“Robert Romano. How can I help you?” It was said in heavily accented Italian.
“I am Detective Innocenti, Professor,” replied Betta, “with the police.” She pulled her identification from her pocket and allowed the man to look at it before stuffing it back. “Do you have a few moments to talk? This is Signor Montoya.”
His puzzled look had returned at the word “police,” and became more pronounced when Rick was introduced.
“Per favore,” he said, gesturing toward the two empty chairs while closing the door to the office and retreating to his own seat.
“Professor Romano,” Rick said in English, “I am Detective Innocenti’s interpreter, should it be necessary. But you appear to speak Italian well.” It was a compliment without foundation.
Romano settled into his chair and spoke in English with a halting voice. “You are very kind, Mr. Montoya. Despite my name, my Italian is sufficient only for dealing with waiters and shopkeepers. Speaking with a policewoman is another matter. So I would very much appreciate some assistance. Montoya? I know several Montoyas in Arizona.”
“There are pages of us in the phone book in Albuquerque, where my father is from.”
The professor stared blankly, curious about how the guy from New Mexico had made his way into his office. But curiosity about the police matter won out. “How may I be of assistance to the detective?”
They quickly settled into the interpreter’s routine. Romano did not seem to notice that Rick was mostly asking the questions and then translating them and the answers for Betta.
“She wanted me to tell you immediately,” Rick began, “that this has nothing to do with any of your students or the program now.”
Romano glanced at Betta. “Thank you for that.” To Rick he said: “But why…?”
“There was a murder committed last night in Orvieto, and it was an American woman. She was an exchange student in the city about thirty-five years ago, and the police think she could have been enrolled in this program.”
“That’s terrible, just terrible. If she was participating in a university semester abroad program, not some high school exchange program, ours was almost certainly the one she was on. There haven’t been any other American universities here, at least not that I know of. But wait a minute. I think I can look it up in our database.” He swiveled back to his computer. “What was her name?”
Rick told him and then translated the exchange for Betta.
“What we need from him, Rick, is the name of anyone still in Orvieto who would have known her back then.”
“I’m on it, Detective.”
While they waited for Romano to search his records, their eyes wandered about the room, but found little of interest. There was not even a filing cabinet, a virtual requirement of any Italian office, making Rick think that the university had gone paperless. Thousands of trees allowed to live long and happy lives, while the professor kept his fingers crossed that the system wouldn’t crash.
“Here she is, Rhonda Van Fleet. At that time she was Rhonda Davis, so she must have updated her information with the alumni office. Studied fine art here from October of 1979 until May of 1980.”
“What courses did she take?”
Romano shrugged. “The records don’t go into that kind of detail. But I don’t think the curriculum has changed that much. Italian language and culture, art and architectural history with an emphasis on Umbrian, and then whatever specialty she was interested in. Could be painting, ceramics, sculpture; it’s up to the student’s interest.”
“Apparently it was ceramics. She became quite an accomplished potter, we understand.”
“Did she? Many of our alumni have gone on to distinguish themselves.”
Betta’s look, directed at Rick, was as good as a poke in his ribs.
“The detective would like to know if there might be anyone here now who was involved in the program at that time. She knows it was a long time ago, but—”
“Yes, in fact there is. Doctor Tansillo.” The man’s head turned sharply from Rick to Betta, causing his ponytail to twitch. “Luigi Tansillo was the administrator when the program began. Every year we celebrate the anniversary, and every year he appears and joins in the toasts. He loves chatting with the students and telling stories about the old days. It would not surprise me if he remembers Rhonda Davis.”
***
Rick looked up at the cloudless sky. It was the kind of weather that Livio Morgante and his employees in the Orvieto tourism office had to be relishing—perfect temperature and no chance of precipitation. Even the smallest bar managed to squeeze a few tables into the street in front of its doorway, luring passersby to stop for a cup or glass. The chairs provided a perfect perch to watch a pedestrian parade with as many Orvietani as tourists. Young and old office workers had found excuses to stroll the streets for a few minutes in shirtsleeves and sunglasses before returning reluctantly to their cubicles and computers.
The route to the restaurant, which Romano had explained in excruciating detail, took Rick and Betta back past their hotel along Via Maitani, named for the most prominent architect of the Duomo. The naming was appropriate, since the street ended at the square in front of the cathedral. A rectangular
