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  “Don’t do that,” Rick said sharply. Then, in a more measured tone: “I don’t think you should do that, Fabrizio. Whether she wrote it of her own volition, or was forced to by her husband, she clearly needs time to work things out. You can’t interfere. Did you leave a message when you called?”

  “Yes. To call me.”

  “Then leave it at that.”

  A few seconds passed until Fabrizio spoke. “I suppose you’re right. But if I don’t hear from her by tomorrow afternoon, Riccardo, I’m going over there.”

  “We’ll talk about that tomorrow. Sleep on it, Fabrizio. Or should I say Fabi?”

  After hanging up with his cousin, Rick leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “I sense that Fabrizio was looking for an excuse not to act, and despite his bravado, he was pleased I was able to give it to him. My guess is that Vincenzo forced her to write the note, but it is just as possible that she didn’t need any more convincing to know she should end the affair.”

  “From the look I saw on her face yesterday, she might have been convinced then and there.”

  “So let’s hope Fabrizio will now pack up his computer and do his writing at home in Perugia. Which reminds me that I should check my laptop e-mails.”

  He took his feet off the bed, tucked them under the table, and brought the computer back to life. She watched him for a few moments before retrieving her book and reading glasses. Silence returned to the room. Betta finished a chapter and was starting the next when Rick’s voice took her away from the plot.

  “Ecco. This is interesting. I just did some searching and found the website of our victim. Very well done, she must have hired a first-class web designer. Lots of pictures, easy to use, lets you order her pottery online. On the ‘About Rhonda Van Fleet’ page it makes her seem like the most prominent potter in Arizona, and perhaps she was. Her designs are not exactly what appeals to me, but there must be a market for it. All those rich folks from the north who go to Phoenix for the winter want to bring back some piece of local art, what better than a brightly decorated bowl or pot?”

  Betta had again set aside her book and glasses. “So her wealth came from her artistic ability as well as her skill in finding rich husbands.”

  “Some of it. She might have used her divorce money to set up the shop, like a hobby, and it didn’t actually pay for itself. That’s what one of the American women told Paolo and me when we interviewed her. It’s impossible to tell from this website if it was a successful business, but it certainly looks like a serious operation. But there is something very intriguing here that you have to see.”

  The expression on Rick’s face was intriguing enough. Betta hopped down from the bed and padded to the table.

  She bent over and looked at the computer. “Oh, my God.”

  “An interesting coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “Rick, the decoration on her pottery is virtually the same as what I saw in Crivelli’s shop in Todi. The same wide strokes, the colors, everything.”

  Rick clicked the mouse and more photos moved across the screen. “Or Crivelli’s pottery is an exact copy of hers.”

  She put her arms around his shoulders and squeezed. “Rick, you’ve found a motive for Crivelli. All these years he’s become rich with a style that he copied from her. Then she shows up in Orvieto and they meet by chance in the piazza in front of the cathedral. He realizes that if she finds out what he’s been doing she could sue him to get a share of his wealth, or at least ruin his reputation.”

  “I’m not sure, Betta. It doesn’t seem like a strong enough reason to commit murder. Having met Crivelli, I would guess that he’d try to reason with her, or even more likely, try to buy her off.”

  “He may have done just that when they met that night, but it could have turned ugly. They argue, he kills her.”

  “As much as I’d like to buy that theory, it doesn’t go with my impression of Crivelli from when we talked to him. Vindictive, cunning, yes—someone who resorts to violence, I don’t think so. But we’ll know tomorrow, before the afternoon when we get on the train to Rome.”

  She had moved from behind him to his side, so she could lean in to see the screen better. “How will it be resolved tomorrow?”

  “The fingerprint I told you about, remember? Crivelli, and the other suspects are going to be coming in to sign a statement, not knowing that they’re going to have their prints taken. If there’s a match with the print on the buckle, he’s our man.”

  She leaned to get a closer look at one of Rhonda’s bowls, even though it took up most of the screen. Her shoulder brushed his chest and he got a whiff of her perfume.

  “Betta, there’s nothing I can do right now about this case. I certainly don’t want to have it spoil our little holiday more than it has already. Let’s forget about it until tomorrow.”

  She put her arm around him. “You’re right, Rick, you need something to take your mind off it.”

  He looked up at her face. His hand moved up to her forehead at the same time she looked down at his head and brushed her fingers over his bruise. They simultaneously recoiled from the pain.

  “Maybe we should stay clear of each other’s wounds.” He slipped his hand under her tee-shirt, and his fingers brushed her soft skin.

  She took in a quick breath. “Yes, there are better things to do with our hands.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It had been an uneventful run, especially in comparison with the previous morning’s encounter with the mayor, but that was fine with Rick. Something about the silence of the morning made Orvieto appear even more ancient than it did the rest of the day. The lack of people helped, allowing him to concentrate on stone and sky, aspects of the town that hadn’t changed in centuries. Before the day’s engine fumes and other modern odors infiltrated the streets, the air remained as it had smelled early in the city’s history. He took in deep gulps of it as his running shoes slapped the stone.

  The route took him a few blocks from the police station, bringing his mind back to the murder case. Was it possible that Betta’s instincts were right, that Crivelli was the murderer? That would tie everything up in a nice bow, but somehow it didn’t seem right. The one person he’d woken up thinking about was Donato. He wished he’d gone along to interview the man, to get his own impression, but from the way LoGuercio described him, the caretaker sounded like a two-bit thug. Motive? If Donato was involved, it had to be either a romantic encounter that went bad or someone else put him up to it. Bianca Cappello just didn’t have any kind of motive. On the contrary, she was a good friend of the victim. Unless Rhonda had stolen a boyfriend from Bianca, but that seemed like weak gruel, motive-wise. Which brought him back to the American women. No, he couldn’t envision either of them meeting Rhonda at the bus stop and committing murder. Certainly not Gina.

  He was rounding the corner onto the hotel’s street when he felt his mobile phone vibrate inside the zipper pocket of his sweat shirt. He stopped, trying to catch his breath, and looked at the number. It was not someone he wanted to hear from, but he had to talk to him sooner or later.

  “Uncle, you are up early.”

  “I knew you would be up, Riccardo. Have you finished your run?”

  There was something in Piero’s voice that made Rick uneasy. “I’m on the last few hundred meters.”

  “Something has come up in your murder case. I just got off the phone with Inspector LoGuercio, but I wanted to call you too.”

  “You have my complete attention, Zio.” He wiped sweat from his face with the sleeve of his free arm.

  “The fingerprint found on the victim was identified.”

  “That’s great news, who is it?”

  “Perhaps I should not have used the word ‘identified.’ It is a print taken from a revolver connected to a crime that took place in Milan in 1979. Two people robbed a bank, or at least two people were observed, bo
th armed with pistols. A bank guard was shot but survived. Leaflets found at the scene indicated that it was the work of the Red Brigades. I assume you know about them?”

  “Of course. Urban terrorists, the ones behind the kidnapping of former prime minister Aldo Moro.”

  “That’s right. You were born too late to have witnessed the years of lead, as they were called. The two robbers wore ski masks, so there was no useful identification of them by the witnesses.”

  “Both were men, though?”

  “The report I read said that even their genders weren’t a sure thing, but one of them was found dead of gunshot wounds, a male in his early twenties. A gun was found nearby, and tests confirmed it was the one used on the guard as well as to kill the accomplice. It was also the one that had your fingerprint. The second gun seen in the hands of the bank robbers was never recovered.”

  Rick wondered if the sweat on his neck was left over from the run or had appeared as his uncle was speaking. “So this guy, or this person, robs a bank with another Red Brigades operative, and afterward blows away his accomplice.”

  “And takes all the lire, about half a million in today’s euro. That money was never found.”

  “So we may be trying to find a former bank robber and murderer.”

  “It appears so.”

  “And now—let me guess—you want me to be careful.”

  “How did you know?”

  ***

  After his shower, Rick sat in the breakfast room with Betta, thinking that in twenty-four hours he would be enjoying a cappuccino at the bar around the corner from his apartment in Rome. Dino, the pro behind the bar, knew exactly how Rick liked his cappuccino; just the right amount of milk with the correct proportion of schiuma on top. With a warmed cornetto, there was no better breakfast. The coffee here at the hotel was fine, but it couldn’t beat Dino’s.

  He looked at Betta, who was reading the final pages of the paper, and wondered if he had done the right thing telling her about his uncle’s call. He knew he could trust her completely, and he knew Piero felt the same about her. She was in law enforcement, after all. What was it that was bothering him? Just like in Bassano, they were a team; so what was it? The incident with Carlo at the well? Her reasons for keeping the secret were obvious: not wanting to upset Rick, hope that the problem would go away by itself, and the assumption that she could handle it by herself. It wasn’t that she wanted to deceive him, it was that she wanted to preserve their relationship. He couldn’t blame her, he felt the same way. Perhaps that was it, perhaps deep down he wasn’t ready for this serious a relationship. The thought, for some reason, made him cough.

  “Are you all right, Rick?” Betta peered over her glasses, her eyebrows slightly knitted.

  Rick tapped his chest with his fist. “Something went down the wrong way. It will pass. Anything in the news about the murder?

  “Un bel niente.” She was wearing a more sober outfit than the previous day—a skirt with a long-sleeved blouse—for the visit to the cathedral later that morning. “Tomorrow, if all goes well, it will be all over the front pages of every newspaper.”

  “I certainly hope so,” he said as he pulled out his cell phone and looked at the time. “We still have an hour before we meet Morgante and his girlfriend, as well as all the civic leaders, at the Duomo.”

  She folded her paper. “Please Rick. Girlfriend? She’s probably old enough to be your mother. But after hearing you describe her, I’m curious to see what she’s really like.”

  He was inserting his phone back into his pocket when it rang. Out it came.

  “Montoya.”

  “Rick, this is Francine. Someone broke into the villa during the night, we just noticed it when we were making breakfast.”

  “Are you sure they’re not still there?”

  “We’ve been in all the rooms. Rhonda’s must have been what they were most interested in, but some items from the living room are missing.”

  “Okay, I’ll call the inspector and we’ll get there as soon as we can. Don’t touch anything.” He thought about the other woman, and added: “Try to keep Gina calm.”

  He hung up and translated for Betta. Then he used his phone again for a short conversation with LoGuercio.

  “He’ll be here in five minutes. At least this confirms that the first attempt was not just a random burglary.”

  “The real question, Rick, is if this time the burglar found what he was looking for.”

  “Since we don’t know what it was, we may never find that out.” He held the phone in his hand and tapped the table as he thought. “Damn. It looks like we’ll never get that tour of the cathedral. I’d better call Morgante and tell him.” He took out his wallet, found Morgante’s card, and dialed the number. “Damn again. It goes right to voice mail.”

  Betta held up a hand to stop him. “Rick, we can’t cancel again. I’ll go, and you can join us when you’re finished.”

  “That would be great. The man has been very accommodating, and we can’t simply not show up without calling him. It shouldn’t take that long at the villa. I may even get there in time.” He stood and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  She whispered in his ear. “Promise me you’ll stay away from the flower pots.”

  ***

  “I hope this is the last time we have to make this trip, Paolo.”

  Rick once again held tight as the car made top speed down the hill, the same driver at the wheel. The blue lights on the roof flashed, but the siren barked only when needed to pass another vehicle. In the distance a dark blanket of clouds covered the hills and dumped heavy rain, but fortunately on their patch of Umbria the sun reflected off dry pavement.

  “As do I, Riccardo.” The inspector watched the trees and bushes whipping past the car window. “I regret taking you away from your visit to the cathedral. I’m sure Signor Morgante is an excellent guide.” LoGuercio was lost in thought for several minutes before punching his open palm with his fist. “I curse myself for taking the guard off the villa. The woman caught me in a moment of frustration.”

  “It may have a positive side, Paolo, you could find a fingerprint or some other evidence that leads you to the killer.”

  LoGuercio would not be mollified. “I doubt that.”

  They sat in silence as the car shot past a truck, barely avoiding an oncoming motorcycle. The police driver muttered something under his breath.

  “Your uncle called you about the Red Brigades connection with the fingerprint? He told me he was going to.”

  Rick nodded, and expected the policeman to go on, but instead LoGuercio was lost in thought.

  Rick’s image of the Red Brigades was stamped by a stark, black-and-white news photo he saw years after it was taken. The crumpled cadaver of former Prime Minister Aldo Moro huddled in the open trunk of a car, surrounded by horrified police and other officials. The picture had the drama and pathos of a Renaissance painting depicting the lamentation.

  After several minutes LoGuercio continued. “The Red Brigades held the classic belief that the political ends justified the means, but their means involved a viciousness not seen in Italy in decades. One of their favored techniques of intimidation, or ways of making a political statement, was knee-capping. Public figures who spoke out against them were confronted, always in broad daylight, and shot in the legs. Naturally the incidents were reported everywhere, which played into their hands. My uncle, a magistrate of some renown among the judiciary, was one of their targets. He bled to death on the sidewalk when he was attacked.”

  LoGuercio had been staring out the car window as he spoke, but now he turned to Rick.

  “I tell you this so that you know we are dealing with an especially vicious individual. The brigatisti were devout believers in a religion of violence to create chaos. The person we are looking for may be older, and now wants order rather than chaos, but is still capa
ble of violence.”

  “The shooting of your uncle must have made a deep impression.”

  “I was very young, but it was traumatic for the entire family. And it was one of the reasons I decided to become a policeman, to hunt down such people.”

  Rick hoped that LoGuercio’s personal history with the Red Brigades would not cloud the man’s judgment in trying to solve this case. Or worse, once the murderer was caught would Paolo find a place and time to even the score for his uncle? From his next comment, it seemed that the policeman was reading Rick’s mind.

  “That was a long time ago, Riccardo. We have to focus on the present, and my job is to find this person and bring him to justice.”

  Rick tried to measure the sincerity in LoGuercio’s words. Working on the case, now up to two homicides, had taken its toll on the man. There was a noticeable change in him over just these few days. The stress of his job being on the line was starkly visible in his face and voice.

  “I agree, Paolo. Let’s go over where we are at this point.”

  The inspector nodded silently, and waited for Rick to start.

  “The way I see it, it narrows us down to two suspects, since Donato’s age disqualifies him He was barely an infant when the Red Brigades were operative.”

  “Problem is,” LoGuercio interrupted, “by ruling out people of a younger age, it rules in a large swath of the city’s population. Why, half the people at your private showing at the Duomo fall into the demographic of those who could have been Red Brigades operatives in the seventies, starting with the mayor himself.”

  “Don’t say that, Paolo, with Betta there among them.”

  LoGuercio waved a hand. “Never mind, what were you saying about two suspects?”

  “The first is Crivelli. His political activity may have gone beyond the demonstrations you found in his police file into something more serious. The general location for him during that time period is correct, in the north, so he could easily have been active in Milan. As far as this murder is concerned, I discovered a possible motive last night when I got online.”