In the police reports, which a fellow officer had shown him, neighbors claimed not to have seen or heard anything suspicious before the body was found. They didn’t even know Signorina Wood was moving out.
A quick telephone call to the Uffizi Gallery revealed that her employer had no idea of her whereabouts; she was on holiday like the rest of the restoration team until September.
Batelli stood in her empty bedroom, staring at what appeared to be part of a cane that was embedded in the wall.
There was something ominous about the object. Batelli had no idea what it represented, if anything.
The victim they’d found downstairs wasn’t a relative of Signorina Wood, and he wasn’t the lover Batelli had observed from a distance entering and leaving the building.
Batelli trusted his gut. Right now, his gut was telling him Raven was somehow connected to the corpse. The homicide investigators were waiting on the American consulate to provide them with details about the corpse’s identity.
Batelli hadn’t given up on solving the mysterious theft of Botticelli illustrations from the Uffizi, despite the fact that their owner, Professor Gabriel Emerson, had given up hope of recovering the items and returned to America.
And Batelli hadn’t given up his active pursuit of the mysterious and untraceable William York, who had been named by Professor Emerson as a suspicious person connected to the gallery.
Batelli’s investigation had quietly yielded the record of a transfer of funds from a bank in Geneva to the Uffizi, a donation attributed to William York. Although Dottor Vitali, the director of the Uffizi, seemed to have no memory of William York or his extravagant donation, Batelli believed he had gifted the money for the purpose of securing an invitation to the private reception accompanying the unveiling of the Botticelli illustrations. Professor Emerson had corroborated the donation and York’s presence at the unveiling.
Of course, the bank in Geneva refused to offer any information about the funds, apart from confirming that they had transferred the money from one of their institutional accounts at the request of a client. They refused to identify the client or to confirm whether he, she, or they held Italian citizenship.
Batelli thought it was interesting how all roads led to Switzerland. The illustrations had been sold to the Emersons by a Swiss family in Cologny, a suburb of Geneva. The car Raven Wood’s lover drove around in was registered to a Swiss diplomat. A Swiss bank had transferred thousands of Euros to the Uffizi just prior to the opening of the Botticelli exhibition.
More puzzling still, there were no records of a Swiss resident or national named William York.
But the police had possession of his Mercedes, or what appeared to be the Mercedes Batelli had observed Raven Wood and her lover using. The car had been abandoned a short walk from her apartment. Earlier that day, the forensic specialist had combed it for evidence.#p#分页标题#e#
Batelli’s cell phone chirped with an incoming text.
He was surprised to be receiving a message, as it was long past midnight.
The text was from an unknown number.
Find the underground club on Via Ghibellina.
Batelli was intrigued.
He shoved his phone in his pocket and quickly searched the rest of the flat. When he was finished, he turned out the lights and painstakingly repaired the tape sealing the apartment.
Perhaps the text was a joke. Perhaps it would lead nowhere. But he descended the stairs with the intention of finding the underground club.
Chapter Sixteen
“WE ARE DEPARTING FOR ROME. Assemble the men, and don’t bother trying to find Stefan. The traitor has been dealt with.” The Prince addressed Borek, who bowed and marched away, taking the other Florentine soldier with him.
The remaining Umbrian soldiers departed also, following the instructions of the princess’s lieutenant.
William exhaled his relief.
He opened the door to the chamber and hastily closed it behind him. Raven’s scent assaulted him.
“William?” She sat up sleepily on the couch, rubbing her eyes. “What’s happening?”
“We need to reach Rome before sunrise.” He surveyed the dimly lit room. “Where is your sister?”
“In the shower.” Raven pointed to the closed bathroom door.
“Can you be ready to leave in a few minutes?”
“I think so.” She went to him and buried her face in his chest. “You were gone a long time.”
He tensed in her arms. “Protocol is never swift.”
She lifted her face. Without words, she pressed her lips to his.
He reciprocated, albeit briefly. “We don’t have much time. I am sorry.”
“I need you.”
If William felt surprise at her declaration, he hid it. His gaze flickered to the bathroom door. “What about your sister?”