The Raven (4 page)

He dislodged himself from her and walked naked toward the wardrobe.

She sat up, fanning a shaking hand over her throat.

“What are you afraid of, my love? The connection that comes from the exchange of blood?”

He glared. “Don’t use appellations you don’t mean. Your honesty is one of the few things I’ve always admired about you.”

She pressed her lips together, but said nothing.

The Prince retrieved a clean set of black clothes from the wardrobe and approached the bed. “The palace is at your disposal until sundown. I’ll instruct the servants. See to it you leave me with the full complement.”

She studied him, her hair a riot of red curls around her lovely oval face.

“I thought we’d progressed a little over the past centuries. I was mistaken.”

He clenched his jaw. “Don’t lie to me. Everything you do is calculated.”

“I don’t deny it, but in this case I’m doing you a favor. We won the war with the Venetians, but how long will the peace last? And what about the attempt on your life? We still haven’t discovered who helped the Venetians breach our borders. You must take a consort, if only to strengthen and protect your position. I’m one of your oldest friends. I’m the obvious choice.”

He regarded her, studying her face and expression with restrained hostility.

She threw back the bedclothes and stood before him.

“You have to be thinking of the future. How old are you? Who knows how long you have before the—”

“Enough,” he interrupted. “Our coupling has not been frequent, as you mentioned, but it has been fair. Until today.”

He took a moment to admire her body, the creamy cast of her skin, her gentle curves and long legs. He shook his head.

“Your performance was unnecessary. I would have given you the same answer had you approached me in the street. We’re allies, Aoibhe, not lovers. And from now on, that is all we shall be. Don’t come here again.”

And with that, he swept from the room.

W
hen Raven approached the Uffizi Gallery, she was stunned to find it cordoned off.

Several officers from the local police stood watch at the barricades, while carabinieri in their signature dark blue uniforms roamed the U-shaped courtyard.

A number of men in dark suits stood in a small group, talking to one another near the entrance to the gallery. Journalists from around the world gathered around the perimeter, shouting questions to the carabinieri in English and Italian. Their questions were ignored, but not by Raven.

Something terrible had happened.

The famed Botticelli illustrations—copies of Botticelli’s drawings of Dante’s
Divine Comedy
—were missing.

Raven covered her mouth, a sick feeling ascending from her stomach to her throat.

“
Permesso
.” A masculine voice sounded in Raven’s ear as someone tried to squeeze past her.

She turned and recognized Patrick Wong, one of her friends from the gallery.

“Patrick.” She touched his arm.

His dark, almond-shaped eyes examined her face. “Do I know you?”

She switched to English. “It’s me.”

He looked at her in puzzlement and she remembered that her appearance was greatly altered.

“It’s Raven.”

Patrick shook his arm from her grasp and glared. “What do you know about Raven?”

“It’s me, I swear.” She retrieved her Uffizi identification card from her knapsack and held it out to him.

He snatched it from her hand, bringing his face next to hers.

“How did you get this?” he hissed. “Where is she?”

“Patrick, it’s me. We work together, remember? I’m part of Professor Urbano’s restoration team.”

He curled his fingers around her identification card. “Everyone knows Professor Urbano’s team. That doesn’t mean anything.”

She glanced around helplessly, trying to figure out how to prove her identity. Her gaze alighted on the edge of the Loggia dei Lanzi and its roof, which was barely visible.

“Remember we had lunch on the terrace? You told me about growing up with your grandmother in Richmond Hill and how she owned a restaurant. You told me you had a dog named Magnus, but he was hit by a car when you were ten.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “Who told you those things?”

“You did. You’re lactose intolerant, you were born in Toronto, and you have a crush on Gina. It’s me, Patrick. I promise.” She held out her arm. “Look at my watch.”

He looked at her wrist, on which she wore an old, battered Swatch that he easily recognized.

His eyes met hers. “How do I know you didn’t kidnap Raven and steal her watch?”

She rolled her eyes. “Listen to yourself. I’m not important. Who would want to kidnap me?”

“That isn’t true.” His expression grew fierce. “Raven is someone to me. She’s important to me.”

She paused, tamping down her emotions so she could focus on finding something that would prove her identity.

“Remember when you lost the copies of the radiographs of
Primavera
? And Dottor Vitali kept asking for them? I’m the one who put them in the bottom drawer of your desk.”

Patrick shook his head. “I didn’t lose the radiographs.”

She smiled gently. “Yes, you did. You left them in the archives’ reading room. I found them and put them in your desk so you wouldn’t get in trouble.”

Patrick stared, a look of incredulous fascination on his face.

“I didn’t tell anyone about that.”

“I know.”

His expression slowly morphed from shock into concern.

“Raven?” he whispered, staring at her intently.

She nodded.

He lifted a hand to her face. “What did you do to yourself?”

She blinked and turned away, unable to meet his gaze.

Patrick dropped his hand quickly and looked around, noticing they had attracted the attention of one of the carabinieri, who was watching them from behind dark sunglasses.

“We need to get out of here.” He grabbed Raven’s arm. “Where’s your cane?”

“I don’t need it anymore.”

“That’s not funny.” Patrick gave her a furious look.

Raven lifted her now uninjured leg and quickly demonstrated her range of movement.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, his eyebrows lifting. “What the hell is going on?”

Before Raven had time to venture an answer, the Carabinieri officer began walking toward them. Patrick pulled her around the corner and out of sight.

When they were several feet away, Raven planted her feet. “What about work? We’re going to be late.”

Patrick handed back her identification card. “I’m late every day because of the police. We have to go through a special security check before they let us in.”

“Are the police here because of the illustrations?”

He looked at her suspiciously. “Of course.”

“When were they stolen?”

Patrick stared.

When she didn’t say anything further, he rubbed his eyes. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

He exhaled loudly. “If you were in trouble, you’d tell me, right?”

“I’m not in any trouble.”

“Are you kidding? I’m one of your best friends and I didn’t recognize you.” He cursed. “You don’t need your cane. And you disappeared right after the biggest robbery in Uffizi history.”

“What?” Raven practically shrieked, dropping her knapsack in surprise.

“Sssh!” Patrick gave her a furious look. “Do you want a half dozen carabinieri and God knows how many Interpol agents over here? Keep your voice down.”

He quickly stepped away, looking in the direction of the Uffizi, before dragging her and her knapsack closer to the Ponte Vecchio.

“When did the robbery happen?” Raven asked, her mind almost numb with shock.

“The night of Gina’s party.”

Raven pressed her hand to her forehead. She remembered Gina’s party. She remembered talking to Patrick about a ride home. After that, the evening was a blur.

She squinted in the sunlight. “How did the thieves get past the security systems?”

“No one knows. None of the alarms were tripped. They didn’t find so much as a fingerprint. The special agents think it must have been an inside job, which is why they’ve been interrogating us. I’ve been interviewed three times.”

“But who would do such a thing? Everyone we work with has a clean record.”

Patrick’s expression grew guarded.

“Raven, they’ve been looking for you. You’ve been gone over a week and no one knew where you were.”

“A week?” she squeaked, eyes wide.

“Gina’s party was the seventeenth. Today is the twenty-seventh. You didn’t come to work last week at all. We thought you were sick. I texted you and sent e-mails, and Professor Urbano called your cell phone, but you didn’t answer. I was pretty worried so Gina and I stopped by last Wednesday. One of your neighbors said he hadn’t seen you in days. We reported you missing to the police and the American consulate.”

Before Raven could respond, the Carabinieri officer suddenly appeared, flanked by two others.

“Do you work at the museum?” He addressed Patrick sternly.

Patrick’s gaze flickered to Raven’s. “Yes.”

“Identification, please.” The officer held out his hand expectantly.

Patrick gave him his Uffizi identification card. The man examined it carefully before returning it.

His attention shifted to Raven.

“And you?”

She nodded and handed him her identification.

The officer looked at the photograph and then he looked at Raven. He removed his sunglasses, folding them and placing them in one of the pockets of his uniform.

His eyes bored into hers. “You don’t look like the photograph.”

Raven shrugged. “That’s me.”

The officer peered at her thoughtfully before turning his gaze on Patrick. Patrick shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“You know this woman?” The officer gestured to Raven.

Patrick hesitated and Raven’s heart began to pound.

He moved to stand closer to her. “Yes, we work together.”

Raven tried not to melt with relief at Patrick’s show of support.

The officer’s attention snapped back to her. “Your identification says that you work for the Opificio delle Pietre Dure.”

“I do. But I’ve been seconded to the Uffizi and that’s stated on the card as well.” She pointed to the identification he was still holding.

“Dottoressa Wood, come with me.”

“She’s an American.” Patrick stepped forward. “You can’t just take her.”

The officer measured Patrick for a moment.

“We aren’t
taking
her. We’re accompanying her to the police station so we can interview her, just as we interviewed the other Uffizi employees.”

Patrick grabbed Raven’s arm, stopping her. “You interviewed the other employees at the gallery, not the police station. She isn’t going anywhere with you.”

“This isn’t an interrogation or an arrest, it’s simply an interview. I’m sure Dottoressa Wood wants to help the investigation.” The officer gave Raven a pointed look.

She blinked, not knowing what to say.

Patrick held his ground, still holding Raven’s arm.

The man cursed and removed something from underneath his jacket, flashing it under Patrick’s nose.

“I am Sergio Batelli, the
ispettore
from the Carabinieri. She does not have a diplomatic passport and her name is on the list of Uffizi employees. Under Italian civil code, I can acquire information from her at the police station without notifying anyone, especially the Americans.
Capisce?

“Perhaps you’d like to be interviewed with her, Signor Wong. Are you lovers? How long have you known one another?”

Patrick cursed and took a step forward, but Raven intervened, placing her hand over his.

“It will be all right. I’ll just go and answer their questions. But please, tell Professor Urbano what’s happening. He’ll be expecting me in the restoration lab.”

Patrick fixed the officer with a look of defiance. “I’ll be notifying Dottor Vitali, the director of the Uffizi, and the American consulate. And I’ll be naming names, Ispettor Batelli.”

The officer shrugged.

“Dottoressa Wood.” He gestured to the street, where a police car had just pulled up to the curb, lights flashing.

Patrick squeezed Raven’s hand before sprinting in the direction of the Uffizi.

“This way.” Batelli’s voice was gruff as he and the other men led Raven to the car.

“F
or your information, I should state that this is not an interrogation. You are not under arrest. We are interviewing you in connection with the theft of art from the Uffizi because you work at the gallery. This conversation is being video recorded.

“Dottoressa Wood, where were you on Friday, May seventeenth?”

Batelli sat across from her in a small interrogation room in the Florence police station, his dark eyes keen and peering.

He had files in front of him, but they were closed. He wasn’t even taking notes. He was simply watching her.

Another man, wearing a dark suit, stood behind him and to his left. He’d been introduced as Alessandro Savola, an Interpol agent from Rome. He, too, was watching Raven, arms crossed, eyes alert.

She felt as if she were a sample being examined under a microscope.

She contemplated her options for a moment, staring back at the agents and wondering about her predicament.

She loved her work. She loved the Uffizi. She was willing to do anything to help the police find whoever had stolen the illustrations. That included answering the officer’s very uncomfortable, potentially hazardous questions.

“I came to work in the restoration lab. At the end of the day, a group of us went to a friend’s party.”

“Which friend?”

“Gina Molinari. She works in the archives.”

“Where did you go after the party?”

Raven focused on a spot on the wall, over his shoulder, willing herself to remember.

“I went home.”

Ispettor Batelli leaned forward in his chair.

“What time was that?”

Her eyes met his.

“I don’t remember, but the party was still going on. I said good-bye to Patrick and to Gina and walked home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone.”

“Do you live with anyone? Did anyone see you when you arrived home?”

“I live alone and no, no one saw me.”

“Do you have a lover? A boyfriend or girlfriend?”

“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“When did you first hear about the robbery?” The inspector’s voice was casual. Too casual.

“This morning, when I came to work.”

The agent’s eyes narrowed. “What about newspapers? Radio? Television?”

“I don’t take the newspaper and I don’t have a television. Sometimes I listen to the BBC in the morning but I woke up late for work and didn’t bother.”

“Why are you carrying your passport and other important documents? Aren’t you afraid of thieves?” Batelli gestured to the items, which were sitting on the desk next to her identification card.

“My old passport was going to expire. I picked this one up at the consulate the other day, but I had to present the paperwork that showed I was working in Italy legally. I must have forgotten to take everything out of my knapsack.”

“The name on your documents doesn’t match the name on your identification card.”

She clenched her teeth. “My name is Raven.”

“That’s not the name in your passport.”

That’s because the name in my passport is dead,
she thought.

She tried to appear relaxed, folding her hands in her lap. “In America, it’s common for people to have nicknames.”

“What part of America are you from?”

“New Hampshire.”

“Your employee file states that you attended Barry University and New York University.”

“That’s right.”

“How long have you been in Florence?”

“I spent a year here while I was finishing my master’s degree from NYU. Then I returned three years ago while I was writing my dissertation. When I graduated last year, Professor Urbano hired me to work for him at the Opificio.”

Batelli’s eyes narrowed. “I thought Professor Urbano worked at the Uffizi.”

“He does, but only on contract. He runs a lab at the Opificio, which is a world-renowned restoration institute. He was hired by the Uffizi, along with his team, to work on a single project. I’m part of that team.”

“So you have a Ph.D. in art history and conservation?”

She squirmed. “And restoration. I was trained in both, but focused on restoration for my dissertation.”

“Interesting,” he said. “How is this restoration work done?”

“We begin by doing scientific research on the artwork. There’s a lab in the Fortezza da Basso where we use microscopes, spectrophotometry, and X-ray machines. Sometimes we use ultraviolet rays or infrared photography. We also do archival work, comparing previous restoration and conservation attempts with current scientific findings.”

The inspector stared. “You do all these things?”

“I help where needed, but on this project I spent most of my time removing layers of varnish from the painting so we could get at the paint beneath. Then, someone more accomplished than me fixed the cracks and flaking in the original paint. This week, we’re supposed to start applying a transparent varnish to the artwork in order to protect it. Because of the size of the piece and its age, this process could take months.”

Batelli nodded.

“Professor Urbano says you were absent from work all week and that you didn’t call in. Where were you?”

“At home, I guess.”

“You guess? You don’t know?” The officer’s tone was no longer casual.

She didn’t answer, for truthfully, she didn’t know what to say.

“Is it common for you to disappear from work for a week and not remember where you were?”

“No.” Unconsciously, her fingernails began digging into the palms of her hands.

“Where were you?”

“I don’t remember.”

Batelli exchanged a look with Agent Savola.

“Where were you yesterday?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you remember going home after the party?”

Raven closed her eyes, sifting through her memories. “I remember saying good-bye to Patrick and leaving Gina’s party. I remember starting to walk home.”

She opened her eyes. “That’s it.”

“Tell me, Dottoressa Wood, do you drink?”

She shrugged. “I’ll have a glass of wine when out with friends. But no, I don’t really drink.”

“What about drugs?”

“Drugs?” she repeated, her body growing noticeably tense.

“Do you take drugs or medication?”

“Sometimes I take pain pills for my leg, but I have a prescription for them.”

Batelli’s gaze dropped to her leg. “Do you ever take too many pills?”

“No.” She clasped her hands together, trying not to twist them in her lap.

“What about other drugs—cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy?”

“I don’t do drugs.”

“Tell the truth.” Batelli gave her a hard look. “You go to a party. You miss work for a week. Somehow, during your absence, the Uffizi is robbed. Make this easier on yourself and tell us what really happened.”

“I told you. I don’t remember.”

“This can become very unpleasant if you lie to me.” His tone grew sharp.

“I’m telling you the truth!” She raised her voice, momentarily startling the two agents.

The inspector leaned closer.

“Where were you last week?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“I don’t remember.”

He slammed a fist down on the table. “Where were you last night?”

A hazy swirl of colors danced before her eyes, accompanied by a low whisper. All at once, she felt a sharp pain at the back of her head.

She closed her eyes.

“Dottoressa Wood?” he prompted.

She didn’t respond.

“Signorina?” he said, slightly louder.

“Maybe I was drugged,” she whispered, as the pain in her head sub-sided. She fanned a hand over her eyes.

“Drugged?” he repeated.

She dropped her hand. “Maybe someone drugged me.”

“What makes you say that?” Savola spoke for the first time, his voice low and gravelly.

Raven’s eyes met his. “I can’t remember yesterday. I can’t remember anything after Gina’s party. I didn’t drink much, but I had a couple of glasses of wine. Maybe someone slipped something into my drink.”

Batelli waved Agent Savola over and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and left.

The inspector placed his hand on top of one of the files. “You can’t remember anything from the past week? Anything at all?”

“No.”

“Are you experiencing any pain? Dizziness?”

She rubbed at the back of her head.

“My head hurt a few minutes ago. But I don’t feel dizzy.”

He was quiet for a moment, studying her.

“What do you do for Professor Urbano?”

“I told you, I assist him with his restoration project.”

“And what is he restoring?”

“The
Birth of Venus
.”

The inspector nodded. “So you are a Botticelli expert?”

She shifted in her seat. “Not like Professor Urbano. He worked on the famous restoration of
Primavera
with Umberto Baldini.”

Batelli looked at her blankly, not recognizing the name of the famous art historian and restorer.

“But it’s fair to say you know a lot about Botticelli and his work?”

“Yes. I also know that the theft of great art is a crime against humanity.” Her tone had the slightest edge to it.

The inspector appeared puzzled. “That’s an unusual view.”

“Not among those who devote their lives to preserving and protecting great works of art. That’s why I came to Florence.”

Batelli frowned. “The illustrations were copies.”

Now Raven leaned forward in her chair. “Those
copies
were all we had. The full set of original illustrations have been lost. And the copies were beautiful.”

“We?”
he repeated, cocking his head to one side. “Who’s
we
?”

She felt her cheeks flame. “Humanity. Whoever stole them, stole from all of us. Although I’m sure the Emersons are more upset than anyone, except maybe Dottor Vitali.”

“And the Emersons are—?”

“The patrons who lent us the illustrations—Professor Gabriel Emerson and his wife.”

“You know them?”

“Not really. They’re patrons of the orphanage I volunteer at, but I’ve never met them.”

The inspector opened his file and took out a series of printed sheets that had been stapled together. He pushed the pages toward her.

“This is a list of names. Tell me if you know any of them.”

Raven picked up the pages and began reading.

She looked over at the inspector. “I recognize some of the names. They’re patrons of the gallery. But I don’t really know them.”

“None of them?”

“I work in the restoration lab. The patrons don’t interact with us.” She placed the paper back on the desk.

“Would it be correct to say that you recognize all the names, or only some?”

“Only some.”

Batelli uncapped a pen and placed it in front of her. “Please make a mark next to the names you recognize.”

Raven frowned but did as she was told, marking about one-third of the names listed.

Batelli seemed to take restrained interest in what she was doing, but after she finished, he merely placed the papers aside. He withdrew a single sheet from the file and slid it across to her.

“Read that.”

Raven picked up the paper.

The first thing she noticed was that the page was obviously a photocopy of some handwriting. The style of writing was old-fashioned. Very old-fashioned. It was precise, elegant, and very, very beautiful. A work of art in itself.

The second thing she noticed was that the language was Latin. Suddenly a phrase entered her consciousness.

Cassita vulneratus
.

“What was that?” Batelli leaned forward suspiciously.

“I didn’t say anything. I’ve read it. Now what?”

“Read it to me.”

“It’s in Latin.” She gave him a questioning look.

“I know that. Read it in Latin, if you can, and translate to Italian.”

Raven turned her attention to the page.
“‘Non furtum facies. Mihi vindictam ego retribuam.’”
She looked over at the officer. “
Non rubare
.
La vendetta è mia; io ricompensèro
. You shall not steal. Vengeance is mine, I will repay.”

Raven placed the paper on top of the desk.

“Why are you showing me part of a Latin manuscript of the Bible?”

“Why do you think it’s from a manuscript of the Bible?”

“I’m not a paleographer, but I can recognize medieval handwriting.” She gestured to the page. “The text sounds like the Bible, but I’m not an expert.”

“Are the words significant to you?” Batelli gave her a questioning look.

“No.”

“Interesting.” He placed the page in his file and closed it. Then he put his hand, palm down, on top of the file.

“What can you tell me about the security systems in the gallery?”

“Almost nothing. I’m only an art restorer.” She gestured to her identification card, which lay on the desk facing him. “I have access to certain rooms when the gallery is open. I don’t have security codes to the building or to the individual exhibit rooms. I’m not sure what security systems the gallery has. It’s all a big mystery.”

“Would your card open the room that held the Botticelli illustrations?”

She shook her head. “I only have access to the rooms connected with my work—the archives, the restoration rooms, and the office I share with some of the other associates.”

“What about keys?”

“Most of the rooms in the Uffizi are accessed by card. Some of the older rooms and the Vasari Corridor can be accessed by keys. But I wasn’t issued keys. Even if I was, I couldn’t access the building when it’s closed.”

“But you work after hours.”

“Sometimes Professor Urbano asks the restoration team to work late, if we’re doing something particularly delicate or time sensitive. But in those cases, the gallery is kept open, or at least the restoration lab is. Security lets us in if we arrive after hours and they escort us from the building when we’re finished.”

The inspector sat back in his chair. He watched her, unblinking, until she looked away.

“Were you working after hours on May seventeenth?”

“No. I’m working exclusively on the
Birth of Venus
. We’re doing a complete restoration, which means the painting is no longer on display. We work normal hours except when Professor Urbano asks us to stay later. He hasn’t done that for a couple of months.”