A Thousand Tombs (4 page)

“To try to sell me something.”

“That would be easy to prove wrong. They’d just have to do a little research into my background and they’d know I was lying.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

Vitelli’s face darkened for a moment before he recovered. “I see.”

“How about I was trying to track down a long-lost brother and the trail led to you, but you’re not the right Vitelli? I had a case sort of like that last summer.”

He nodded. “Vitelli is a common enough Italian name.”

By the time they’d finished fleshing out the story, a pair of uniforms were at the door. Gen didn’t know them and vice versa. That started out to be a good thing. But when the boys split them up and took their statements separately, her interview went south.

The Asian half of the team was staring at her now, and she could tell his goal was to make detective grade. She wished she could drop Hackett’s name, but she was on her own.

“So, Miss Delacourt,” Officer Lee said. “How was it you just happened to show up and find the victim?”

“I’m doing some leg work for a client,” Gen replied. “Looking for a brother, last name’s the same. I rang the bell, but no one answered. So I went around to the back to leave a note and my card where no one would see it. The mud room door was open. I heard a sound, or thought I did. I didn’t think it was kosher. It could be my job just keeps me on edge, you know? Anyway, I came in and saw Mr. Vitelli taped to the chair. I was walking toward him when a guy grabbed me from behind. Then he hit me. That’s it.”

“Looks like your PI skills could use a little polishing. You’ll be wearing the evidence for a while.”

“Yeah,” Gen said, a little sour at the crack. “My first black eye.”

“It’s a beaut. I need a picture for the file, by the way. Anything about this guy worth mentioning?”

“I never got a look at his face, but he had a tattoo on his wrist, a scorpion. Then he clocked me, and that was it.”

“Tell me again, what was it you were here for?”

Gen paused. “I’m on a case. Missing person.”

“And you’re sure this Vitelli isn’t the right guy.”

“He’s not. We figured that out while we were waiting for you to show.”

“So what’s your client’s name?”

“Look, Officer.” Gen kept her tone respectful but firm. “Do you suspect me of taping an elderly man to a chair, threatening him into silence, then blacking my own eye to muddy the trail?”

Lee offered a lazy smile. “I’ll take that as reluctance to answer the question.”

“I answered, sir. I’m searching for a missing sibling, but Mr. Vitelli isn’t him. This is a dead end. Vitelli will confirm that.”

“How long has your target been gone?”

“A very long time.” Gen stood and gave him back the same slow smile. “If you need more, you’ll have to take me in.”

“Sounds like you’ve been down this road before. But then if you’re really a private dick, you would be familiar.”

Gen winced at the moniker; she hated that. “I’m also an attorney.” Not that active, but still. It should be enough to earn her a little more respect.

“Oh yeah? You got a card?”

She pulled a business card from the side pocket of her purse and handed it over. “Will that do?”

Lee tapped his fingertips on his thigh, then shook his head and waved her away. “Yeah, you better go put a steak on that mouse. If I need to talk to you again, I know where to find you.”

“Thanks.”

She turned toward the kitchen to say good-bye to Vitelli. But before she’d taken five steps another knock sounded on the front door, and Officer Lee went to open it.

An attractive couple stood on the porch.

The man pulled some kind of ID from the inside chest pocket of his suit jacket, then pointed it in Lee’s general direction while he inspected the living room.

“We are Carabinieri,” he said. “We have been notified there may be ancient Italian artifacts in this house that were illegally obtained.” His look was grave. He took his job seriously.

“We are here to take them home.”

Officer Lee studied the stranger’s credentials, then stepped aside and let them pass. “I’ve heard of your outfit, Luciano,” he said. “You’re the Italian Art Squad, the antiquities cops.”

The man smiled. “That is correct.” His accent was light and barely noticeable, but he was heavy on looks, with high cheekbones and pale skin and thick, dark, wavy hair worn semi-long. His features could have been rendered in marble, they were that classic.

His eyes flicked to Gen, and he nodded.

“Whatever you are, you’ve got no authority here.” Lee snapped the wallet closed and handed it back.

His female counterpart had slipped past Lee and was roaming the room, arms crossed, casually checking out the furniture. She was a duplicate of Luciano, with porcelain skin and piles of nearly black hair that waved to her shoulders, longer than his and much sexier. But while Luciano was a statue come to life, the woman was Sophia Loren in
Boy on a Dolphin
, large chested and amply hipped but with a waist so small Gen herself could circle it with two hands.

Not that she’d want to.

The woman was in Gen’s peripheral vision when she spoke. “Italy and the United States have a bilateral agreement that guarantees Americans will not be allowed to import illegally excavated material.” Her formal words were delivered without force or accent. She either had a great voice coach, or she’d been in the country a long time.

“This is my partner, Carla Salvatore,” Luciano said. “A merchant in the neighborhood notified us of a transgression.”

So the pawnbroker had made good on his threat. She wondered if he’d also fingered Luca.

Lee’s shrug gave off a dismissive vibe. “I don’t see how that ties in here.”

Luciano slid a hand into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “We have a document that allows us entry, and permission from your superiors.”

Carla added the zinger. “We also have the blessing of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We are going to look around.”

For some reason the FBI mention zeroed Gen’s thoughts in on her ex-Secret Service boyfriend, Ryan Connolly. She’d had trouble dealing with her feelings after they broke up, but she hadn’t thought about Ryan much since the first time Mack Hackett kissed her. Overriding the drama, her mind followed the thread to a visual of Mack’s lips.

Earth to Gen. Shake it off, girl.

Lee studied the search warrant with the same intensity he’d given Luciano’s badge. “I’m going to have to make a call and check on this before you proceed,” he said. “You two sit tight.” He strode out toward his black and white, leaving the front door open behind him.

“Giovanni Luciano.”

Gen eyes swung back to find the Italian cop’s palm extended. “Genevieve Delacourt.” She shook his hand, then turned to Carla and nodded.

“You are French?” he asked.

“My father is. I’m just an ugly American.”

He gave her the once-over, but not in a misogynistic way. It was a cultural thing, she figured. When his gaze returned to her face he said, “Your eye looks dreadful. And the injury looks recent.”

Her hand went to her cheek just as Vitelli pushed through the door from the dining room, trailed by the second officer.

“Ah,” Vitelli said. Apparently he wasn’t at all surprised to see these new strangers in his house.

Carla came forward. “Vincenzo Vitelli?”

“Yes, I am Vitelli.”

“Carabinieri. We have a warrant to search this residence.”

Officer Lee chose that moment to walk back in. His shoulders were squared and he held a hand protectively over the closed leather holster of his weapon. “Headquarters cleared you to search,” he said.

Too many cop shows, Lee.

Vitelli nodded in apparent agreement, then stepped aside and swept out an arm. “Do as you wish.”

No one told her to scram, so Gen went along, staying behind Vitelli as he followed the woman and Luciano through the downstairs rooms. She noted a few family photos that showed Vitelli with a little girl and a woman. His wife and daughter, she assumed.

There was another of Vitelli and the woman alone, older, this one a studio shot. He loved his wife, she could tell. She wondered where the rest of his family was right now.

The partners took their time, first scanning the contents of the kitchen cupboards. There was an apron hanging on a hook beside the stove. She could see there were women’s clothes in one of the bedroom closets, although the wardrobe seemed scanty enough that Gen imagined the wife was gone. No one asked about the wife, no one mentioned a family.

They moved on through the pantry, then looked beneath the beds. They opened drawers and carefully rifled through clothing. Gen, the policemen, and Vitelli hung back and stayed out of their way.

Vitelli faltered when they reached the upstairs landing.

Luciano twisted the knob on the storage bedroom and pushed with the same difficulty Gen had when she’d tried to enter, but persisted until the door was open as wide as it would go. Carla was hot on his heels. The cops crowded around and eyeballed the chaos.

Carla went straight to the crate like a homing pigeon and swept away the linens, then pulled out a swath of newsprint. Whatever was in the box was packed in paper. She tugged at a final crumpled sheet and exposed the gleaming face of a marble statue, then held up the exquisite, two-foot-tall figure. It was a woman draped in stony folds, delicate and carved with such detail that she almost looked real.

Luciano crossed his arms and tapped a foot. He wasn’t facing them, but Gen got the impression he was pleased in some way, and his tone reinforced it. “Well. What do we have here?”

Carla ran a hand lightly across the face of a woman that could have been an ancestor. “Vitelli,” she said. “You are scum. You support the
tombaroli
.”

Vincenzo came forward into the room, then clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. His expression conveyed an odd combination of dread and satisfaction, as if the game had begun and he was now fully engaged, whether he liked it or not.

“You must be mistaken,” he said. “This piece came from a broker in Switzerland. It was legally excavated in Turkey.”

Luciano spun around and nearly spat the word, “Turkey?”

“
Tsk, tsk
.” Salvatore smiled sadly and shook her head. “You’ll have to do better than that.” She gestured at the open crate. “This gives us cause to examine the rest of the house even more carefully.”

Vitelli crossed his arms, mimicking Luciano. “You will find nothing.”

Gen leaned against the door jamb. She wasn’t a chess player but if she did play, she’d imagine this to be the point where the Italian cops said
checkmate
. There was more to find. Unless, of course, Vitelli’d had time to hide that coin in a place the Carabinieri would never find it.

“We will see,” Luciano said. “Meanwhile, our hunt will continue. I do not believe you, and we will document everything.”

Gen had heard enough. She quietly backed away, then descended the stairs, got her purse, and left.

The clock on the wall of her ground floor office said it was just after one in the afternoon, but the way Gen felt when she entered, it seemed more like one in the morning. She stood in the small French-inspired reception area and let it work its magic, and, as always, her mood improved just by being there. She rallied even more as she walked the short hall to the back and put her purse down on the cabinets lining the near wall.

Her desk was neat, as were the book-lined wooden shelves that anchored the corner behind it. But the couch was strewn with paperwork, and the sepia print of the Eiffel Tower covering her case board was a reminder that she needed to wrap the details of the job she’d just resolved and move on to the handful of inquiries that had recently come in.

The sleuthing business was good.

She used the land line to touch base with her service. Another potential customer left a message, a past client called with an update, and Oliver was looking for her. She checked her cell to find he’d also left a voice mail there, and wondered if he needed help moving boxes. The thought of him upstairs packing made her sad.

No use wallowing.

Livvie – Gen’s nickname for her close friend Oliver Weston – was about to close escrow on a second home in Carmel-by-the-sea. She’d miss him like heck, even though he was only planning to live part-time in the chic seaside village to the south.

Despite her selfish misgivings, she needed to be happy for him. She tidied the papers and made a phone call, then locked up again and left.

The entrance to their condominium complex was a few doors down. It was a converted warehouse, and the brick-walled lobby felt like a strong, comfortable old shoe. She thought about her life in this building.

She’d moved in with Ryan just over a year ago. He’d left after six months, reassigned to God knows where, and that had been the end of them. Just before that she’d bumped into an old college friend who also lived here, Bree Butler, and helped her solve a murder and met Mack and Livvie – Bree’s best friend – in the process.

You never knew where life would take you.

The elevator stopped at the sixth floor and she went down the hall and let herself into her condo. The sun was about to slide through the west-facing windows, and she didn’t resist. She got a bottle of water from the kitchen, then went back and pulled the drapes wide and plumped the sofa pillows and stretched out, waiting for the rays to hit her favorite spot. When they did, she almost sighed aloud and eased back into the cushions.

And nearly dozed off.

Gen’s eyes flew open when her cell pinged. She reached down and pulled it from her bag, still lying on the floor beside the couch where she’d dropped it. Mack’s number showed in the display.

“Hi,” she said.

“You okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“You gonna fill me in on what happened?”

“A uniform interviewed me and wasn’t thrilled that I didn’t share much. Then an Italian detective team showed up with a warrant and searched the house. Seems they’re accusing Vitelli of being an importer of illegally obtained antiquities. He has an upstairs room that looks like a depository for unused crapola, but stuck in the corner was an open crate that had an old statue in it. The Italian cops acted like they struck gold, then said they were going to really check out the whole place.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah, that’s when I left.”

“How is it they happened to show up while you were there?”

“Just lucky, I guess. Apparently the pawn shop owner kept his promise and called them yesterday after Luca left.”

“So he did believe what Luca said about an old man and the coin. How did he know it was Vitelli?”

“Luca said he walked by every day.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Something’s not right, Mack. The old guy was pretty tore up, pretty upset, although he was hiding it as much as he could. I mean, I understand the strain of getting tied up and all, but I think there’s more than what it looks like on the surface.”

“Are you sure
you’re
all right? You sound exhausted.”

“I’m wrung out, that’s all. How’s the kid?”

“Kid’s all right. Come out here, I miss you.”

“I don’t know if I have the energy, Mack.”

“All you need to do is get in the car. I’ll make dinner. Let’s rent a couple of movies. You can choose.”

“I’ll want to drink some wine tonight, and it wouldn’t be good to drive home that way.”

“Spend the night and you won’t have to.”

“Not with Luca there, it wouldn’t feel right.”

“You can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the couch. If you keep resisting, I’ll just chalk it up to suspicion you don’t want me to get a look at that eye.”

She’d forgotten all about it. Her hand came up to her face and she winced at her own touch. He must have heard her groan, because his voice went stern with his next words.

“You should have somebody look at it, Genny.”

“All right, you can take a look. I’ll be there about three, how’s that?”

“I didn’t mean me, wiseacre.”

“I’m fine, really. Nothing a bottle of Jack wouldn’t cure.”

“How about a bottle of red wine instead?”

“I suppose that will do. Two would be better, though.”

“Okay, we’ll see you then.”

“We? Already with the ‘we?’”

“I meant me and Stella and the cat.”

She laughed and said goodbye, then thumbed in Oliver’s number.

“Hey Liv. I’m home.”

“Where’ve you been? No, never mind. Can you come up?”

“I’m on my way.”

She hiked down to the elevator and rode up to the seventh floor. Livvie’s fuchsia front door was unlocked, and she went in.

“In the bedroom,” he called.

She found him in the midst of a sea of women’s clothing. From the looks of it, he was about to drown. Oliver had announced last summer that he was finished dressing like a woman, and was just going to be a gay man again. Giving away his feminine gear was the final step, and the semi-move south had been the catalyst to go through everything he owned.

“These are for you. Size twelves, they’ll all fit.” He didn’t look up, just indicated an enormous stack of garments. “I’ve saved some things for Bree, too, but she’s on assignment in Haiti, so I’m going to take them down the hall and leave them for her.”

“She’ll be sad she missed seeing you off.”

He tilted his head and pulled a face, still sorting through the piles. “Don’t be dramatic, Genny, that’s my thing. Mostly all Bree and I get to do anymore is talk on the phone, anyway. We’re used to having a long-distance friendship.”

Then he raised his eyes to hers. “Oh. My. God. Genevieve Delacourt. You better tell me you got that jumping on a bed.”

“Okay. I got this roughhousing with Mack.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

She threw up her hands and gave him a look that was halfway between
what do you want from me
and
let it go
.

Oliver came over and took her by the hand, then led her into his bathroom. “Take a good look,” he said.

Gen was taken aback when she caught sight of her face. The area around her left eye was swollen like an eggplant and about the same color. Burst blood vessels were slowly coloring the area red-purple in a circular pattern.

Yeah, it was a beaut.

“Look at yourself, Genny. A walking oxymoron. Great hair, good bod, nice outfit, black eye. What’s wrong with this picture?”

She got over her shock and grinned in the mirror, and he gave her an eye roll in reply.

“Have you had any ice on that?”

“Yeah, I iced it right away.”

“Are you nuts? Once isn’t enough. Every twenty minutes, every hour you’re awake, for the first twenty-four hours.”

Oliver had been a jock in high school – before he came out – so she trusted him to know about the care and treatment of this kind of thing. He cleared a space on the bed and made her lie down, then left and came back with a package of frozen asparagus wrapped in a dish towel.

“Asparagus?” She started to laugh.

“You wouldn’t expect me to have something plebian like corn or peas, would you?” He put the towel in her hand and she covered her cheek and eye.

“Owww.”

“So how’d you get it?”

“The usual way.”

“Where was your stun gun?”

“In my pocket.”

“Where was your pepper spray?”

“In my purse, in the bushes.”

“You need to take a class.”

“How to have eyes in the back of your head?”

“No, how to deflect the blows of an attacker.”

“Oh right, that class. It’s a little late.”

“And apparently you think it will never happen again.”

Livvie went back to sorting, and Gen changed the subject.

“How are plans for the shop coming?”

Part of Oliver’s partial relocation to Carmel involved opening a resale shop he planned to stock with high-end stuff purchased from thrift and consignment stores. A percentage of the proceeds would be donated to charity. His new friend, Justin Allenby, would manage the store and use half the floor space to display the work of local artists.

Liv perked up at that. “Good. Sophie’s pickers are going to work for me now. That will be a huge help.”

Sophie Keene was a former client who ran a nonprofit that decorated rooms for indigent people just out of rehab. She was on the East Coast now, moving through the system on a twenty-year-old manslaughter charge.

But that was another story.

“I’m going to miss you a lot, Liv.”

He stopped sorting and breathed in audibly, then let it out. “No you won’t. I’ll be here every couple of weeks to pick up merchandise and look for more. It won’t be all that different, for heaven’s sake. Not really. You’ll see. You’ll be just as sick of me as always.”

Gen sighed beneath her ice pack.

“If the shop doesn’t work out after a year or so,” he continued, “I’ll move back here full time and sell the Carmel house. Meanwhile, you’ve seen the cottage I bought in the village. You know you love it. I have a guest room there with your name carved over the door. Besides, you have Mack now. There won’t be time for anybody to miss anyone.”

“I suppose,” she said. “But Mack won’t take me shopping and listen to me while I whine.”

“Don’t make me cry.” His tone was stern, but Gen knew he didn’t mean it. “I’ll listen to you whine on the phone,” he said.

“I guess I have to let things change, don’t I?”

“What you need to do is trust, Genny. Change can be a bitch, but moving on is good.”