The Raven (5 page)

“Your face doesn’t match your card or your passport.” He gestured to the identification on the desk. “I take it the photograph in your new passport is recent?”

“It is.” She shifted in her chair.

“It doesn’t look recent. Your employee file indicates that you are handicapped.”

At this, his gaze dropped to her right leg, which was partially obscured by the desk. His eyes lifted to hers. “You don’t look handicapped.”

“The correct term is
disabled
.” Raven straightened her shoulders. “And I’m not anymore.”

“Explain.”

She pressed her lips together tightly.

“I can’t.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“I can’t.” She lifted her hands in an expression of frustration. “I have no idea what’s happened. I already told you that.”

A knock was heard at the door and Agent Savola entered. He whispered something to Batelli, who appeared disappointed. They exchanged a few quiet words, which Raven strained unsuccessfully to hear.

Agent Savola resumed his place on Batelli’s left, arms crossed over his chest.

Batelli picked up the pen and began tapping it on top of the file.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

Raven shook her head.

“If you think you were drugged, why didn’t you go to the hospital?”

“I felt fine. I was worried about being late for work.”

Batelli scowled. “You have memory loss, a drastic change in appearance, a miraculous restoration of your ability to walk, and you’re worried about being late for work?”

He cursed a few times, tossing the pen onto the desk.

Raven pressed her hand against her forehead.

“We can take you to the hospital.” Agent Savola spoke in English, in a quiet tone.

She shook her head.

“I have to see Professor Urbano. I don’t want to lose my job.” She swallowed hard. “I have my own doctor. I’ll make an appointment to see her.”

Agent Savola nodded sympathetically. “Is your doctor a cosmetic surgeon?”

“No.” Raven’s tone was clipped.

“Only a cosmetic surgeon with great skill could transform you from that”—he pointed to her identification card—“to that.” He gestured to her face.

“Are you trying to be insulting?” she fumed.

“Do you have a psychiatrist, signorina?”

“Of course not!” Raven snapped. “What about you, Agent Savola? Do you have a psychiatrist?”

The agent took a step toward her and swore.

Batelli held up his hands.

“This isn’t helpful,” he said, looking pointedly at Raven and his associate.

She pointed to the file.

“If you have my employee records, you know I’ve had a criminal background check. I’ve also had a psychiatric evaluation.” She glanced in Savola’s direction.

“More importantly, I’ve devoted my life to saving art, to preserving it for future generations. I don’t destroy things and I don’t steal. Art thieves are almost the lowest form of humanity, because they take something beautiful and hide it so the world can’t see it.”

Batelli looked at her with curiosity. “What’s the lowest form of humanity, in your view?”

“Child abusers.”

Both Batelli and Savola appeared taken aback by her remark, but they quickly regained their composure.

Batelli picked up her identification card, her passport, and her other documents. He looked at them closely before holding them out to her.

She reached for them, and for a moment he kept hold of the items, trapping her.

“You’re free to go, after we fingerprint you. It’s simply an effort to confirm your identity, since your appearance doesn’t match your identification. An officer will drive you back to the Uffizi.

“But I should warn you, Signorina Wood, we will want to interview you again. I would strongly urge you to stay in Florence. A note will be made with immigration, should you try to leave the country.”

His eyes flickered to Savola’s and back again. “For your own sake, I suggest you see a doctor.”

Raven took her belongings from his hand and bolted from the room, leaving the door open behind her.

W
hen Raven finally arrived at the Uffizi, she had to submit to a scan of her fingerprints in order for security to admit her to the building. After that humiliating experience, she went to the office she shared with a number of different researchers. She greeted her colleagues with a tense wave before trudging to her desk, which was in a far corner.

She sank into her chair and looked around the windowless room. The office hummed with conversations and the occasional ringing of a telephone, while her colleagues stared. More than a few of her coworkers stopped by her desk, wondering who she was and demanding to see her identification. She had to summon security and ask them to vouch for her identity. Afterward, her colleagues continued to glance in her direction with expressions that ranged from surprised to censorious.

Her skin crawled under the scrutiny.

A number of messages sat on her desk, including a recent one from Patrick, asking her to text him when she arrived. She ignored them and placed her head in her hands.

She was in trouble.

Were it not for the fact that she felt pain when she pinched herself, she would have thought she was in a nightmare. There were too many incredible and inexplicable events. First, there was the sudden and spontaneous healing of her disability. Second, there was her loss of weight and radical change in physical appearance. Finally, there was her disappearance and lack of memory.

There was also the possibility that her personality had undergone a slight sharpening. Raven couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so angry or rude. She’d always prided herself in being polite and controlled. But at the police station . . .

Raven’s gaze alighted on a leaflet that she’d placed on her desk months before. The flyer included information about the Botticelli illustrations and had been distributed by the gallery to visitors.

She picked it up, glancing at the text.

Wordlessly, she stored her backpack in one of the desk drawers and locked it, looping her identification card, which was hung on a cord, over her head. She picked up her cell phone, which she’d barely been able to charge, clutching it in the same hand as the leaflet. Silently, she bemoaned the fact she was wearing yoga pants, which, although they made her derrière extremely attractive, lacked pockets.

She was supposed to report to the restoration lab for work, but instead she walked in the opposite direction, to where the illustrations had been on display. The exhibition hall was cordoned off, the corridor empty.

The hall boasted walls painted a bright blue in order to display the pen and ink illustrations to better effect. Inside the room was a series of cases, in which the artwork had been kept safe from exposure and human touch.

Raven scanned the now empty cases, noting that each of them, along with the walls and even the floors, had been dusted for fingerprints. Scaffolding stood in one corner, rising to the high ceiling. From the looks of it, someone had dusted the white ceiling as well. Sections of it were smudged with gray and black.

She began reading the description of the exhibit, which was printed on the leaflet. As Ispettor Batelli had mentioned, the illustrations were copies. Botticelli had prepared one hundred drawings of Dante’s
Divine Comedy
for Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici, who died in 1503. Unfortunately, eight of them had been lost. The Vatican owned a few of the originals and the rest were owned by the Staatliche Museen in Berlin.

The Emersons’ collection was complete. Yes, they were only copies, but the Emersons owned the full one hundred of the original complement. This fact alone made the collection priceless.

Certainly the Uffizi was more than pleased to exhibit them. It charged extra for visitors to view the exhibition, using the funds to finance some of the restoration projects in the gallery, including the work that Raven and Professor Urbano’s team were doing.

The illustrations had been on loan to the Uffizi for two years, since the summer of 2011. Raven remembered the announcement well, as she’d been researching her dissertation and doing work at the Opificio at the time.

Prior to the announcement, no one knew about the Emersons’ collection. Raven had done some amateur investigation on the subject, but found nothing. For such important works of art, the lack of images or information was surprising.

Dottor Vitali had prepared an account of the illustrations’ provenance, which was reproduced on the leaflet, but his information must have come from the Emersons themselves, for Raven hadn’t found any independent confirmation of the facts presented.

She found this fact curious.

According to the leaflet, the illustrations had been prepared in the sixteenth century, probably by a student of Botticelli. Somehow they’d come to a Swiss family in the nineteenth century. They’d sold the illustrations to Professor Emerson in a private sale a number of years back.

The whereabouts of the illustrations from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries were a complete mystery. Certainly neither the Swiss family nor Professor Emerson had been in a hurry to disclose the existence of the illustrations to the public. It was said that Mrs. Emerson had finally convinced her husband to share the artwork with the world.

And now they’re gone,
thought Raven. She looked at the empty display cases and felt tears well up in her eyes.

She was about to report to the restoration lab, when her phone chimed with a text. It was from Patrick.

Where r u?

She quickly typed her reply.

Exhibition hall

She waited for Patrick’s response, but none came.

She scrolled through the texts she’d been sent during the past week, noting that both Patrick and Gina had sent several messages, escalating in concern. She’d missed several e-mails and phone messages as well.

With a sigh she took one last, sad look at the empty cases and exited the room. Down the corridor, she saw Patrick striding toward her.

“How did it go with the police?” His face was creased with worry.

“Not good.”

Patrick cursed.

“Come on.”

He took her hand and led her to one of the back staircases. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked to a quiet corner.

He released her hand and crossed his arms over his chest, standing close to her.

“What did they say?”

“They asked me a bunch of questions. They’re suspicious, obviously, and my inability to answer their questions makes me look guilty.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I have no idea where I was last week. My memory is all screwed up.”

“You don’t remember last week at all?” He sounded concerned.

“Nothing since Gina’s party. Maybe somebody slipped me something.” She avoided his eyes, examining her feet.

“No way.” Patrick’s tone was firm. “I was pouring drinks, remember? I know everyone who was there. No one would have slipped you something.”

“Then why can’t I remember?”

“I don’t know.” His expression grew even more tense. “Dottor Vitali wants to see you.”

“What?”

Patrick nodded in the direction of the director’s office. “He’s keeping tabs on everything having to do with the investigation, including your interview. And the Emersons just arrived. I saw the police escort them inside.”

Raven groaned. Of course the Emersons would be upset about the theft. And Professor Gabriel Emerson had a reputation for being a trifle . . . 
mercurial
.

Patrick continued. “I told Professor Urbano you were back, but I didn’t mention the police. He wants to see you after Vitali is done with you.”

“I liked it better when no one noticed me.”

Patrick frowned. “Hey. That’s the second time you’ve said something like that. Look around. I’m worried about you and so is Urbano. We’ve been stressed for a week wondering where you were.”

She chewed at the inside of her mouth. “Maybe you should be suspicious of me. I’m suspicious of me.”

Patrick took a step closer, leaning down so he was at eye level. “Don’t start with that shit. Remember what happened to Amanda Knox?”

Raven shivered. “Yeah.”

“She says she’s innocent. Maybe she is. But she was caught up in an Italian police investigation. By the time they were finished, everyone thought she was guilty. The American consulate can’t help you if you’re charged with a crime. Don’t give the police any ammunition.” Patrick squeezed her arm sympathetically. “You’d better get going. Vitali wants to see you right away.”

“He’s going to suspend me, isn’t he?”

Patrick squeezed her arm again. “I don’t know. But there has to be a reasonable explanation for what happened. We’ll find out, I promise.”

She gave him a wan smile before walking the few steps to Dottor Vitali’s office.

She knocked twice and waited.

The door was opened by a tall, handsome man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a white shirt and jeans, his feet clad in brown leather shoes.

His posture was anything but casual.

“Yes?” His expression, like his tone, was decidedly unfriendly.

“Good morning. Dottor Vitali asked to see me,” Raven replied in polite Italian.

The man opened the door wider, and Raven saw beyond him that Vitali was seated behind his desk, talking to a young woman who was holding a baby on her lap.

“What do you mean there aren’t any fucking fingerprints?” The man, who Raven surmised was Professor Emerson, brushed past her to stand in front of the desk.

“Gabriel.” The woman, who Raven assumed was his wife, glanced from the professor to the child in her arms.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Professor Emerson sounded contrite. He placed a hand on the baby’s head. “I meant
fracking
fingerprints.”

“That’s not really an improvement.” Mrs. Emerson gave him a half smile.

The child started fussing and tugging at her mother’s dress. She balled up a chubby fist and began chewing on it, but not before making a noise that sounded to Raven like a squawk.

“I think she’s hungry.” Mrs. Emerson gave an apologetic look to their host.

“Vitali, can we have a quiet room somewhere so Julianne can feed Clare?” Professor Emerson placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“Of course.” Vitali smiled, motioning to Raven to come forward. “And you are . . . ?”

Raven paused, embarrassed. “Raven Wood,
dottore
.”

Dottor Vitali took in her appearance with a look of incredulity.

Raven fidgeted.

Vitali glanced at his guests, appearing to recover from his shock.

“Miss Wood.” He began speaking English. “Bring Mrs. Emerson to the conference room. Then return here. I’d like to speak to you.”

“Of course.” Raven forced a smile, for the director’s tone and posture were noticeably cold.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Emerson stood, holding the baby in one hand and attempting to lift a purse and a large Coach messenger bag with the other.

Raven gestured to the hallway. “This way, please.”

The professor lifted the purse and bag, placing them over his wife’s shoulder, before stroking the baby’s head and kissing her.

Raven looked away as he embraced his wife, before stepping aside to let her pass.

“Come back when you’re ready, darling.” The professor smiled.

Mrs. Emerson nodded before addressing Raven in English. “Thank you. I tried to give Clare her breakfast at the hotel but she wouldn’t eat. I’m afraid we’re all jet-lagged.”

“No problem. The conference room is private and it’s just down the hall.” Raven gestured to their right as they exited the office, responding in English.

Mrs. Emerson was dressed in a simple black shirtdress, with black espadrilles that tied in wide bands around her ankles and shapely lower legs. She had shoulder-length brown hair, highlighted with gold, and big brown eyes. She was petite and young looking, with a very gentle way about her.

Next to her, Raven felt enormous and dowdy, as she always felt when standing next to a thin and beautiful person. (She was forgetting that she’d recently undergone a tremendous physical transformation.)

“Can I carry your bags, Mrs. Emerson?”

She laughed. “Call me Julia. We have to be the same age.”

“I’m almost thirty,” Raven blurted out.

“I’ll be thirty in a couple of years. So please call me Julia. If you’d carry the diaper bag, I’d be grateful.”

She held Clare with one hand while Raven pulled the bag from her shoulder.

Raven was unprepared for the weight and nearly dropped it, but managed to keep it from hitting the floor at the last moment.

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you.” Julia made a move to help her, but Raven waved her off and lifted the item with both hands.

“Gabriel wants to be prepared for any emergency and so he stuffs things into it when I’m not looking. I need a stroller for Clare and a stroller for the diaper bag.” She laughed. “Actually, I need a stroller for myself. Traveling with a baby is more challenging than I thought.”

“Are you staying nearby?”

“Yes, at the Gallery Hotel Art.” Julia’s expression brightened. “We’re here for a week, then we’re going to Umbria. Clare’s godmother is with us.”

“That’s nice.” Raven didn’t really know what to say.

“But we’re really upset about the robbery,” Julia confided, holding Clare close to her body. “The illustrations are more than just artwork to us. They have sentimental value. When Dottor Vitali called to say they’d been stolen . . .”

Julia nuzzled her daughter, as if she were trying to hide her face.

“I’m so sorry,” Raven whispered.

“Gabriel is hoping they’ll be recovered, but I’m not sure how likely that is. I guess all we can do is pray.

“It’s possible the illustrations were stolen once before and that’s how they came to belong to the family who sold them to my husband.” Julia sighed. “I guess we’ll never know.”

Raven was curious about her remark, since it was a possibility that had not been disclosed in Dottor Vitali’s leaflet. She elected not to press the point.

“The police are doing all they can. I hope they find them.”