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

“You are the nephew of a colleague, so perhaps you have discussed some of his cases with him. I suppose it would not be a problem if I shared my thoughts with you, since you are involved, so to speak, with the case. I trust your discretion.” The introduction sounded to Rick that Conti was talking to himself and not the person he faced. “Yes, Signor Montoya, I believe it was murder.” He pressed a finger to the papers. “The initial autopsy report points in that direction, though I suspected foul play almost immediately. It did not make sense that the man would have taken his own life, and my conversation with the widow convinced me even more that he didn’t commit suicide.”

“What did the autopsy indicate?”

Conti pulled a paper from the file and placed it on top. “Two items of interest. There were some fresh bruises on the body which likely were not caused by the impact of the fall, indicating that he had been held or pulled.”

“To get him to the edge and over.”

“Exactly. And there were traces of skin under the fingernails of one hand, meaning that he had scratched someone. This and the bruises seem to point to a struggle. A short one, perhaps, but a struggle none the less.”

“So someone wrestled him to the edge and pushed him over. Or more than one person.”

Conti smiled. “You think like a detective, Signor Montoya. Yes, one or more persons.” He closed the file with a quick hand motion. “And your situation? Is there anything new there?”

Rick wanted to continue talking about the murder, but respected Conti’s wish to change the subject. Canopo’s death would come up again.

“I trust you saw the paper this morning, Commissario?”

“Yes, you are now famous. Be assured that it was not I nor my men who told the reporter about you being the last one to see Canopo alive. But at least your name did not appear in the story.”

“It might as well have, there aren’t that many American art dealers in town. I suspect that Landi, or someone in his shop, told the newspaper about me. I should have asked him that when I saw him this morning.” Rick recounted the meeting with the shop owner, and the hint he dropped with the man about items of special interest.

“Do you think Landi understood?”

“I’m not sure, Commissario. But he did say he was going to call someone. We’ll have to wait and see.”

Conti’s face said that he was still annoyed, or bored, by the whole artifacts business. Or perhaps it was simply that his mind was on the murder. “Where are you going next?”

“This morning I stopped by the office of the exporter, Polpetto, but he can’t see me until tomorrow morning. I have an appointment with Signora Minotti late this afternoon. So after lunch I thought I would drop by the museum to meet Dr. Zerbino.”

“I would ask you to give him my regards, but obviously that would not be appropriate.”

“No, Commissario, it wouldn’t.”

They stood up and Rick noticed, for the first time, that Conti was wearing the same rumpled suit as the previous day. He could not be sure of the tie.

***

“Ciao Beppo, a presto.”

Rick snapped his cell phone closed and looked down at the plate of pasta that had just been put before him; cheese tortellini with a thick meat ragú, the perfect dish for a cold day. Beppo had been pleased with the update, but didn’t seem especially anxious to hear about the details. The call might have caught him at the wrong time, when he was busy with other cases or dealing with the annoying office politics of the ministry—what Italian government office was immune to infighting? Bureaucracy may have been invented by the French but Machiavelli was an Italian. Or maybe Beppo was in the middle of his lunch, and like most Romans considered the pranzo a sacred part of the day, if possible enjoyed without interruptions from less important issues. Since Beppo had seemed in a hurry, Rick had not even brought up the murder case. Now he wondered if he should have mentioned it, even though it had nothing directly to do with his ministry work in Volterra. He’d leave it for the next call. Rick pulled the Etruscan book from his coat and spread it open above the plate.

The tortellini, an ample bread basket, and the quarter liter of red wine were filling enough to keep him from following the pasta with a main course. Instead he had a small green salad and asked for a few more slices of bread. He watched as the waiter mixed the oil and vinegar in a spoon before tossing it with the leaves. No choice of dressings here. He had been one of the last people to enter the restaurant and now he was likely to be close to the last to leave. Only two other tables were still occupied. One held a group of East European tourists who had just ordered another round of grappa, and were clearly developing a taste for the stuff. For Rick, drinking it was like sipping kerosene, albeit a very high quality kerosene. At the other table, in a corner, sat an older man across from a girl in her early twenties, an empty wine bottle between them. Rick had caught her looking in his direction earlier when the conversation between them had stalled. Isn’t that precious, he thought with an inward smile, the man is taking his niece out to lunch. Family is so, so important to Italians. Rick raised his hand to catch the eye of the waiter.

“Il conto, per favore.”

The cool air of the street felt good on his face, and he took in a deep breath. The lunch had fortified him well, and he was ready to take on Beppo’s university colleague. Rick had not met many museum directors in his life, in fact he hadn’t met any, but