The Case of the Missing Botticelli, page 2
Hadley wrote down the phone number, and her jaw went slack when she heard and inscribed the rest of the message. “Tell him it’s about a missing Botticelli. It’s urgent.”
A shot of adrenalin coursed through Hadley’s veins. Sandro Botticelli. Her favorite artist in the whole world. Creator of the Italian masterpiece, Nascita di Venere, The Birth of Venus, the ancient Goddess of Love, dated circa 1484. She wasn’t aware a Botticelli painting was missing.
“Is there any additional information you can give me? The name of the painting? The provenance? Capito. I understand the need for utmost secrecy. We can set up a meeting, and I’ll make sure Signore Domingo will be there.”
She jotted down some more notes. “Piazzale Michelangelo? At sunset?”
Hadley tilted her head and chewed on her bottom lip. That was a strange destination for a business meeting. Although it offered the most scenic view of the city, perched atop a hillside overlooking Florence, meeting at a park after dark was reminiscent of a murder scene in a film noir. Where the heroine, Hadley, would later be found, dead, her virtue compromised and her throat slit. She would have to get Luca to drive her up on his motorcycle and stay out of sight while she conducted her business.
Was the female caller from a museum? A high-end gallery? An auction house? Was she an art or antiquities dealer, or a wealthy private individual, or was she representing a government agency? And, if so, which government? Enemy or ally? She would soon find out.
Was it advisable to go to a park at night? Definitely not. The woman could be representing a client from the criminal art world. That’s why Luca had to accompany her. She intended to sweet-talk him into helping her. After all, he was in line to become a detective. He was used to investigations. He’d welcome the practice. And above all, Luca was a protector. It was inbred in him.
“You’re staying at L’Hotel Bernini Palace?”
That explained it. The five-star hotel was near the Piazzale. So, a high-end client. Just what the firm needed.
“He’ll be there,” Hadley assured.
Hadley held the message in her quivering hand, pursed her lips, then stashed it in her new Furla handbag. What if the message had somehow been unintentionally misplaced without Signore Domingo seeing it, and she contrived to meet the contact alone? Once her boss saw she could solve a case on her own, he would finally bring her into the fold and teach her secrets of the art theft underworld she was so desperate to learn.
She already knew the basics. On her first day at the office, he’d proudly given her a copy of his book, “Massimo Domingo’s Pocket Guide to Stolen Art Recovery—Volume I.” There hadn’t been a Volume II. Signore Domingo hadn’t gotten around to writing it. But she was sure there was a lot more information and wisdom he had to impart. She was ready to soak up his knowledge like a sponge, but so far all he’d told her was, “It’s all in the book.”
The phone rang again.
“Massimo Domingo Art Detective Agency.”
She listened to a tourist drone on about how she wanted to bring back a memento from her romantic trip to Florence, expressing her interest in buying a painting to fulfill that desire.
“No, we’re not an art gallery. We don’t sell paintings, we retrieve them.”
Hadley sighed. She recommended the Giuseppe Zocchi Gallery on The Piazza della Signoria. Too bad she wasn’t working on commission.
The phone rang again.
“Massimo Domingo Art Detective Agency. No, this is not a museum. We are an art detective agency. We locate lost paintings and return them to their legal or rightful owners. But have you been to the Uffizi Gallery?” She might as well be working for a tourist agency.
Hadley slipped off her kitten-heeled shoes and massaged her aching feet. Where was Gerda? She should have been back from her doctor’s appointment by now.
Looking around the well-appointed office, decorated with the loving touch of Signora Domingo, Massimo’s wife, her eyes wandered to the Signore’s favorite print. It was labeled, “Arte per amore dell’arte,” or Art for Art’s Sake. A similar poster was displayed in the office window. Signore Massimo Domingo was a big player in the art world, or at least he had been. According to Gerda, his longtime and long-suffering German secretary, in his heyday he was well respected and prominent. But now she referred to him behind his back as a has-been, an also-ran.
“The Poor Rachmanus.”
Gerda labeled almost everyone in need of mercy, compassion, or pity a “Poor Rachmanus.”
Earlier that morning, Hadley had asked Gerda how Signore Domingo was able to afford the rent and pay their salaries with no visible work coming in.
“Family money, specifically his wife’s family money, and he does it because he loves art.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Gerda apologized, sailing into the office. “There were so many people in the waiting room.” Gerda was short in stature, with curly, dark hair, a pillowy bosom, and a pleasant face that belied her caustic wit. She ran the office like a drill sergeant. She had organizational skills General George S. Patton could only dream of.
“Is everything okay?” Hadley asked.
“Just routine. Did anything happen while I was gone?” Then she let out a belly laugh. “Of course it didn’t. Nothing important ever happens around here.”
“Just the usual wrong numbers.” Hadley flushed, remembering the cryptic message burning a hole in her handbag. She didn’t tell Gerda about the mysterious phone call and the missing Botticelli painting. She was determined to solve this case on her own to prove her value, to bring in an income stream for the firm, perhaps enhance its reputation. This was her big chance. She would tell the potential client that Signore Domingo was tied up (which, depending on his sexual proclivities, could possibly be true), and that as his most trusted assistant, she would be handling the case. She would present the woman with a fait accompli.
“When do you think the boss will get back from La Strada’s?” Hadley asked.
Gerda howled with laughter. “How long has he been gone?”
“Two hours.”
“Well, don’t expect him back today. It’s Friday. He is quite infatuated with his latest conquest. Simonetta is her name, I think. I imagine they’ll be occupied for the rest of the afternoon.”
The buzzer rang, and in walked a disheveled middle-aged man, with a hunchback, in a wrinkled trench coat. He wandered over to Gerda’s desk. “Do you sell art supplies here?”
Gerda rolled her eyes. “No, this isn’t an art supply shop.”
“But the poster in the window says, ‘Art For Art’s Sake.’ ”
Gerda stashed her purse in her desk drawer and sighed loudly.
“That’s just a phrase,” she explained patiently. “It means that art needs no justification except for the love and appreciation of art for its own sake.”
Hadley took pity on the man, probably a starving artist, and recommended Castle Art’s on Via Federico Grifeo.
“Sorry to have bothered you.” Dejected, he walked slowly out the door.
“The Poor Rachmanus,” Gerda said, shaking her head.
Hadley walked by Gerda’s desk and through her boss’s office door to hang his laundry in the wardrobe. Normally his wife handled the laundry, but Hadley took charge when there were lipstick stains on the collars of his shirts. While there, she opened Massimo’s desk drawer, slipping a black address book with the Signore’s Italian, European, and international contacts into her skirt pocket. Just another dive into a clandestine cesspool. In the drawer, she also found an olive-oil-stained copy of “Massimo Domingo’s Pocket Guide to Stolen Art Recovery.” She carried out the copy along with a large scrapbook that took pride of place on the Signore’s cluttered desk.
“Do you think the Signore would mind if I borrow his copy of the Pocket Guide? My copy is at home.”
Gerda laughed. “I have a thousand more copies gathering dust in a storage unit.”
“I thought he said it was a bestseller.”
“Maybe in some obscure genre like Clichéd Stolen Art Recovery Pocket Guides.”
“Well, then, how—”
“His wife bought up all the copies. He doesn’t know. The Poor Rachmanus.”
“Do you think Signore Domingo would mind if I looked through his scrapbook?”
“I don’t see why not,” Gerda said. “He’s very proud of everything he’s accomplished. He spent his life tracking down the world’s great stolen masterpieces, from Donatellos to daVincis, Rembrandt van Rijns to Vincent Van Goghs.”
Hadley spread the album out on her desk and began looking through the press clippings. The book documented page after page of Signore Domingo’s early successes, his glory days when the denizens of the art world whispered its secrets to the “confessor” about dozens of stolen works of art, tip-offs that enabled him to track down multi-million-dollar masterpieces. The Signore, twenty kilos lighter in his pictures, looked dapper, self-assured, and happy.
She couldn’t imagine anyone confessing or whispering to Signore Domingo today or the Signore chasing down anyone but his current and erstwhile mistresses around his bedroom. The Signore had even been involved with trying to track the thieves from the 1990 Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum case in Boston, history’s biggest art heist. To date, no one had found those pieces. Now, according to Gerda, he was the Inspector Clouseau of the art world. He made his living mostly from his spotty art consultancy practice.
“Why do you stay with him?” Hadley wondered.
“Because, back in the day, he was really something.” The way she said it, with a gleam in her eye, suggested there might have once been something between them or at least that she had harbored feelings for her boss. But they acted like colleagues in the office, nothing more.
“Gerda?” Hadley inquired, choked with doubt and guilt. “If we did have a client who needed to get in touch with the Signore, should I disturb him?”
“Not unless you want to get fired. Signora Domingo is out of town, so he would have taken his mistress home, and they’ll be indisposed the entire weekend.”
“What if it was an important case?”
“Doubtful. Just handle it yourself, then. You’ll never get anywhere around here if you don’t take the initiative.”
Just then, a short, trim, stylish, middle-aged blonde strolled into the shop.
“Gerda, Hadley, how are you today?”
Gerda’s eyes widened.
“S-Signora D-Domingo, this is unexpected,” Gerda stuttered. “I thought you were visiting relatives in Rome, that you wouldn’t be back until Sunday.”
“I came home early to surprise my husband. I thought we’d take a stroll down the Arno River like we used to. Is Massimo in his office?”
Gerda shot Hadley a panicked look. Sensing Gerda’s distress, Hadley weighed in.
“The Signore had an important case that just came up at the last minute. He was called away to the um, Art Squad, I believe.”
The Signora smiled. “How wonderful. I’ve been worried about Massimo lately. He seems despondent, worried about something. I thought it might be a midlife crisis, but I’m glad things are going well at the office.”
“I, um, have just picked up some of his laundry, if you want to take that home,” Hadley managed. “I don’t believe he’s coming back into the office today.” She walked into her boss’s office and carried the laundered shirts back to the Signora.
“Thank you, Hadley. You shouldn’t be doing this. That’s my job. You should be working on more important things.”
Ya think?
“It was no trouble,” Hadley said. “Signore Domingo has been very busy these days. I’m glad to help out.”
“And how’s that handsome young man of yours?” Signora Domingo asked, smiling.
“Luca is fine, thank you.”
“He works for the Carabinieri, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful. Remember these times. Being young and in love.” The Signora stared off into the distance with a dreamy, faraway look. “I see you’re looking at my husband’s scrapbook. My, he was a good-looking man, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Hadley agreed. Massimo had been handsome in the day, but his chiseled good looks and lanky frame were now more fleshy than flattering. Obviously, the Signora was in the “more of him to love” camp.
“Well, I’d best be getting home to make dinner before Massimo returns. It was wonderful to see you both.”
As soon as the Signora left the office, Gerda, Massimo’s apologist, swore, “Scheisse!”
“Do you think she suspects anything?” Hadley asked, crinkling her nose.
“No, the Poor Rachmanus. She doesn’t have a devious bone in her body. She’s a saint. She has to be to put up with our boss.”
Gerda dialed Massimo’s number and pursed her lips. “Massimo,” she chided under her breath. “Pick up your phone.”
“He doesn’t answer his home phone,” Gerda reported. “I’ll leave a message on his cell.”
“Do you think he’s with his mistress?”
“Of course he is. It’s Friday, isn’t it? If that poor woman comes home and finds him in bed with Simonetta, there will be hell to pay—for all of us.
“Massimo. Your wife just stopped in to surprise you at the office. She’s on her way home, now!”
Gerda shook her head. “I don’t know how that woman puts up with him.”
“She seems very sweet.”
“And naïve. But she’s in love with him. What can I say? I just hope he gets the message in time.”
Hadley sat in the outer office, studying the scrapbook.
Obviously, this mystery client had dealt with the Signore before if she was asking for him personally. Hadley was sure if she perused the old newspaper stories close enough and familiarized herself with the Signore’s past cases, she might come up with some clues or leads about the missing Botticelli.
Signore Domingo never admitted to making mistakes. He liked to pontificate, his lectures punctuated by grand hand gestures. Most of his proclamations began, “Did I ever tell you about the time when…” And grousing about how many years it typically took him to crack a case. Or lamenting the ones that got away. She was going to find this missing artwork in record time and salvage the agency’s fading reputation.
As a private art crime detective, Massimo Domingo was famous for recovering not only valuable paintings but jewelry, even manuscripts. Often he worked with police. But he was usually the investigator of last resort when police had long given up the search for evidence.
Sometimes he received tips of thefts about to take place at a museum and he was able to prevent them before the first glass window or door was smashed or sledgehammer wielded. He’d chased leads and followed trails all over the world, and sometimes found priceless paintings hidden in plain sight, hanging in art galleries or on kitchen walls of seaside villas. Or in drug raids or brazenly stolen in art heists from exhibition walls in broad daylight. Often, he’d find them damaged or burned.
But sometimes, they were miraculously recovered and returned either to a museum or the rightful owners from whom they’d been confiscated. That is, if the rightful owners or their heirs were still alive. Many had perished in the Holocaust. Some pieces of art were returned anonymously by thieves who never revealed the location where their stolen paintings had been stashed.
Retrievals were few and far between. The Signore was rarely paid for his expertise, his work was done at his own, or his wife’s, expense. He did it for the thrill of chasing leads or chasing headlines—and, yes, for the love of art.
Hadley knew from Signore Domingo that fake art was the third largest criminal activity on the planet and that ten percent of paintings on display in museums were fraudulent. Less than ten percent of those stolen pieces were returned. And it could sometimes take decades before stolen paintings resurfaced.
Sometimes paintings were given to criminals as partial payment for a drug deal. And they could later use those paintings in negotiating immunity or for safekeeping in the event they needed it in the future as collateral or for bargaining, even though a work of art in the criminal underworld was worth only ten percent of its value in the legitimate art market.
She knew that thieves stole paintings primarily for money but then found they couldn’t easily sell them on the open market so made them available to other criminals, often for a fraction of their value.
Hadley turned to Gerda and, in the most nonchalant voice she could muster, asked, “Would you mind if I took off next week? Luca and I have plans to ride his motorcycle around the countryside.”
“Fine. I’ll handle the kooks and the crazies until you get back.”
Chapter Two
Luca dropped Hadley off at the edge of the square and drove away on his motorcycle. She strolled toward the designated meeting place, bathed in the lovely evening light, the same light the masters of the Renaissance painted by centuries ago. It was a little cloudy. It had rained that afternoon. There was no one else in sight but a slim, well-dressed woman in her mid-thirties, sporting a dirty-blonde ponytail and a nervous look in her blue eyes.
Hadley was excited about the limitless directions this investigation could take and more than a little anxious about the possible dangers involved, but she was counting on Luca to be there every step of the way. It was the most thrilling thing that had happened to her since she was crowned Little Miss Cheesemonger in third grade in Tallahassee, Florida, in a competition sponsored by Riley’s Gourmet Shoppe and Creamery. That was her claim to fame. Her parents still kept the newspaper clipping from the Tallahassee Observer.
“Where is Signore Domingo?” the woman demanded, stepping toward her.
“He’s been taken ill suddenly. He sent me in his place. I’m his assistant.”
“Are you the woman I spoke to this morning on the phone?”
“Yes,” said Hadley, projecting an air of confidence she did not feel.
“I told you this is a very sensitive matter. I will only speak to Signore Domingo.”
“Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation.”
“I am his right hand. He tells me everything. We work closely together.”
A shot of adrenalin coursed through Hadley’s veins. Sandro Botticelli. Her favorite artist in the whole world. Creator of the Italian masterpiece, Nascita di Venere, The Birth of Venus, the ancient Goddess of Love, dated circa 1484. She wasn’t aware a Botticelli painting was missing.
“Is there any additional information you can give me? The name of the painting? The provenance? Capito. I understand the need for utmost secrecy. We can set up a meeting, and I’ll make sure Signore Domingo will be there.”
She jotted down some more notes. “Piazzale Michelangelo? At sunset?”
Hadley tilted her head and chewed on her bottom lip. That was a strange destination for a business meeting. Although it offered the most scenic view of the city, perched atop a hillside overlooking Florence, meeting at a park after dark was reminiscent of a murder scene in a film noir. Where the heroine, Hadley, would later be found, dead, her virtue compromised and her throat slit. She would have to get Luca to drive her up on his motorcycle and stay out of sight while she conducted her business.
Was the female caller from a museum? A high-end gallery? An auction house? Was she an art or antiquities dealer, or a wealthy private individual, or was she representing a government agency? And, if so, which government? Enemy or ally? She would soon find out.
Was it advisable to go to a park at night? Definitely not. The woman could be representing a client from the criminal art world. That’s why Luca had to accompany her. She intended to sweet-talk him into helping her. After all, he was in line to become a detective. He was used to investigations. He’d welcome the practice. And above all, Luca was a protector. It was inbred in him.
“You’re staying at L’Hotel Bernini Palace?”
That explained it. The five-star hotel was near the Piazzale. So, a high-end client. Just what the firm needed.
“He’ll be there,” Hadley assured.
Hadley held the message in her quivering hand, pursed her lips, then stashed it in her new Furla handbag. What if the message had somehow been unintentionally misplaced without Signore Domingo seeing it, and she contrived to meet the contact alone? Once her boss saw she could solve a case on her own, he would finally bring her into the fold and teach her secrets of the art theft underworld she was so desperate to learn.
She already knew the basics. On her first day at the office, he’d proudly given her a copy of his book, “Massimo Domingo’s Pocket Guide to Stolen Art Recovery—Volume I.” There hadn’t been a Volume II. Signore Domingo hadn’t gotten around to writing it. But she was sure there was a lot more information and wisdom he had to impart. She was ready to soak up his knowledge like a sponge, but so far all he’d told her was, “It’s all in the book.”
The phone rang again.
“Massimo Domingo Art Detective Agency.”
She listened to a tourist drone on about how she wanted to bring back a memento from her romantic trip to Florence, expressing her interest in buying a painting to fulfill that desire.
“No, we’re not an art gallery. We don’t sell paintings, we retrieve them.”
Hadley sighed. She recommended the Giuseppe Zocchi Gallery on The Piazza della Signoria. Too bad she wasn’t working on commission.
The phone rang again.
“Massimo Domingo Art Detective Agency. No, this is not a museum. We are an art detective agency. We locate lost paintings and return them to their legal or rightful owners. But have you been to the Uffizi Gallery?” She might as well be working for a tourist agency.
Hadley slipped off her kitten-heeled shoes and massaged her aching feet. Where was Gerda? She should have been back from her doctor’s appointment by now.
Looking around the well-appointed office, decorated with the loving touch of Signora Domingo, Massimo’s wife, her eyes wandered to the Signore’s favorite print. It was labeled, “Arte per amore dell’arte,” or Art for Art’s Sake. A similar poster was displayed in the office window. Signore Massimo Domingo was a big player in the art world, or at least he had been. According to Gerda, his longtime and long-suffering German secretary, in his heyday he was well respected and prominent. But now she referred to him behind his back as a has-been, an also-ran.
“The Poor Rachmanus.”
Gerda labeled almost everyone in need of mercy, compassion, or pity a “Poor Rachmanus.”
Earlier that morning, Hadley had asked Gerda how Signore Domingo was able to afford the rent and pay their salaries with no visible work coming in.
“Family money, specifically his wife’s family money, and he does it because he loves art.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Gerda apologized, sailing into the office. “There were so many people in the waiting room.” Gerda was short in stature, with curly, dark hair, a pillowy bosom, and a pleasant face that belied her caustic wit. She ran the office like a drill sergeant. She had organizational skills General George S. Patton could only dream of.
“Is everything okay?” Hadley asked.
“Just routine. Did anything happen while I was gone?” Then she let out a belly laugh. “Of course it didn’t. Nothing important ever happens around here.”
“Just the usual wrong numbers.” Hadley flushed, remembering the cryptic message burning a hole in her handbag. She didn’t tell Gerda about the mysterious phone call and the missing Botticelli painting. She was determined to solve this case on her own to prove her value, to bring in an income stream for the firm, perhaps enhance its reputation. This was her big chance. She would tell the potential client that Signore Domingo was tied up (which, depending on his sexual proclivities, could possibly be true), and that as his most trusted assistant, she would be handling the case. She would present the woman with a fait accompli.
“When do you think the boss will get back from La Strada’s?” Hadley asked.
Gerda howled with laughter. “How long has he been gone?”
“Two hours.”
“Well, don’t expect him back today. It’s Friday. He is quite infatuated with his latest conquest. Simonetta is her name, I think. I imagine they’ll be occupied for the rest of the afternoon.”
The buzzer rang, and in walked a disheveled middle-aged man, with a hunchback, in a wrinkled trench coat. He wandered over to Gerda’s desk. “Do you sell art supplies here?”
Gerda rolled her eyes. “No, this isn’t an art supply shop.”
“But the poster in the window says, ‘Art For Art’s Sake.’ ”
Gerda stashed her purse in her desk drawer and sighed loudly.
“That’s just a phrase,” she explained patiently. “It means that art needs no justification except for the love and appreciation of art for its own sake.”
Hadley took pity on the man, probably a starving artist, and recommended Castle Art’s on Via Federico Grifeo.
“Sorry to have bothered you.” Dejected, he walked slowly out the door.
“The Poor Rachmanus,” Gerda said, shaking her head.
Hadley walked by Gerda’s desk and through her boss’s office door to hang his laundry in the wardrobe. Normally his wife handled the laundry, but Hadley took charge when there were lipstick stains on the collars of his shirts. While there, she opened Massimo’s desk drawer, slipping a black address book with the Signore’s Italian, European, and international contacts into her skirt pocket. Just another dive into a clandestine cesspool. In the drawer, she also found an olive-oil-stained copy of “Massimo Domingo’s Pocket Guide to Stolen Art Recovery.” She carried out the copy along with a large scrapbook that took pride of place on the Signore’s cluttered desk.
“Do you think the Signore would mind if I borrow his copy of the Pocket Guide? My copy is at home.”
Gerda laughed. “I have a thousand more copies gathering dust in a storage unit.”
“I thought he said it was a bestseller.”
“Maybe in some obscure genre like Clichéd Stolen Art Recovery Pocket Guides.”
“Well, then, how—”
“His wife bought up all the copies. He doesn’t know. The Poor Rachmanus.”
“Do you think Signore Domingo would mind if I looked through his scrapbook?”
“I don’t see why not,” Gerda said. “He’s very proud of everything he’s accomplished. He spent his life tracking down the world’s great stolen masterpieces, from Donatellos to daVincis, Rembrandt van Rijns to Vincent Van Goghs.”
Hadley spread the album out on her desk and began looking through the press clippings. The book documented page after page of Signore Domingo’s early successes, his glory days when the denizens of the art world whispered its secrets to the “confessor” about dozens of stolen works of art, tip-offs that enabled him to track down multi-million-dollar masterpieces. The Signore, twenty kilos lighter in his pictures, looked dapper, self-assured, and happy.
She couldn’t imagine anyone confessing or whispering to Signore Domingo today or the Signore chasing down anyone but his current and erstwhile mistresses around his bedroom. The Signore had even been involved with trying to track the thieves from the 1990 Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum case in Boston, history’s biggest art heist. To date, no one had found those pieces. Now, according to Gerda, he was the Inspector Clouseau of the art world. He made his living mostly from his spotty art consultancy practice.
“Why do you stay with him?” Hadley wondered.
“Because, back in the day, he was really something.” The way she said it, with a gleam in her eye, suggested there might have once been something between them or at least that she had harbored feelings for her boss. But they acted like colleagues in the office, nothing more.
“Gerda?” Hadley inquired, choked with doubt and guilt. “If we did have a client who needed to get in touch with the Signore, should I disturb him?”
“Not unless you want to get fired. Signora Domingo is out of town, so he would have taken his mistress home, and they’ll be indisposed the entire weekend.”
“What if it was an important case?”
“Doubtful. Just handle it yourself, then. You’ll never get anywhere around here if you don’t take the initiative.”
Just then, a short, trim, stylish, middle-aged blonde strolled into the shop.
“Gerda, Hadley, how are you today?”
Gerda’s eyes widened.
“S-Signora D-Domingo, this is unexpected,” Gerda stuttered. “I thought you were visiting relatives in Rome, that you wouldn’t be back until Sunday.”
“I came home early to surprise my husband. I thought we’d take a stroll down the Arno River like we used to. Is Massimo in his office?”
Gerda shot Hadley a panicked look. Sensing Gerda’s distress, Hadley weighed in.
“The Signore had an important case that just came up at the last minute. He was called away to the um, Art Squad, I believe.”
The Signora smiled. “How wonderful. I’ve been worried about Massimo lately. He seems despondent, worried about something. I thought it might be a midlife crisis, but I’m glad things are going well at the office.”
“I, um, have just picked up some of his laundry, if you want to take that home,” Hadley managed. “I don’t believe he’s coming back into the office today.” She walked into her boss’s office and carried the laundered shirts back to the Signora.
“Thank you, Hadley. You shouldn’t be doing this. That’s my job. You should be working on more important things.”
Ya think?
“It was no trouble,” Hadley said. “Signore Domingo has been very busy these days. I’m glad to help out.”
“And how’s that handsome young man of yours?” Signora Domingo asked, smiling.
“Luca is fine, thank you.”
“He works for the Carabinieri, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful. Remember these times. Being young and in love.” The Signora stared off into the distance with a dreamy, faraway look. “I see you’re looking at my husband’s scrapbook. My, he was a good-looking man, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Hadley agreed. Massimo had been handsome in the day, but his chiseled good looks and lanky frame were now more fleshy than flattering. Obviously, the Signora was in the “more of him to love” camp.
“Well, I’d best be getting home to make dinner before Massimo returns. It was wonderful to see you both.”
As soon as the Signora left the office, Gerda, Massimo’s apologist, swore, “Scheisse!”
“Do you think she suspects anything?” Hadley asked, crinkling her nose.
“No, the Poor Rachmanus. She doesn’t have a devious bone in her body. She’s a saint. She has to be to put up with our boss.”
Gerda dialed Massimo’s number and pursed her lips. “Massimo,” she chided under her breath. “Pick up your phone.”
“He doesn’t answer his home phone,” Gerda reported. “I’ll leave a message on his cell.”
“Do you think he’s with his mistress?”
“Of course he is. It’s Friday, isn’t it? If that poor woman comes home and finds him in bed with Simonetta, there will be hell to pay—for all of us.
“Massimo. Your wife just stopped in to surprise you at the office. She’s on her way home, now!”
Gerda shook her head. “I don’t know how that woman puts up with him.”
“She seems very sweet.”
“And naïve. But she’s in love with him. What can I say? I just hope he gets the message in time.”
Hadley sat in the outer office, studying the scrapbook.
Obviously, this mystery client had dealt with the Signore before if she was asking for him personally. Hadley was sure if she perused the old newspaper stories close enough and familiarized herself with the Signore’s past cases, she might come up with some clues or leads about the missing Botticelli.
Signore Domingo never admitted to making mistakes. He liked to pontificate, his lectures punctuated by grand hand gestures. Most of his proclamations began, “Did I ever tell you about the time when…” And grousing about how many years it typically took him to crack a case. Or lamenting the ones that got away. She was going to find this missing artwork in record time and salvage the agency’s fading reputation.
As a private art crime detective, Massimo Domingo was famous for recovering not only valuable paintings but jewelry, even manuscripts. Often he worked with police. But he was usually the investigator of last resort when police had long given up the search for evidence.
Sometimes he received tips of thefts about to take place at a museum and he was able to prevent them before the first glass window or door was smashed or sledgehammer wielded. He’d chased leads and followed trails all over the world, and sometimes found priceless paintings hidden in plain sight, hanging in art galleries or on kitchen walls of seaside villas. Or in drug raids or brazenly stolen in art heists from exhibition walls in broad daylight. Often, he’d find them damaged or burned.
But sometimes, they were miraculously recovered and returned either to a museum or the rightful owners from whom they’d been confiscated. That is, if the rightful owners or their heirs were still alive. Many had perished in the Holocaust. Some pieces of art were returned anonymously by thieves who never revealed the location where their stolen paintings had been stashed.
Retrievals were few and far between. The Signore was rarely paid for his expertise, his work was done at his own, or his wife’s, expense. He did it for the thrill of chasing leads or chasing headlines—and, yes, for the love of art.
Hadley knew from Signore Domingo that fake art was the third largest criminal activity on the planet and that ten percent of paintings on display in museums were fraudulent. Less than ten percent of those stolen pieces were returned. And it could sometimes take decades before stolen paintings resurfaced.
Sometimes paintings were given to criminals as partial payment for a drug deal. And they could later use those paintings in negotiating immunity or for safekeeping in the event they needed it in the future as collateral or for bargaining, even though a work of art in the criminal underworld was worth only ten percent of its value in the legitimate art market.
She knew that thieves stole paintings primarily for money but then found they couldn’t easily sell them on the open market so made them available to other criminals, often for a fraction of their value.
Hadley turned to Gerda and, in the most nonchalant voice she could muster, asked, “Would you mind if I took off next week? Luca and I have plans to ride his motorcycle around the countryside.”
“Fine. I’ll handle the kooks and the crazies until you get back.”
Chapter Two
Luca dropped Hadley off at the edge of the square and drove away on his motorcycle. She strolled toward the designated meeting place, bathed in the lovely evening light, the same light the masters of the Renaissance painted by centuries ago. It was a little cloudy. It had rained that afternoon. There was no one else in sight but a slim, well-dressed woman in her mid-thirties, sporting a dirty-blonde ponytail and a nervous look in her blue eyes.
Hadley was excited about the limitless directions this investigation could take and more than a little anxious about the possible dangers involved, but she was counting on Luca to be there every step of the way. It was the most thrilling thing that had happened to her since she was crowned Little Miss Cheesemonger in third grade in Tallahassee, Florida, in a competition sponsored by Riley’s Gourmet Shoppe and Creamery. That was her claim to fame. Her parents still kept the newspaper clipping from the Tallahassee Observer.
“Where is Signore Domingo?” the woman demanded, stepping toward her.
“He’s been taken ill suddenly. He sent me in his place. I’m his assistant.”
“Are you the woman I spoke to this morning on the phone?”
“Yes,” said Hadley, projecting an air of confidence she did not feel.
“I told you this is a very sensitive matter. I will only speak to Signore Domingo.”
“Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation.”
“I am his right hand. He tells me everything. We work closely together.”
