle to the waiter who was passing their table at that moment. “Subito,” was the man’s reply as he whisked the bottle from the raised hand. Rick approved the service. “Give this guy a good tip, Beppo. But something else has been nagging me since we left the amphitheater. What about the interplay between Dario and the detective? At first I thought that Dario’s reaction to LoGuercio was because of his revulsion to arrest, and being taken in by a rookie cop would be especially grating.”

  “LoGuercio is relatively new,” said Beppo as he pulled another piece of crusty bread from the basket, “but the way you described it to me, Dario was reacting to the person who was going to arrest his boss. He couldn’t have been pleased by that possibility.”

  “That was my sense,” said Erica. “I don’t know much about criminals, but his loyalty to Donatella seemed far beyond the usual relationship of someone to his boss. I felt it from the moment they picked me up in the car.”

  “I got that feeling too when I visited her villa, but the interplay this morning still seemed a bit strange. It was as if Dario knew LoGuercio.”

  “And the cop shot him to keep him quiet?”

  “I didn’t want to say that, Beppo, but now that you bring it up, it did cross my mind. Conti had a funny look on his face when LoGuercio shot the man.”

  “We all did, Ricky” said Erica. “Did you see that other cop with Conti? I thought he was going to faint.”

  “Yes, I guess you’re right, it’s just that—”

  He was interrupted by the arrival of the first courses. Starting with Erica’s soup, they were placed in front of the three diners, and after the traditional wishes of buon appetito, cheese was sprinkled on the pasta and utensils were lifted. Following the initial tastes Beppo continued the conversation.

  “I can assure you, Rick, that LoGuercio did not know Dario. He only arrived here a few weeks ago from Sicily. I find it surprising that someone who is the nephew of a prominent policeman would conclude that a professional was involved in crime himself.”

  Both Rick and Erica glanced at Beppo, but were reassured by the look on his face.

  “You’re right, Beppo,” Rick answered, “I’ve been reading too many seedy crime novels. These pici are excellent, would anyone want a taste?” The wine and food were having a relaxing effect on the tri
o, especially with Rick and Erica. “But, Beppo, how do you know so much about detective LoGuercio?” The answer was not what Rick expected.

  “He works for me.” Beppo grinned as he twirled some paglia e fieno on his fork and took in Rick’s stunned face. “This should not go beyond this room, since Conti doesn’t know, but we arranged to have LoGuercio work on the case when he was transferred up here.”

  “And to keep an eye on dear Ricky?” Erica patted Rick’s hand, just as his mother used to do when he was a kid.

  “Well, let’s say, Erica, that we felt better with someone from outside the city working on the inside, and it turned out to be a good decision. LoGuercio kept me informed of what Rick was up to. Conti’s decision to put him in charge of tailing our friend here was coincidental, of course, but very helpful.”

  Rick shook his head and frowned. “No wonder you didn’t seem that concerned when I was checking in with you. You knew everything already. But in this town Conti is going to find out, and he won’t be happy. He’s pretty grouchy normally, and this won’t make his day.”

  “He may not ever find out, Rick, he’s retiring at the end of the week and moving to the Abruzzi.”

  “Good news for the police force here,” said Erica. “But possibly not for his wife.”

  At that moment all eyes turned to the wheeled cart that had been pushed to the side of the table by their waiter. The platter on it held their fiorentina, grilled to perfection and oozing juices. The waiter paused for effect and then picked up a carving knife and fork to begin his work. It was the biggest piece of steak they had ever seen, but they would do their best.

  Chapter Twelve

  Before taking another drink, Commissario Piero Fontana held up the glass and studied his nephew through the almost clear liquid. The wine was a Greco di Tufo, a smooth white which had been the perfect foil to the grilled fish they just enjoyed. The waiters had cleared the dishes, brushed away any stray crumbs, and now patiently hovered offstage. Rushing the clientele was never allowed, and certainly not with these two regulars.