As they watched, Tucci pulled the drawing from under Bruzzone’s body and tore it to pieces.
* * *
Loretta Tucci sat in the same chair that Morelli had used three days earlier, and the same microphone was propped up in front of her. DiMaio sat directly across from her, and a female uniformed police officer stood against the wall behind her back. The bloodstained blouse and skirt she had worn when taken into custody the previous morning were replaced by a drab dress provided by the police. She did not appear to notice anything in the room but instead stared at the scratched surface of the table before her. DiMaio adjusted his microphone and stated the time, place, and participants, before centering a yellow pad in front of him and removing a pen from his jacket pocket.
“Would you like to have an attorney present, Signora Tucci?”
She looked at him as if he was speaking another language. After a few seconds she shook her head.
“Please speak into the microphone.”
She leaned forward and looked at the red light on the base. “No need for an attorney,” she said before leaning back. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with how long you have known Ettore Bruzzone.”
She closed her eyes tightly, then opened them while letting out a low breath. “We met many years ago, at an art gallery in Milan owned by a mutual acquaintance. He was there looking at the work of a new artist he was thinking of putting in his shop. I was studying at the university. He was there without his wife, so he asked me if I had dinner plans. We became friends.” Her voice was a clipped monotone.
“And you kept in contact after that.”
“You could say that. Whenever he came to Milan he called me. After I got my degree I tried to get work in Milan but was rejected for several positions. A friend in the Cultural Ministry told me about an opening as the assistant curator in Monterchi. It didn’t pay much, but it was a steady job and Piero della Francesca was my area of interest at the university. That eventually led to the position I have now. Or had, until this.”
She noticed a bottle of mineral water, opened it, and splashed some into a plastic cup. DiMaio waited while she drank.
“I started seeing more of Ettore once I moved to Monterchi. We’d find an excuse to be in Florence at the same time. It was on one of those days that I came up with the plan.”
DiMaio looked up from his pad. “So it was your idea.”
Tucci appeared about to laugh. Instead, she smiled sadly while composing an answer. “He is not the most innovative person you’ll ever meet. And looking back now, it’s clear to me that I was more motivated. I was at a dead end in my life, working in a tiny museum without much hope of moving up to something better. In the cultural world you need a network of contacts, and especially someone high up who takes you under their wing. I was never good at working the system.”
DiMaio almost pointed out that it was the same in police work but decided it would not look good on the transcript. He let her continue.
“This was my chance to have a better life, since I knew that at my age I couldn’t hope to get to the top.” She looked at the cup, as if about to take another drink of water, but instead she went on. “Ettore had told me about his client list, and the kind of art they would buy, and it seemed like a perfect scheme. Nobody has a larger ego than an art collector, Inspector. They try to give the impression it is all about beauty, but it’s really about prestige.” She took another sip of the water. “We were both sure the local collector would buy it. What’s his name?”
“Morelli.”
“Yes, of course, Cosimo Morelli. If he’d bought it, none of this would have happened. No one would ever have known. Even the old lady in Monterchi conveniently died, so that part of the operation was sealed. Instead, that damned foreigner outbid Morelli. At the time I thought it was even better—the drawing would be off in another country. But then he decided to come back and donate it to the museum in Sansepolcro, and everything started to unravel.”
“Did you plan the murder, as well?”
DiMaio could see that the question took her by surprise. Did she think this was just an informal chat between friends?
“Certainly not, Inspector. When Ettore read in the newspaper that Somonte was going to donate the drawing to the Sansepolcro museum, he called me immediately. He was frantic to the point of being incoherent. I knew he was a weakling, but it surprised me that this had almost pushed him over the edge. When I finally calmed him down, I said I would come up with a plan to get the drawing, which I did a few days later. It involved a burglary, with no violence, and it would have worked.”
“But it didn’t.”
“He couldn’t wait, and decided to take the situation into his own hands. Perhaps he wanted to impress me with his masculinity.” She looked straight at DiMaio. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“I plan to…when he regains consciousness. What about the faked attempt on Bruzzone?”
“That was my idea.”
Some minutes later Rick and Betta took off their headsets and placed them on the edge of the desk. Unlike the windowless room where the policeman was wrapping up the interview, DiMaio’s office was splashed with morning sunlight. They sat at the small meeting table, its surface bare except for the earphones and a bottle of water they had shared while listening to Tucci.
Betta rubbed her ears and gave her short hair an unneeded brushing with her fingers. “If the voice weren’t so familiar, Rick, I’d would have thought
