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

steady pension after retiring as young as possible, but he had joined the police in search of excitement. He soon found that the excitement came in brief spurts between long days filled with boredom and routine, regulations and forms. Palermo had its edgy side, as would be expected, but he never felt truly challenged. Then came the assignment to Volterra, and shortly after, the offer. Again he asked himself it had been a mistake to accept. He tried to get his mind back to the file in front of him when the phone rang.

“LoGuercio.”

“This is DeMarzo, sir. I…I can’t locate the American.”

LoGuercio leaned forward in his chair. “That’s impossible, you called me only fifteen minutes ago to say he was locked in his room with his computer. What happened?”

The sergeant spoke in short bursts, gasping for breath. “I finished my sandwich quickly and walked to the hotel, ready to sit in the lobby to wait for him. When I got there the girl at the desk, she’s the one—”

“Yes, yes, the one who’s been helping you, go on.”

“Yes, sir, well she told me that Montoya had left the hotel a few minutes earlier with his coat on. He didn’t drop his room key, he just walked out the door.”

“Did she see which way he went?”

“No, she doesn’t have a clear view of the street. I rushed outside and covered a few hundred meters of the street in both directions. Nothing.”

“His car?”

“Still in the hotel garage.”

LoGuercio looked up at the yellow ceiling of his office, trying to decide what to tell the man to do. “I’ll put men on the gates of the city. You start walking around the main streets near you to see if he appears. If not, go back to the hotel and stay there, he will have to return some time. Call me immediately if he turns up. He can’t have gone very far. If you’re lucky he just went out to buy a newspaper or some shaving cream.”

“Or something for his computer.”

Like a new hard drive. “I doubt that.”

He hung up, breathing heavily. You wanted excitement? Now you have it. Where would Montoya have gone, especially after telling the desk he was going to stay in his room? If it wasn’t just a quick decision to play tourist, someone must have called him. Who? The more pressing question going through LoGuercio’s head was something else. How long should he wait before telling Conti?

***

“Ecco,” said Rick, trying to stay as calm as he could. He walked over to the first urn while the man leaned against the table, the flashlight now back in his pocket. As he watched Rick he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the smoke adding to the stale odor of the cave. The urn was at chest height so that Rick could reach out and run his fingers over the stone decoration. The surface was relatively clean, like it had been recently rubbed with a cloth. Particles of dust clogged the tiny recesses of the design, and given its intricacy, there were many nooks for dust to have collected over the centuries. At first Rick thought it to be a battle scene, but then he noticed a large bear on the left side of the panel, reared up and facing the spears of the hunters. Would the dead man have really killed a bear? An Etruscan Davey Crockett? Rick was not aware that any bears lived in this part of the peninsula, but perhaps the man had traveled further north for sport or as a soldier. Or it may have been the depiction of some legend or myth. Whatever it portrayed, it made an exciting bit of bas-relief theater, drama about which the toga-wearing Etruscan sculpted on the lid seemed blissfully blasé. He reclined in the typical banquet position, as if saying “Yes, I killed that bear in my lifetime, now I can brag about it to everyone in the afterlife. What does a dead guy have to do to get some more wine around here?” Rick moved to the next niche.

The theme on this one was clearly classical, even if the figure on top had the same relaxed demeanor as his neighbor. It depicted a chariot carrying a man clad in a flowing robe followed by another man on foot wearing light armor. The chariot, with ornate decorations on its side and wheels, was pulled by four strong horses. Above the scene loomed a winged figure, a deity of some sort, looking straight into the face of the charioteer. Contrasting the flowing lines of robes, wings, and horseflesh, regular stone blocks of a temple ran across the top of the urn and bent around the sides. Rick was so intent on studying the stone that he almost jumped when the man spoke.

“Do you think you can find some rich client who would be interested in such a piece?” He tapped ashes on the dirt floor.

Rick hoped the man didn’t notice how quickly he was breathing. “It depends on price, of course, but these urns are certainly unique.” He tried to shift into his role as buyer, wondering what he should be asking. “What about delivery?”

“We have shipped them to other countries before, always hidden with legitimate goods, and there’s never been a problem. Customs officials in most countries are overworked and underpaid. I trust that is also the case in America.” He took another pull on the cigarette. “We will require half payment to close the deal, and the other half after delivery. Bank account numbers will be given to you. I trust those terms will be agreeable?”

“You haven’t mentioned price.”

“No, I haven’t. That will be the subject of another meeting. We thought you would want to talk with your people in America before we get to that point.”

“Yes, I think I would.” Rick turned back to the urn, rubbing it and picking up a trace of dust on his fingers. “When will that next meeting be?”

“Very soon.”

“With you?”

“Probably not.”

Likely with