“If he was, he wasn’t born here.”
“He had an accent?”
Pozzi nodded. “It was like yours, Capitano.”
Rossetti had been raised in Naples, in the working-class neighborhood of Secondigliano. He spoke Italian with a distinct Neapolitan accent.
“How did Signore Bianchi know about Sandro?” he asked.
“He said the information had come from one of his associates.”
“Associates?”
“He didn’t go into detail. But he made it clear that these associates could get to Sandro inside Regina Coeli if I didn’t do what he wanted.”
“And you, of course, went straight to your boss and told him everything.”
“If I had done that, they would have killed my brother. And then they would have killed me. Or maybe they would have killed Giada or one of the children. What would you have done if you were in my position?”
Rossetti turned to a fresh page in his notebook without answering. “And how, exactly, did Signore Bianchi suggest that you steal the painting and smuggle it out of the museum without anyone noticing?”
“He said there would be a power failure that would disable the museum’s security system.”
“Did he give you the time and date of this promised power failure?”
“Not then.”
“When, Ottavio?”
“He met me at Caffè Roma two weeks later. He said the power failure would happen the next night.”
“Where were you when the lights went out?”
“The Picture Gallery. Room Twelve.”
“Why Room Twelve?” asked Gabriel.
“That’s where the Caravaggio hangs.The Depositionis my favorite painting. I pray there often.”
“You were having second thoughts?”
Pozzi nodded.
“Why didn’t you listen to your conscience?” asked Rossetti.
“My brother.”
“And when the power failed?”
The darkness in Room XII was so complete, said Pozzi, that he could scarcely see his hand in front of his face. He immediately raised the control room on his radio and was instructed to commence a museum-wide search for evidence of a break-in. He checked the main public entrance, knowing full well it was secure, then headed downstairs to the storage rooms. Because the cameras and motion detectors were disabled, his four colleagues were unaware of his whereabouts.
“How did you open the door?” asked Rossetti.
“The locks have a battery backup. All I had to do was enter the proper emergency override code. The painting was exactly where Signore Bianchi told me it would be.”
“Rack twenty-seven?” asked Gabriel.
Pozzi nodded.
