“Signora,” she corrected, glancing nervously over her shoulder again at the figure behind the door, then back at me.
I had to get through to her.
“Signore Arrezione showed the notes to someone here. I’d just like to know his name, maybe have a word with him.”
The ghost behind the door turned the knob.
“No, sir, there is no one here who has seen the notes. I’m sorry. Please go.”
Anger and frustration began to surface. I forced myself to hide it. I knew she wanted to tell me, she was just frightened. I had to stay cool, find out why.
The glass door opened and a large, balding, grim-faced man wearing a brown suit and tan bow tie stepped out. He looked to be in his mid-sixties. Signora Rossi spun around in her seat. “Professore Corta.” She bowed her head deferentially.
I sized him up. Edgy came to mind. Unlikely to be forthcoming came to mind.
“Signore,” he said to me in a surprisingly high voice. “What is your business here? We have made our statements to the press and the
“I like your tie, Signore,” I said. “I’ve got one just like it, only mine’s more butterscotch than tan. I prefer yours.”
“Thank you,” he said, his face a little flush. “Now you will excuse me? I am late for a meeting.”
He dismissed me with a glance and blasted some Italian at Signora Rossi. Then he brushed past me and left through the door I’d come in.
Signora Rossi nervously straightened her blotter and pen.
“I can see how concerned you are, Signora. I haven’t come here to cause you more worry.”
I offered her the Denver newspaper article and gave her a minute to read it.
“My name is Reb Barnett, Signora Rossi. My father was the museum curator at the National Gallery in Washington. He and my mother died in a fire that destroyed our house immediately after he tried to acquire the last ‘Circles of Truth’ notes.”
That got her attention.
“You can look it up on the Internet,” I continued. “
“You could have looked it up also,” she said, scribbling the name and date on her blotter.
I pulled out my passport and pointed to my name. “I didn’t have to look it up. I was there.”
We were both silent for a moment while she regarded the passport, then me again.
“What is it that’s causing you so much worry?” I asked.
Her lips quivered. She put her hand to her mouth. I understood the feeling of having your foundation shaken and felt compassion for her. I waited, willing her to confide in me.
After a moment she said, “You are the second person who has been here asking to see . . . asking these things. And that is
I asked her who the other one was. She said she didn’t know.
“What did he look like?”
Signora Rossi leaned forward and covered her face with her hands as if she were going to catch a sneeze. She peeped through her fingers. When I sat down on the corner of her desk, she didn’t object.
“Whatever you share with me,” I said, “I promise I won’t tell the professore. I mean no harm at all. In fact, I’ll help if I can. Look at my face. You’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
She lowered her hands, scrutinizing me thoroughly, introspectively, relying on a half-century of living to tell her whether I was the cup with the poison.
“All right,” she said tentatively.“He was scary.”
“In what way?”
“Every way. The way he dressed, the sound of his voice . . .”
“Was he American?”
“He spoke Italian, but not so good, and with an accent. American, maybe. He had the darkest eyes. His hair was brushed forward on the sides, like Caesar. And his hands,” she continued. “I remember his fingers were long and delicate like a surgeon’s, and his fingernails were—I don’t know how you say it—polished, that’s the word. Yes, they had clear polish on them.”
My stomach muscles tightened. Nolo Tecci was real.
“Anything else?” I asked, pointing to the side of my neck.
