“That’s it in a nutshell. Last night at the big art opening at the Palazzo Ducale we spoke with several of the people involved, but we didn’t get much from them.”
Piero took a moment to respond. “The reports I read don’t say much about the missing drawing, but I suspect that there is nothing new there as well. How is Betta taking it?”
It was just like his uncle to worry about Betta. Piero didn’t disguise his fondness for her, and would be more than happy if she were to become part of the family, but he would never say that to Rick. Such meddling was something an Italian mother would do, not an Italian uncle. At least not this Italian uncle.
“She’s frustrated, as you can imagine. She thought Sansepolcro was just going to be a ceremonial event, representing the ministry at the donation of an important work of art, and then it turned into an investigation. You could see her excitement. But that’s starting to wane, even though it’s been only three days.”
“Homicide cases start to go cold immediately, and I would assume it’s the same with stolen art.” Again there was a short pause. “Do you think DiMaio is handling this case well?”
Rick recalled that after the Bassano investigation he had asked his uncle to put in a good word about Alfredo. He hoped Piero was not having second thoughts about doing so. “As far as I can tell, I would say he is, but you probably see more than I do from reading his reports.”
“Reports never tell the whole story.”
The whole story would include DiMaio’s initial relationship with the daughter of the victim. Rick would wait until getting back to Rome to mention that detail to his uncle. If then.
“Riccardo, I have to go. Let me know when you’re coming home. Baci per Betta.”
“Ciao, Zio.” He stuffed the phone into the small pocket, took a few jumps in place, and started back toward the center of town. Running downhill, especially down a steep hill, required considerably more care than staggering uphill, as Rick had done at the start of his run. He was at the end of the loop, which had taken him to the tops of both of Urbino’s principal hills and now descended Via Raffaello. The street was starting to come to life, making the avoidance of groggy pedestrians another concern. He slowed as he passed the house of Raphael, vowing that this would be the day to make a visit. It was almost across the street from Bruzzone’s art gallery, where they would be making a call after breakfast, so why not visit the birthplace of the city’s most famous native as well? He passed the gallery and didn’t see any movement inside, but that was to be expected given the early hour. A few steps later he made the turn to start down Via Mazzini, and a minute after that he turned onto the Hotel Botticelli’s street. When he got to the room, Betta had already gone to breakfast. He showered, dressed, and went down to join her. As always after his morning run, he was in need of calories.
He looked around the breakfast room and quickly spotted her sitting alone at a table in the corner, her cell phone and a folded newspaper next to her plate. As he worked his way among the other tables, he noticed her face and became concerned. She stared down at the cup directly in front of her with an expression indicating she had just lost her best friend. When he sat down, she barely glanced up.
“What’s happened, Betta?”
“I just talked to my boss in Rome. He’s pulling me off the case.”
“That’s all?” He poured hot coffee and hot milk into his cup.
Now she looked at him. “Isn’t that enough? Just what I feared would happen has happened. He said to turn the investigation of the missing drawing over to the local police and come back to Rome.”
“He must have some other case for you to work on.” He added sugar to his cup and stirred while checking out the buffet.
“I hate to think what that might be. Rick, we were almost there. I could feel it.”
He hadn’t felt it; he had the impression they were spinning wheels, but he kept the thought to himself. What he now felt was hunger. “Let me bring back some breakfast and you can tell me what’s in the paper.” He got to his feet. “What can I get you?” Her answer was a head shake, and he walked to the buffet, still well stocked despite several tables of tourists. He took a plate and filled it with an almond croissant, a yogurt, a crusty roll, two small plastic containers of Nutella, and an orange. When he got back to the table, he was relieved that Betta’s face had the suggestion of a smile. “Something good in the paper?” He poured more coffee into his cup.
“Some comic relief. The story on the front page is written by that journalist we saw at the event last night. She cites unnamed sources who told her, under the condition of anonymity, that the leading suspect in the murder of Somonte is none other than…?” She looked at him over her half glasses.
“Since you’re laughing, it must be Florio.”
“None other. And he has to be the anonymous source.”
Rick took a bite of the croissant. Almond was his favorite, along with chocolate. “How can you be sure? Alfredo could have told her that to have some fun.”
“The article also notes the jump in attendance at the Orto Botanico, with numbers.”
He nodded. “You’re right—it was Florio.”
Slowly the plate in front of him was emptied, and Betta decided to help him with half the orange, after which she went to the buffet and brought back a yogurt for herself. She pulled back its cover and picked up a spoon. “Let’s take a different route back to Rome. Along
