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

Both Rick and Erica glanced at Beppo, but were reassured by the look on his face.

“You’re right, Beppo,” Rick answered, “I’ve been reading too many seedy crime novels. These pici are excellent, would anyone want a taste?” The wine and food were having a relaxing effect on the trio, especially with Rick and Erica. “But, Beppo, how do you know so much about detective LoGuercio?” The answer was not what Rick expected.

“He works for me.” Beppo grinned as he twirled some paglia e fieno on his fork and took in Rick’s stunned face. “This should not go beyond this room, since Conti doesn’t know, but we arranged to have LoGuercio work on the case when he was transferred up here.”

“And to keep an eye on dear Ricky?” Erica patted Rick’s hand, just as his mother used to do when he was a kid.

“Well, let’s say, Erica, that we felt better with someone from outside the city working on the inside, and it turned out to be a good decision. LoGuercio kept me informed of what Rick was up to. Conti’s decision to put him in charge of tailing our friend here was coincidental, of course, but very helpful.”

Rick shook his head and frowned. “No wonder you didn’t seem that concerned when I was checking in with you. You knew everything already. But in this town Conti is going to find out, and he won’t be happy. He’s pretty grouchy normally, and this won’t make his day.”

“He may not ever find out, Rick, he’s retiring at the end of the week and moving to the Abruzzi.”

“Good news for the police force here,” said Erica. “But possibly not for his wife.”

At that moment all eyes turned to the wheeled cart that had been pushed to the side of the table by their waiter. The platter on it held their fiorentina, grilled to perfection and oozing juices. The waiter paused for effect and then picked up a carving knife and fork to begin his work. It was the biggest piece of steak they had ever seen, but they would do their best.

Chapter Twelve

Before taking another drink, Commissario Piero Fontana held up the glass and studied his nephew through the almost clear liquid. The wine was a Greco di Tufo, a smooth white which had been the perfect foil to the grilled fish they just enjoyed. The waiters had cleared the dishes, brushed away any stray crumbs, and now patiently hovered offstage. Rushing the clientele was never allowed, and certainly not with these two regulars.

As always, Rick had the impression that Uncle Piero had been sewn into his tailored suit that morning. The jacket was unbuttoned now as the policeman leaned back with the satisfaction that comes from a good meal. A light blue shirt—embroidered with pf initials in the place of a pocket—framed a print tie that Rick did not remember seeing before. Perhaps, he thought, the reason Piero had never married was he didn’t want to split his wardrobe money with anyone.

“This experience in Volterra has changed you, Riccardo. I can see it in your face.” He took only a small taste of the wine, knowing it was the end of the bottle.

Rick nodded. “I suppose it did, Zio. But I don’t know which part of it changed me the most.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the whole undercover operation, if that’s the word for it, was fascinating, exhilarating, even fun.”

Piero smiled proudly. He had never made a secret of his disappointment that his nephew did not go into police work.

“Witnessing a man shot like that,” Rick said, “even though he deserved it, probably aged me a few years. I would imagine that you had that reaction the first time.”

The policeman nodded while rubbing a beard that was somewhere between a five o’clock shadow and a nearly full growth. “Yes, yes I did. What else about the experience has changed you?”

“This may sound strange, but I think I’ve become more Italian.”

“And this may sound equally strange, Riccardo, but I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. Tell me what you mean.”

Rick twisted the stem of his wine glass while forming his reply. “The way I find myself thinking about people, for example. Not as trusting? More cynical? Canopo risking his future for some extra money and paying with his life. Zerbino going against everything his profession stood for. And Donatella. She appeared to be just a good businesswoman, and look what she was up to. And…”

Piero tilted his head as he looked at his nephew. “And Erica?”

Somehow he wasn’t surprised that his uncle had brought up Erica. “Not in the same category as those others, of course, but something is stuck in the back of my mind.” Piero waited for him to continue. “Maybe it’s silly, but she’s never said if she’d called Donatella before arriving in Volterra.”

“You didn’t ask her?”

Rick drained his wineglass. “No.”

“Why not?”

Once again, Rick hesitated before replying. “I’ve asked myself that a few times and concluded that I’m afraid of what she would answer.”

Piero leaned forward and put his palms on the table. “You’re more cynical, less trusting of people, and you want to avoid confrontations with women. No doubt about it, you are Italian.” He raised his glass and tapped its rim with Rick’s. “Benvenuto paisano.” Rick forced a smile. “But let’s go back to the first part,” his uncle continued, “about the thrill of doing police work.”

“I thought you might focus on that, Zio.”

“The news of your exploits in Volterra has reached even the offices of the polizia here in Rome.”

“You of course have had nothing to do with spreading the news.”

Piero put his hand over a wounded heart. “I am forbidden to be proud of my nephew?” Rick grinned, but did not answer. His uncle continued. “Your skills were just what were needed in this case, and—you never know—they could be of value to the authorities again.”

Rick was about to take a sip of his wine