The Da Vinci Deception (41 page)

“The lake patrol. My men recognized his boat, and one of them has fished with Burri.”

“Anything to suggest someone was with him when he went out this morning?”

“
Niente.
Lines and bait. Food for one person. But I don't think it was an accident.”

“Why do you say that?”

“One detail doesn't have an answer. Burri was found with the upper part of his body in the water. For the moment let us assume he did have
an attack, lost his balance, and fell over the railing headfirst into the water but the rope stopped him from going deeper in the water than to his shoulders. Now at this time he may still be breathing, but only for a minute or two perhaps. That would explain the small amount of water in his lungs. Now he is dead, and in the water to here.” Brassi pointed to his chest. “It is a small point, but when the report was prepared by the examiner, he wrote that all of his clothes were wet.”

The men looked silently at each other. Deats spoke first.

“Have you talked with his wife?”

Brassi sighed. “That is one of the reasons I feel as I do. She's a strong woman and is convinced someone killed her husband.”

“So am I,” Deats said simply.

“
Perchè?
He was very popular. A friend to everyone.”

“I've no doubt there is a motive. The details will become clear in time.”

“We would say it is a
rompicapo,
a puzzlement. Someone tried to kill him, but he died from a heart attack.” Brassi raised outstretched hands.

Deats was flexing his bad hand, clenching then opening it and rubbing the stiff fingers. “Anthony Waters killed a policewoman and tried to make her death appear to have been an accident. I'm convinced beyond any doubt that is true. For a reason I can only speculate on, Giorgio Burri was murdered and his death was also made to appear as an accident.” He kept his hands busy, this time polishing his glasses with a handkerchief. “But Giorgio had a heart attack, and Waters hadn't planned on that. The usual form of death in a boating accident is from drowning. I don't know how it happened, but Waters became confused when he discovered Giorgio died before he could drown him. Without thinking it through, he pulled him back onto the boat, tied a rope to his leg, then put the body into the water up to his waist.” Deats stood. “That was a mistake.”

“But a motive, a
causa,
” Brassi insisted.

“Money! Incredible amounts of money. It's happening in that gray mansion.”

Brassi leaned forward, his expression intense, his eyes fixed on Deats's. “I gave orders for our observers to follow Waters and report when he was out on the lake. But he went in the darkness and came back without being seen. Then, this morning in the daylight, he was on the water in the speedboat racing to Como, then north to Bellagio and back to
Il Diodario
.”

“He wanted to be seen. Was the American woman with him?”

“He was alone.”

“What of Kalem?”

“We learned from the taxi driver who drove him to the airport Thursday morning. He took an Alitalia flight to London.”

“You should have told me. We might have been able to have him followed.”

“This is information I learned early this morning. We rely on primitive technology, Superintendent. We are not a branch of Interpol.”

“They might find him at the hotel where he stayed a short time ago. It's worth a call. What are your plans to arrest Waters?”

“Luciano Pavasi's men still patrol the grounds and Pavasi has taken a long weekend in San Remo. It seems he has a weakness for the gambling tables in Monte Carlo. When he returns, I will pay a surprise visit. I must have his cooperation and he will not want to give it to me. But in the end, Pavasi will do as he is told.”

“I want an end to the killing. Can't we get this over with before Tuesday?”

Brassi nodded. “Without raising suspicions.” He got to his feet and smiled confidently. “Everything is being made ready for Tuesday. Then you will have your man.”

On Friday, after his meeting at Collyer's, Jonas told Seumas to drive west on the M40 to Oxford, then into Gloucestershire county and the area known as the Cotswolds. Jonas wanted to be alone and away from responsibilities. He had been on the go since sunrise and had put in a long, tiring day. Their destination was Broadway and the terribly old and charming Lygon Arms Hotel. Seumas found a room in a small inn near a pub filled with happy ale swiggers. Jonas sought a comfortable corner of the hotel's dining room. He ordered a double Golden Grouse, then several more. Finally he ordered an immense serving of roast beef and the usual side dishes. The food and drink were like a sedation; medicine to soothe his feelings of inadequacy or guilt. He went to bed. He wakened early on Friday, but knew when he read his watch that Tony had been up earlier and Giorgio was dead. He had not meant for people to die. He felt strangely sick.

The day was spent driving through the rolling Cotswold hills. The villages were out of storybooks, as if they had been designed for a Disney movie. Everywhere was the honey-yellow Cotswold stone. Seumas
spoke when spoken to, otherwise silence filled the venerable limousine. Jonas's brain raced on, even as he sat mute and unmoving, gazing out on numberless flocks of sheep and thickly thatched roofs atop rows of quaint cottages. They returned to Broadway and Jonas telephoned
Il Diodario
to receive, officially, the news that Giorgio had been found dead earlier that day. Eleanor got on the phone and he failed to assuage her outraged grief.

Jonas again sought his own privacy and drank and ate as he had the previous evening. Eleanor's impassioned outpouring served to justify a third snifter of brandy following his meal.

He fell on his bed and went immediately to sleep. He slept fitfully and at daybreak fell into a deep sleep. It was nearly eleven when Seumas rapped on his door. They spent Saturday as they had the previous day, but as they drove, Jonas prepared for his meeting with Doan Chamberlin.

Eleanor pecked at the food she had taken from a buffet table laden with a dozen dishes Jonas selected for each Saturday-evening meal. Giorgio's death had depressed her, and she was still in shock.

“It isn't just awful, it's stupid and goddamned wrong! Men like that don't have accidents. He was a good man and a happy man!” She threw her napkin on the table and raced from the room. Stiehl got up as if to follow.

“Let her be,” Tony said stonily. “She'll want to cry and be emotional.”

“What the hell would you know about emotion?” Stiehl followed after her.

She had walked to the end of the patio and was rubbing her arms as if to ward off the chill coming off the lake. She turned as Stiehl approached her. “I'm cold.”

“Summer's over,” Stiehl answered. He put his sweater over her shoulders.

“I'm sorry I'm acting this way over Giorgio.”

“Don't be sorry,” Stiehl replied. “I'm trying to get at my own feelings. I once told Giorgio that I wished he were my father, and now I feel like I've lost my father. I'm angry he's dead, damned angry.”

“He was the kind who let people get close to him. He made us feel happy and important. Now he's gone and we're the losers.”

“I don't have many friends. It hurts to lose one.”

“I'm your friend.”

His hand brushed across her cheek. “I'm happy you are. But can you teach me how to write the way Leonardo did? Giorgio was my teacher, now I'm on my own.”

“I can't write my mother a letter she can read. Will you show me what Giorgio was teaching you to write?”

He took both of her hands and pulled her close to him. “Things have changed, and I don't like what's going on. I don't think you should stay here.”

“I can't leave. Jonas said I should stay until he comes back from London. I couldn't leave if I wanted to.” She pulled on his hands. “Please show me what you've been doing. Please?”

“All right,” he said quietly. “But Tony must not know. Tell him you're going to your room. Wait for half an hour, then come up.”

She squeezed his hand and went back into the villa. Shortly after nine o'clock she rapped on the door to the studio.

“Tony's been drinking. He didn't seem to care what I was doing.”

“It's not like him,” Stiehl replied. “Something's going on, and I'm not sure if I like it.”

The studio was festooned with reproductions from the Windsor collection and Stiehl had arranged it to appear that he was creating copies of Leonardo's anatomical drawings. He had been aware that Jonas had placed television cameras and microphones in the studio and had carefully picked through the lights and fixtures until he was certain he had located every camera. Locating the microphones presented a different problem. Those he found were tiny and he could not be confident he had spotted every one.

“How's it coming?” Eleanor asked.

“I'm bored with skulls, bones, and muscles,” he replied. “You know why Leonardo spent so much time on those things? He had to know what people were made from so he could paint better nudes than Michelangelo. God help me, that's true.”

Eleanor held a page filled with scribbles. “What's this?”

“Leonardo's ideas on love, sex, and the senses. Giorgio said that as long as I must practice Leonardo's handwriting I should write about something interesting.”

“That sounds like Giorgio.” She picked through the layers of drawings, pausing occasionally to comment on one. “They're beautiful. Every one. Will you draw something for me? I've never seen you at work.”

“I'm a temperamental artist,” he joked. “I must be inspired.” His face brightened. “I have it. You're my inspiration.”

He placed a chair a few feet away and positioned her so the light struck her face unevenly, creating subtle shadows on her cheeks and chin. He stared at her, analytically at first, then, though her expression was quiet, he saw her high spirit and a hint of her good humor. But he saw, too, her absolute beauty, a precision to her features. His hand moved quickly and an image took form as if it had been on the paper all the while and he was merely peeling away a protective covering.

It took but several minutes to complete the drawing. “There! Eleanor Shepard in the school of Leonardo, by the hand of Curtis Stiehl.”

She came behind him and saw what he had drawn. She recognized herself and thought the likeness flattering. There was an intensity to the eyes, and the mouth seemed about to open and speak. “Is that how you see me?”

“I did. Then, when you were sitting there.”

“I think it's beautiful. Too much so.” She turned to him, then slowly lowered her head and kissed him firmly on the mouth. It was a long and passionate kiss. “Thank you,” she said gently.

She backed away and sat in a chair close to Stiehl's drawing board. “You went to prison for counterfeiting, but you didn't go into any details and I didn't ask. Now I want to know.”

“Because you kissed me?”

“Because I care about you and know so little about you. I don't want to do the wrong thing for the right reason.”

“I'm confused.”

“So am I, Curtis. I came to Italy to get away from someone who wants to marry me. I thought if I got away, I could sort it all out and decide if I love him that much.”

“Do you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Please, tell me what you did?”

He described how he had counterfeited first the bonds, then the money, and how Jonas discovered the printing plates. He told her about prison life and how he had studied to improve as an artist. He told her the fabricated story of Jonas receiving a contract from the Royal Library—because he knew she must not know the truth. And finally he told her about his wife and daughter Stephanie.