To Die in Tuscany, David Wagner [best novel books to read .TXT] 📗

that morning. The gash on the head was clouding his thinking, after all. “What did you tell him?”

Bruzzone held up his hand in a helpless gesture. “What could I tell him? I said the police were checking to see if the bullet was from the same gun that killed Somonte. Have you confirmed that yet, by the way?”

“We haven’t talked to the inspector since we left here this morning,” Betta answered.

Rick marveled at her deflection. “What else did he say?”

“When I mentioned that you were here this morning with Inspector DiMaio, he said he’d met you both. He asked if I’d ever had any contact with the art theft squad before. Can you imagine such a question? Certainly not, I told him.” His eyes jumped to Betta. “I don’t want to give the impression that I’m against what your office does, Dottoressa. Obviously, if I can ever be of assistance, I—”

“We understand perfectly, Signor Bruzzone.”

The door opened behind them and a balding man dressed in a suit entered. He gestured to signal that he didn’t wish to interrupt the conversation.

“An old friend and loyal client,” said Bruzzone. “Word travels fast around Urbino, especially when the news is something as exciting as this.” Again he raised his hand to the bandage, but stopped short of touching it.

“We will leave you to your friend,” said Rick. “We’re glad you’re recovering quickly.”

Bruzzone thanked them, and they walked out to the street. The policeman had changed his position from one side of the door to the other and gave them a conspiratorial nod as they passed.

“Somebody could still walk in and shoot him,” said Betta.

“But he wouldn’t get very far after he did.”

They started down the street, which had been taken over by afternoon tourists. Just above them a woman carrying the standard tour guide umbrella was lecturing in Italian to a large group about to enter the house of Raphael. Another gaggle stood several doors down, in front of the San Francesco church, but for them the language was German. Rick noticed that every German listened intently to their leader while half the Italians talked among themselves while occasionally glancing up at the tour guide.

“We have some time now, Betta—why don’t we visit the Casa di Raffaello?” At that moment, the group of Italians surged toward the door where at the most two people could enter at one time. It reminded him of lift lines in the Dolomites, but fortunately here nobody was wearing skis. Down the street the Germans were moving in orderly pairs into the portico of the church.

“Too crowded,” answered Betta. “Maybe tomorrow morning. But I have an idea. You and I have been to the street behind the botanical gardens, but not the scene of the crime itself. Aren’t you curious to see it?”

“I am, now that you mention it. Maybe we’ll run into DiMaio’s friend Florio.”

They turned and started climbing. The street seemed to get steeper every time they walked it.

“That was interesting what Bruzzone said about Morelli,” said Rick. “After listening to you interview him at the station, and meeting the man last night, I have a hard time picturing him as the concerned friend dropping in to give comfort. He was definitely probing.”

“No question about it.”

A sign appeared for the Orto Botanico, and they followed it.

* * *

“Wait here,” said DiMaio. “I just need to check messages.”

The driver, a young policeman, nodded and turned off the engine of the squad car. His boss bounded up to the entrance to the commissariato and pushed open the door. Immediately, he realized his mistake. Why hadn’t he parked behind the building and come in the back door? Waiting in the main lobby was the journalist who had ambushed him two days ago, wearing the same earnest look on her face. At least she had changed sweaters, though the jeans looked to be the same.

“Signora Intini, I don’t have anything new for you, and I’m in a great hurry.”

“Our readers have a right to know what is happening, Inspector. It is not every day that we have a murder in our city.”

DiMaio kept to himself his opinions about the public’s right to know. What he wanted to ask was her source for the details about how Somonte’s body was found, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him. As he thought about what tidbit, if any, to feed her, she spoke up herself.

“I understand that you met with the Spanish consul. Can you at least tell me about that?”

“How did you know that?”

“Just a journalist’s hunch. I called the Spanish embassy in Rome and they told me. So you did meet with the consul?” She pulled out her notepad and waited.

She was obviously proud to tell him how she dug up a source, making him think that perhaps he could play on her ego and ask her who told her about the body. He rejected the thought as soon as it appeared in his head. “I did meet with the consul this morning in this very spot. We had an open and productive exchange. He assured me that the embassy will do everything possible to assist the Italian authorities to find the perpetrators of this terrible crime, and I expressed my appreciation and assured him in return that we will not rest until it was solved.” He waited while she scribbled in her pad.

“That’s it?”

“That’s as much as I am allowed to tell you. Diplomatic entities do not have the same regard for the need of your readers to be informed as do you. As I’m sure you will understand, my hands are tied.”

She looked down at her notes and back at DiMaio. “But—”

“I really must go. Don’t worry, I still have your card.” He turned and walked quickly away.

She called after him. “Is it true there’s someone from the art police here?”

DiMaio had disappeared into the rear of the building.

* * *

When Rick and Betta arrived at the entrance to the gardens, they found a crowd of people sitting on