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

some background noise that Rick could not identify. Someone coming into the room? “I have to go, Rick. Good luck and stay safe. Ciao.”

Beppo’s last words, though spoken quickly, made Rick feel a bit better about the phone call, and about the advantages of being one’s own boss rather than working in an Italian bureaucracy. Beppo was under pressure from his boss and wondering if his idea might have been a big mistake. Rick’s unpaid tenure with the ministry would be short and relatively painless, but Beppo was a lifer there.

And what better way was there to support the Italian culture ministry than to soak in some local culture while in an Italian city? The door to the church swung open, and he went from sunlight to semidarkness. The heels of his boots tapped on the stone floor as he walked to the marble bowl attached to a column and dipped his fingers in the holy water. He crossed himself and thought how pleased mother would be.

***

Inspector Conti rose from his chair and walked to the window. The scene on the piazza was never the same—something always caught his eye, something he hadn’t seen before. Today it was a group of children following a teacher, but one boy was lagging behind in the line, staring past Conti’s window up at the ancient tower. The teacher spotted the straggler, called out sharply, and the boy ran to join the class. Just like Enzo, Conti thought, and he smiled at the thought of spending more time with his grandson. But if there was anything he would miss from the job it would be this window view.

“Commissario?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“The detailed forensic report is in on Canopo, he—”

“Let me see it.” Conti walked back to his desk and took the folder from the man’s outstretched hand. He slowly went through the pages while the sergeant stood in silence in front of the desk.

“Porca miseria. This raises more questions than it answers. The dust on his shoes was alabaster from the work shop, we didn’t really need to consult with Florence to figure that one out. But as far as the traces of mud, which was the real puzzle, they are not very helpful. ‘A red clay which is found in various part of Tuscany.’ Thank goodness, we won’t have to extend our investigation to Calabria.” The sergeant had worked for Conti long enough to know that this was a time to keep quiet. The commissario drummed his fingers on the papers and then looked up as if he noticed for the first time that the other man was there.

“Is LoGuercio around?”

“I think so, sir, would you like to see him?”

“I was just curious.” More drumming as he stared at the papers. “Ask him to come in here.”

The policeman left and Conti tapped the cover of the file. He was about to return to his window when LoGuercio appeared at the door.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Conti almost blurted out another sarcastic reply. “Yes,” he said instead. “What has the American been up to?” It was time to take his mind off the murder, even if it meant dealing with this annoying case from Rome. LoGuercio had taken the sergeant’s place of honor in front of the desk.

“DeMarzo has been on him most of the time—”

“The question was what he’s been doing, not who watched him do it.”

“Sorry, sir.” LoGuercio tried not to show his annoyance that nobody had warned him of Conti’s foul mood. He briefly reviewed Montoya’s movements since the previous evening.

“This exporter, or importer, or whatever he is: what do we know about him?”

“I ran a check on him, sir, and nothing turned up. There was a note in the file about the cultural ministry looking into his activities last year, but it didn’t specify what they were searching for.”

“And of course they wouldn’t tell us, we’re only the local police. But we know why Montoya went to see him. Go on.”

“He runs a small operation, just he and a secretary, he travels out of Italy occasionally with the business, pays his taxes. Well, pays taxes, who knows—”

“Yes, yes, Detective. What does he import and export?”

“He exports alabaster, both the stone itself and things carved from it, some food products like olive oil and honey, some manufactured goods. Coming in, mostly machinery and parts.”

“The woman, what’s her name…?”

“Polpetto’s secretary?” Conti shook his head and rubbed his eyes, as if in pain. “Pardon me, sir, you mean the woman Montoya went to see yesterday. Minotti is her name. Sorry, Commissario.”

“Yes, Minotti, the woman from yesterday. I think I’ve heard of her, and I may have met her at an exhibit opening once.”

“Exhibit opening sir?”

Conti tilted his head at the detective. “You are surprised I enjoy something other than police work, LoGuercio?”

“No, of course not, sir.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, recalling an episode in grade school when he’d been called before the headmaster. What he couldn’t remember was what he had done that time to get him in trouble.

Conti looked off toward the window. “The exhibit was last year, something at the Etruscan museum. She’s very attractive, as I recall.”

LoGuercio spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully so as not to make the meeting get any worse. “I wouldn’t know, sir. DeMarzo had to park outside the grounds of her villa when Montoya drove in, so he didn’t actually see her, or anyone else.”

“Of course.” Conti resumed drumming his fingers on the desk. “Most importantly, there is no sign that anyone else is keeping an eye on our American friend?”

“No, sir.”

A relieved LoGuercio slipped out of the room and Conti eased himself back in his chair. If it weren’t for the sudden appearance of this man Santo, he would have been convinced this was a total waste of time and resources. Now he couldn’t be sure.

***

Rick studied the figures on the wall, a horrific scene of slaughter. King Herod’s Massacre of the Innocents was not the most popular theme in religious