Cold Tuscan Stone (18 page)

“Yes, I told Beppo what I just told you.” He wondered if the policeman would be annoyed that he wasn't the first to know of the call. Conti's face showed nothing.

“Signor Montoya, if this wasn't connected to Santo, then which of your contacts so far do you think could be behind this phone call? The bait was put out with each of them, now even the exporter, so you must have some hint as to which one has taken the hook.”

Rick pondered the question. “Well, as I told Beppo, the most logical would be Landi. He was the top name on the list I had from the ministry, although they didn't tell me exactly why. Signora Minotti is a mysterious character, I must say, but it isn't likely that she could be behind this kind of operation. Polpetto? Well, he's the least likely, in my mind, because he seems more like a character in
opera buffa
than someone running a smuggling ring. And as I found out when I saw him today, his secretary appears to be the brains behind his business.”

“Really? Tell me about it.”

Rick described the meeting. He omitted any description of the man's office decorations, detailing instead the interplay between Polpetto and Claretta. Conti listened without comment until Rick was finished, then shook his head.

“In the Abruzzi we have words to describe such men, but I don't wish to be judgmental without having met him. Perhaps the ministry made a mistake and should have put her name on their list instead of his.”

“Besides Signor Landi, Signora Minotti, and Signor Polpetto, Commissario, there is another possibility that has crossed my mind.”

“And what is that?” Conti put his forearms on the desk and clasped his hands.

“That one of the people with whom I dropped the hints told another person, someone they work with, and that person is the one involved in the illicit operation.”

“Such as?”

“Someone who works in Landi's shop or at his store. Dario, the man who works for Signora Minotti, looks like he could be in a gangster movie with Al Pacino. Polpetto, of course, only has his secretary, but he may have spoken with other people in town. I did briefly tell his secretary, Claretta, what I was interested in purchasing when I went to the office yesterday, and that was before I heard from Santo.”

“That is an interesting theory, Signor Montoya. We both should consider those possibilities.” Rick was pleased, since the comment almost gave the impression that Conti considered him a partner in the affair.

“I also have another theory,” Conti added, “one that came to me on my last visit to Landi's store.” It was Rick's turn to listen attentively. “I have been working on a separate investigation, one which also involves the sale of Etruscan artifacts.” Rick's expression changed slightly, and Conti noticed. “No, not the same as your precious burial urns, Signor Montoya, these are
fazuli
, fakes. But it has occurred to me that the dealer in real antiquities you are trying to catch could also be involved in this other activity. After all, there are only so many real pieces that can be dug up, so why not create some good copies to keep one's clients happy?”

Rick remembered Conti's skepticism about the ministry's plan at their first meeting. The old guy was changing his tune now, offering his own ideas about the crime, but Rick would be the last one to rub it in. He was starting to like the man.

“That does seem like a possible scenario, Commissario. But does it help us to figure out which, if any, of these people could be involved?”

Conti pushed up from his desk and walked to the window. Today he wore his jacket, for the autumn chill from the outside was seeping through the ancient stone. Rick pictured the building when winter arrived in earnest. They'd probably be hanging animal skins on the walls and warming themselves over braziers in the middle of the rooms. He turned in his chair to watch Conti and waited for a reply.

“I don't know, I'll have to ponder it a bit more. I'm sure you will also.” He turned from the window and faced Rick. “You may want to keep that theory between the two of us. I was thinking out loud, something I don't do normally. You should consider it a compliment.”

It was a strange thing to say, and Rick felt uncomfortable in the ensuing moments of silence.

“What happens now, Commissario?”

The policeman spread his hands in a very southern Italian way and shrugged. “What the man on the phone told you, I suppose.” He glanced at the large government-issue clock on the wall. “You'd better get to your meeting with Dr. Zerbino. Keep your phone handy. And be careful.”

Everyone wants me to be careful
.

***

Detective LoGuercio tapped on the half-open door.

“You asked to see me, sir?”

“The American was just in here, LoGuercio. But you know that, of course, you are watching the man.” He sighed. “Something may be happening with that scheme the Romans cooked up. I'm not sure what would be worse, if the culture cops turn out to be correct, or if the art thieves are not caught.” He held up a hand. “I don't need your opinion, if you were thinking of volunteering one. It is now imperative that you watch him carefully. We don't want anything to happen to our precious American art dealer. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Back in his own office, LoGuercio used the desk phone to make a quick call to DeMarzo, finding out that Montoya had just entered a bar on the main street of town. He briefed the sergeant of the meeting with Conti and emphasized that they must tighten the watch. After ending the call he closed the door to the office, walked to his only window, with its view of the alley, and dialed a number on his cell phone.

Chapter Eight

As would be expected of the man, Zerbino had not chosen one of the many drab neighborhood coffee bars to meet Rick. Instead it was an elegant, brightly-lit place on the main shopping street which, during much of the year, was filled with people eating ice cream. Gelato was a year-round snack food everywhere in Italy, but with the arrival of cold weather in Volterra the flavor options in this shop had been greatly reduced. There were not enough tourists in the city during the fall and winter months to justify keeping more than a dozen basic choices behind the glass counter, leaving the display case only half filled with ice cream. In the extra space, colorful boxes of candy stacked up into small mountains of sweets, surrounded by plates of cakes and cookies, their other specialty.

The fresh baked goods filled the room with warm sweetness deliciously mixed with scents from a shiny espresso machine, reminding Rick why the word in Italian for a fragrant aroma was
profumo
. After taking a few steps into the bar he spotted the curator sitting at a small table reading a newspaper. Zerbino's suit was similar to the one he had worn at the museum, perhaps even the very same, but without the vest. The tie this time was a paisley, with a matching foulard in the jacket pocket. The room's lights gleamed off both the top of his head and the tips of his polished shoes. He looked up as Rick approached, then stood to welcome him, pumping his hand.

“Signor Montoya, so good to see you again. What would you like? Coffee? A grappa?”

“Just coffee thank you, but let me get—”

“No, no, it is my pleasure. Just coffee then?” He hurried to the bar and put in the order while Rick's eyes followed him with mild surprise. This was not the same man he met at the museum. Zerbino returned to their table. Rick shed his overcoat and draped it over a chair next to Zerbino's.

“The day you came to the museum I was involved in some rather delicate issues. I'm sure you know how bureaucracies can be. Sometimes the smallest of conflicts between employees can turn into major battles. It was that way in the university too. So I did not give you the attention you deserved. You must forgive me.”

“I understand completely,
dottore
, I remember my days as a graduate student,” said Rick. “At American universities we say that faculty politics are vicious because the stakes are so low.” It was an old joke, but perhaps new to this guy.

“Oh that's good, that's very good. I must remember it.” His head bobbed, and he took out a white handkerchief to wipe perspiration from his bald head. The barman arrived and placed two small cups on the table, along with a bowl of sugar. “So tell me, how is your visit to Volterra progressing? Are you finding the city interesting?”

“A beautiful city, worthy of serious exploring, but as yet I have not had time to see much. I just work.”

“Yes, yes, what was it you were involved with? Purchasing art, if I remember correctly? Tell me more about it. Being a museum curator, I suppose we are involved in a similar business, are we not?” He grinned, not sure if he was making a joke or not.

“Our commercial gallery is hardly in the same category as your institution.” Rick sipped his coffee. “I'm doing some preliminary market studies on the possibility of future purchases—local art, including alabaster. The gallery owners think that such items could greatly interest their clientele.” Rick was almost starting to believe his own BS.

“What clientele do you have at this gallery?”

“It varies, of course, but something exotic, such as art from Tuscany, could appeal to both middle and high end buyers. We have some very affluent clients. Many visit during their traveling seasons.” This was not the man to hint about the specialty items he was really seeking. As he spoke, Zerbino studied him carefully.

“Very interesting. I don't know anything about business, of course, my only experience has been with either universities or museums. Our institutions don't concern themselves with profit and loss, but I have always been fascinated by commerce.” He surveyed the room and then lowered his voice to continue. “The only commerce that I have been involved with, if you can describe it that way, is with stolen artifacts.” Rick tried not to react, and Zerbino continued. “By that I mean keeping our collection from being stolen, of course.” He laughed out loud this time, the light from the ceiling lamps casting patterns on his bald head. He returned to his conspiratorial tone. “You may not know this, but art theft is a major problem in this country.”

“Naturally I've heard something about that.” Rick coughed into his napkin.

“You cannot imagine what museums in Italy have to spend on security devices and guards. It eats up an enormous amount of our budget. I wish I had even half of what we spend on security to improve the collection or renovate the building. And then, after all the expense and time-consuming installation, it doesn't always work. I hope the thieves don't find out about the alarm problems before we can fix them.” He stirred his coffee, still without tasting it. “But I don't suppose thievery will go away anytime soon. Certainly not in my lifetime. Another coffee?”

“Not for me.” Rick was anxious to change the subject. “
Dottore,
I have been reading a book on the Etruscans to help me appreciate your area, and one of the aspects of their lives which has fascinated me is their reliance on seers to predict the future.”

It worked, and Zerbino jumped in quickly. “That is not exactly correct, Signor—” He stopped and smiled at Rick “Can we dispense with the formality of last names? Please call me Arnolfo.”

Rick accepted the offer cordially. “Of course.”

“As I was saying, Riccardo, to describe the Etruscans as reading entrails or studying lightning in order to see the future is not quite accurate. What they were constantly trying to discover was the will of the gods and what they believed were other mysterious forces in their lives. Overwhelming forces. That is how one famous scholar has described what the Etruscans believed influenced their everyday lives.”

“Isn't that the same thing?”

“Not necessarily. If you know your boss' general view of things that doesn't mean you will know exactly how he is going to react to every situation in the future.” He chuckled. “There I go talking about bureaucracies again.”

“I see your point,” said Rick. “The more information one has, the better, whether it's Etruscan, Volterra, or modern Volterra.”

Zerbino nodded in agreement. “True…true.” He looked down at his coffee as if deciding whether to drink it or not.
Something is going on here
, Rick thought.

“Riccardo, that business with the man falling to his death.” He was searching for the right words. “It was terrible, but how unfortunate of you to be found in the middle of it.” He looked up to see Rick's reaction, and quickly added, “Well, not in the middle of it as if you were involved, but being there just before he fell, I mean—”

“I understand, Arnolfo. Thank you for your concern.” But no thanks for the morbid curiosity.

“What do you think happened? I suppose the police talked to you.”

“Of course they did.” Zerbino waited for Rick to say more, and he eventually obliged. “I had barely met the man, so I leave the investigation to the police. But I suppose that you, like everyone, believe that it was not suicide?”

“Well, it does seem unlikely, given—”

“His family? That's what everyone thinks, but who can really know what's going on in someone's life, what problems he was facing?”

“I suppose you're right, Riccardo. But with his job at that shop, and probably a good future working there, it just doesn't…” His voice trailed off. “Do you think the police have any idea who could have killed him? If it wasn't suicide, of course.”

“Like you, I only know what has been in the papers the last two days. The police interviewed me just once about the case.”

“Yes, of course. And the stories have not been very helpful. I mean the papers haven't even speculated on motive. Which they usually do.” He pulled the white handkerchief from his lower pocket and mopped his head. The foulard was for decoration only.

Rick watched Zerbino drain his espresso, the first time he had touched it. A tiny drop of coffee fell from the cup to his shirt, fortunately just missing the silk tie. “Arnolfo, I know you are a busy man, and I don't want to keep you from your work. It has been a pleasure to see you again.”

Zerbino was staring at Rick, as if he wasn't hearing the words. Finally he snapped out of his reverie. “
Piacere mio, Riccardo
.”

They rose from the seats and pulled on their coats. Zerbino lead the way to the door which he held open for Rick. Out on the street they stopped and shook hands. “If you're going to stay in Volterra for a few more days we must see each other again,” said Zerbino. “Perhaps dinner some evening.”

“That would be a pleasure, Arnolfo,” replied Rick. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“You are most welcome, most welcome.” He was about to walk off when he turned back to Rick. “And you really must come back to the museum some time for a better tour than I gave you the other day.” Before Rick could reply, Zerbino hurried in the direction of his museum.

Strange man
, Rick thought. Why the change from barely giving Rick the time of day to wanting the be on a first name basis? Beppo had not come up in their conversation just now, but being a good Italian, Zerbino must have decided that treating Rick well would get back to the Cultural Ministry. At some time he would need a favor in the ministry, so it couldn't hurt to be nice to the visitor. The more cordial he was to Rick the bigger the favor he could ask. But what about the talk of stealing artifacts and museum security? That was eerie. He watched Zerbino disappear around the corner and remembered that Canopo had done the same, on the same street, two days earlier. A lot had happened in those two days.

Beppo would probably find Rick's meeting with Zerbino a nice diversion. Rick pulled out his cell phone, but the call went directly to voice mail. Beppo was probably in a meeting; that's what people in ministries do. He would call back later. Now it was time for lunch, and then back to the hotel to check his email and do some work with his real job; the rent on his Rome apartment would not pay itself. And this time, no touristy diversions. He walked up the street and turned the corner toward the Hotel San Lino. A minute later he was walking through the main piazza, the police station on his right, taking his mind off the translation job awaiting him and bringing it back to the case.

So where was he? It appeared from the mysterious phone calls that something was going to happen, but when would it happen and which of Rick's contacts would turn out to be the guilty party? The same possibilities turned over in his head. Landi the most likely. Landi had said, after all, that he would be in contact with Rick about some special items of interest. He had expected Landi himself to call, of course. Rick also recalled the face of the girl working at Galleria Landi. Did she show only grief, or was there fear as well?

Polpetto simply seemed too
buffo
to be a serious contender in the crime department, though his business was murky at best, especially with that secretary involved. Not that Rick understood import export. In addition, he hadn't even seen the man prior to Santo turning up. But there was something from the visit to Polpetto's office that stuck in Rick's mind: the way the man had held that Etruscan fragment in his hand.

That left Donatella, and again Rick could not picture a friend of Erica being involved in something so unsavory as tomb robbing. The sexy leader of a gang of thugs, with her loyal major domo keeping everyone in line? It could make a good movie script, but no more than that. A better plot line would be the museum curator. Rick smiled at that thought and then remembered his latest conversation with Conti. Conti thought there might be a connection with another case he was working on, and Rick suggested looking for a second layer of suspects. Both ideas had one thing in common, that perhaps they should be moving beyond Beppo's initial list.

Rick looked up to see his destination, whose menu was propped on an easel outside the door. Crime thoughts were wiped from his mind, substituted by visions of warm plates of food. This was Tuscany, with a chill in the air, so it was time for some Tuscan soup. He pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and rubbed them together.

***

“I understand your reluctance.” Conti carefully chose his words. “But you will have to agree that Signora Canopo is burdened enough with her grief that she does not need to be bothered.” On hearing this, the bank manager shifted nervously in his chair, looking across the clean surface of the desk at the policeman.

“Yes, the poor woman is going through a terrible time, but you must understand, Commissario, that this is highly irregular. Surely you don't believe that the man's bank records could help with your investigation.”

Why the hell do you think I'm here? Conti wanted to say, but instead he chose to be soothing. “We try to be as complete as possible. No stone unturned, as it were.” Getting a judge to sign off on this would take forever, and what he'd just said about the widow was true, she didn't need to be involved in this. Was the man going to help him or not? Conti contained a smile as the man reached into a drawer and took out some papers.

“Very well. Signor Canopo had three accounts with us. One was a normal checking account, with his wife as co-signatory on it. You know that of course.”

Not specifically, but he let the comment go with only a nod, and the manager continued.

“The other was a savings account that I know they were using to build up for a home purchase. They started it several years ago when their daughter was born. I remember when they came in to open it.”