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  She was still standing at the doorway when a hand drew her arm. The voice behind it was calm and soothing.

  “Rhonda, let’s go somewhere less crowded.”

  Later, the two stood on a deserted street at the edge of the city, staring over the wall into the darkened valley below. Rhonda had not spoken for several minutes, her thoughts as dark as the night which had closed in on Orvieto.

  The two figures huddled in the darkness of an alley while sirens wailed in the streets around them. The smell of explosives hung in the damp air.

  “How could you have let this happen?”

  “Things sometimes don’t go according to plan, Rhonda. Things go wrong.”

  “That’s all you can say? Things go wrong? He believed in the cause and he believed in you, and that’s all you can say?”

  “He knew the risks, and you did too.”

  “I never thought there was a chance Luca would die.”

  “We all die eventually. His time came early.”

  She turned her head and pressed it against the cold stone. The sobs started to convulse her entire body, bending it into a fetal crouch. The man looked down at her with disgust.

  “It’s clear that you weren’t cut out for the revolution, Rhonda. Go back to America.”

  She turned from the darkness and looked him squarely in the face. “Do you still think about that day?”

  “It’s ancient history, Rhonda. I’ve moved on, and I assume everyone else has as well.”

  “I’m trying to do that. It’s why I made this trip and sought you out, to put it all behind me. But instead of helping to heal, it’s opening the scar, reminding me what I was like those many years ago, and how it all changed in an instant. I didn’t just lose Luca, I lost my idealism.”

  “What are you going to do now?” He was staring intently at her.

  “That last time we saw each other you said I should go back to America. That’s what you’d like me to do now, I’m sure of that. But I’ve returned. It took all this time, but I’ve returned. This will be my last visit to Orvieto, so I intend to make the most of it.”

  Chapter Four

  It was a warm and clear morning, and the hotel staff had moved breakfast outside to the rooftop terrace. Rolls, fruit, jellies, and yogurt were arranged on a long table close to the glass doors, and a uniformed waitress shuttled coffee and hot milk from the kitchen to the tables set up on the paving stones. Only a few speckled rays from the new sun peeked over the rooftops to bother the guests, and potted white and red flowers at the edge of the terrace gave off pleasant scents that mixed with the aroma of coffee. The view directly across the street was another building, but there was just enough of an angle so that most tables could see the top of the cathedral. Rick stepped from the doorway, fresh from his morning run and shower. He spotted Betta at a table reading the newspaper and worked his way over to reach her.

  “Una bellissima giornata.” He took his seat and poured coffee from the pitcher already on the table. “This is just what I need.”

  “It is indeed beautiful, especially out here.”

  Her smile seemed forced. He poured hot milk from the other pitcher, stirred in sugar, and studied her face. “What’s the matter, Betta?” He pointed at the paper that was now folded next to her plate. “Did your Bassano squadra lose?”

  “This isn’t about soccer, Rick, it’s about murder.”

  The cup, halfway to his mouth, returned to the saucer. “What murder?”

  She found the page she wanted, folded it in half, and passed it to Rick.

  He studied it, saw the article, and began to read aloud. “Police who were called to the scene, a country road about five kilometers from Orvieto, initially assumed the woman had been killed by a hit-and-run driver.” He glanced at the table next to him, heard a couple speaking German, but lowered his voice anyway. “On further examination it was determined that the type and extent of injuries indicated homicide. A passport found on the body confirmed that the woman was an American, Rhonda Van Fleet.” He looked up at Betta and then back at the page. “Anyone with information about the woman in this passport photo is asked to contact…it’s her, isn’t it?”

  “The nasty one, no question about it.”

  “What would she have been doing on a road far from town?” He scanned the story again, but there was no information other than the basic facts of finding the body. The writer must not have had enough time before the paper went to press to embellish it with conjecture, as any Italian journalist worth his salt would do.

  “That’s likely what the police are trying to figure out right now,” Betta said. “They probably don’t even know about the other two women. Who would be prime suspects.”

  “Do they teach you that kind of thing in your art squad training?”

  “Hardly. I learned about suspects the same way you did.”

  “By solving mysteries?”

  “By reading mysteries.”

  “And I thought you were going to give me a compliment. I guess I should go to the police and tell them what we saw on the funicular yesterday.”

  She shook her head slowly and grinned. “So it’s your civic duty to get involved. If you were all Italian rather than just half from your mother, you would set the paper aside and avoid getting involved. Or do you want to become part of another investigation?”

  “You got it right with the part about civic duty.”

  “Well, eat your breakfast first, Signor Detective. You can’t detect on an empty stomach.”

  After Rick left, Betta stayed at the table to enjoy the flowers and another cup of coffee. This downtime in Orvieto would be just the break she was looking forward to, with a change of scenery, culture, and of course Rick. The sudden ringing of her phone was an unwelcome annoyance to her pleasant thoughts. She fished it from her purse and checked the number. The 0424 area code was familiar, her Veneto hometown of Bassano del Grappa, but the number itself was not. A shiver ran through her that something might have happened to her father.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Betta.”

  The low voice was all too familiar. Relief that nothing was wrong at home was replaced by annoyance with a touch of anger. She had not seen her ex-fiancé since that violent exchange on a back street in Bassano months earlier, after which she had pushed the pain of their relationship out of her mind. Its memory returned with the sound of his voice.

  “Carlo, I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “But we do need to talk, Betta. I’m not the same person you knew, I’ve reformed.”

  Could he possibly have been drinking at this hour? The words were slightly slurred and spoken slowly and deliberately. “We most definitely do not need to talk, Carlo. We have nothing to talk about. It’s over. Move on.”

  He continued as if she had not spoken. “You’ll see that I’ve changed. You will change your mind. Are you still with that cowboy?”

  The question sent a chill through her. “Yes, if you must know.”

  “I would like another shot at him too, but not for the same reasons.”

  “After the last time you saw Rick, I would think you wouldn’t be anxious to encounter him again. Carlo, our conversation is ended. Don’t call me again.”

  “No Betta, I won’t call again. The next time we talk will be in person.”

  The line went dead, and Betta stared at the phone.

  ***

  Since moving to Italy, Rick had found himself in more than one police station. They tended to look and smell the same, perhaps to help police feel at home when transferring from one assignment to another. But the police station in Orvieto was not a carbon copy of all the others. It was in a residential neighborhood and stood across from a grassy park cut by paths and shaded by tall pine trees. The building had been a residence at some point, a large one, and now he walked through an entrance
hall into what must have once been the parlor or drawing room. Ever the linguist, he made a mental note to look up the origin of the term “drawing room,” which on its face didn’t make sense. This room had various dented metal chairs arranged against the windows of one wall, furniture at odds with the original décor. The long desk also failed to rise to its surrounding, though a bored policeman behind it sat in a slightly more comfortable, but also metal, chair. More agitated than bored were the three people who occupied chairs along the windows, no doubt waiting to wrestle with red tape that required a visit to the authorities. Rick walked past a line of bulletin boards to the desk. As he approached, the policeman looked up, deciding if this new arrival would be a problem. Knowing that it would be requested, Rick pulled out his carta di identita’ and passed it to the uniformed man at the desk.

  “My name is Riccardo Montoya, I would like to speak to the officer in charge of the investigation in the death of the American tourist. I have some information that could be helpful.”

  The policeman frowned, stared at Rick’s ID, and picked up the phone on the desk.

  “Just a moment.” He punched a few numbers. Someone answered on the other end and the cop repeated, almost verbatim, what Rick had said. He handed the card back to Rick. “The inspector asks for you to please wait.”

  Rick inserted his plastic ID back into his wallet and walked to the bulletin board. It was the usual mix of public announcements, internal directives, and press releases, mostly written in an almost unintelligible Italian. At one side of the board, encased in glass, an explanation of the services provided by this substation was posted, as well as the few hours when the public would be received to avail themselves of them. The questura, the main police station, was located in the provincial capital of Terni, well to the east. The Orvieto operation was under the command of a commissario, but the space provided for his name and photograph was blank. Rick was moving his eyes to another part of the board when he heard a sharp voice behind him.

  “We have no need for foreigners poking their noses into police business here.”

  Rick stiffened and turned toward the voice, but his frown immediately turned to a smile. Before him stood a man in a tailored suit who shared Rick’s age as well as his grin. “And who have we here? None other than the renowned Detective Paolo LoGuercio.”

  “It is a small world indeed,” said the policeman as he clapped Rick on the shoulder. “But that would be Inspector LoGuercio, per favore.

  “And moving up the organizational ladder. No doubt due to your exploits in the north with which I am very familiar.”

  “That may have had something to do with it,” answered LoGuercio, “but come back to my office and tell me what has happened in your life since then.” He led the way through a door, along a corridor, to a room that originally must have had a bed and an armoire but now held a desk, files, and a small table and chairs. The tall window looked out onto a small patch of grass and an ivy-covered wall. Rick was offered a chair at one side of the table. “These chairs are not very comfortable, but you must remember that this is a police station. Before we get to this nasty business of the American woman, tell me how you’ve been. And la bella Erica?”

  Rick took his seat and briefly brought LoGuercio up to date, though he was anxious to learn about the homicide. He omitted his subsequent brushes with police work and concentrated on those people the policeman had encountered when they’d met in the Tuscan hill town of Volterra. “Beppo Rinaldi,” he concluded, “is doing fine, still chasing down art thieves, and Erica Pedana is in America. My translation business grows, so I have no plans to leave Rome.”

  “And your uncle continues in a position of prominence in the police there.”

  “You remember that family connection. Bravo. And your career has certainly not been stagnant, Paolo.”

  The inspector shifted in his chair. “It could be better. When I left Volterra they sent me south, not my choice but of course one does not have choices in this business. And my connections among the hierarchy were minimal. The assignment did not go well. Without going into detail, let’s just say that a position was found for me here. Orvieto is a pleasant town, but a backwater for police work. By chance the commissario was transferred a few months ago and a replacement has yet to be named. So here I am when this murder happens. There is already pressure locally, and since I am the acting capo at the moment, it’s all falling on me. If this crime isn’t solved quickly, they may be sending me to someplace even more remote. Not that they are jumping to send me help with this murder, I’ve already been told to use my own resources. Depleted resources. To make things work, I’ve had to give up my conference room to the Guardia di Finanza who are conducting some kind of operation in the area. So I’ll have to run this murder investigation out of my office.”

  He opened his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Rick had not recalled him smoking in Tuscany, though they hadn’t spent that much time together. Smoking was prohibited in public buildings in Italy, but who was going to complain?

  “Which brings us to the reason for your appearance here today, Riccardo. Tell me what you know.” LoGuercio had been sitting across from Rick, but now he got to his feet and walked to the desk, lighting a cigarette as he walked. He took a notebook from among the papers and extracted a pen from his jacket pocket.

  “I saw the victim yesterday. Twice, in fact.” He described, in as much detail as he could recall, the encounter with Rhonda Van Fleet in the funicular car, as well as what he witnessed from a distance in the piazza in front of the cathedral and the quick exchange later with the victim’s daughter. LoGuercio took notes as he listened, glancing up only when Rick mentioned that he was traveling with a lady friend. “I hope that helps,” Rick concluded.

  “It helps considerably. As you know, hotels and agriturismi are required to send the police the names and identity information on their guests. Since finding the body last night we have begun to search those records for her, but now we know there are two more American women. It is most likely they were staying in the same hotel.” He re-inserted the pen in his jacket and leaned back in the desk chair. “If we track down the other two, Riccardo, you will be called upon again to help us with your interpreting skills. I trust you would be willing? ”

  “Anything to help an old friend.” Rick quickly slid his card across the table while trying not to show his excitement that he’d be involved in another murder investigation. “Tell me, Paolo, what do you know so far? The story in the paper this morning was quite sketchy. If you don’t mind sharing, of course.”

  LoGuercio emitted a cough too deep for someone his age and put his cigarette out on an ashtray at one corner of his desk. “You are the nephew of a respected commissario who has assisted the police in the past. Why would I mind?” He opened a file on the desk and held up two sheets of paper. “We’ve just begun, of course. The forensics report won’t arrive until later in the day. The technician called to the scene would only say she was sure it was homicide due to the types of injuries. None of the usual bruising or broken bones that come from being struck by a car, so that was ruled out. Also, the only marks on the ground next to the pavement were made from her body impacting it from above. No marks from the body being rolled or dragged along the ground, as often is seen in a hit-and-run. And no recent skid marks. But what conclusively ruled out a hit-and-run were the stab wounds, several of them to the abdomen. One doesn’t normally get stab wounds from being hit by a car. But it’s likely she was dumped in the spot from an automobile, though already dead from an unfortunate encounter with a sharp blade.”

  “Stabbed, and dumped like a bag of trash? The murderer appears to be especially vicious, or was in a hurry to dispose of the body. So you don’t know exactly where the murder took place. It could have been here in town or out on some country road.”

  “One of many questions left unanswered, Riccardo. My assumption is that she was murdered, s
tuffed into the trunk of a car, and driven to where her body was dumped. At least we are sure it wasn’t a robbery, since we found her purse intact and she was still wearing jewelry. Expensive jewelry.”

  “You got quite a lot of information from searching around in the dark.”

  The policeman shrugged. “We had lights. But the—” He was interrupted by a short buzz from his phone and raised a hand to Rick in apology as he picked it up. “He is? I suppose it’s to be expected. I’ll be right out to get him.” He carefully placed the receiver down. “The head of tourism for the city is here. Concerned, I’m sure, about the effect of this crime on the image of Orvieto. This is one of those times when I wish they’d sent a new commissario by now. He could take the political heat.” He reached out and took the ashtray in his hand. After dumping its contents in his waste basket, he put it in a desk drawer.

  Rick got to his feet. “You’d better get used to it.”

  LoGuercio pushed a hand through his thick, black hair. “I suppose so.”

  He walked Rick out to the waiting room where a tall man in a dark suit stood in front of the desk, deep in conversation with a much shorter man. The tall man looked up, smiled at LoGuercio, and held up a finger to indicate he would be with him momentarily. He then returned to the short man. They spoke in low voices, but from their faces and gestures Rick could see that the discussion was anything but subdued.