A Thousand Tombs (7 page)

The pawn shop was right where Luca said it would be, just off Grant on a side street that was close enough to the main drag to draw traffic. It was a relatively un-remodeled area, meaning the building showed its age.

A battered sign announcing the store was
open
hung in the dingy glass door. The striped awning over the entry was ripped, and the goods in the window display looked as if they hadn’t been dusted for weeks. From the outside, it appeared business was a bust.

But looks can be deceiving.

As soon as she walked in, her first impression dissipated like smoke in a magic act. Three customers were hunched over locked cases, perusing the merchandise. A fourth pushed a gold wedding band across the counter and waited as an employee examined it carefully with a jeweler’s loupe. Chances were good he was the appraiser.

A middle-aged man stood apart, watching over it all. Gen figured him for the owner. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet like a fighter, as if he was keyed up and nervous as hell. He seemed to be trying to look at ease, just busy supervising his minion, but the up-and-down motion was an odd behavior for a man Gen imagined must tip the scales at close to two hundred pounds.

His hair was nearly gone, aside from a Friar Tuck fringe around the sides and back and a single tuft that sprouted from the middle of his skull. He wore reading glasses on a chain around his neck, and as he bounced, the glasses did a jig on the burgundy sweater vest stretched tight across his midriff. The patch of hair on his forehead followed suit, waving like a sea anemone in the current.

Another day she might have found it humorous. Gen tried not to stare, and, lucky for her, the movement ceased as she approached.

“What can I help you with today?” he asked.

“My name is Gen Delacourt,” she replied. “Are you the owner?”

“Ralph Zuccaro, at your service.”

“Mr. Zuccaro, I ah–”

“Excuse me for a moment.” One of the customers had raised a hand. Gen nodded, then turned her attention to a nearby display of earrings on a wheeled case on the counter. It was stocked with every imaginable design and stone, including diamonds and amethysts and citrine. They all sparkled a welcome.

Gen was mesmerized by a pair with delicate dangling gold chains that ended in a spray of dark red rubies. She assumed they were rubies, anyway. Not that she’d know the difference between red glass and the real thing.

The appraiser gave the ring back to the waiting customer and stood, then sauntered over and leaned his elbows on the countertop. “They’re lovely,” he said. Something about his tone made Gen look up. He was tall and languid-looking and focused on the earrings she held.

“Yes,” Gen replied. “I’m not much of a jewelry person, but my sister would love these. Ruby is her favorite color.”

“Not shopping for yourself?” he asked. “What a shame. I can see you wearing those.”

And then Zuccaro was back, adding, “They’d make a lovely Christmas present.”

Gen laughed and replaced the earrings in their former place in the display. “You’re both great salesmen, but the holidays are still months away and I’m not that organized.” She turned to face Zuccaro. “I’m actually here to ask about a boy and a coin.”

The appraiser was about to move on, but he halted within earshot and made himself busy. Logic told her he’d been in the shop the day Luca came in, and he had also seen the coin. He wanted to hear what she had to say.

“Luca.”

The owner’s mouth curved downward and he started to bounce again. Luca was apparently not a subject that made him happy.

“How do you know about that?”

“An interested party told me.”

His frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do, either, that’s why I’m here. Will you tell me what happened before he came in to show you what he showed you?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I found Mr. Vitelli taped to a chair Saturday morning and got this black eye for my trouble. I’m taking it personally.”

Zuccaro’s standoffishness melted just a bit, but Gen wasn’t sure why. “The boy had been playing his guitar for tips. Just up the street there. He was talented. People stopped to listen, and the music was good for business. I even sold a couple of guitars I’ve had hanging around here for years. He seemed like a decent boy, so I tipped him once in a while. Then he came in with the coin, and my opinion changed.”

“Is it valuable?” Gen asked.

Zuccaro’s frown morphed into a downright scowl. “It’s priceless.”

“Priceless? As in rare?”

“Beyond rare. Museum quality. Irreplaceable. Is that an adequate description?” His voice grew strained, and he began to fiddle with a button on his sweater vest. He was clearly nervous, or afraid. But of what?

“How do you know?” Gen asked.

“I’m an avid coin collector. I recognized it from a numismatics text I own about ancient Roman currency.”

“So you assume he stole it from someone.”

“He told us a story about an old man, but only a fool drops a medallion worth a quarter of a million dollars into a penniless musician’s guitar case as a gratuity.”

“How did you know to call the Italian brass?”

“I didn’t call anyone. But in case you were not aware, the United States has an agreement with Italy not to allow the import of plundered antiquities.”

“You didn’t call the cops and tell them about the boy.”

Zuccaro drew himself up to his full height. “No, I did not. I threatened him that I might, so he would tell me where he’d gotten it. But that was as far as I went.”

If he hadn’t alerted the Carabinieri, Gen wondered who did make the call. “I’m curious how you made that leap, from a boy with an old Roman coin to stolen artifacts and looters.”

“This coin is not something the average person would have in a cigar box under their bed.” Zuccaro looked over his shoulder, then back. His expression was stark.

“There is evil in the world, Miss Delacourt. Many in my profession have no integrity, but I’ve learned to ask a lot of questions about the provenance of goods brought to me for sale. People lie. People steal. Must I draw you a picture?” Once again, he began to bounce on the balls of his feet.

“No,” Gen replied. “I get it.” She offered her hand and he shook it. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Zuccaro. One more thing, though. You think the boy stole the coin. Why couldn’t it have been a family heirloom or something? And how did you know Vitelli was involved? You knew who I was referring to when I mentioned it earlier.”

The bouncing ceased. The crease between Zuccaro’s eyebrows deepened and he looked startled. He was thinking about something, that was certain. “All good questions, Miss Delacourt.”

“And the answers?”

“Again, what is your involvement? I don’t owe you any explanations.”

Gen shrugged. “No, you don’t. But I think the police might be interested in hearing what you have to say. Maybe you’d prefer to talk to them.” She turned away and took three steps toward the door before he stopped her.

“Now, now. Don’t be hasty.”

Gen pivoted and regarded him, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“Vitelli is the only one who passes by here every afternoon. I’ve seen him stop and listen to Luca play. I put two and two together.”

“And you assumed Luca went to Vitelli’s house and took the coin, because it wasn’t realistic to think the man could have dropped it by accident.”

“That’s right.” The bouncing resumed.

Gen took in some air. She was tired of feeling like a Ping-Pong ball, following his eyes as they rose and fell. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Zuccaro.”

She turned away again, this time for real. From the corner of her eye, she saw the appraiser’s head go down; he’d been watching. As she pushed through the door, she speculated about Ralph Zuccaro, his anxious behavior, and the possible source of his concern.

The traffic outside was heating up. She stopped on the sidewalk to check out the other merchants on the street, wondering if she should ask around about Luca’s musical talents.

That was when the door to the neighboring business opened, and a twenty-something nerd walked out with a scowl on his face that he wasn’t afraid to share. The entry was inset into a cut-out in the building that hid it from Ralph Zuccaro’s domain. Gen glanced at the sign. A dry cleaner’s. Or it used to be, anyway; the store looked deserted.

The young man was wearing jeans and trainers and a short-sleeved shirt with a pocket protector, three ball-point pens, and that serious frown. He leaned against the glass door and stared. What was his problem?

On the off chance it might irritate him even more she gave him a big dumb grin and a wave, but scrapped the plan to ask questions and headed for her car.

Gen booted up her laptop and typed in the phrase
Carabinieri art squad
. Google spat out a list of suggested sites, and she browsed.

Created in 1969 as part of both the Ministry of Culture and the Italian military police, the 300+ officers of the Carabinieri Department for the Protection of Cultural Heritage work at home and abroad to thwart the trading of illegitimately obtained antiquities.

Known as the Carabinieri Art Squad, this outfit is devoted solely to the protection of their country’s cultural heritage. They team with international law enforcement agencies to locate stolen works, they maintain the world’s most complete database regarding illicit trafficking, and they are tasked with preventing the criminal defiling of Italy’s important archaeological sites.

* * *

The bank was nearly silent when Gen pushed through the door. She stood just inside, scrounging through the bottom of her purse for the box key she’d dropped into it twenty minutes before. Four windows were open and at least a dozen people were in line, but they were all as quiet as a bunch of librarians.

Ever since Gen had seen the movie
Jerry MacGuire,
she’d been tempted to yell “Show me the money!” when she walked through the door of a financial institution. But she figured there was a good chance the employees would take it as a robbery attempt, so instead she just shouted it in her head and went about her business.

It was often a surprise to her how reverent people became when they were handling bank-related needs. To some, visiting their dough was as sacred as going to church, a spiritual event. Others were intimidated enough that they spoke in hushed tones, acting as if the tellers held their life in their rubber-finger-tipped hands. For some, she assumed, that was probably true.

She’d always had enough capital, and she knew she always would. She thought that was the secret to getting it. And keeping it. Things people chased after and coveted and obsessed over often remained just out of reach.

Such is life.

Key in hand, she approached the safe deposit box annex, spoke – in a muted voice, of course – with the woman manning the desk, and was escorted to the bank of boxes that contained hers. They did the dual-key thing. Once Gen was alone, she took out the velvet bag and placed the coin with the rest of the items she valued.

Her will was there, and the documents that contained her living trust. She needed to update those; Ryan was named as a beneficiary. She should assign her assets to her niece, Emily. But her family had more than enough. Maybe Madison’s baby, after it was born. A college fund. She’d have to think about it.

Gen also kept her grandfather’s wedding ring there. She opened the jewelry box and fingered the wide, solid band of gold, and thought about the fabulous Frenchman who’d worn it for almost seventy years. “I miss you,
Grand-père
,” she whispered, then put the ring away and closed the box and left.

She was thinking about Vitelli and how like her own granddad he seemed, strong and quiet, and gentle just beneath the surface. Or was it her imagination, wanting him to be like her father’s father? Possibly. She was wondering what the harm of that might be when she realized that if it turned out he was lying, she’d be hurt.

Just like Mack with Luca, she could be setting herself up. Way to not get attached, Gen. Way to take your own advice.

She was back out on the sidewalk when she reminded herself that pain came with the territory, and not just on the job. If you lived and breathed, you got hurt. The only way to avoid it was to be one of those mystic hermits that lived out their lives in caves in Nepal.

No thanks.

She shouldered her purse and turned down the street. She’d worn flats on purpose today. Downtown was a parking nightmare, so she wouldn’t move the car; she could more than manage a few blocks on foot.

Her next stop was all about the Italians.

After a little digging with the uniform who’d interviewed her at Vitelli’s, Officer Lee informed her that the Carabinieri team had been granted the use of an office among the Homeland Security folks. Gen was going to pay them a visit today, just to be neighborly.

She found the building, took the elevator up to the sixteenth floor, and was stopped by the gatekeeper in the anteroom. The woman accepted her business card, spoke quietly into the phone, and directed Gen to take a seat. She’d just settled in when Giovanni Luciano appeared, wearing a pleasant smile that didn’t hint of anything but
nice to see you
.

She noticed his hair again. Luciano’s hair was like a mane, it was that good. It was the icing, the final flourish, the topper on a handsome Christmas tree.

Mack had great hair, but this guy had the best she’d seen on a man. Better than that actor, Patrick Dempsey. Although Mack reminded her more of Dempsey than Luciano did, when it came right down to it.

He beckoned. She followed him down the hall to a glass-walled office with a nice high-rise view. He sat down behind the desk and indicated that she should take one of the chairs across from him.

“What a pleasure,” he said.

“I had business downtown, so I took a chance you’d be in.”

“I am glad that you did.” Luciano did not ask how she knew where to find him. “I have been thinking about you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, obviously, I’ve been thinking about you, too.” Gen glanced around the office; only one desk. “Where’s your partner today?” she asked.

Giovanni kept his eyes on hers. “Following up on some information.”

“Really.” She batted her lashes. “If it wears pants, I’ll bet she’s all over it like a cheap suit.”

He pretended confusion, but she doubted her insinuation eluded him. “I’m sorry, I do not understand.”

“No, it’s me who should be sorry.” She meant it; her comment was unprofessional. “That was American sarcasm, and I know it doesn’t translate well.”

“Tell me why you came today. What can I do for you?”

He appeared solicitous and kind. Every vestige of the near-disgust he’s exhibited at Vitelli’s house that morning seemed to have drained away. His expression was almost welcoming, not at all cop-like, and, frankly, a little disarming. Gen had expected worse.

Distrust, for sure. Suspicion, wariness.

But the face that was gazing at her now held none of that. It threw her off balance a bit, and she drew in a breath to steady herself and re-think her strategy. She’d thought she was going to be talking to a wall, and here she was looking at a window.

To what?

“I came to ask about Vincenzo Vitelli.”

Luciano pursed his lips thoughtfully and nodded. “Please, Miss Delacourt, tell me. How do you know Vitelli?”

“I don’t know him. That is, I didn’t know him before the day I got this.” She pointed to her face. “If you’d like to check, I’m sure Officer Lee would be happy to provide you with a copy of the statement I gave him.”

“May I call you Genevieve?”

“Sure. I prefer Gen, though.”

“And I would like it if you would call me Giovanni. Gen, the SFPD did supply me with your statement. I found it quite … brief.”

“Brief but complete. I don’t know any more than what I told them.”

Luciano smiled, then steepled his fingers in front of him. “You do not understand what we are up against.”

She wondered if he meant Vitelli or the whole antiquities situation. “So enlighten me.”

“Shall I give you the perspective of the Italian police on this matter?”

“Please.”

“You heard Miss Salvatore call Vitelli a
tombarolo
.”

“Yes, I heard that clearly.”

“Do you understand the term?”

“Yes, I Googled it.”

His smile was meant to be charming, and it worked. “Then you are aware that the
tombaroli
are tomb robbers in my country.”

“
Tombarolo
is a single thief, and
tombaroli
is a group of them. Is that correct?”

“You see, already you are learning about our culture.”

Gen grinned. “Go on.”

“This travesty has been a problem for decades. The
tombaroli
steal antiquities from the very earth beneath my beloved motherland. To gain a conviction, the police must catch them in the act, and, unfortunately, at times our local authorities accept money to look the other way. It is a fact of life. But even when we find them, the
tombaroli
simply drop their tools and deny everything when they see us coming. They tell us they were out for a stroll.”

“Can’t you stop the artifacts from leaving Italy at the shipping level?”

“We catch a small percentage that way. The only truly effective method is to choke off the demand. Initiatives established by museums with morals and by foreign governments, such as the one your President Clinton put in place, are our strongest defense.”

“Good old Bill. But back to Vitelli. It seems to me you still have to establish that Vitelli’s situation is a criminal offense. You can only confiscate the goods and try to prove your case. Isn’t that correct?”

“For now.”

“And you’re positive he’s guilty, even though he insists he’s not.”

“I strongly believe he is quite guilty. But it sounds as if you are not convinced. May I ask your reason?”

“I haven’t formed a solid opinion, Giovanni. I like to keep an open mind until I have all the facts. So far, I think it’s fairly clear that Mr. Vitelli is telling a partial truth and there’s more to the story.”

“Ah.”

His satisfied expression irked her. “Ah what?”

“What is the phrase you use?” He looked sad. “You have had the wool pulled over your eyes.”

Gen felt a spike of irritation and slapped it away. He might be right, after all. She angled her head and modulated her voice to hide any hint of annoyance. “Do you know Mr. Vitelli personally?”

“No.”

“Do you have an ongoing investigation involving Vincenzo Vitelli?”

“This is the first time we have crossed paths.”

“Then what makes you think you’re right? How can you be so sure he’s not a legitimate importer?”

“Because I have been down this road many times.”

Gen nodded. Again, his assumptions could prove to be true. “But I do hope you’re not going to ignore alternate explanations and base your investigation solely on past experience.”

Giovanni looked surprised for a moment, and a little impressed. It’s true, she had delivered that suggestion with a certain amount of lawyerly deportment.

“Why are you so interested in Vincenzo Vitelli?”

Gen feigned embarrassment. “He reminds me of my grandfather.” She was laying it on a little heavy, hoping that Luciano would let down his guard and tell her what he knew. “I know it’s sentimental, but there you have it.”

Luciano’s face registered confusion. “Hmm,” he said. “That may put my offer in a bit of jeopardy.”

“What offer is that?”

“My superiors have approved my request that we hire you.”

And now it was Gen’s turn to be confused. “Hire me?”

Giovanni nodded.

“To do what?”

“To investigate Vitelli.”

“I thought that was what you were doing.”

“We are. But we are also aware that you have resources that are not available to us. You can do things and go places that we cannot, not without a warrant. We are sworn officers, restricted by our positions. You are not.”

This was an interesting turn of events. Gen thought about it for five beats. What should she say? She would like to prove that Vitelli was innocent, but she also did not want to get on the wrong side of the Carabinieri. It might be an opportunity to learn more about what they knew. “If I accept your offer, will you give me everything you have about Vincenzo Vitelli and this case?”

Luciano’s face clouded briefly. “I am afraid we will not be able to share that information. What we want you to do is to follow him. To watch him, to keep him close. Then to report back to us about who he sees, where he goes, how he spends his days.”

That would effectively keep her busy doing nothing. She thought of Carla outside Vitelli’s and wondered why they needed her to pound the pavement. Surely they had minions. “I have other cases I need to clear. May I have some time to think about it?”

“Certainly, Genevieve.” He stood in tandem with her, ever the gentleman, then glanced at his watch. “May I take you to lunch to discuss it further?”

“Thank you, but no. I have plans. I’ll be in touch.”

He walked her to the door and opened it. “I hope I do not offend you when I say that I believe you are wrong.”

“About Vitelli.”

“Yes, about Vitelli. In my country, there are many men who are
mafioso
.”