Oddly, Rick thought of police training. The drop and shoot was one polished act, no doubt practiced until it was expert and natural. LoGuercio might have won honors in shooting competitions. Did they only teach them to shoot to kill and not shoot to wound? He would have to ask Uncle Piero.
Erica pushed slowly to her knees, rubbing her skinned hands. She avoided looking at the crumpled body next to her. She stood, wrapping herself in Rick’s arms. “Is he—”
LoGuercio, standing over Dario, answered. “Yes, Signora, he’s dead. He could have shot you. Or any of us. If he had reached the car—”
“We all saw what happened, LoGuercio.” Conti’s face filled with concern. He turned to Donatella, who locked her hands over her mouth as she stared at the body.
If this were the States, thought Rick, Conti would read Donatella her Miranda rights. But instead the commissario opened his cell phone and called for an ambulance.
Chapter Eleven
Erica was right. The huge painting was as spectacular as she said it would be, almost enough for him to drop his distaste for her beloved Mannerists. The scene had been painted hundreds of times, but Rosso Fiorentino’s take on Christ’s descent from the cross was so striking that Rick understood why it was considered his finest work. Though Erica spoke in hushed tones in keeping with the darkened ambiance of the museum, he could hear the passion in her voice. He’d heard it before, less than a week earlier, when she had urged him to take on this assignment. Help save the country’s artistic patrimony, she had said. Now he heard it again.
The visit to the museum was doing more than give Rick another opportunity to hear Erica’s passion for art. They needed to take their minds off what they’d seen among the cold stones of the amphitheater. Unspoken, but understood. They would have to talk about the ugliness eventually—they both knew that—but at this moment they worked to keep their minds and eyes focused on beauty.
He and Beppo listened while she talked about Rosso. The artist had been a bit of a kook, even more than other Mannerist painters, and Rick could see that there was an element of the bizarre in this canvas. But despite the quirkiness of his style, Rosso had created a masterpiece in his version of the deposition. The only face in the painting not contorted in sadness or pain was that of crucified Christ himself, as the other men struggled to bring his body down from the cross. That one face showed only dreamlike tranquility. His peace contrasted with the turmoil of the others, especially the grief of his mother, barely visible in the shadows while comforted by three women in bright robes. Erica sat between Rick and Beppo on the wooden bench, silent after going through her long explanation of the work.
“Your minicourse on Rosso was excellent,” Rick said, “but I’m not sure one needs it to appreciate this work.”
Beppo reached behind Erica and rapped Rick lightly on the back of the head, something they used to do to each other in school. “What Rick means, Erica, is that he loved your explanation. I know I did. I must have missed the Mannerism seminar at the university. Perhaps I could audit your course in Rome.”
“That’s sweet of you, Beppo, but I understand what Ricky is saying. The best paintings, after all, are those that pull you in even if you know nothing about the subject or the artist. Not that I’m trying to talk myself out of a job.”
“You can always get work with the police,” said Beppo, “after your experience on this case today.” They continued to study the large work of art on the wall in front of them. Unseen by Beppo, Rick squeezed Erica’s hand, as if to say that it was time to return to reality.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for police work, Beppo.” She managed a tight smile. “And remember, it was Ricky who uncovered your gang of relic thieves.”
“But,” added Rick, “Beppo was the one who dreamed up and designed the whole scheme. I trust he will be advancing at the ministry.” He leaned forward on the bench and looked past Erica at his friend. “Is there a better office in that building?”
“Only the minister’s.”
Rick returned his gaze to Rosso’s painting. “I don’t suppose he’ll want to give it to you, Beppo.” More staring, more silence. “The museum can’t top this one. Let’s go to lunch.”
“I am taking you both to a late lunch,” said Beppo, jumping to his feet.
“You mean the ministry is inviting us?” Rick grinned at Erica.
“No, no. Beppo Rinaldi himself. I will do it with great pleasure, after all that the two of you went through this morning. I have already made a reservation at a place which comes highly recommended on the Via dei Prigioni. It seemed appropriate considering the various people who will end up in prison after today.” They walked out of the darkened room toward the entrance. The weather had cleared, allowing some sun to push through patchy clouds as the trio stepped onto the street’s stones.
Rustic was again how the restaurant décor would be characterized in most circles, though given the age of the town, almost every building in the center fell into that category. The room’s white walls changed to brick and joined above the diners’ heads in rounded vaults, giving the impression that they were eating in what had been a storage room. That is exactly what the space had been, centuries earlier, but those same centuries had obscured the
