Cold Tuscan Stone (7 page)

“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 found.”

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 immediately 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.

“I also bring greetings from a mutual friend, Erica Pedana.”

“Ah, Erica…but I don't understand. You work for a gallery in America but you speak perfect Italian and know Erica.”

“Well, I actually live and work in Rome, but have connections with the gallery from my time in New Mexico.”

“So you are not an art dealer?” The term was not one he had used when explaining the reason for the call; she must have gotten it from the newspaper story.

“No, not really. My friends in Santa Fe knew I was in Italy and asked me to help them out. My regular job is a translator and interpreter.”

She digested this information. “I see. Well, I look forward to meeting you in person, Riccardo.” The switch to his first name was noticeable. It was the Erica connection, no doubt about it. Again he felt a tinge of guilt that he had not told Erica about her friend's inclusion on Beppo's list. It was like the guilt he'd felt when telling Erica about the whole scheme, despite Beppo's request not to. But the pangs of conscience were more than neutralized by his enjoyment of all the intrigue. The longer he spent in Italy, it appeared, the more his Italian side was taking over.

“Would this afternoon work for you?” she said. “Unfortunately I'm very busy this morning.”

Rick agreed, got directions to her villa outside of town, and said good-bye. He rose from his seat in the hotel lobby, dropped his key through the slot in the reception desk, and walked out into the street. As the door closed behind him, a man sitting at the opposite side of the lobby folded his newspaper, stood, and walked toward the door. The woman at the desk glanced up and watched him leave.

***

Without realizing it, Rick had passed the office of Rino Polpetto during his stroll around the town the previous afternoon. The street was on a slight incline, sloping just enough to disturb the symmetry of the houses; all were a bit lower on one side, but their doorways were level. He was not good at estimating the ages of buildings, but from the look of their rough façades Rick thought that everything on this street must have dated from at least the 15
th
century. A historical plaque on one large and ornately decorated palazzo confirmed this. But like most of the other buildings on the street, the one which housed Polpetto's office was not grand enough to merit special recognition by the local historical society. There were four offices inside, each displaying a polished brass name plate next to the outside door. From the names it was impossible to know what business was carried out in the other three offices, not that Rick cared. He pressed the button under one of the plates:

POLPETTO
IMPORT-EXPORT
SECOND FLOOR

A buzzer unlocked the door with a loud click. He pushed it open and walked into a narrow hallway lit by a single bulb in the ceiling, letting the door close behind him with a soft thud. The building smelled musty, though a glance around did not reveal much dirt. Probably not sufficient traffic to track it in. The bulb cast enough light to find the stairway, but when he got up to the next floor he could barely make out the name plates on the two office doors. He found the right one, and his knock was rewarded with another click. Facing him in the small waiting room was a single desk, behind which sat a woman who stared at Rick through thick glasses. Her eyewear caught Rick's attention. The glasses were bright red and had points on the sides, reminding him of a character in a cartoon. Dangly plastic earrings matched the vivid color of the glasses, set against blond hair. She wore it medium length in a style that he suspected was vaguely out of fashion. The woman was not unattractive and, unlike most Italians her age, wore very little makeup. Perhaps the glasses added enough color to her face. The desk hid the lower part of her body, and a thick sweater did the same for what showed above the waist.

Two chairs were pushed against the wall opposite the desk, a small table between them. The only decoration on the walls, if it could be called that, was a digital clock above the table. A lone window across from the chairs gave the room its light, since a fixture in the ceiling was not turned on. He could not be sure if his appearance was a welcome break to a boring morning or an annoying interruption to the woman's normal routine. Her tone of voice didn't help him decide.

“May I help you?”

“My name is Montoya. I would like to see Dr. Polpetto.” As he spoke he noticed that the only item on her desk, except for the telephone and a thin lap top computer, was the morning newspaper, neatly folded and placed at an angle.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Polpetto is not in this morning. Was he expecting you?” She said it as if she knew the answer.

“No, I arrived in Volterra only yesterday. Perhaps I could make an appointment to see him? I'm interested in buying some local art work to send to America, and have been told that he could possibly be of assistance.”

She adjusted the glasses, which did not appear to need adjustment, and her face changed slightly. Not quite a smile, but close. Was it because he was now a business opportunity, not a distraction, or did she connect him with the newspaper story of Canopo's death? Perhaps a bit of both.

“I'm sure Dr. Polpetto would be pleased to see you. But may I inquire as to what kind of art are you interested in purchasing, Signor Montoya? I would not want to waste your time, or that of Dr. Polpetto, if it is not something he could help you with.” This time, yes, the mouth did form a smile, though a bit forced.

“Etruscan pieces, primarily. In various price ranges.” He stayed purposely vague.

Her expression did not change, but she nodded. “Yes, he has done considerable business in Etruscan art. Tomorrow morning, at about this time?” Since everything about her said precision, her use of the word “about” surprised him. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a large leather book, opening it to a page marked with a red ribbon. Rick could see that the calendar did not have any entries for the week. He nodded and passed over a card from the Santa Fe gallery on which he had written his name and cell phone number.

“I'm staying at the San Lino, but probably the cell phone is the best way to reach me if there is a problem with the time.”

She stared at the card for a moment, then opened another drawer to take out a pen, which she used to write his name in the book. When she finished, she closed the book and returned the pen to the drawer. The card remained centered on the desk surface. Everything had its place.

“Until tomorrow,” she said, finally with a real smile, though not a very convincing one. When Rick closed the door behind him and started carefully down the dark stairway, the secretary began dialing the phone while looking at the card in front of her.

***

Commissario Conti drove up to the small house on a two lane road about a kilometer outside the walls of Volterra, his second visit in less than twelve hours. Canopo's residence was about what he had expected, given the location in an area that was not quite rural but offered more space than the cramped neighborhoods in town. The square two-story building stood by itself, a low wall separating its small yard from a bus stop almost directly in front of the wall's gate. A scrawny tree, doing its best to survive the car and bus fumes, was the yard's only adornment. A hill started immediately behind the house, its incline covered with bushes and a few small trees. Conti pulled the key out of the ignition and reluctantly unwound his frame from the seat. He never got used to talking with the relatives of crime victims. Perhaps that was why he chose to come without a driver this time, so that he could be alone on the way back and let himself mentally unwind. He put this task on the growing list of those he would not miss in retirement.

Last night the widow had accepted the news with a calm that Conti had seen few times in the past. The tears had followed later, no doubt, after his departure. He tried to compare it to similar heartbreaking occasions over the years. In Calabria the reaction was always the same, a total breakdown, making any questioning impossible, at least until a few days passed. Here in Tuscany the women were stronger, if that could be a fair description. Certainly less emotive.

He was about to ring the bell a second time when a girl about six years old opened the door and peered out. A voice came from the rear of the house.

“Ask who it is, Angela.”

When the girl continued to stare silently up at Conti, he called out himself. “Commissario Conti, Signora Canopo. I called earlier.” As he finished his sentence the door was pulled back and a short woman dressed in black took the hand of the child and motioned him inside.

“Of course, Commissario. Please come in.”

The widow, in her early thirties, appeared to have aged several years since the night before. No doubt a lack of sleep made her voice low and scratchy, and she seemed to be slightly bent. She led the policeman down a long hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house, its windows looking out on the scrub of the hill. The room was clean and neat; she was either a meticulous housekeeper or cleaning was her way of dealing with the crisis. A small double-chambered espresso pot was on the stove. After sending her daughter into the other room she sat down and motioned him to another chair at the table. “Can I offer you a coffee, Commissario?”