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

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