“Erica, one thing Beppo said to me is that this whole business in Volterra is, well, very confidential.”
“But you told me anyway.”
He shrugged. “It would have been hard to disappear for a few days without telling you where I’d gone. And if I can’t trust you…”
Erica remained silent and appeared to be deep in thought. A light wind was blowing through the piazza, and she let go of his hand to pull her white silk scarf closer around her neck. He waited for her reaction.
“It will be colder in Volterra,” she said. “Ancient hill towns always feel colder. It must be all the stone.”
“I’ll bring an extra sweater,” said Rick.
She studied his eyes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The softer Erica had reappeared. “Be careful, Ricky. And call me.”
“Yes ma’am,” he answered in English, with a smile that was not returned. She turned and walked across the piazza in the direction of her apartment. Even with the wool coat he could trace her slim figure, accentuated by heels which American women would deem highly impractical on the cobble stones of Rome’s historic center. But they served their purpose, thought Rick, as she disappeared around the corner.
Chapter Three
Commissario Carlo Conti walked across the central piazza of Volterra toward his office, the cool fall air keeping him alert after the quarter-liter of red wine enjoyed with lunch. In his younger days it would have been like drinking a glass of mineral water, but in recent years he had noticed that even a small amount of alcohol would have its effect. He still consumed his regular quarto of wine with each meal, but only occasionally did he finish it with a digestivo. And grappa was out of the question.
Once again he found himself thinking of retirement. There was no getting around it, the idea of returning to the village where he was born and raised was more appealing as each day passed. He chuckled as he remembered the schoolboy whose only dream was getting out and moving to the largest city he could find. But now the hilltop town of San Giorgio had everything he needed in life. How ironic. The boredom that drove him away those many years ago now would welcome and comfort. Though she would never say it, Gemma too was ready for the move. He smiled as he thought of the only woman in his life; he could not have asked for a finer wife. His colleagues often told him how fortunate he was, and he always agreed. She had put up with so much over the years because of his police work: long hours alone, fears for his safety, his bad moods when the job was not going well. He often made a point of showing his appreciation, but he knew it was never enough. His friends were predicting, half in jest, that having him around all day might ruin the marriage for Gemma. But he would be sure to spend a good deal of time in the square at San Giorgio playing bocce. Was not his cousin Mario already retired and into such a daily routine? It would be easy to fall into it himself. Some gardening, an occasional visit to the beach, the grandchildren driving down from Rome to be spoiled. Yes, that could be a very pleasant retirement indeed.
“Commissario.” The policeman at the desk acknowledged his arrival as the door behind Conti swung shut and he walked down the hall to his office. The building was centuries old, but it smelled the same as every police station he had ever worked in throughout Italy. It must be in the disinfectant the cleaning staff uses, he thought. It probably all comes from the same manufacturing plant in the south. The odor pulled him back from San Giorgio to Volterra.
The office, though one of the best in the building, was not at all large and certainly not luxurious. They didn’t build many large rooms in the Middle Ages, but they did build them too solidly to allow knocking down walls, not that Conti had wished for a bigger office. There were two windows. One, near his desk, had a panoramic view of the piazza, while the other at the far side of a table overlooked a narrow alley. The table had six chairs on each side and one at either end, large enough for Conti to hold meetings with his staff. They were infrequent. He hated meetings. His desk, in front of which stood two uncomfortable chairs, was squeezed into one end of the room. On poles behind the desk chair hung the requisite flags of Italy and of the Polizia dello Stato. Between them on the wall, a framed photograph of President of the Republic. Except for the view of Volterra from the windows, it could be the office of any police commissioner in Italy. He sat down and opened a file that had been placed in the center of his desk. Ten minutes later, after reading all its contents, he closed it and picked up the phone.
“Is Detective LoGuercio here? Ask him to come to my office.”
A few moments later there was a knock and the door opened. “Yes, Commissario.”
The two were about the same height, but the slight bend in Conti’s posture made Detective Paolo LoGuercio an inch or two taller. The baggy cut of the commissario’s suit added to the illusion, contrasting with the detective’s fitted clothing. An observer would note immediately that the two were of different generations, but their outward appearance was not the only clue. More striking was the deferential manner of the younger man toward his superior, obvious in his demeanor from the moment he entered the room. Was it sincere respect for the older man or was LoGuercio simply performing the ritual dance of any Italian bureaucrat, doing what was needed to continue his climb up the ranks?
“Sit down, LoGuercio. How are you settling in?”
“Very well, sir.” He paused, hoping the older man would speak, but after no response he continued. “I found an apartment outside the walls which is very comfortable, and have managed to see a bit of the city that I probably wouldn’t visit in connection with my work. You know, the churches and the museums.”
“The city is fascinating. Is that why you requested this assignment? Are you interested in such things?”
The detective coughed nervously. “Probably no more than anyone else. But it’s a good way to get to know a new place.”
“I imagine so. And the museums and churches here are very different from those in Sicily.” The younger man seemed eager to change the subject from his own interests and previous work assignment. Conti sensed this, and before LoGuercio could answer, tapped his fingers on the file. “Do you know about this anonymous tip we got last week?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I heard something about fake Etruscan objects.”
“That’s the one. The phone call led us to a shed in a wooded area outside of town. Inside were boxes of carvings which looked like they were ready to be shipped somewhere. We asked an Etruscan expert from the museum to check them out and he said they were fakes, though good enough fakes to fool a lot of buyers.”
“Who owns the property?” LoGuercio sat back slightly, adjusting the crease on his trousers.
“Some woman who lives in Florence inherited it years ago and has been sitting on it with the idea of selling it some day. She didn’t even know there was a shed there. That’s what she said, and her story seems credible since she’s a school teacher, not the type you would expect to be involved in anything illegal. At least you would hope not.”
“Somebody was using the shed to keep a stash.”
“It appears so.”
“Why the tip, Sir?”
Conti glanced up and then returned his gaze to the papers on his desk. “Good question, LoGuercio. My guess is that someone involved in the scheme was not happy. Not getting a big enough cut, had a fight with the boss, felt some remorse about a life a crime. Who knows? Now that we have the objects, the criminals will probably disappear, at least for the moment.” Conti looked at the detective, as if trying to make a decision. He slowly pushed the file to one side of the desk. “LoGuercio, I have a project for you.”
The detective visibly perked up. Since arriving in Volterra two weeks earlier his main assignment had been to learn how the office functioned. He was bored with reading reports and learning the routine. He was ready for real police work.
“Would you like me to assist you with this investigation?” He tried n
ot to show too much excitement in his voice.
Conti handed over the file. “Possibly, when I decide where we should go with it. In the meantime all I want you to do is read the file and return it to me.” He smiled when he saw the detective’s reaction to the prospect of more reading. “But I do need you for a case in which we’ve been peripherally involved for several months.” He pulled another file from the stack. “It now appears that Volterra may become the focus of this investigation, though not in the way I had expected.”
Detective LoGuercio leaned forward, puzzled but interested, forgetting how hard the chair felt. His supervisor continued.
“You may be just the person to work on this, given your interest in things artistic.” The younger man shifted uncomfortably in his seat at this comment, and the commissario added, “Didn’t you work on an art theft case in Palermo?”
LoGuercio was not surprised that the commissario knew about that detail of his record. The old boy network would have offered up everything about him well before he arrived in Tuscany. How deeply had the man dug into his background?
“Yes, sir. Is that what this case is about?”
“Not exactly the same, but it involves stolen objects that the Ministry of Culture considers of value. Real Etruscan objects, not fakes like the carvings we found in the shed. The art cops in Rome are coordinating the investigation. I trust you know about that office.”
The detective took a breath. “I have heard about them, yes, sir.”
“Well, our crack art police have come up with a scheme to find the source of some stolen Etruscan antiquities that could be from this area. I still can’t believe it, but what they want to do is send some American up here to pose as an art buyer.” He shook his head slowly. “This is insanity, of course. Not only will it come to nothing, we have been asked to watch over this amateur.” He looked up from the file into the face of the detective. “That’s where you come in. LoGuercio, did you hear me?”
The younger man had such a strange look on his face that it surprised Commissario Conti. He expected that LoGuercio would not to be very excited about the assignment of tailing someone. He would have felt the same way; nothing could be more boring. But everyone has to do this kind of work when starting out.
“Yes, sir, I heard you.” LoGuercio composed himself. “When is he arriving in Volterra?”
“I don’t know yet, but it will be soon. Apparently the ministry is giving him a briefing today, so they will tell me after that. Or perhaps they will come to their senses and change their minds. I’ll let you know.” He stared down again at the file. “I think it might be better if you don’t meet him. He will be easier to watch if he doesn’t know his watcher. Get someone to help you. DeMarzo is pretty good, use him. I expect the American will arrive in the next day or so. I don’t need to tell you that anything regarding this case should be kept strictly with those of us who are working on it. The art cops were very specific about that.”
Conti looked back down at the papers and detective LoGuercio immediately understood that the meeting had ended. He rose from the chair and left the room, clutching the file. After the door closed the man at the desk got up and went to the window, staring down at the square. Then he turned and extended a cupped right hand in front of his squint before swinging the arm behind his back and slowly rolling the imaginary bocce ball toward the wall.
***
The room where Rick got his briefing must have been intended as a storage space for the priests who built the palazzo. It was smaller than Beppo’s office, featured none of the ornate ceiling decorations found throughout the rest of the building, and had not a single window. The rectangular florescent lamp that hung over the table could have come from a pool hall, but worked perfectly for the billiard-sized table it illuminated. On one wall hung a whiteboard, on another a map so old that it included Nice as part of Italy. There was no other decoration, unless one included the institutional furniture. Rick sat on one side of the table facing Beppo and a ministry colleague named Roberta Liscio. On Rick’s left, at the end of the table, sat a man introduced only as Signor Vetri. He was of indeterminate age, and wore a dark brown suit with a matching tie. Unlike the woman, who had smiled pleasantly when she shook Rick’s hand, Vetri had merely nodded at the American visitor and taken his seat.
Signora Liscio, the administrative person, spoke first, explaining how Rick would pick up his rental car, the hotel where he would be staying in Volterra, and how he would use the ministry-issued credit card to cover his expenses. Not that this would obviate the need to keep a careful record of expenses, she emphasized. When she slid the card across the table the look on her face gave the impression she was signing away her firstborn child. The floor then belonged to Beppo, who began by passing a single sheet of paper to Rick.
“These are the three people you will approach in Volterra, Rick. We decided to make it a short list even though there are others who could be considered possible suspects, but these three are by far the most likely to be involved in this operation.”
Beppo didn’t notice that Rick had stiffened slightly when he glanced down at the paper.
“The first name, Antonio Landi, is outwardly a pillar of the Volterra business community. His store, Galleria Landi, draws tourists seeking the alabaster objects for which Volterra is famous. He has exported large quantities of alabaster over the years, all overtly legitimate, but we have our suspicions. In the past few years we think he may have included some small Etruscan objects among his exports, though we’ve been unable to catch him in the act. He very well could have moved from small pieces to larger ones. What may be important for you, Rick, is that Landi knows everyone in town, including, we believe, its shadier elements. If he is not involved with the burial urns himself he may well know who is, and we assume he would be glad to serve as an intermediary.” Beppo pulled a passport-sized photo from the file and passed it to Rick. Landi’s angular features looked like someone who would be found in a police lineup; not that Rick had ever seen one, except in movies.
Rick took out a pen and put a check next to Landi’s name and address. Signora Liscio listened carefully as Beppo had talked, and Rick guessed she was not normally included in this aspect of the ministry’s work. Vetri, in contrast, settled back in his chair and studied the lamp.
“The second name on the list is a certain Rino Polpetto, who runs an import-export business. The fiscal police have never been able to pin anything on him, though they have had their suspicions about some of his exports, and we also have suspected him of some irregular dealings with antiques. Unfortunately he covers his activities well.”
“Or he’s just an honest businessman,” said Rick as he studied the second photo. The man could not have been more different from Landi; his face was round and his smile wide.
“We try not to waste our time with honest people here, Rick.” Beppo took back the second photo and passed a third. It was the one Rick was waiting to see.
“Donatella Minotti. As you can see, Rick, it should not be much of a chore for you to make contact with her.” Signora Liscio shook her head at the comment, unnoticed by Rick, who was studying the picture. “She is an art dealer, and her sales include everything from paintings to sculpture, with the occasional Etruscan piece.”
“She has a gallery?” Rick continued to look at the picture. It was another passport photo, but despite its small size her beauty was obvious, as well as her faint look of annoyance.
“She did for a few years, but now has built up enough of a professional reputation to sell directly to clients from her villa. Those clients have included a few people who we have been watching in connection with other cases. That is why she is on the list.”
“So she could be clean?” Rick hoped his voice did not betray his thoughts. If Donatella Minotti were involved in this, it could prove very awkward indeed for his relationship with Erica.
“All three could be cl
ean, or all could be involved in something illicit. What we hope is that one of them is selling these burial urns, or will at least help you flush out the people who are selling them.” Rick slid Donatella’s photo back across the table and Beppo continued. “The best way for you to approach these people would be in a very low-key way, establishing yourself as a credible buyer. When you think you have that credibility—and exactly when will be your call—you can drop a few hints that you’re also interested in a few pieces of genuine Etruscan art, very unique pieces, that sort of thing.”
“So I shouldn’t ask if they have any Etruscan burial urns in the back?”
Beppo looked at the other two people at the table, whose frowns were evident. “You will have to excuse my friend’s American sense of humor. He can’t help himself.” He turned to Rick. “It doesn’t matter which of these three you contact first, but on arriving in Volterra you must call on the local police chief, Commissario Carlo Conti. He knows you are coming, but we haven’t given him many of the details.”
From his uncle, Rick had heard stories of turf battles between Italy’s many and varied law enforcement entities. “So Commissario Conti is managing to contain his enthusiasm about my presence in Volterra?”
“You could say that. This may be an opportunity to use some of those diplomatic skills you’ve picked up from your father.”
“They’re in the genes, Beppo.”
The meeting went on for another ten minutes. Beppo shared a few more details about the three contacts; Signora Liscio gave Rick a map of the city, pointing out the location of Conti’s office; but Signor Vetri continued to remain silent.
After Rick had turned in his pass and left from the ministry building, he stood for a few moments in front of its stone entrance and looked again at the list. There appeared to be a one-in-three chance that Donatella Minotti was involved in just the kind of illegal activity that so appalled Erica. He folded the paper and slipped it into his jacket pocket where he felt the card Beppo had given him the day before. The name on the card, Arnolfo Zerbino, had not come up once during the briefing. Was it possible, Rick wondered, that the silent Signor Vetri didn’t know of Beppo’s acquaintance with the museum curator? And that Beppo didn’t want the man to know?
Cold Tuscan Stone Page 3