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  When she saw the policeman, Bianca Cappello, who was standing near Morgante, had moved closer and taken his hand. He smiled down at her before addressing LoGuercio. “Inspector, you are able to take time away from the investigation to join us for some culture. How nice. We were just about to gaze upon Signorelli’s masterpiece. It depicts the day of judgment, as you know.”

  “How appropriate,” said LoGuercio.

  Morgante’s eyes moved from the policeman’s face to Rick’s, and back. “I don’t understand, Inspector. The painting’s subject is a serious one. If you were attempting to make light of it…”

  “Not at all, Signor Morgante.”

  Bianca’s hand clutched Morgante’s arm, but the man didn’t appear to notice. He looked at LoGuercio, his face showing his usual calm. “Then I will go on with the description of the work.”

  “I am not here for culture, Signor Morgante,” said the policeman, “but in search of a murderer.”

  The effect on the people was immediate, only the sacred surroundings kept them somewhat subdued. Instead, they turned to one another and spoke in low voices, stealing looks at the policeman as they did. Every one of them knew about the murder of the American, and almost certainly the news of Pazzi’s shooting had spread even faster. It was Morgante, taking back his role as leader of the program, who eventually said what they all were thinking. Letting go of Bianca’s hand, he stepped forward.

  “Inspector, surely you don’t think anyone—”

  A woman screamed, and the crowd parted like a human curtain. In the middle stood Vincenzo Aragona, a dark pistol in his hand. Every eye was on the weapon, which he waved rapidly, causing some men to drop to the stone floor. Rick stared in horror, then pulled Betta to his side. LoGuercio’s hand moved slowly behind him.

  “Don’t try to get your weapon, Inspector, unless you want yourself or someone else shot.”

  “Signor Aragona,” said LoGuercio, “be reasonable. Put the gun down.” His voice was soothing, but Aragona was in no mood to hear it. Instead, he continued to wave the pistol and stepped clear of the group.

  “I will not be arrested. I know how to use this.”

  Morgante watched the gun as it swung back in forth, pointing in the direction of the Signorelli frescoes. “Vincenzo, what are you doing?”

  “I’m not going to let them make an arrest.” The nervousness gone, his voice had turned to steel.

  “Vincenzo, please.” It was Morgante again. “Remember where you are.” His eyes raised to the decorations of the chapel ceiling. Every inch of space between the ribs of its vaults was decorated with biblical characters, angels, and saints. Frozen in paint and mosaic, they looked down with solemn faces at the scene playing out below.

  “I don’t give a damn where we are. I’m going to walk out of here, and not even the almighty can stop me.” As he spoke, he waved the pistol in the direction of the priceless frescoes high above them.

  Morgante gasped and lurched forward, grabbing Aragona’s pistol hand while the others watched in silent fear.

  “Everyone get down!” shouted LoGuercio, rushing toward the two struggling men.

  Morgante had taken hold of the barrel and tried to pull it out of Aragona’s hand. “I can’t let you—”

  His words were cut off by the explosion of the pistol. He froze and stared blankly at Aragona while his free hand grasped his blood-stained shirt. His mouth moved, and no words came out, but he continued to cling tightly to the gun barrel. Aragona tried to pull it free, but Rick leaped at him and landed a blow on his neck. Stunned, the man staggered and let go of the pistol. The grip banged on the stone floor, but the muzzle was still in Morgante’s hand. LoGuercio pulled out his service pistol and pointed it at Aragona’s chest.

  Seeing that the chapel was now safe, Morgante finally loosened his grip on the weapon. It slid out of his hand and rattled across the floor, coming to a stop near the altar. The harsh odor of the discharged gun mixed with the sweet smell of incense.

  Three uniformed policemen charged into the chapel, weapons raised.

  “Sergeant, get an ambulance,” LoGuercio called out. “Corporal, handcuff this man.” Two of the policeman followed his orders while the third stared at the man cradled in the lap and arms of a sobbing Bianca Cappello.

  Morgante’s eyes looked past her face and stared at the ornate walls of the chapel. “How…could he?” His words came in short gasps. He looked past her at the wall that held Signorelli’s masterpiece. “This is…the jewel…of Orvieto.”

  Tears poured down her cheeks. “I’m so proud of you, Livio.”

  Rick looked back at the cream of Orvieto society. Most of them were on the floor, still stunned, but their heads were lifted, trying to decide if it was safe to get to their feet. Rick walked to one person who had wedged himself behind a large woman made larger by a fur coat.

  “It’s safe, now,” he said to the man. “You can get up.”

  LoGuercio had been in a corner of the chapel talking furiously on his cell phone. He snapped it closed and rushed over to Rick, giving a quick glace to the man on the floor.

  “I just spoke with the crime scene crew at the villa, Riccardo. The two women decided to take a drive instead of standing around waiting for them to finish. Our man from the photograph appeared and the crew leader told him where they’d gone. We don’t have a moment to lose.” He stuffed his phone into his pocket.

  Rick called to Betta. “I’ve got to go. See what you can do to comfort Bianca, she may be in worse shape than Morgante.” He ran behind LoGuercio, catching up with him when they got to the patrol car. “Paolo, where were the two women going?”

  Their backs pressed against the seats as the driver shot off.

  “The Etruscan tombs. It looks like you’re going to see them after all.”

  ***

  The necropoli of Orvieto were not the most famous of the burial sites in what had been the territory of the pre-Roman Etruscan federation. That honor went to Tarquinia, where colorful wall paintings illustrated the festivities that awaited the deceased in the after life. In contrast, these tombs were drab, stone crypts, monotonously similar. If there had been paintings on the walls of the tiny rooms, they had long ago succumbed to the elements. If art had been placed on the shelves with the dead, it had been plundered ages earlier, along with the burial urns themselves. What was left were low rows of gray stone structures, their flat roofs covered with earth and overgrown by grass and weeds. It was, as LoGuercio had said, a city of the dead, but the dead had disappeared centuries ago. The grid of tombs and pathways squeezed together on a plot of land below medieval Orvieto. A thicket of bushes and small trees grew between the necropolis and the base of the city’s escarpment, its steepness tempered by shrubbery and rounded boulders. High above, the walls and spires of a fifteenth-century church loomed at the edge of the city, young in comparison with the low stone structures below.

  The two police cars careened off the road and came to a stop in the parking lot. Only four other vehicles were parked there, including the silver Mercedes. LoGuercio jumped out of the lead car and gathered the men around him.

  “When we get to the tombs, spread out and start working you way up the paths. If you see the American women, get them back here and out of danger. If there are any other tourists, tell them to leave immediately. Remember that this man is dangerous, so don’t try to take him down by yourself. Call for backup and wait until it arrives. Let’s go.”

  As they started up the path, he pulled Rick aside. “Riccardo, you stay with Sergeant Grecco. When we locate the American women, you’ll be the one to explain to them what’s going on.”

  Rick thought about protesting his role, but realized it made sense. LoGuercio’s record was already a problem, he didn’t need the injury of the nephew of a high-level police official added to it. He and the sergeant did as they were told, and ended up taking the last p
ath among the tombs. They walked slowly along the gravel, looking into the darkness as they passed each crypt.

  On the drive down the hill Rick and LoGuercio had talked about the man’s reasons for following the two Americans, and the conclusion was clear. The killer was determined to destroy all evidence that linked him with his past, which is why he was searching for something among Rhonda’s belongings that could have done just that. She may even have told him about the photograph before she was killed. But he couldn’t be sure that Rhonda hadn’t told her daughter everything. Mothers always confide in their daughters don’t they? And then there was Francine.

  All of that was going through Rick’s mind as he continued up the slightly inclined path between the stone. He quickly decided that it was useless to check each of the tombs. There was no reason for their quarry to be hiding in one, since he didn’t even know the police had arrived and were searching for him. Rick stepped up his pace, leaving the sergeant peering into stone doorways. It was when he got up to the end of the row that he heard Gina’s voice. He turned the corner and she was there, framed by Orvieto’s hill, talking with a large man in a dark suit. The man’s back was to Rick, and he was speaking to her in a low voice while he edged closer. Gina’s face showed puzzlement, or perhaps fear.

  “Is this what you were looking for at the villa?”

  Mayor Boscoli spun around and faced Rick, who was holding up the photo he’d taken from the album.

  “You?”

  “Gina, quick, get out of here,” Rick shouted, hoping that Boscoli’s English was not good enough for him to understand. It worked, she broke down the hill before the mayor could react. Instead he glared at Rick.

  “What have you got there, Signor Montoya?”

  “A picture of you and Rhonda Davis in Milan. I assume that the third man in the picture was her friend, the one who tragically died soon afterward?”

  “You appear to be well informed for someone who is not a policeman.”

  “Rhonda held the secret of your Red Brigades past, so she had to be eliminated. What did you do with the money from that bank robbery, Mr. Mayor? Perhaps you just salted it away to use in your political campaigns?”

  Rick was trying to keep the man occupied until LoGuercio arrived to take him prisoner, but he could see from the look on Boscoli’s face that he knew. His eyes focused behind Rick before looking up at the town high above him. Without a word, he turned and rushed into the thick bushes behind him. At that moment the sergeant appeared at Rick’s back.

  “Was that him?” the policeman asked, his gun drawn.

  “It was,” answered Rick. “Is there a way to get up to town from here?”

  “A path, a rather steep one, runs up to the town,” said the sergeant. “The Etruscans used it to carry their dead here for burial. It is closed to the public.”

  “Find LoGuercio. Tell him Boscoli is climbing up to the city.”

  The man turned and ran down through the tombs. Rick watched him go and then looked where the mayor had gone. It was a break in the shrubbery, a narrow path barely visible. He jogged toward it while looking up at the hill trying to find the route, but saw nothing among the rocks and trees growing from the patches of dirt between them. It would be considered an easy climb back in New Mexico, he thought, remembering the various trails up to Sandia Peak above Albuquerque. And given his experience with climbing, it would be easier for him than for Boscoli. He brushed through the bushes and soon found himself at the base of the hill. A wooden barrier marked the beginning of the trail with a sign on it warning of the danger, as well as a fine for anyone tempted to risk it. Rick skirted the barrier and began his ascent.

  Almost immediately he knew that Boscoli had just preceded him; on the stretches of soft dirt, fresh footprints were visible. Their deep heel marks indicated that the man was running, and Rick picked up his pace. He was above the top of the trees now, with a clear view of the grid of tombs and paths below. He saw some of the other policemen, but did not spot LoGuercio. Gina and Francine were nowhere to be seen, but he guessed they had been taken to the parking lot. He returned his attention to the trail, which was becoming steeper and more narrow. It bent back sharply and started to climb in the other direction, making Rick think it might continue to criss-cross all the way up to the city. He carefully chose his steps and clutched pieces of rock or vegetation as he climbed, just as he had learned to do in the mountains of New Mexico. The path cut back once again and widened slightly. Rick took advantage of the easier footing to look back down. The parking lot was visible, and he could make out the two women standing beside two uniformed policeman. He was straining his eyes to find LoGuercio when something flashed.

  Rick instinctively jumped back and held up his hand, but it was too late to avoid the steel blade which cut into his palm with a searing pain. Boscoli reeled back, knife in hand, to strike a blow at Rick’s body, but stopped when his shoe slipped on the rock path. He fell, dropping the knife and clawing at the ground as his large body slid slowly toward the edge. Rick stared at the knife while holding tight to his bleeding hand. Boscoli saw his eyes and lunged toward the blade, but the effort only pushed him back, and he slid slowly off the path, trying desperately to stop his fall. Most of his body was over the cliff when his hands grasped a thin gnarled vine.

  “Montoya,” he gasped. “Don’t let me fall.” He turned his head and saw only sharp rocks far below.

  Blood dripped from the fingers of Rick’s good hand as he held it over the gash. “I would, Mr. Mayor, but to do that I’d need two hands and one of them, you’ll notice, is cut badly.”

  “I’m the mayor of Orvieto, you must help me.”

  At that moment a familiar voice was heard behind Rick.

  “You also murdered two people and were about to murder another.” LoGuercio looked down at Boscoli, whose hands were turning white from gripping the vine.

  “Thank goodness you’re here, Inspector. Get me up.” His tone returned to that of someone used to giving orders.

  LoGuercio didn’t move. He glanced at Rick’s hand and the knife lying on the ground before his eyes bore in on the man hanging over the edge. “A different weapon from those used by most Red Brigades operatives back then, isn’t it, Mayor Boscoli? I thought you used guns when you went after the people you disagreed with, like professors, politicians, and of course magistrates.”

  Rick didn’t move.

  “That was long ago, Inspector,” Boscoli pleaded. “You see what I’ve become. One must eventually put away one’s past.”

  “That is easier for some people than others, Boscoli.”

  The policeman reached down and picked up the knife. He stared at it for a moment, then with a vicious blow sliced the vine, sending Orvieto’s mayor crashing to the rocks below.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gina sat on the lone bench at one end of the parking lot, staring at the ground, her shoulders covered by Francine’s arm. Rick knelt in front of them. LoGuercio, a lit cigarette in one hand and his cell phone in the other, stood next to a Toyota SUV parked near the Mercedes. The trunk of the Toyota, and its four doors, were open. The medical crew, having patched Rick’s hand, had gone to retrieve Boscoli’s body.

  “I can’t believe what my mother went through back then.” Gina shook her head violently as if trying to rid it of her thoughts. “It must have been a nightmare. Why didn’t she ever confide in me about it? I had a right to know.”

  Francine rubbed the woman’s back. “Your mother didn’t see it that way, Gina. She had witnessed something very ugly, something that scarred her, and she didn’t want to pass that scar on to you.”

  “Francine’s right, Gina,” Rick said, getting to his feet. “She didn’t want you to become bitter.”

  She looked up at Rick. “Mom was bitter, all right. If I had known why, it would have been easier to accept the way she was, the way she treated me. All I can think of n
ow is how she suffered.”

  “But she worked through it,” Francine said, “and she moved on. That’s what you’ll do.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll have the strength.”

  Francine squeezed Gina’s shoulder. “Of course you do. Rhonda always told me how proud she was of you, what you did on your own to start your life in Santa Fe.”

  “She did?”

  Rick stepped back, deciding that it was a good time to leave the two women alone. He walked to where LoGuercio was standing. The policeman saw Rick and finished his call while pointing at the open trunk.

  “There are some dark spots which could be blood stains in Boscoli’s Toyota. It looks to have been cleaned but I’m sure we’ll find something to indicate the body was carried in it.”

  Rick looked inside the vehicle and glanced back at Gina, still huddled on the bench. This was not something she needed to know.

  “Thank you for talking with the American women, Riccardo. How are they coping?”

  “As well as can be expected. I didn’t say that Boscoli was intending to murder them too, but I’m sure they understood the danger. I also gave them an abbreviated version of what happened here when Rhonda was a student, leaving out the most violent details but keeping to what I think are the facts. I didn’t say that she was actually part of the Red Brigades.”

  “Which may well be the case. It’s likely we’ll never know the full truth.”

  Rick’s eyes moved slowly from LoGuercio’s face up to the cliff path and back. “You sound like you’d prefer that the truth never come out.”

  LoGuercio’s hollow eyes looked at Rick. He crushed his cigarette under his heel and glanced at his watch. “I have to get back to the Duomo. Are you coming with me?”