Cold Tuscan Stone

slowly through the stone ruins, looking up at the wall where a group of school children were staring down, some of them pointing. Did they know about the recent death here or were they interested in Roman history? The climb up the steps was more tiring for him than the evening before. The adrenalin always seemed to flow on the first visit to a crime scene, and then the work faded back into the tedious. The yellow tape had been removed along with the body, but Conti remembered exactly the place where Canopo’s crumpled figure had lain the previous night and he climbed up to it. Somehow being here might help make some sense of what he knew so far in the case, as if the ghost of the fallen man could speak to him. He sat down on a slab of stone and stared at the spot before looking up at the top of the wall. The children, thankfully, had gone.

Why would Canopo have been up there? From the point on Via Matteotti where the man had left Montoya, the fastest route to anywhere in town would certainly not have included the isolated street that ran above the ruins. No, this must have been his destination, and his final one, it turned out. On a cold day in the late afternoon, the only reason not to meet indoors would have been to avoid being seen or heard. No chat over coffee at a bar where there would be witnesses. If Conti could only find out who it was he’d met, or the reason for the encounter. He looked down again at the patch of ground, more convinced than ever that the case was homicide. If Canopo was pushed or thrown from the wall above, it would likely have taken more than one man, despite the victim’s small stature. Had they planned to do him in from the start, or had the conversation turned ugly and precipitated the murder?

Conti was getting nowhere, only coming up with more scenarios and more questions. But that was always the case early in an investigation. He got up from the stone seat and once more looked down at the ground. It was a sad place to end your days on earth, but was there anywhere of which that could not be said? After crossing himself slowly, he walked down through the rows of ancient seats, across the stage, and back out to the gate. He barely acknowledged the wave of the guard before getting into his car.

***

Rick held up a hand to signal that he didn’t want to interrupt. Landi nodded in understanding and went back to his customers, two people who Rick decided were Germans. There was something about those long, belted raincoats that said German tourist, they were not something Italians wore. Nor did tourists of other nationalities, for that matter. Living in Rome, Rick was becoming adept at one of the local pastimes, guessing the nationalities of the city’s visitors. Landi was dressed more somberly than the previous day, in a dark suit and blue tie. The look could be the rotation from his closet, or he might be showing some respect for his deceased employee. His yellowed teeth showed prominently as he spoke to the Germans, carefully pausing between words for the benefit of nonnative speakers.

There was another customer in the shop, and he was being helped by the young woman who had greeted Rick the previous day. She was dressed, as the previous day, in white blouse and dark skirt, the uniform of the Italian shop girl, but her face was not the same. In place of the smile was a dull gaze, and her eyes were reddened either from crying or lack of sleep. She had taken the loss harder than her boss, but had still come to work. When she saw Rick she gave him a quick sad look and returned to her client.

While he waited, Rick studied a shelf of flat alabaster panels decorated with classical motifs. Each sat on a small wire stand, like ones which held the antique plates decorating a sideboard in his grandparents’ home in New Mexico. He took one in his hand and decided it weighed about five pounds, perhaps too much for tourists to buy in any large numbers unless they didn’t mind paying extra at airport check-in. Or were driving home to somewhere in Europe. The scene on this panel was a god with helmet and shield, sitting on a throne surrounded by what looked like warriors. Thanks to Beppo’s book, Rick knew that the Etruscans shared much of their mythology with the Greeks, but since he didn’t know much Greek mythology to begin with, it didn’t help to understand this design.

“Those panels are very popular with tourists.”

Rick turned and greeted Landi, whose German clients were walking toward the door carrying a large paper bag marked with the tasteful logo of Galleria Landi.

“I was shocked to hear of Canopo’s accident, Signor Landi.” Rick could not decide if actual condolences were in order for the dead man’s employer. “It must have been terrible news for you.”

“Yes, yes, we are all stunned.” He clasped his hands together and held them to his mouth, almost the caricature of mourning, before dropping them to his sides. “When the police appeared here last night, I did not understand at first. I assumed that Orlando was with you at the workshop, but when I called there—at the request of the Commissario, of course—I was told that you never appeared.” Landi paused and looked at Rick, waiting for a comment.

“Just outside the shop,” Rick said, “he spoke to someone on the street. Then he told me he would have to show me the shop tomorrow. That is, today. And he rushed off.” That was probably about as much as Conti would want him to say.

Landi digested the words for a few seconds, shaking his head slowly. “What could that have been about? He certainly didn’t tell