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

“Besides Signor Landi, Signora Minotti, and Signor Polpetto, Commissario, there is another possibility that has crossed my mind.”

“And what is that?” Conti put his forearms on the desk and clasped his hands.

“That one of the people with whom I dropped the hints told another person, someone they work with, and that person is the one involved in the illicit operation.”

“Such as?”

“Someone who works in Landi’s shop or at his store. Dario, the man who works for Signora Minotti, looks like he could be in a gangster movie with Al Pacino. Polpetto, of course, only has his secretary, but he may have spoken with other people in town. I did briefly tell his secretary, Claretta, what I was interested in purchasing when I went to the office yesterday, and that was before I heard from Santo.”

“That is an interesting theory, Signor Montoya. We both should consider those possibilities.” Rick was pleased, since the comment almost gave the impression that Conti considered him a partner in the affair.

“I also have another theory,” Conti added, “one that came to me on my last visit to Landi’s store.” It was Rick’s turn to listen attentively. “I have been working on a separate investigation, one which also involves the sale of Etruscan artifacts.” Rick’s expression changed slightly, and Conti noticed. “No, not the same as your precious burial urns, Signor Montoya, these are fazuli, fakes. But it has occurred to me that the dealer in real antiquities you are trying to catch could also be involved in this other activity. After all, there are only so many real pieces that can be dug up, so why not create some good copies to keep one’s clients happy?”

Rick remembered Conti’s skepticism about the ministry’s plan at their first meeting. The old guy was changing his tune now, offering his own ideas about the crime, but Rick would be the last one to rub it in. He was starting to like the man.

“That does seem like a possible scenario, Commissario. But does it help us to figure out which, if any, of these people could be involved?”

Conti pushed up from his desk and walked to the window. Today he wore his jacket, for the autumn chill from the outside was seeping through the ancient stone. Rick pictured the building when winter arrived in earnest. They’d probably be hanging animal skins on the walls and warming themselves over braziers in the middle of the rooms. He turned in his chair to watch Conti and waited for a reply.

“I don’t know, I’ll have to ponder it a bit more. I’m sure you will also.” He turned from the window and faced Rick. “You may want to keep that theory between the two of us. I was thinking out loud, something I don’t do normally. You should consider it a compliment.”

It was a strange thing to say, and Rick felt uncomfortable in the ensuing moments of silence.

“What happens now, Commissario?”

The policeman spread his hands in a very southern Italian way and shrugged. “What the man on the phone told you, I suppose.” He glanced at the large government-issue clock on the wall. “You’d better get to your meeting with Dr. Zerbino. Keep your phone handy. And be careful.”

Everyone wants me to be careful.

***

Detective LoGuercio tapped on the half-open door.

“You asked to see me, sir?”

“The American was just in here, LoGuercio. But you know that, of course, you are watching the man.” He sighed. “Something may be happening with that scheme the Romans cooked up. I’m not sure what would be worse, if the culture cops turn out to be correct, or if the art thieves are not caught.” He held up a hand. “I don’t need your opinion, if you were thinking of volunteering one. It is now imperative that you watch him carefully. We don’t want anything to happen to our precious American art dealer. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Back in his own office, LoGuercio used the desk phone to make a quick call to DeMarzo, finding out that Montoya had just entered a bar on the main street of town. He briefed the sergeant of the meeting with Conti and emphasized that they must tighten the watch. After ending the call he closed the door to the office, walked to his only window, with its view of the alley, and dialed a number on his cell phone.

Chapter Eight

As would be expected of the man, Zerbino had not chosen one of the many drab neighborhood coffee bars to meet Rick. Instead it was an elegant, brightly-lit place on the main shopping street which, during much of the year, was filled with people eating ice cream. Gelato was a year-round snack food everywhere in Italy, but with the arrival of cold weather in Volterra the flavor options in this shop had been greatly reduced. There were not enough tourists in the city during the fall and winter months to justify keeping more than a dozen basic choices behind the glass counter, leaving the display case only half filled with ice cream. In the extra space, colorful boxes of candy stacked up into small mountains of sweets, surrounded by plates of cakes and cookies, their other specialty.

The fresh baked goods filled the room with warm sweetness deliciously mixed with scents from a shiny espresso machine, reminding Rick why the word in Italian for a fragrant aroma was profumo. After taking a few steps into the bar he spotted the curator sitting at a small table reading a newspaper. Zerbino’s suit was similar to the one he had worn at the museum, perhaps even the very same, but without the vest. The tie this time was a paisley, with a matching foulard in the jacket pocket. The room’s lights gleamed off both the top of his head and the tips of his polished shoes. He looked up as Rick approached, then stood to welcome him, pumping his hand.

“Signor Montoya, so good to see you