“Giada left the Church because of the sex abuse scandal,” explained Ottavio Pozzi. “She refuses to set foot in the Vatican.”
“And yet her husband spends every night there,” said Rossetti. “Never the day shift. Always the night.”
“I prefer it.”
“And why is that?”
Pozzi gave a dreamy smile. “Have you ever been in the Sistina alone? Or the Raphael Rooms?”
“What about the storage rooms?” asked Gabriel.
Pozzi’s smile faded. “I rarely go there, Signore.”
“But you went there on the night of the power failure, didn’t you? And while you were there, you removed this.” Gabriel laid a photograph of the painting on the tabletop. “The person who hired you forthe job assured you that no one would ever notice the painting was missing. And you foolishly believed him.”
Pozzi glanced at the painting, then looked away. “You are mistaken, Signore.”
Rossetti sighed heavily. “I would advise you to choose another path, Ottavio. Otherwise I will have no choice but to arrest you in front of your children and lock you away in Regina Coeli with that brother of yours.”
“But I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Rossetti ignored the denial. “If, however, you help us recover the painting, I might be able to persuade my commanding officer to overlook your conduct. Oh, you’ll lose your job, of course. But your children won’t have to visit their father in prison.”
Pozzi exchanged a long look with his wife before answering. “I’m sorry, Capitano, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I do, they’ll kill him.”
“Kill who?”
“My brother Sandro.”
“Is that why you agreed to steal the painting? Because they threatened your brother?”
Pozzi hesitated, then nodded once.
“But that’s not the only reason, is it? Surely they must have paid yousomething.”
“A hundred thousand.”
“Is that all?” Luca Rossetti smiled. “Try again, Ottavio.”
17
Ostiense
Most evenings Ottavio Pozzi stopped at Caffè Roma, a popular neighborhood bar on the Via Casati, for adoppiobefore boarding the first of two Metro trains that took him from Ostiense to the Vatican. It was on one such evening, not long after the Feast of the Assumption, that he made the acquaintance of the man who referred to himself only as Signore Bianchi. He insisted on paying for Pozzi’s coffee. Then he suggested they have a word in private.
“Describe him,” said Luca Rossetti, a pen hovering over his open detective’s notebook.
“Forty or so, nice jacket, gold watch. Not the sort of man you would ever want to cross.”
“Italian?”
“Sure.”
“Roman?”
