“Uncle, you are up early.”
“I knew you would be up, Riccardo. Have you finished your run?”
There was something in Piero’s voice that made Rick uneasy. “I’m on the last few hundred meters.”
“Something has come up in your murder case. I just got off the phone with Inspector LoGuercio, but I wanted to call you too.”
“You have my complete attention, Zio.” He wiped sweat from his face with the sleeve of his free arm.
“The fingerprint found on the victim was identified.”
“That’s great news, who is it?”
“Perhaps I should not have used the word ‘identified.’ It is a print taken from a revolver connected to a crime that took place in Milan in 1979. Two people robbed a bank, or at least two people were observed, both armed with pistols. A bank guard was shot but survived. Leaflets found at the scene indicated that it was the work of the Red Brigades. I assume you know about them?”
“Of course. Urban terrorists, the ones behind the kidnapping of former prime minister Aldo Moro.”
“That’s right. You were born too late to have witnessed the years of lead, as they were called. The two robbers wore ski masks, so there was no useful identification of them by the witnesses.”
“Both were men, though?”
“The report I read said that even their genders weren’t a sure thing, but one of them was found dead of gunshot wounds, a male in his early twenties. A gun was found nearby, and tests confirmed it was the one used on the guard as well as to kill the accomplice. It was also the one that had your fingerprint. The second gun seen in the hands of the bank robbers was never recovered.”
Rick wondered if the sweat on his neck was left over from the run or had appeared as his uncle was speaking. “So this guy, or this person, robs a bank with another Red Brigades operative, and afterward blows away his accomplice.”
“And takes all the lire, about half a million in today’s euro. That money was never found.”
“So we may be trying to find a former bank robber and murderer.”
“It appears so.”
“And now—let me guess—you want me to be careful.”
“How did you know?”
***
After his shower, Rick sat in the breakfast room with Betta, thinking that in twenty-four hours he would be enjoying a cappuccino at the bar around the corner from his apartment in Rome. Dino, the pro behind the bar, knew exactly how Rick liked his cappuccino; just the right amount of milk with the correct proportion of schiuma on top. With a warmed cornetto, there was no better breakfast. The coffee here at the hotel was fine, but it couldn’t beat Dino’s.
He looked at Betta, who was reading the final pages of the paper, and wondered if he had done the right thing telling her about his uncle’s call. He knew he could trust her completely, and he knew Piero felt the same about her. She was in law enforcement, after all. What was it that was bothering him? Just like in Bassano, they were a team; so what was it? The incident with Carlo at the well? Her reasons for keeping the secret were obvious: not wanting to upset Rick, hope that the problem would go away by itself, and the assumption that she could handle it by herself. It wasn’t that she wanted to deceive him, it was that she wanted to preserve their relationship. He couldn’t blame her, he felt the same way. Perhaps that was it, perhaps deep down he wasn’t ready for this serious a relationship. The thought, for some reason, made him cough.
“Are you all right, Rick?” Betta peered over her glasses, her eyebrows slightly knitted.
Rick tapped his chest with his fist. “Something went down the wrong way. It will pass. Anything in the news about the murder?
“Un bel niente.” She was wearing a more sober outfit than the previous day—a skirt with a long-sleeved blouse—for the visit to the cathedral later that morning. “Tomorrow, if all goes well, it will be all over the front pages of every newspaper.”
“I certainly hope so,” he said as he pulled out his cell phone and looked at the time. “We still have an hour before we meet Morgante and his girlfriend, as well as all the civic leaders, at the Duomo.”
She folded her paper. “Please Rick. Girlfriend? She’s probably old enough to be your mother. But after hearing you describe her, I’m curious to see what she’s really like.”
He was inserting his phone back into his pocket when it rang. Out it came.
“Montoya.”
“Rick, this is Francine. Someone broke into the villa during the night, we just noticed it when we were making breakfast.”
“Are you sure they’re not still there?”
“We’ve been in all the rooms. Rhonda’s must have been what they were most interested in, but some items from the living room are missing.”
“Okay, I’ll call the inspector and we’ll get there as soon as we can. Don’t touch anything.” He thought about the other woman, and added: “Try to keep Gina calm.”
He hung up and translated for Betta. Then he used his phone again for a short conversation with LoGuercio.
“He’ll be here in five minutes. At least this confirms that the first attempt was not just a random burglary.”
“The real question, Rick, is if this time the burglar found what he was looking for.”
“Since we don’t know what it was, we may never find that out.” He held the phone in his hand and tapped the table as he thought. “Damn. It looks like we’ll never get that tour of the cathedral. I’d better call Morgante and tell him.” He took out his wallet, found Morgante’s card, and dialed the number. “Damn again. It goes right to voice mail.”
Betta held up a hand to stop him. “Rick, we can’t cancel again. I’ll go, and
