(36/40) The Fine Art of Murder Page 2

  He raised his gun and pointed it at me. His hand trembled and my eyes followed the movement of the muzzle as it shifted back and forth across my face. I heard him cock the hammer. Then a loud noise made him spin around toward the church door. His cohort with the painting had released the lock, and shouted something at him. The injured gunman took a last glance at me, turned, and stumbled up the aisle, clutching his shoulder and mumbling something that sounded distinctly threatening. I sank down onto the pew, next to the woman, who was wailing again, a dead policeman at my feet.

  Chapter Two

  A side from the wailing woman, we remained in stunned silence. I looked down at where Fanello’s body was slumped on the narrow space in front of a pew. Simone wedged past us, fell to one knee, and placed his fingertips against Fanello’s neck. He slowly shook his head and came to his feet. “He is gone,” he said solemnly, and added words in Italian that sounded like a prayer for the dead.

  I moved away and sat in a pew across the aisle. I tried to catch my breath and to stop shaking. The woman, who’d now become hysterical, and an older man scrambled to leave.

  “No,” Simone snapped. “We must stay and call the police.” He pulled a cell phone from a case on his belt and punched in three numbers. “No one must leave,” he repeated after completing the call. “Do not touch anything. Please, take seats and we will wait.”

  In minutes we heard cars, sirens blaring, come to a screeching halt outside the church, and four uniformed Italian police officers ran down the center aisle, followed by two men in civilian clothing who I assumed were detectives. Simone directed them to Fanello’s body. After a brief examination, the uniformed officers were ordered to seal off the church and to corral us in a pew far removed from the body. Once that had been accomplished, the detectives questioned Simone, who, replied in Italian to their inquiries and provided a summary of what had occurred. When he was finished, one of the detectives asked the remaining five of us on the tour, “Loro parlano italiano?”

  The hysterical woman and the older man confirmed that they were Italian and spoke the language. The detective turned to the three of us who did not and said in good English, “I will need to question each of you separately.” He nodded at me. “Please come with me.”

  He led me to the opposite side of the church and sat next to me in a pew. “Your name?”

  “Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Americana?”

  “Yes. Si.”

  “You saw what happened?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” I explained the purpose of the tour and recounted how we were admiring the Bellini painting when the two young men posing as friars or monks entered the church. I told him what had transpired leading up to the shooting of Signore Fanello, at which point he interjected—

  “The victim, he was a police officer?”

  “Yes, he told me that. Retired. I didn’t know that he was carrying a weapon. If he hadn’t—”

  The detective shrugged and continued writing in a small notebook.

  “Did you recognize either of these two young men?” he asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “I thought you might have seen them loitering near the church,” he said to clarify his question.

  I shook my head. “No, I never saw them before.”

  “Did you see them clearly after they entered the church?”

  “Yes. I mean, I clearly saw one of them right after the shooting, the one who actually did it. Mr. Fanello—he’s the victim—wounded that man before he was killed. I believe the wound was to the left shoulder.”

  “I see,” he said. “Where are you staying in Italy?”

  “At the Splendide Royal hotel in Rome.”

  His nodded. “How long do you plan to remain in Italy?”

  “I’m supposed to fly out at the end of the week.”

  “We will have further questions for you tomorrow, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “That will be fine,” I said.

  He asked for my contact information in the States, which I gave him.

  The bus trip back to Rome was slow and sad. Little was said as we retraced our route from Abruzzo to the busy streets of Rome. After thanking Flavio Simone and receiving his apologies for the way the tour had turned out, I went directly to my suite, stripped off my clothes, and stood under the shower, washing Fanello’s blood off my skin and out of my hair but not out of my mind. Later, wrapped in the hotel robe, I fell fast asleep, visions of what I’d witnessed that day dominating my dreams.

  I awoke with a start, the face of the young man with the gun vividly in front of me, burned into my memory. I tried to shake it, but he wouldn’t go away. I looked around the room. I had been so delighted when the pleasant young woman at the reception desk had informed me that they had upgraded me to a suite as a courtesy to my travel agent, Susan Shevlin. My rooms were tastefully decorated and furnished in sumptuous Baroque style, with colorful nuances and boiseries; the marble bath (and there was a second half bath) was twice the size of my bathroom at home. But what was most impressive was the terrace with a sweeping view of Rome and the magnificent gardens of the Villa Borghese. The gardens constitute one of the largest parks in Rome, and that had been on my list of things to do while there. I’d been especially interested in the Borghese gallery, where some of Italy’s greatest art treasures are exhibited, including magnificent sculptures by such artists as Canova and Bernini, and paintings by masters including Caravaggio, Botticelli, Rubens, and Titian.

  Now I went to the terrace and sat numbly, the sweet scent of jasmine in full bloom and the lights and sounds of the street below reminding me that I was in Rome. What had started as a leisurely week’s vacation to a fabulous country and city had almost immediately turned into a nightmare. Within twenty-four hours of arriving, I’d been witness not only to the theft of a valuable painting but also to the brutal murder of a man.

  I seriously considered packing and flying back to the States as soon as I could, but quickly pursuaded myself that there was nothing to be gained by abandoning the rest of my trip. It wouldn’t bring back Mr. Fanello’s life, nor would it result in the recovery of the Bellini artwork. I decided then and there to make the best of the days I had left, to try to distract myself by soaking up the splendor of Rome and its wealth of beautiful things, to give myself new images to remember and do my best to put that day’s horror show behind me.

  That resolve lasted until first thing the following morning when I received a call in my suite from a man who introduced himself as Sergio Maresca, a homicide detective.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I understand that you had the misfortune yesterday of witnessing a murder.”

  “ ‘Misfortune’ is the proper word, Detective.”

  “My apologies for such a thing happening on your holiday, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t wish to intrude on your time more than necessary, but it is important that I have the opportunity to interview you this morning. Do you have other plans? It won’t take more than an hour or two.”

  “No, I don’t have plans. But even if I did, I would rearrange them.”

  “Splendid. I will send a car to your hotel—say at nine thirty?”

  “All right.”

  “We will be joined by Detective Lippi from our art squad, if that is agreeable to you.”

  “That will be fine,” I replied. “I’ll be in the lobby at nine thirty.”

  Two polite young police officers picked me up and drove me to police headquarters, an imposing modern building that would not have been out of place in Las Vegas. I was escorted to a suite of offices and asked to wait in one of them. Minutes later, Detective Maresca came into the room, followed by Detective Lippi. Both men looked to be in their early forties; each was neatly dressed in a suit and tie and had an engaging smile. They joined me at the table.

  “We know you are a celebrity, Mrs. Fletcher. Your books are very popular in our country. We are grateful you have agreed to cooperate with our investigation,” Detective Maresca said.

 
“Si, grazie mille,” his colleague added.

  “No thanks are necessary,” I said. “I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

  “We understand you had a good look at the young man who killed the former police officer.”

  “Yes.”

  “May we ask you to examine some photographs? I believe in the States you call them ‘mug shots.’ Perhaps you will recognize this fellow.”

  “I’ll be happy to do that, Detective, although could he be from here in Rome? I assumed he was from the Abruzzo area.”

  “That may be,” Maresca answered, “but it’s possible he’s a member of the gang centered here in Rome. Organized crime hires these young punks to steal art from churches. They pay them for it and then sell the art to unscrupulous collectors. The money goes right back into the drug trade.”

  “I had no idea of the extent of it,” I said. “To think that money from stolen art ends up in illegal drugs is dismaying at best.”

  They placed the first book in front of me and I went through hundreds of photographs. I didn’t recognize any face. I was given a second book, and then a third, but the results were the same. I was unable to identify any of the criminals in the books.

  “I wish I could be more help,” I said.

  “If you would give our sketch artist as detailed a description of the young man as possible, that would be useful.”

  I spent the next half hour doing what he’d suggested. The artist, a young woman, slid a series of features across a computer screen, each slightly different, until I found one that most closely approximated the gunman’s eyes, nose, mouth, the shape of his jaw, and his brow. She added the scar on his right cheek and the soft black locks that had curled over his forehead. She did a remarkable job. “Perfect,” I said.

  “Grazie,” she replied.

  “Well,” Lippi said, “we appreciate you taking the time this morning.”

  “If we happen to get lucky and apprehend the punk who did this, we’ll be asking you to return to Italy to make a positive ID,” Maresca added.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said.

  “It will be an inconvenience, Mrs. Fletcher, but I assure you that we will make it as painless as possible. Naturally, all your expenses would be paid.”

  As they walked me through the building to where a car was waiting to bring me back to the hotel, I said, “I wish I’d never seen that young man’s face. I’m afraid it will haunt me for a long time.”

  “We can’t always be in the right place at the right time,” said Lippi. “Or avoid being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s true,” I said.

  Maresca excused himself and Lippi took me to the waiting police car. “We really appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Would you let me treat you to lunch as a way of saying thank you?”

  “There’s absolutely no need for that,” I said, “but I do admit to now having an interest in the world of stolen art. I might even use what I’ve learned in a future book. Perhaps learning as much as I can will give me a sense of control over a situation in which I felt so terribly helpless. Yes, I’d like to join you for lunch.”

  He gave me the address of a restaurant and we agreed to meet at one o’clock.

  A fleet of taxis was poised outside my hotel when I came downstairs to keep our appointment. I remembered from my previous visit to Italy that the cabdrivers I’d encountered spoke little English, which had surprised me. For some reason, we Americans expect the rest of the world to speak our language, and many citizens of other nations do. I’d spent some time before leaving Cabot Cove browsing an Italian-American phrase book and had nailed down certain useful expressions.

  “Voglio andare al Hosteria Romana, Via del Boccaccio, per piacere,” I said to the next driver in line in what I hoped was the proper pronunciation.

  “Si, signora,” he replied, indicating that I was to get in the backseat of his cab.

  Driving through Rome was as chaotic as I’d remembered, with seemingly suicidal men and women behind the wheels of their vehicles cutting one another off, horns blaring, emissions toxically clouding the air, and verbal insults being hurled at fellow drivers through open windows. My driver was no exception, and I said a silent prayer of thanks once we pulled up in front of the restaurant.

  It was a charming trattoria, with a table up front laden with platters of meats, cheeses, fish, marinated vegetables, and other appetizing items designed to catch your eye and entice your palate before you were even seated. Detective Lippi, whose first name was Filippo, had already secured a table in the back and stood as the elderly waiter pulled out a chair for me.

  “This is a special place in Rome,” he said when we were both seated. “It was at one time the secret headquarters of the anti-Nazi movement during the Second World War. Only the locals know it exists, so I am counting on your discretion.”

  “You mean you don’t want me to tell anyone at home about it?”

  “Only your closest friends, and only if you swear them to secrecy.”

  It was the first time I had smiled since the nightmare of the previous day.

  “Ah, I like to see that smile,” he said. “I was beginning to think it wasn’t there.”

  “It’s kind of you to look for it,” I said.

  As a parade of waiters brought us dish after dish of antipasti, followed by pasta, spaghetti carbonara for him and spinach ravioli for me, I grilled Lippi about art theft in Italy.

  “How bad a problem is it?” I asked.

  Lippi raised his eyebrows. “Huge,” he replied. “Your own FBI estimates that the international trade in stolen art is worth more than six billion dollars a year, the third most profitable criminal enterprise after drugs and weapons. Our Carabinieri Internet-accessible database lists more than a million stolen works of all kinds—paintings, sculpture, rare books, and antiquities of every description.”

  “I had no idea it was that prevalent,” I said.

  “Caravaggio, Degas, Cézanne, van Gogh, Monet, Picasso—paintings by all the masters have been stolen in recent years,” he said. “Caravaggio’s Nativity was stolen from a church in Palermo in 1969 and is still missing. Unfortunately, despite our best efforts only a small number of stolen works have been recovered, and when they are, they invariably lead to organized crime—the Mafia here in Italy—and to international drug rings.”

  “These thieves must be very skilled,” I offered. “I assume that museums and art galleries have sophisticated security systems that have to be overcome.”

  “They do,” Lippi said. “The problem is that here in Italy, as you have so unfortunately discovered, many great artworks are in the hands of small churches and other less secure venues.” He smiled. “The Carabinieri art squad is the largest in the world—more than three hundred officers assigned to it—but they can only do so much. They’ve been trying to encourage smaller repositories of art, particularly churches, to improve their security, but—”

  “Do they believe that their churches are holy grounds that no one would dare defile?” I asked.

  “Precisely,” Lippi replied. “The fact is that theft from churches is six times what it is from museums, and seven times that of galleries.”

  The subject changed as we worked our way through the various culinary courses, but we returned to theft in the art world during dessert, a sinfully delicious and fattening pistachio crème brûlée.

  “This has been quite an education,” I said.

  “You think you’ve learned enough to use in one of your books?” Lippi asked.

  “I do, but I may need to consult you again when I have a question,” I replied.

  “If I can be of any assistance, you have only to ask,” he said.

  “You’ve already been enormously helpful,” I said, “pointing my thoughts in a different direction.”

  We exchanged business cards at the end of our lunch and promised to stay in touch.

  I wasn’t contacted again
by the police during the remainder of my stay in Rome, for which I was grateful. On the one hand, I was anxious to see the young man who had murdered Mr. Fanello brought to justice and would have happily provided identification if it came to that. But I had a suspicion after speaking with the two detectives that finding and arresting him would be nearly impossible, which meant it was highly doubtful that I would be called upon to help them make a case.

  I spent the rest of my week in Rome haunting galleries large and small and taking in as many major museums as I could fit in. It was a bittersweet couple of days, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I climbed on the Alitalia jet to return home. That young man’s face kept popping up at odd hours, sometimes replacing a portrait on a museum wall, other times coming out of the blue. I hoped that being back in my own home in Cabot Cove would serve to erase his face forever.

  Chapter Three

  Time has a way of masking unpleasant memories. Never completely, of course. My experience in that small church in L’Aquila had replayed itself now and then since my return to Cabot Cove from Italy, although each episode became less traumatic. I suppose it’s the brain’s way of filtering out horrific moments in our lives, allowing us to forge ahead without being crippled by past events.