“He may have been buying from disreputable individuals,” said Betta. “Mostly ancient art, like Greek vases. Morelli makes his money in olive oil he exports all over Europe and, from what we know, is totally reputable. But when he leaves business and gets into art collecting, he sometimes deals with shady characters. When he was spotted with a couple of them, he got on our radar.”
The uniformed policeman from the front desk tapped on the door. “Inspector, Signor Morelli is here.”
“Tell him to wait, Sergeant. I’ll be right there.” DiMaio stood up and took a set of earphones from among the papers on the desk. “Riccardo, you can come and sit in this chair. Just put these on; they’re connected to the recorder in the next room where we’ll be questioning Morelli. Shall we go, Betta?” They left Rick sitting at the desk. He picked up the earphones, tried them on, and put them down. For a moment he thought about putting his feet up on the desk, but the thought passed quickly.
DiMaio and Betta walked to the waiting area where Cosimo Morelli was standing in one corner talking on his cell phone. He noticed Betta first, his eyes moving up and down her body, before glancing at DiMaio. He said something into the phone before stuffing it into the pocket of his brown suede jacket. The rest of his outfit was equally casual and expensive: a silk turtleneck, well-pressed blue jeans, and loafers. His hair was long, too long for someone Betta estimated to be in his midforties, giving the impression he was clinging to a younger image. The tanned face said the same, as did his physique. The man worked out.
“Signor Morelli? I am Inspector DiMaio.” They shook hands. “This is Dottoressa Innocenti, who is assisting in the investigation of Somonte’s murder.”
“It is my pleasure,” said Morelli as he took Betta’s hand.
“She is with the art police in Rome.”
Morelli stiffened but quickly composed himself. “I welcome you to Urbino, though I don’t understand why your office needs to be present. This is a murder investigation, isn’t it, Inspector?”
“We can get into that inside,” said DiMaio. “Let me lead the way.”
The room was without windows but otherwise not as intimidating as Betta had hoped it would be. The table in the middle looked almost new, as did the four comfortable chairs around it. In front of each chair sat a microphone, its wires joining with the others at one end before running into a plug in the wall. On one side of the room was a credenza with bottled water and glasses on a plastic tray. The walls were bare except for two tourism posters of the city, one a view of the palace, the other a famous self-portrait of Urbino’s favorite son, Raffaello.
DiMaio pointed toward one of the chairs. “Please sit down, Signor Morelli. We will be recording our conversation, which is purely routine, I can assure you. Would you like some water?”
Morelli looked at the microphone. Its red light had come on when DiMaio flipped a switch under the table. “Thank you, no. I’d just as soon get this over with. I have business to attend to.” He sat and focused his attention on Betta, even when DiMaio began to speak.
After noting the day, time, and their three names, he turned his attention to the man sitting opposite him. “How long had you known Manuel Somonte?”
Morelli reluctantly took his eyes off Betta. “Several years. We became acquainted through Ettore Bruzzone, who runs an art gallery here. Ettore had an opening for an artist from Milan, if I remember correctly, and Somonte was in town. We struck up a friendship since we shared an interest in art. Owning art, that is. Whenever he came to Urbino we had dinner together.”
“But in the case of the Piero drawing, you were rivals, were you not?”
Morelli smiled, pleased that he could speak directly to Betta. “You are well informed, but I would expect that from the art police. We both were trying to buy the drawing, if that’s what you mean.”
“You were disappointed to lose out to him, I suppose.”
“Let’s just say that I am accustomed to getting what I want, Dottoressa.”
Betta returned his stare. “Was this the only instance when you were bidding against Somonte?”
“You would have to ask Bruzzone. If there were others, it would have been Somonte who ended up not getting the artwork.” His fingers drummed on the tabletop.
“Did you see Somonte after he arrived in Urbino this time?” DiMaio asked.
“I was expecting that question, Inspector. I did see him the day he was killed, in the afternoon. We met for coffee, had a short chat, and arranged to have dinner tonight.”
“Did he mention the donation of the drawing?”
He smiled. “Oh, yes. In fact, he had the drawing with him in this ornate case, which he opened with great care to show me what was inside.”
“But you had seen it when it was on sale.”
“Of course. But it was Manuel’s none-too-subtle way to remind me who had won the bidding war on it.” He shrugged. “I might have done the same thing if our roles were reversed, though of course I would not be donating the drawing to a museum.”
“Did he say what he was going to do the rest of the day?”
Morelli shook his head. “He didn’t, and I didn’t ask.”
“Where were you that evening?”
“My alibi? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I was at home.”
“Alone?”
“I am not married, Inspector. But, yes, I was alone.”
It was Betta’s turn to speak. “You were surprised that Somonte decided to donate the Piero drawing to the museum in Sansepolcro?”
He shrugged. “The donation was of no consequence to me. Somonte was free to do whatever he wished with the drawing. It was his. The one who was most agitated about the donation was Vitellozzi, the director of the museum here. He told me, just after the news came out about Sansepolcro getting it, that it was like a slap in the face. I’m sure he’s over it by now, and it isn’t as if his collection is lacking in works by Piero.” Morelli cracked a thin smile. “Donating is not something I would do with my collection unless I were about to die. Perhaps, somehow, Somonte knew that his time was almost up. Now he’s dead and the drawing is missing, isn’t it? That’s why you are here, is it not, Dottoressa?”
The reply came from DiMaio. “It would seem logical that the death of Somonte is connected to the missing work of art.”
“Indeed it would,” Morelli said, shifting in the chair.
“Did you ever meet Signora Somonte?”
“She doesn’t speak Italian, so she didn’t always accompany him on his trips to Italy. At least that’s the reason he gave. I think I saw her at one of the openings here, but we never spoke. He told me the other day that she came with him this time because of the ceremony in Sansepolcro.”
A pause followed his reply, and DiMaio turned aside to Betta. “I have nothing else,” she said.
Morelli rose to his feet. “I hope that has been helpful,” he said, putting an emphasis on the last word. “And I trust you will bring the murderer to justice quickly, Inspector. There is no telling when he might decide to murder another art collector.”
“What kind of art do you collect, Signor Morelli?” Betta was still seated.
“A bit of this and a bit of that.” He pulled a card and pen from his pocket, wrote something on the card, and passed it to her. “Given your position, you must be an expert, and I would be pleased to show it to you. I am having a few friends over this evening—perhaps you could come by then. Let’s say seven?”
“I just might,” she said, slipping the card into her pocket.
“Let me see you out, Signor Morelli.” DiMaio opened the door and walked with him in silence to the reception area. They were shaking hands when Morelli noticed someone standing nearby.
“Ettore, are you a suspect in this as well?”
“Just helping the authorities, as any good citizen would,” answered Bruzzone.
> DiMaio checked his watch. “Thank you, Signor Morelli. Signor Bruzzone, if you could wait here, I’ll be with you shortly.” The two men resumed their conversation as DiMaio walked quickly to his office, where Rick had vacated his desk chair and was standing with Betta.
“Bruzzone is here, but before I bring him in, what are your impressions of our friend Morelli?” He took his chair behind the desk and motioned for Rick and Betta to sit.
“Since I could only hear him, I’m not the one to ask,” said Rick. “You two could gauge his expressions and body language.”
“It’s just as well you weren’t there, Rick. The way he looked at me made me very uncomfortable and would have annoyed you. Clearly, he considers himself God’s gift to women.”
“I heard him invite you to see his etchings, but I couldn’t hear what you answered. You put him in his place, I assume?”
Betta’s smile was more sly than playful. “Actually, I thought it might be interesting to see his art, since my office has some questions about him. I didn’t tell him that if I came I would bring a friend.”
DiMaio rapped on his desk like a schoolteacher. “Can we get this back to the murder investigation? All right, Morelli has no alibi for when Somonte was killed—that is worth noting. He also claimed indifference to the drawing being donated, after he missed buying it himself, but that may just be a front. His motive would be more anger that he lost the bid in the first place, since he admits he likes to get his way on such sales. As you noted, Betta, he does not come across as a very simpatico person, not that that matters. The real question is if he’s capable of violence, and if being on the wrong side of a bidding war bruised his ego enough to lash out.”
Rick rose from his chair. “You’ve summed it up perfectly, Alfredo. We will leave you to talk to this man Bruzzone.”
Betta got up as well, followed by DiMaio.
“Don’t you want to stay, Betta?”
“No, Alfredo. I already talked to him about the drawing, which is my main concern. And Rick and I have that appointment at the Galleria Nazionale delle Marche to talk to Vitellozzi. After that, we’re going to drive down to Monterchi to find out more about the drawing’s provenance.”
“Give us a call if Bruzzone confesses to the murder,” said Rick as he started toward the door.
“You’ll be the first to know,” said DiMaio, with a disgusted wave of his hand.
Five minutes later, Bruzzone sat in the chair vacated by Rick.
“I may appear a bit nervous, Inspector. I’ve never been in a police station before, and since it’s in connection with a murder, well…”
“Perfectly understandable. I appreciate you coming in. I know you spoke with Signora Innocenti yesterday, but I have some other questions. How long had you known Signor Somonte?”
Bruzzone was relieved at the calming tone from the policeman, easing himself back off the edge of the chair. “It’s been several years. I can certainly look back at my records to see when he made his first purchase.”
“That won’t be necessary. He simply appeared at your gallery?”
“He did. There aren’t that many art dealers here in Urbino, as you may have noticed, so it would be natural that a collector would come in to see what I had to offer. We struck up a friendship, you could say, and I got to know where his interests lay so that I could alert him when I came into possession of some work he might want to acquire.”
“As with this drawing by Piero della Francesca.”
“Precisely.”
“But there were others who wanted it.”
“My goodness, yes. One was Cosimo, Signor Morelli, whom you saw earlier. He is another of my regular clients, so naturally I made him aware of the drawing as well.”
“He was disappointed not to get it.”
“That would be an understatement. He refused to come into my shop for six months. I haven’t talked to him about it, but I’m sure the decision by Somonte to donate the drawing annoyed him as well.”
“Was there anyone else who was equally disappointed?”
Bruzzone looked at the ceiling, gathering his thoughts. “No one in the same category as Morelli. There was a buyer from Milan, but he dropped out early.” He paused for more thought. “Of course the museum here was very interested when they found out about it, but they couldn’t afford the price. Vitellozzi, the director, asked me to hold off while he looked for some donor to cover it, but I couldn’t wait. Both Morelli and Somonte were pressuring me to make a decision.”
DiMaio had a pen in his hand that he tapped on the desk. “Did you see Somonte before he was killed?”
“I did. He came by my shop in the morning. He had the drawing with him in a leather case he’d had made for it. He said he was showing it to people for the last time before it went into the museum in Sansepolcro, which I thought was a bit of bruta figura. ‘Look how generous I am,’ he was saying.” Bruzzone frowned and shook his head.
DiMaio recalled what Morelli had told him about their meeting for coffee, when Somonte had brought out the drawing to remind his adversary who had won the bidding war. Apparently, he did something similarly petty with Bruzzone. The image DiMaio was forming of the murdered man was less than positive. It was not mentioned in the interview room earlier, but perhaps Morelli didn’t think it important. Or the drawing was so much of a sore point that he didn’t want to bring up again.
“You didn’t see Somonte again?”
“I did not. That evening I was at home since my wife was not feeling well.”
A contrast with Morelli the bachelor, thought DiMaio. And unlike Morelli, Bruzzone had answered the inevitable question about his whereabouts at the time of the murder without being asked. Like everyone else in Italy, Bruzzone must watch too many TV crime shows. At least he wasn’t obsessed with crime novels.
Chapter Six
The term Renaissance Man may well have been coined to describe the most renowned former resident of Urbino’s Palazzo Ducale. Federico, Duke of Montefeltro, practiced the ruthless art of mercenary warfare, building a fortune by fighting for whichever city-state would pay him the most. Yet he wanted history to remember him not as a warrior but as an intellectual who brought the most famous artists of the day to his court and built a library rivaled only by that of the pope. A famous portrait showed a seated Federico in full armor, his infant son, Guidobaldo, leaning on his father’s knee. The duke’s sword remained sheathed on his belt, allowing him to use both his hands to hold a book that he read intently while the boy stared into the future. It was appropriate, then, that in later centuries when city-states joined into a single modern Italy, Federico’s palace would again be a center for culture. The Galleria Nazionale delle Marche was not just the finest museum in the region but one of the most distinguished in Italy.
Viewed from the street outside, the Palazzo Ducale was not impressive. Austere was the word that came to Rick’s mind when he looked at the facade, part of which looked out on the small square between it and the cathedral. Except for some lightly decorative stone between the doors, and stonework around the windows of the second floor, the building displayed its original brick. A frieze that began at the corner of the building ran for only a few yards, adding to the sense that the palace was a yet unfinished work of medieval architecture.
They were expected. The guard at the entrance handed them a floor plan and indicated on it where to find Vitellozzi on the secondo piano. Betta thanked her and they walked inside.
“Aren’t the stairs that way?”
“They are, Rick, but let’s take a quick look at the courtyard; it’s one of the finest in Italy.”
She was right. Open to the sky and the size of a basketball court, it was surrounded by Corinthian columns and looping arches, creating a continuous portico on all four sides. Above the columns Latin inscriptions ran below and above the windows of the piano nobile, the second-floor apartme
nts and reception rooms.
“I can picture Federico receiving distinguished visitors here, and knowing that they were duly impressed.”
“That was the idea,” said Betta. “But he also used this courtyard to stage concerts and theater for invited guests. They still do concerts here in the summer, but now you have to buy a ticket.” She touched his arm. “Let’s go find Vitellozzi.”
After climbing an elegant flight of low stairs, they found themselves in the rooms of the museum, and using the floor plan, they made their way to the spot where Vitellozzi was said to be found. Like the walls in the other rooms they passed through, this room’s walls were white and plain, making the colors of their paintings more vivid by contrast. The art was spaced at wide intervals, but with so much space there was no need to crowd. A fireplace centered in one wall was large enough that Rick could have stood up inside it. He concluded that if that was the only heating in the chamber, even with a roaring fire, the duke would have needed his long underwear on a winter night. A uniformed guard sat in a folding chair near the door, and two people who were clearly tourists stood before one of the paintings. No sign of anyone who might be Vitellozzi.
Betta walked quickly to the guard, who looked like he was nodding off. “We were told to find Dottor Vitellozzi here.”
He looked up, startled. “What? Oh, yes, Vitellozzi. He was expecting someone. Through that door.” The guard pointed to the far end of the room where a sign reading “Closed to the Public” guarded the tall wood door. The heels of Rick’s cowboy boots clicked on the floor as they crossed the room to reach it.
The room on the other side of the door was the same size as the one they’d just left and had a similar massive fireplace, but in contrast this one was a hive of activity. Sets of panels, connected by hinges, were being positioned by two workers in white overalls. Another set of workers pushed together risers to make a small stage at one side of the room. Two young women were removing artwork from wooden crates, unwrapping each piece with great care and leaning them at intervals against the wall. At the opposite end of the room from the stage, two men were setting up a bar, unpacking wineglasses and arranging them on a long table covered by a white cloth. Standing in the middle of the activity was a man wearing sneakers, blue jeans, and a sweatshirt bearing the words “Keep Calm and Enjoy Art,” in English.
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