A Thousand Tombs

by Molly Greene

  “Ah,” Vitelli said. Apparently he wasn’t at all surprised to see these new strangers in his house.

  Carla came forward. “Vincenzo Vitelli?”

  “Yes, I am Vitelli.”

  “Carabinieri. We have a warrant to search this residence.”

  Officer Lee chose that moment to walk back in. His shoulders were squared and he held a hand protectively over the closed leather holster of his weapon. “Headquarters cleared you to search,” he said.

  Too many cop shows, Lee.

  Vitelli nodded in apparent agreement, then stepped aside and swept out an arm. “Do as you wish.”

  No one told her to scram, so Gen went along, staying behind Vitelli as he followed the woman and Luciano through the downstairs rooms. She noted a few family photos that showed Vitelli with a little girl and a woman. His wife and daughter, she assumed.

  There was another of Vitelli and the woman alone, older, this one a studio shot. He loved his wife, she could tell. She wondered where the rest of his family was right now.

  The partners took their time, first scanning the contents of the kitchen cupboards. There was an apron hanging on a hook beside the stove. She could see there were women’s clothes in one of the bedroom closets, although the wardrobe seemed scanty enough that Gen imagined the wife was gone. No one asked about the wife, no one mentioned a family.

  They moved on through the pantry, then looked beneath the beds. They opened drawers and carefully rifled through clothing. Gen, the policemen, and Vitelli hung back and stayed out of their way.

  Vitelli faltered when they reached the upstairs landing.

  Luciano twisted the knob on the storage bedroom and pushed with the same difficulty Gen had when she’d tried to enter, but persisted until the door was open as wide as it would go. Carla was hot on his heels. The cops crowded around and eyeballed the chaos.

  Carla went straight to the crate like a homing pigeon and swept away the linens, then pulled out a swath of newsprint. Whatever was in the box was packed in paper. She tugged at a final crumpled sheet and exposed the gleaming face of a marble statue, then held up the exquisite, two-foot-tall figure. It was a woman draped in stony folds, delicate and carved with such detail that she almost looked real.

  Luciano crossed his arms and tapped a foot. He wasn’t facing them, but Gen got the impression he was pleased in some way, and his tone reinforced it. “Well. What do we have here?”

  Carla ran a hand lightly across the face of a woman that could have been an ancestor. “Vitelli,” she said. “You are scum. You support the tombaroli.”

  Vincenzo came forward into the room, then clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. His expression conveyed an odd combination of dread and satisfaction, as if the game had begun and he was now fully engaged, whether he liked it or not.

  “You must be mistaken,” he said. “This piece came from a broker in Switzerland. It was legally excavated in Turkey.”

  Luciano spun around and nearly spat the word, “Turkey?”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Salvatore smiled sadly and shook her head. “You’ll have to do better than that.” She gestured at the open crate. “This gives us cause to examine the rest of the house even more carefully.”

  Vitelli crossed his arms, mimicking Luciano. “You will find nothing.”

  Gen leaned against the door jamb. She wasn’t a chess player but if she did play, she’d imagine this to be the point where the Italian cops said checkmate. There was more to find. Unless, of course, Vitelli’d had time to hide that coin in a place the Carabinieri would never find it.

  “We will see,” Luciano said. “Meanwhile, our hunt will continue. I do not believe you, and we will document everything.”

  Gen had heard enough. She quietly backed away, then descended the stairs, got her purse, and left.

  Chapter Six

  The clock on the wall of her ground floor office said it was just after one in the afternoon, but the way Gen felt when she entered, it seemed more like one in the morning. She stood in the small French-inspired reception area and let it work its magic, and, as always, her mood improved just by being there. She rallied even more as she walked the short hall to the back and put her purse down on the cabinets lining the near wall.

  Her desk was neat, as were the book-lined wooden shelves that anchored the corner behind it. But the couch was strewn with paperwork, and the sepia print of the Eiffel Tower covering her case board was a reminder that she needed to wrap the details of the job she’d just resolved and move on to the handful of inquiries that had recently come in.

  The sleuthing business was good.

  She used the land line to touch base with her service. Another potential customer left a message, a past client called with an update, and Oliver was looking for her. She checked her cell to find he’d also left a voice mail there, and wondered if he needed help moving boxes. The thought of him upstairs packing made her sad.

  No use wallowing.

  Livvie – Gen’s nickname for her close friend Oliver Weston – was about to close escrow on a second home in Carmel-by-the-sea. She’d miss him like heck, even though he was only planning to live part-time in the chic seaside village to the south.

  Despite her selfish misgivings, she needed to be happy for him. She tidied the papers and made a phone call, then locked up again and left.

  The entrance to their condominium complex was a few doors down. It was a converted warehouse, and the brick-walled lobby felt like a strong, comfortable old shoe. She thought about her life in this building.

  She’d moved in with Ryan just over a year ago. He’d left after six months, reassigned to God knows where, and that had been the end of them. Just before that she’d bumped into an old college friend who also lived here, Bree Butler, and helped her solve a murder and met Mack and Livvie – Bree’s best friend – in the process.

  You never knew where life would take you.

  The elevator stopped at the sixth floor and she went down the hall and let herself into her condo. The sun was about to slide through the west-facing windows, and she didn’t resist. She got a bottle of water from the kitchen, then went back and pulled the drapes wide and plumped the sofa pillows and stretched out, waiting for the rays to hit her favorite spot. When they did, she almost sighed aloud and eased back into the cushions.

  And nearly dozed off.

  Gen’s eyes flew open when her cell pinged. She reached down and pulled it from her bag, still lying on the floor beside the couch where she’d dropped it. Mack’s number showed in the display.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “You okay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You gonna fill me in on what happened?”

  “A uniform interviewed me and wasn’t thrilled that I didn’t share much. Then an Italian detective team showed up with a warrant and searched the house. Seems they’re accusing Vitelli of being an importer of illegally obtained antiquities. He has an upstairs room that looks like a depository for unused crapola, but stuck in the corner was an open crate that had an old statue in it. The Italian cops acted like they struck gold, then said they were going to really check out the whole place.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah, that’s when I left.”

  “How is it they happened to show up while you were there?”

  “Just lucky, I guess. Apparently the pawn shop owner kept his promise and called them yesterday after Luca left.”

  “So he did believe what Luca said about an old man and the coin. How did he know it was Vitelli?”

  “Luca said he walked by every day.”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “Something’s not right, Mack. The old guy was pretty tore up, pretty upset, although he was hiding it as much as he could. I mean, I understand the strain of getting tied up and all, but I think there’s more than what it looks like on the surface.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right? You sound exhausted.”

  “I’m wrung
out, that’s all. How’s the kid?”

  “Kid’s all right. Come out here, I miss you.”

  “I don’t know if I have the energy, Mack.”

  “All you need to do is get in the car. I’ll make dinner. Let’s rent a couple of movies. You can choose.”

  “I’ll want to drink some wine tonight, and it wouldn’t be good to drive home that way.”

  “Spend the night and you won’t have to.”

  “Not with Luca there, it wouldn’t feel right.”

  “You can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch. If you keep resisting, I’ll just chalk it up to suspicion you don’t want me to get a look at that eye.”

  She’d forgotten all about it. Her hand came up to her face and she winced at her own touch. He must have heard her groan, because his voice went stern with his next words.

  “You should have somebody look at it, Genny.”

  “All right, you can take a look. I’ll be there about three, how’s that?”

  “I didn’t mean me, wiseacre.”

  “I’m fine, really. Nothing a bottle of Jack wouldn’t cure.”

  “How about a bottle of red wine instead?”

  “I suppose that will do. Two would be better, though.”

  “Okay, we’ll see you then.”

  “We? Already with the ‘we?’”

  “I meant me and Stella and the cat.”

  She laughed and said goodbye, then thumbed in Oliver’s number.

  “Hey Liv. I’m home.”

  “Where’ve you been? No, never mind. Can you come up?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  She hiked down to the elevator and rode up to the seventh floor. Livvie’s fuchsia front door was unlocked, and she went in.

  “In the bedroom,” he called.

  She found him in the midst of a sea of women’s clothing. From the looks of it, he was about to drown. Oliver had announced last summer that he was finished dressing like a woman, and was just going to be a gay man again. Giving away his feminine gear was the final step, and the semi-move south had been the catalyst to go through everything he owned.

  “These are for you. Size twelves, they’ll all fit.” He didn’t look up, just indicated an enormous stack of garments. “I’ve saved some things for Bree, too, but she’s on assignment in Haiti, so I’m going to take them down the hall and leave them for her.”

  “She’ll be sad she missed seeing you off.”

  He tilted his head and pulled a face, still sorting through the piles. “Don’t be dramatic, Genny, that’s my thing. Mostly all Bree and I get to do anymore is talk on the phone, anyway. We’re used to having a long-distance friendship.”

  Then he raised his eyes to hers. “Oh. My. God. Genevieve Delacourt. You better tell me you got that jumping on a bed.”

  “Okay. I got this roughhousing with Mack.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  She threw up her hands and gave him a look that was halfway between what do you want from me and let it go.

  Oliver came over and took her by the hand, then led her into his bathroom. “Take a good look,” he said.

  Gen was taken aback when she caught sight of her face. The area around her left eye was swollen like an eggplant and about the same color. Burst blood vessels were slowly coloring the area red-purple in a circular pattern.

  Yeah, it was a beaut.

  “Look at yourself, Genny. A walking oxymoron. Great hair, good bod, nice outfit, black eye. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  She got over her shock and grinned in the mirror, and he gave her an eye roll in reply.

  “Have you had any ice on that?”

  “Yeah, I iced it right away.”

  “Are you nuts? Once isn’t enough. Every twenty minutes, every hour you’re awake, for the first twenty-four hours.”

  Oliver had been a jock in high school – before he came out – so she trusted him to know about the care and treatment of this kind of thing. He cleared a space on the bed and made her lie down, then left and came back with a package of frozen asparagus wrapped in a dish towel.

  “Asparagus?” She started to laugh.

  “You wouldn’t expect me to have something plebian like corn or peas, would you?” He put the towel in her hand and she covered her cheek and eye.

  “Owww.”

  “So how’d you get it?”

  “The usual way.”

  “Where was your stun gun?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “Where was your pepper spray?”

  “In my purse, in the bushes.”

  “You need to take a class.”

  “How to have eyes in the back of your head?”

  “No, how to deflect the blows of an attacker.”

  “Oh right, that class. It’s a little late.”

  “And apparently you think it will never happen again.”

  Livvie went back to sorting, and Gen changed the subject.

  “How are plans for the shop coming?”

  Part of Oliver’s partial relocation to Carmel involved opening a resale shop he planned to stock with high-end stuff purchased from thrift and consignment stores. A percentage of the proceeds would be donated to charity. His new friend, Justin Allenby, would manage the store and use half the floor space to display the work of local artists.

  Liv perked up at that. “Good. Sophie’s pickers are going to work for me now. That will be a huge help.”

  Sophie Keene was a former client who ran a nonprofit that decorated rooms for indigent people just out of rehab. She was on the East Coast now, moving through the system on a twenty-year-old manslaughter charge.

  But that was another story.

  “I’m going to miss you a lot, Liv.”

  He stopped sorting and breathed in audibly, then let it out. “No you won’t. I’ll be here every couple of weeks to pick up merchandise and look for more. It won’t be all that different, for heaven’s sake. Not really. You’ll see. You’ll be just as sick of me as always.”

  Gen sighed beneath her ice pack.

  “If the shop doesn’t work out after a year or so,” he continued, “I’ll move back here full time and sell the Carmel house. Meanwhile, you’ve seen the cottage I bought in the village. You know you love it. I have a guest room there with your name carved over the door. Besides, you have Mack now. There won’t be time for anybody to miss anyone.”

  “I suppose,” she said. “But Mack won’t take me shopping and listen to me while I whine.”

  “Don’t make me cry.” His tone was stern, but Gen knew he didn’t mean it. “I’ll listen to you whine on the phone,” he said.

  “I guess I have to let things change, don’t I?”

  “What you need to do is trust, Genny. Change can be a bitch, but moving on is good.”

  Chapter Seven

  In the majority of San Francisco neighborhoods the houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and sometimes even shared a common wall. There were few yards, and entry doors often opened right onto the sidewalk, or close to it.

  Piedmont Pines was different.

  That’s why Mack and Jimmy picked a place in Oakland, long before a collection of the city’s residents decided it was time to migrate across the bridge.

  The brothers owned the only place on the street that was built front and center on a double lot. That meant Mack had over an acre of land, and it was flat and usable. And nice. Except for the weeds in back. He kept the front yard trimmed, but there was seldom time to manicure the forest behind the house.

  Gen tried to fix herself up as much as possible before she drove out, so the eye wouldn’t seem so awful. Her thick brunette hair was clean and brushed her shoulders in a long, sleek bob. Her bangs were brushed to the side. She donned straight-leg jeans and a body-hugging cotton sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and topped it all off with gold hoop earrings, mascara, and a brush of lip gloss. She wasn’t a small girl but she was in damn good shape, thanks to the fact that she walked every day.

&nb
sp; Of course, dating Mack had upped her game.

  Despite the crime that plagued East Bay, he’d told her the front door was never locked when he was home. She let herself in, then checked the living room. Empty. She went back to the kitchen and found him marinating steaks.

  Mack’s lips curved when she came into the room. She had no idea if his good humor had to do with the bruising, or the fact that she was there.

  She sat at the table and waited for the teasing to start, but all he did was put down his beer and walk over to lean over her chair and inspect her face. Then he kissed her, very carefully.

  “I feel bad, getting you into that.”

  “You weren’t the one who threw the punch.”

  He went to the freezer and grabbed a bag of vegetables, wrapped it in a towel, and handed it to her.

  Déjà vu all over again.

  “Where’s Luca?”

  “Pulling weeds.”

  She snickered. “Right.”

  “No lie.”

  “What, did you assign him chores already?”

  “I didn’t need to. He ate breakfast and found some tools in the shed and started on his own. I didn’t say a word. I made him a tuna sandwich and called him in for lunch, but he went right back out again when he was done. I’ve just stayed out of the way and kept us both supplied with water and snacks all day. That’s it.”

  Mack planted a half-assed garden every year in honor of his brother. He’d told her that Jimmy said a man had to have home-grown corn to grill, and Mack made sure it happened. He just never got around to beating back everything that came up with it.

  “I have to see this.”

  Gen held the ice pack in place and went to the window. And there was Luca, sitting in the waist-high meadow that was the garden. Mid-September made it late in the season and most of the corn stalks were spent. He’d yanked those out, leaving behind a handful of fat, ripe cobs that were begging to be stripped and barbequed. He wore a ratty old pair of gloves and was hunkered in a cluster of tomato plants, pulling at the weedy tufts with both hands.

  Half the plot was clean.

  Stella was out there, too, lying on her side in the grass inside the garden fence. A neon yellow tennis ball lay a foot away, and she looked satisfied and happy to have the company. Roly Poly, the stray cat that had showed up on Mack’s back porch the spring before last, was curled up on the other side of the dog.