“Suddenly I don’t feel bad for you.”

  “Tomorrow he’s going to give me a VIP tour of his museum. It’s the best one in Pisa.”

  “Doesn’t he have to work? Don’t you have to work on your case?”

  “He’ll take some time off.”

  Rick didn’t like where this was going. “Perhaps he can help you break open your case.”

  “I haven’t told him anything about it, only that I’m here with my work. You never know. He could be a suspect in the theft. Fortunately he didn’t push me for details, and we mostly talked about old times.” She coughed softly. “Did I mention that he’s very good-looking?”

  “Oh, great. Thanks for telling me that.”

  “He’s also gay.”

  He laughed. “Betta, you could have drawn that out a bit more and had some real fun at my expense.”

  “You’re right. I guess I’m tired.”

  “I’ll let you get some sleep. Good luck finding your pastel.”

  “And to you on finding your murderer. Your investigation sounds much more interesting than mine. Keep notes so you can give me all the details when we’re back in Rome.”

  When they’d said their good nights and he’d slipped the phone in his pocket, he realized that they had talked about her dinner, but she hadn’t asked about his. Perhaps that was for the best. He thanked the bartender and walked to the elevator.

  * * *

  The streetlights were still throwing a dim light over the pavement the next morning when Rick got off the elevator and trotted toward the door of the hotel. The clerk on duty glanced at him from behind the desk, apparently not surprised that a guest would be up and about before the dining room was open for breakfast. Rick had opened the window of his room to check the temperature and decided that a T-shirt and shorts would be all he’d need for his run. Some stretching would be required before heading out, and when he pushed open the door, he was surprised to see someone on the hotel steps doing just that.

  “Good morning, Padre.”

  “Well, well. I didn’t expect to see you up at this hour, Rick.” Zeke wore loose-fitting shorts and a gray tee with the letters USMC. “I don’t remember you as a runner.” He kept stretching as he talked, and Rick began his own routine as he answered.

  “I started a couple years after graduation when I noticed that I was putting on some weight. What about you?”

  “I can thank the Marine Corps. Runs were a part of our daily routine. What’s funny is that I remember how I looked forward to leaving runs behind when I became a civilian.” He grunted as he stretched one calf, then the other. “But when I got into the seminary, I realized that getting out for a run was not just important physically—like what you said about gaining weight—but also spiritually. Do you find that’s the case with you, Rick?”

  “I use the run to clear my mind for the day’s activities. And in the early morning, the streets of Rome are delightful. It is a different city around dawn, with different people.” He pulled his knee to his chest. “You must have run yesterday morning, Zeke. Do you want to take the same route?”

  “Yesterday I ran up into town; I thought today I would head down to the plain. You’ll be glad to know I checked a map last night on my computer.” He pointed toward the green farmland that spread out below them. The sun was starting to peek over the hill behind them, sending streaks of sunlight west. “We’ll go down to Santa Maria degli Angeli, then run parallel to the highway before turning to come back to Assisi.”

  “Lead the way, Captain.”

  They started down the street below the hotel, ran past the parking lot that was starting to come to life with early day-trippers, and quickly dropped to the flat farmland. It had rained during the night, and they avoided the few puddles on the road that the day’s heat would soon evaporate. The air was fresh with agricultural smells, enhanced by the moisture. Every field they passed had a different crop or animal, each more pungent than the last, but always the aromas of nature. It was very different from what Rick’s nostrils picked up during his morning runs in Rome.

  “I had an interesting conversation with Lillian Rael last night in the hotel bar,” said Rick. With the level road, they were barely breathing heavily, so conversation was possible. That would not be the case at the end of the run, especially the last few kilometers up Assisi’s foothill. “She’s quite a talker.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” Zeke answered, dropping back to run parallel with his friend. “Did she say anything of interest?”

  “Her opinion of each of the people in the group. Nothing but praise for Father Zeke, of course.”

  “She didn’t want to say anything about me that she’d have to unburden in confession.”

  “There was something she said about Leon Alameda that I found curious.” They came to a crossroad, turned left, and started toward the town of Santa Maria degli Angeli. A tractor passed them going in the opposite direction. “Since she wasn’t in the confessional, I can tell you.”

  “She didn’t say she thought Leon killed Biraldo, I hope.”

  “No, it was more oblique and nothing to do with the murder. Something about Leon’s scurrilous insinuations regarding her husband’s faith. Not something I would have expected, given the religious nature of your group.”

  Zeke did not answer for a full minute, and Rick could almost hear the gears grinding. “I think I know what she was referring to. It’s nothing I heard in confessional, so I have no constraints in that sense, though normally I wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. But as I said to you yesterday, I need someone to talk to about these people, so I’m glad to have your ear. Now that this terrible thing has happened, I appreciate having it even more.”

  The houses of the town were starting to take the place of open fields, and they passed the occasional resident working in the garden before the day’s heat made it uncomfortable. More trees and hedges lined the road, casting irregular shadows.

  “Lillian,” Zeke continued, “was probably referring to the accusation that her husband’s distant ancestors were conversos. Are you familiar with the term?”

  “It rings a bell, but I can’t place it.”

  With the dome of the basilica looming in the distance, they jogged left and started along a street parallel to the railroad line. The Assisi station appeared on their right, but with no trains expected any time soon, the square in front was empty. Their running shoes slapped the pavement as they passed through it and Zeke continued.

  “In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, in Spain, Jews were forced to convert to Christianity, faced with exile or worse if they did not. Many of the converts, called conversos, came to the Americas, including to New Spain, which became Mexico. The number of them who truly converted is impossible to know, but there were those who practiced their Judaism in secret while professing to be Christians. When the inquisition came to Mexico City, one target was these people. Many conversos, even though they were practicing Catholics by then, moved north into the wild country of New Mexico, out of the inquisition’s reach. Over the centuries they intermarried and any family recollection was mostly forgotten. But with the recent interest in genealogy, some New Mexican Catholics have discovered that dozens of generations earlier someone in their family tree may have been a converso.”

  “Fascinating, but why would it matter?”

  “Apparently it matters to Peter and Lillian Rael.”

  They were out of the town and back in the countryside. It was not difficult to keep their bearings since Assisi and the higher hills behind it could be seen off in the distance. With a left turn onto a narrow road they entered the third side of what was a rectangular route through the flatlands and hills of central Umbria. It stayed level for another ten minutes, by which time the two runners were concentrating on their pace and not conversing. Slowly the road lifted and turned. They passed through groves of olive trees, then vineyards, then more olives like the ones where Biraldo’s body was found. The hill on either side of the road became overgrown with bushes and small trees until they reached the wider paved street that ran along the lower wall of the city. There was the occasional car now, and they ran on the left, facing the oncoming traffic. Their route twisted left and right, passing two large parking areas, before the final climb up the hill to the hotel. They bounced in place in front of the entrance, letting their muscles return to normal.

  “We are celebrating mass at Santa Chiara church right after breakfast, Rick. We have reserved a side chapel. Can I count on you being there?”

  “With my old friend officiating, I wouldn’t miss it for all the pizza in Naples.”

  “See you at breakfast. After church we get in the van to see Santa Maria degli Angeli. Didn’t we go near there just now?”

  “We saw the dome in the distance.”

  Once inside they got their room keys and walked to the elevator where a man and woman were waiting. When the doors opened, Rick gestured for the two to go up without them. The woman looked at their sweaty T-shirts, smiled stiffly, and accepted. When Rick got to his room, he checked his phone, found a missed call from Inspector Berti, and decided to call her back before showering.

  “What’s up, Chiara?”

  “We’re interviewing that sculptor Fillipo this morning; I’ll pick you up at the hotel.”

  “I was going to mass at Santa Chiara with the group.”

  “You’ll have to settle for a less saintly Chiara. I’ll see you in forty-five minutes.” She hung up.

  Rick peeled off his T-shirt and walked to the window. Scattered clouds sprinkled shadows across the plain, changing the view from what he had seen that morning. It reminded him of the Sandia Peak seen from below in Albuquerque, never the same even one hour to the next. Sometimes the changes were dramatic, like when the aspens high on the crest turned bright orange in the fall. Other times it was more subtle: the western sun peeking from a cloud and playing light on the rocks, or wind doing the wave through the evergreens.

  Forty-five minutes later, after a shower and quick breakfast, Rick walked through the lobby and out to the street. Inspector Berti was standing next to the open rear door of the police car talking with a man with three days of stubble on his face, wearing jeans and a loose-fitting white shirt. In his hands were a pen and pad. Chiara looked annoyed. She spotted Rick and jerked a thumb toward the car door.

  “Is this someone helping with the investigation?” The man sized up Rick while scratching his long hair with the pen.

  “He’s an interpreter, for the Americans in the group. Listen, Signor Stefani, we have to go. I have your card; if there’s anything that comes up that I am able to reveal, I’ll call you. Let’s go, Riccardo.” The man staggered backward as she and Rick got into the back seat and the driver started the engine with an dramatic roar. Rick instinctively looked for a seat belt and found none. “I always have mixed feelings about reporters,” said Chiara, “since my father is a journalist. This guy is from ANSA, the news agency, and found out about the murder, but he seems especially sleazy. I remember my father always left the house impeccably dressed when we lived in Washington, saying he had to maintain the Italian image with the Americans. He still never goes out in Rome without a tie, except to the stadium.” She had been watching the buildings fly by through the back window. The car jolted to one side, and her shoulder slammed into Rick’s, giving him a whiff of her perfume. She made no attempt to return to her side of the seat. “Isn’t this more fun than going to church, Riccardo?”

  “I’ll tell you after we get there. Have you learned anything about this guy Fillipo?”

  She sighed and moved to her side of the back seat. “Clean record. Originally from Spello, just over the hill from here. He has a website that shows his work, which isn’t too bad, really. Mostly figurative sculpture.”

  “Garden gnomes and frogs using toadstools for umbrellas?”

  “I didn’t see any of those.”

  “And what would you like my contribution to be with this interview?”

  She thought for a moment, or at least pretended to think. “You know, Riccardo, since you played the good cop last night, why don’t we switch roles and you be bad cop? Do you think you’re capable of that?”

  The car slowed and pulled up to a metal gate set in a stone wall too tall to see over, even after they stepped to the street. Cut out of the metal were the words Atelier Fillipo, next to which hung a chain. Berti pulled the chain, and they heard a bell clang inside, followed by a high-pitched voice announcing that the person with the voice was on his way.

  “I’ve seen enough cop movies, Inspector, that I could probably do it. But when I’m working with the master of the genre, I’d rather just hang back and watch you do your bad cop magic.”

  He was expecting to see a sculpture garden displaying Fillipo’s work on pedestals and to be greeted by a man covered with marble dust. Rick’s only similar experience was in Volterra, where workers turned chunks of alabaster into works of art. They were covered with a film of white, giving them a ghostlike and sinister appearance. But the man who opened the gate now was dustless. Arnoldo Fillipo had brown smudges on his smock, and his hands were stained the same color. He was clean shaven, with long hair and a prominent chin that gave the impression—perhaps intentionally—of an artist from the late nineteenth century. Or was it a romantic poet of the same period? Either way, he looked the part. A beret would have completed the image, but that would have covered some of the flowing hair. He smiled and held up his hands.

  “Welcome to my workshop. I’m sorry I can’t shake hands. I was in the middle of something.” He looked from one face to the other. “Please come in. Did someone recommend my work to you?”

  “We’re not here as art buyers, Signor Fillipo. I am Inspector Berti and this is Signor Montoya. We are investigating the murder of Ettore Biraldo.”

  His smile remained. “Oh, yes, of course. I saw the news and should have been expecting you. Please come in.”

  They stepped through the gate and onto slate pieces set into the grass that surrounded the small stone house. The walkway forked immediately, one row of stones going to the door straight ahead, the other leading around the side. It was to the side that Fillipo led his two visitors. Rick guessed he lived in one part of the house and worked in the other. When they turned the corner, they saw a paved terrace covered by a canvas canopy that stretched from above the open double doors. Inside was the workshop, but on this morning, Fillipo was working outside. Under the canopy, on a tall table, was a lump of brown oily clay starting to take form.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a place to sit, Inspector; I work standing up. At least you are in the shade.” He took a rag from the table and used it without much effect on his clay-covered hands. “The weather is so pleasant today that I moved out here. The fresh air clears my mind.”

  “We don’t mind standing, Signor Fillipo,” said the policewoman. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “As long as you need, Inspector. As you likely already know, I had a business relationship of sorts with Ettore. I suppose you’d like me to explain it?”

  “Please.” She looked for something to lean on and found nothing.

  “A few years ago, we began to run into each other at art openings and other cultural events. He came to a show I had in Perugia, bringing with him a woman who acquired one of my works, and a rather large one at that. So I was grateful to him, and we struck up an acquaintance. I wouldn’t say it was a friendship; we were merely in the same social circle, and a wide circle at that. I heard from others that he had a somewhat unsavory reputation, but I assumed it had to do mainly with women. That woman who bought the piece? I found out later she was married to someone other than Ettore. He could be very personable, and not just with women. And also very persuasive, which was what got me into trouble.” He paused for a moment. “I should be offering you something to drink. A mineral water, perhaps?” Rick and Chiara politely declined, and he continued. “Shortly before he was to leave for America to take some kind of teaching position, he came to see me. He said he would be living near an arts center, Santa Fe, and wondered if I would be interested in selling some of my work there. It’s in the state of New Mexico.”

  “We’ve heard of it,” said Rick.

  Fillipo noticed Rick’s cowboy boots and a puzzled look ran quickly across his face before he returned to his story. “He said that he wanted to bring Italian art to America and already had some experience in art sales, though I eventually came to believe he knew nothing about the business. I should have checked around, but as I said, he could be very convincing. I didn’t commit to anything at that point, but I gave him some materials and even a small piece that I thought might be of interest to the American market. It was one of those.”

  He pointed to a shelf just inside the open doors.

  “May I?” asked Rick.

  “Certainly.”

  Rick stepped through the doors into the workshop, immediately catching the heavy smell of oil or some chemical he couldn’t identify. Some light pushed through a dirty skylight above the center of the room. On the brick floor under it was a relatively clean spot about the size of the table that had been moved outside. A brown-streaked sink took up one corner near a door leading into the house. The space under the sink was taken entirely by two white plastic buckets that held the clay supply. Above hung rows of tools with wooden handles and metal ends. Everything was stained the same brown color as the clay outside except for a few metal figures the sculptor pointed to. Rick walked to the shelf and took a metal bird in his hand. The hooked beak indicated it was a raptor, but its wings were wrapped tightly around itself, giving it a less menacing look. Rick brought it outside and placed it on a relatively clean corner of the table. “Is this the kind of thing you were going to sell in Santa Fe?”

  “Precisely, Signor Montoya. I did some research on New Mexico and found that a number of hawk species are found there.”

  “It’s very good,” said Rick. “I’ve been to Santa Fe, and I would guess it would sell well. What’s the metal?”

 

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