Cold Tuscan Stone (4 page)

“Donatella Minotti. As you can see, Rick, it should not be much of a chore for you to make contact with her.” Signora Liscio shook her head at the comment, unnoticed by Rick, who was studying the picture. “She is an art dealer, and her sales include everything from paintings to sculpture, with the occasional Etruscan piece.”

“She has a gallery?” Rick continued to look at the picture. It was another passport photo, but despite its small size her beauty was obvious, as well as her faint look of annoyance.

“She did for a few years, but now has built up enough of a professional reputation to sell directly to clients from her villa. Those clients have included a few people who we have been watching in connection with other cases. That is why she is on the list.”

“So she could be clean?” Rick hoped his voice did not betray his thoughts. If Donatella Minotti were involved in this, it could prove very awkward indeed for his relationship with Erica.

“All three could be clean, or all could be involved in something illicit. What we hope is that one of them is selling these burial urns, or will at least help you flush out the people who are selling them.” Rick slid Donatella's photo back across the table and Beppo continued. “The best way for you to approach these people would be in a very low-key way, establishing yourself as a credible buyer. When you think you have that credibility—and exactly when will be your call—you can drop a few hints that you're also interested in a few pieces of genuine Etruscan art, very unique pieces, that sort of thing.”

“So I shouldn't ask if they have any Etruscan burial urns in the back?”

Beppo looked at the other two people at the table, whose frowns were evident. “You will have to excuse my friend's American sense of humor. He can't help himself.” He turned to Rick. “It doesn't matter which of these three you contact first, but on arriving in Volterra you must call on the local police chief, Commissario Carlo Conti. He knows you are coming, but we haven't given him many of the details.”

From his uncle, Rick had heard stories of turf battles between Italy's many and varied law enforcement entities. “So Commissario Conti is managing to contain his enthusiasm about my presence in Volterra?”

“You could say that. This may be an opportunity to use some of those diplomatic skills you've picked up from your father.”

“They're in the genes, Beppo.”

The meeting went on for another ten minutes. Beppo shared a few more details about the three contacts; Signora Liscio gave Rick a map of the city, pointing out the location of Conti's office; but Signor Vetri continued to remain silent.

After Rick had turned in his pass and left from the ministry building, he stood for a few moments in front of its stone entrance and looked again at the list. There appeared to be a one-in-three chance that Donatella Minotti was involved in just the kind of illegal activity that so appalled Erica. He folded the paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket where he felt the card Beppo had given him the day before. The name on the card, Arnolfo Zerbino, had not come up once during the briefing. Was it possible, Rick wondered, that the silent Signor Vetri didn't know of Beppo's acquaintance with the museum curator? And that Beppo didn't want the man to know?

***

Unlike Detective LoGuercio, Sergeant DeMarzo was pleased with the prospect of tailing the American. It would allow him to dress as a civilian and get away from the statistical reports that had burdened him the past week. Not to mention being out in the fresh air rather than sitting in his cubicle. And watching some American tourist, how hard could that be? LoGuercio was pleased with DeMarzo's enthusiasm, and impressed with his questions, which indicated he'd been on such jobs in the past. Also, he knew the city better than a transfer who'd only been in Volterra a few weeks. With that in mind, LoGuercio decided that it might be a good idea to get out and walk around the city himself, before the American arrived. And he needed to make a phone call. He left DeMarzo at the cubicle, picked up his coat in his office, and walked out the main entrance into the piazza.

A moment later LoGuercio stood in the very middle of the square, now starting to fill with locals crossing it between afternoon appointments around the city. He looked up at the stone façade of the building he had just left, its roofline broken by a lone set of pigeons. He wasn't sure which window was Conti's office, but had a pretty good idea. There were no faces visible from any of the windows; no doubt everyone was diligently working at their desks, including the commissario. He recalled his brief meeting with Conti and wondered if the man was always such a charmer. Shaking his head and smiling, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. It was answered after the third ring.

“You won't believe this,” he said into the phone. “I've been assigned to work on a case of stolen Etruscan artifacts.”

Chapter Four

Knowing that Signora Liscio at the ministry would never forgive him if he lost his
autostrada
receipt, Rick pulled it from his pocket and used it to mark the page in Beppo's book. While pondering the latest factoid he'd learned about the Etruscans, he signaled the waiter to bring
il conto
. The restaurant, one large rectangular room with a high ceiling, was starting to fill up as the normal lunch hour crowd arrived. Most of the diners were locals; this was not the time of the year when tourists would be passing through Saline di Volterra. Only a few kilometers from Volterra itself, Saline is a small town named for salt mines still in operation a couple millennia after their discovery. He looked at the tiny bowl of salt on the table and wondered if it was the local stuff.

The morning drive up the coast had given Rick more of an appetite than usual. As the commuters were entering the city in the opposite direction, he'd started up the Via Aurelia, the ancient road that climbs past the Vatican before winding down to the sea as it heads north. Fortunately for the suspension of his rental car, its surface had been repaved since construction in the third century BC. After enjoying the Mediterranean views, he passed Piombino and turned inland, along the Cecina River lined with browned vineyards, up to Saline.

Rick had ordered a pasta with wild boar sauce, a local specialty, and was not disappointed. The ribbons of pasta had gone directly from the rolling pin and cutting board to the boiling water, then tossed in the dark, meaty sauce. Perfection. When they'd discussed a second course, the waiter had mentioned that a fresh basket of porcini mushrooms had appeared that morning in the kitchen. Rick had not hesitated, and they arrived at his table grilled to perfection with a light brushing of the local olive oil.

He took his last sip of espresso, paid the bill, and walked out to his rental car, a silver Alfa with a diesel engine that clacked softly. As he reached into his coat pocket for the keys they rattled against his small GPS. It had saved his rear end while climbing in the Sangre de Cristo mountains earlier in the year, one of his last hikes before moving to Rome, so it had become a good luck charm. But he'd also brought it with the hope of doing some hiking around the Tuscan countryside on this trip—probably not a realistic hope, given his undercover assignment. Hiking trails were not among the topics that had come up during his briefing at the ministry the previous day.

A moment after the Alfa's engine came to life, he left the town of Saline and began the final slow climb up to Volterra. As he had learned from Beppo's book, the Etruscans built their towns on hilltops, and Volterra was considered one of the best examples of such ancient fortified cities. It was already visible high in the distance, its gray stone walls contrasting with the browns of the autumn earth below it. As he turned into the first of the wide curves that cut back and forth through the open fields, Rick thought that from this distance the city likely looked the same as it had five hundred or even a thousand years earlier. A few clouds were forming above it, just as they did over the mountain on Albuquerque's east side, often covering the peak and bringing spectacular thunderstorms. Did Volterra enjoy those natural light shows too? Perhaps there was a niche in New Mexico for telling the future from the shape and size of lightning bolts, like the Etruscan
fulguriators
he had just read about in the book. There were certainly enough palm readers around the University of New Mexico, so why not lightning readers? He downshifted into third as the road steepened.

When he came to the thick walls of the city he bore to the left. The blocks at this lowest level were the original Etruscan. He kept his eyes on the road, but knew there would be a higher part of the wall with stone added by the Romans, and on top of that the Medieval. Italy: always layers upon layers. He followed the wall around a bend to the narrow gate at the very northern part of the old town. Despite the signs saying local traffic only, he drove in, and immediately found his hotel on the left side of the narrow street. When he parked and got inside, the woman at the desk seemed more worried about his car parked in front than getting him checked in.

“You can leave your bag here,” she said frowning as she took his passport. “Just back up a few meters and the entrance to our parking garage is right there; you can't miss it. The police get very annoyed when there are cars parked on this street.”

It would not be good, Rick thought, to begin his first meeting with Commissario Conti by asking him to fix a parking ticket. He left his bag and went outside to the car, following the woman's orders to the letter and finding a parking space at the far end of the hotel's dimly lit garage. When he returned to the reception desk, she passed him his room key and passport and pointed him toward the elevator, a forced smile on her face indicating that she needed to get back to her computer. What did hotel desk clerks do all day before computers?

The room was small, as expected in a hotel that a few centuries earlier had been a convent. It had a modern bathroom, added recently and probably not even dreamed of by the nuns who had lived here long before the latest renovation. They also would have been surprised to see a large swimming pool in the courtyard outside the window, now drained for the winter. Rick looked out and tried to imagine the sisters sunning themselves there in the summer, a swarthy pool boy bringing them towels and drinks with little umbrellas. He pushed the thought from his mind and opened his laptop to check his mail. The nuns likely didn't have wireless Internet either. There were a few messages from clients, including a request for a three-page translation job that would be easy enough to do quickly and send back electronically. He would have something to toil on when not catching grave robbers.

Rick checked the time on his cell phone. Still more than three hours until his six o'clock meeting with the policeman. If he remembered correctly, the top name on Beppo's list, the owner of a tourist shop, was located close to the police station. Of course in a town this size, everything was
a misura di uomo
, within walking distance of everything else. It was Tuscany. Protocol indicated that he should meet Conti before starting his rounds, but why waste a few hours? It shouldn't matter to the policeman. Rick finished unpacking, changed out of his comfortable driving jeans and sweater into something more respectable, and slipped on his overcoat.

As he folded the sweater, he remembered his promise to Erica to pack an extra one for the cold, and back out came his phone. He punched a couple of buttons and put it to his ear. After a few rings Erica's voicemail kicked in and he debated whether to leave a message. “
Ciao, bella, sono arrivato
.” He hesitated and added, “—the hotel is perfect, thanks for the recommendation.
A presto
.” When he hit the off button he again checked the time. She shouldn't be in class at this hour; was she still annoyed? What would be the term in Italian for “drama queen”?
Diva
is too easy, he thought, there must be something more nuanced. It annoyed him, a professional translator, that nothing came to mind.

A moment later he left the elevator, dropped his key at the front desk, and walked toward the entrance doors. The same woman stood behind the desk, and as the key thumped down she looked up quickly and smiled before returning to her screen. He pulled out his town map, studied it to confirm his bearings, and pushed through the glass door to descend onto the cobblestones of the Via San Lino. The guidebook said it was named for a local priest who had done well in the church hierarchy, though not well enough to become a household name outside of Volterra.

There was no sidewalk. When the street was set up centuries earlier the only non-pedestrian traffic was horses and carts, and everyone shared the relatively narrow space that ran in front of the stone houses. These days, except for the occasional mini-bus or other public vehicle, the street was used only by people on foot, but at this hour most of the locals were still at home having lunch or taking the Italian version of the siesta. They would emerge, rested and sated, by midafternoon. Inside the walls only residents were given passes to drive the narrow streets, and they were smart enough to use their cars only when needed, which was mostly to get from their parking garages out of town and back.

Even without cars to dodge, as he was used to doing in Rome, Rick walked close to the buildings to protect himself from the chill wind. It had been calm when he drove into the town, but the clouds that now covered the sky had brought breezes with them. Rick closed two of the buttons on his coat. The street began an incline on its way up to the main square of the city where the tourist shops are found, including Galleria Landi. But at this point Via San Lino is still part of a neighborhood, with a few small stores on the ground floor of the narrow stone structures, none more than four stories high, most of them two. Some shops had been converted to parking garages for the apartments above, but there were enough businesses to keep the street's residents from having to walk too far to find the basics. He passed a small grocery, then a hardware store with so much stuff stacked up or hanging from the ceiling that it was a wonder any customers could fit inside. An old woman in a shop selling yarns did not look up from her knitting needles as he walked past her window. The smell of coffee was pushed by a small fan out of a tiny bar, probably to lure passersby like Rick. He was tempted, but still could taste his post-lunch espresso. The street forked just as Signora Liscio's map had indicated and he bent to the left. A few hundred meters later he emerged into the Piazza dei Priori, the heart of Volterra. Erica was right, it was a magnificent space.

The feel was medieval, beginning with the city hall on his right, its harsh stone softened somewhat by rows of coats of arms affixed to it over the centuries by rulers and prominent families. Decorative pieces of wrought iron stuck out from the façade at intervals, ready to hold flags, or perhaps torches, for town celebrations. His eye moved up past the arched windows to a large clock, and then to the tower above it. An impressive building indeed. He knew from the Tuscany guidebook, a gift from his mother, that it was the oldest town hall in Tuscany still in use, and it looked it.

To the left, on the corner, was the
commissariato
where Rick would meet Conti in a few hours. It too had a stone tower to add to its imposing bulk, but unlike the town hall a cluster of antennas grew out of its crown, hinting at the profession of its present occupants. Clearly it was the less inviting building of the two, but of course that was the idea. Rick glanced back at the clock on city hall, recalculated his schedule, and walked out of the piazza.

A block later he reached Volterra's main shopping street where its stores were beginning to open after the midday break. He passed two men chatting about the weather as they noisily cranked up the metal grates in front of their businesses, one selling shoes, the other jewelry and watches.
There must be more shoe stores in Italy than restaurants
, he thought,
with jewelry stores a close second.
Two women emerged from a coffee bar and Rick was hit again with the strong aroma of its espresso machines. This time, though only for an instant, he actually considered a quick shot of caffeine, then kept on walking until he reached the address at the top of his list. Climbing two steps, he entered Galleria Landi.

Soft indirect light filled the store, highlighting the glass shelves holding all manner of alabaster carvings. The light brought out the opaque colors of the alabaster, while it gave the thinner pieces of stone, such as bowls and plates, a dull glow. On one side ranged displays of large sculpture: human figures, trees, and animals. Rick recognized copies of famous works including a small replica of Michelangelo's Pietá from St. Peter's Basilica. And of course the ubiquitous Tower of Pisa. He wondered how many foreign tourists would buy such bulky pieces of art to jam into their suitcases. And since some of them weighed hundreds of pounds, how many tourists would pay the freight to ship them home? Farther along the wall stood smaller items such as floor and table lamps, their alabaster shades casting a warm tone from the bulbs underneath. The right side of the store interested Rick in his role as buyer, its shelves crowded with copies of Etruscan pieces either in alabaster or metal. There were various stone panels decorated with human and mythological figures, as well as bronze geese and salamanders. Ceramic vases in various shapes and sizes, looking to Rick as much Greek as Etruscan, covered a long shelf, battle scenes filling their dark red surfaces. It wasn't Costco, but he found the amount of inventory a bit overwhelming.

In the middle of the room the jewelry collections glittered, mostly Etruscan in their style. Their glass cases formed a rectangle enclosing a smiling young woman dressed in a crisp white blouse and blue skirt. She patiently watched Rick walk around the room before asking if she could be of any assistance.

“My compliments on your merchandise. It is an excellent collection. I trust most of it is from local artisans?”

The woman was pleased not only with the compliment, but also the fluent Italian in which it was paid. He still wore his casual shoes from the trip, and even though Timberlands were widely sold in Italy, she had decided he was an American. Footwear, for many Italians, was the surest test of foreignness. That, and the way one walked. “Yes, most of the work is done locally. Are you Italian?”

“I'm from America,” Rick answered, not wanting to complicate things with another explanation of his dual citizenship. “My interest is in purchasing some items in quantity for an establishment back in the United States.” He pulled out one of Beppo's cards from the Santa Fe gallery and passed it to her. She looked at it and reached down to press a button below the counter.

“I'm sure that Signor Landi, the owner, would be pleased to talk with you, Mr.…?”