Cold Tuscan Stone by David Wagner (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

“Nothing of any importance. The weather. He complained about the cold, being from Sicily, I remember that. And a bit about my purchasing Etruscan artifacts.” Conti’s eyebrow raised. “Well, not artifacts, just Etruscan art that the store sells.”

“Did he appear upset? Disturbed by anything?”

“Not at all. He was very friendly and talkative in the bar. But after he talked to this man, he seemed in a hurry. Nothing more than that. I assumed it was something to do with his work.” Rick’s chair was as hard as the bench, and he shifted in it to gain a bit of comfort. “There is something else I remember he said when we were in the bar.” Conti leaned forward slightly, but waited for Rick to continue. “He compared the Sicilians and the Tuscans, saying there are good and bad people in both places. Said the Tuscans can be just as bad but think they’re better, something like that. I found it strange.”

Conti’s face showed puzzlement. Was he wondering if Rick was making this all up? He nodded and swiveled in his chair, stretching out his legs, all the while keeping his eyes on Rick. “Where did you go after he walked away?”

“I had an hour or so to kill before our appointment,” Rick answered, immediately regretting his choice of words. “So I walked around the center of town for a while before coming here. My last stop before coming here was the big park.”

“The archeological park, the highest point of the city.”

“It seemed that way. If I have time during my stay I want to explore that castle. It is very impressive.”

Conti frowned and then his mouth turned upward to form that half smile Rick had seen in the waiting room. “Obviously you are not aware, Signor Montoya. That castle is a federal prison.” This was the first change in the man’s expression since they had sat down. “Did you talk to anyone as you walked the streets?”

Rick understood the inference of the question but he tried not to show it. “I spoke to no one. Do you suspect foul play, Commissario?”

Conti hesitated before answering. “It does seem strange that the man would take his own life. And thanks to the cold weather, the streets of the city were deserted, including, it appears, those near the scene of the accident. So we have no witnesses to the fall, though we are still trying to find anyone who might have been in the area. I had hoped you could be of help.” He noticed Rick’s expression and added, “Of course what you told me will help in completing the picture.” He bent forward and placed his forearms on the desk. “But you have not come here to discuss the death of someone you just met. We should be talking about your undercover work, should we not?”

Rick detected an edge of sarcasm in the man’s voice when he said the word “undercover.” Beppo had told him that the local police would not be happy about the ministry’s encroachment on their turf, so Conti’s tone was to be expected. Rick thought about how his father would have reacted, and he opted for the diplomatic.

“Commissario, I know that the ministry very much appreciates your cooperation in this matter. And I will be keeping you apprised of my progress and look forward to your suggestions.” Conti’s expression did not waver. So much for diplomacy. Rick pulled his leather notebook from his pocket, opened it and reviewed the local people who Beppo had given him to contact. Conti listened carefully but without comment, until Rick mentioned Arnolfo Zerbino, the museum curator.

“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