Rick had ordered a pasta with wild boar sauce, a local specialty, and was not disappointed. The ribbons of pasta had gone directly from the rolling pin and cutting board to the boiling water, then tossed in the dark, meaty sauce. Perfection. When they’d discussed a second course, the waiter had mentioned that a fresh basket of porcini mushrooms had appeared that morning in the kitchen. Rick had not hesitated, and they arrived at his table grilled to perfection with a light brushing of the local olive oil.
He took his last sip of espresso, paid the bill, and walked out to his rental car, a silver Alfa with a diesel engine that clacked softly. As he reached into his coat pocket for the keys they rattled against his small GPS. It had saved his rear end while climbing in the Sangre de Cristo mountains earlier in the year, one of his last hikes before moving to Rome, so it had become a good luck charm. But he’d also brought it with the hope of doing some hiking around the Tuscan countryside on this trip—probably not a realistic hope, given his undercover assignment. Hiking trails were not among the topics that had come up during his briefing at the ministry the previous day.
A moment after the Alfa’s engine came to life, he left the town of Saline and began the final slow climb up to Volterra. As he had learned from Beppo’s book, the Etruscans built their towns on hilltops, and Volterra was considered one of the best examples of such ancient fortified cities. It was already visible high in the distance, its gray stone walls contrasting with the browns of the autumn earth below it. As he turned into the first of the wide curves that cut back and forth through the open fields, Rick thought that from this distance the city likely looked the same as it had five hundred or even a thousand years earlier. A few clouds were forming above it, just as they did over the mountain on Albuquerque’s east side, often covering the peak and bringing spectacular thunderstorms. Did Volterra enjoy those natural light shows too? Perhaps there was a niche in New Mexico for telling the future from the shape and size of lightning bolts, like the Etruscan fulguriators he had just read about in the book. There were certainly enough palm readers around the University of New Mexico, so why not lightning readers? He downshifted into third as the road steepened.
When he came to the thick walls of the city he bore to the left. The blocks at this lowest level were the original Etruscan. He kept his eyes on the road, but knew there would be a higher part of the wall with stone added by the Romans, and on top of that the Medieval. Italy: always layers upon layers. He followed the wall around a bend to the narrow gate at the very northern part of the old town. Despite the signs saying local traffic only, he drove in, and immediately found his hotel on the left side of the narrow street. When he parked and got inside, the woman at the desk seemed more worried about his car parked in front than getting him checked in.
“You can leave your bag here,” she said frowning as she took his passport. “Just back up a few meters and the entrance to our parking garage is right there; you can’t miss it. The police get very annoyed when there are cars parked on this street.”
It would not be good, Rick thought, to begin his first meeting with Commissario Conti by asking him to fix a parking ticket. He left his bag and went outside to the car, following the woman’s orders to the letter and finding a parking space at the far end of the hotel’s dimly lit garage. When he returned to the reception desk, she passed him his room key and passport and pointed him toward the elevator, a forced smile on her face indicating that she needed to get back to her computer. What did hotel desk clerks do all day before computers?
The room was small, as expected in a hotel that a few centuries earlier had been a convent. It had a modern bathroom, added recently and probably not even dreamed of by the nuns who had lived here long before the latest renovation. They also would have been surprised to see a large swimming pool in the courtyard outside the window, now drained for the winter. Rick looked out and tried to imagine the sisters sunning themselves there in the summer, a swarthy pool boy bringing them towels and drinks with little umbrellas. He pushed the thought from his mind and opened his laptop to check his mail. The nuns likely didn’t have wireless Internet either. There were a few messages from clients, including a request for a three-page translation job that would be easy enough to do quickly and send back electronically. He would have something to toil on when not catching grave robbers.
Rick checked the time on his cell phone. Still more than three hours until his six o’clock meeting with the policeman. If he remembered correctly, the top name on Beppo’s list, the owner of a tourist shop, was located close to the police station. Of course in a town this size, everything was a misura di uomo, within walking distance of everything else. It was Tuscany. Protocol indicated that he should meet Conti before starting his rounds, but
