Rick and Inspector LoGuercio walked the distance from the side door and came up the steps into the chapel. Their eyes searched the crowd, looking quickly from one face to another. Betta tried to follow Rick’s gaze, but it moved too quickly. She watched as Rick leaned toward the policeman and said something in his ear. LoGuercio, his eyes still moving through the people, shook his head quickly.
When she saw the policeman, Bianca Cappello, who was standing near Morgante, had moved closer and taken his hand. He smiled down at her before addressing LoGuercio. “Inspector, you are able to take time away from the investigation to join us for some culture. How nice. We were just about to gaze upon Signorelli’s masterpiece. It depicts the day of judgment, as you know.”
“How appropriate,” said LoGuercio.
Morgante’s eyes moved from the policeman’s face to Rick’s, and back. “I don’t understand, Inspector. The painting’s subject is a serious one. If you were attempting to make light of it…”
“Not at all, Signor Morgante.”
Bianca’s hand clutched Morgante’s arm, but the man didn’t appear to notice. He looked at LoGuercio, his face showing his usual calm. “Then I will go on with the description of the work.”
“I am not here for culture, Signor Morgante,” said the policeman, “but in search of a murderer.”
The effect on the people was immediate, only the sacred surroundings kept them somewhat subdued. Instead, they turned to one another and spoke in low voices, stealing looks at the policeman as they did. Every one of them knew about the murder of the American, and almost certainly the news of Pazzi’s shooting had spread even faster. It was Morgante, taking back his role as leader of the program, who eventually said what they all were thinking. Letting go of Bianca’s hand, he stepped forward.
“Inspector, surely you don’t think anyone—”
A woman screamed, and the crowd parted like a human curtain. In the middle stood Vincenzo Aragona, a dark pistol in his hand. Every eye was on the weapon, which he waved rapidly, causing some men to drop to the stone floor. Rick stared in horror, then pulled Betta to his side. LoGuercio’s hand moved slowly behind him.
“Don’t try to get your weapon, Inspector, unless you want yourself or someone else shot.”
“Signor Aragona,” said LoGuercio, “be reasonable. Put the gun down.” His voice was soothing, but Aragona was in no mood to hear it. Instead, he continued to wave the pistol and stepped clear of the group.
“I will not be arrested. I know how to use this.”
Morgante watched the gun as it swung back in forth, pointing in the direction of the Signorelli frescoes. “Vincenzo, what are you doing?”
“I’m not going to let them make an arrest.” The nervousness gone, his voice had turned to steel.
“Vincenzo, please.” It was Morgante again. “Remember where you are.” His eyes raised to the decorations of the chapel ceiling. Every inch of space between the ribs of its vaults was decorated with biblical characters, angels, and saints. Frozen in paint and mosaic, they looked down with solemn faces at the scene playing out below.
“I don’t give a damn where we are. I’m going to walk out of here, and not even the almighty can stop me.” As he spoke, he waved the pistol in the direction of the priceless frescoes high above them.
Morgante gasped and lurched forward, grabbing Aragona’s pistol hand while the others watched in silent fear.
“Everyone get down!” shouted LoGuercio, rushing toward the two struggling men.
Morgante had taken hold of the barrel and tried to pull it out of Aragona’s hand. “I can’t let you—”
His words were cut off by the explosion of the pistol. He froze and stared blankly at Aragona while his free hand grasped his blood-stained shirt. His mouth moved, and no words came out, but he continued to cling tightly to the gun barrel. Aragona tried to pull it free, but Rick leaped at him and landed a blow on his neck. Stunned, the man staggered and let go of the pistol. The grip banged on the stone floor, but the muzzle was still in Morgante’s hand. LoGuercio pulled out his service pistol and pointed it at Aragona’s chest.
Seeing that the chapel was now safe, Morgante finally loosened his grip on the weapon. It slid out of his hand and rattled across the floor, coming to a stop near the altar. The harsh odor of the discharged gun mixed with the sweet smell of incense.
Three uniformed policemen charged into the chapel, weapons raised.
“Sergeant, get an ambulance,” LoGuercio called out. “Corporal, handcuff this man.” Two of the policeman followed his orders while the third stared at the man cradled in the lap and arms of a sobbing Bianca Cappello.
Morgante’s eyes looked past her face and stared at the ornate walls of the chapel. “How…could he?” His words came in short gasps. He looked past her at the wall that held Signorelli’s masterpiece. “This is…the jewel…of Orvieto.”
Tears poured down her cheeks. “I’m so proud of you, Livio.”
Rick looked back at the cream of Orvieto society. Most of them were on the floor, still stunned, but their heads were lifted, trying to decide if it was safe to get to their feet. Rick walked to one person who had wedged himself behind a large woman made larger by a fur coat.
“It’s safe, now,” he said to the man. “You can get up.”
LoGuercio had been in a corner of the chapel talking furiously on his cell phone. He snapped it closed
