The Estruscan Chimera

SIX. AREZZO

THE HOTEL I CHOSE IN AREZZO WAS rather more modest than the places I'd been enjoying heretofore on this jaunt through Europe for Crawford Lake. If anything, it was a little down at the heels. Like many of the lesser establishments in Italy, it was decorated in red: red curtains, red bedspread, red tiles in the bathroom. Usually, this kind of decor offends my aesthetic sensibility. That's an occupational hazard for someone like me who deals with beautiful places and objects on a daily basis: We are a little hard to please in this regard. Here in the tiny albergo off the Corso Italia, Arezzo's main street, however, I felt much more at home than I had in Lake's lovely and expensive boutique hotels. Obviously, I'm a shopkeeper, not an aristocrat, at heart. In addition to the questionable color scheme, there was the hot water, when there was any, that clanged noisily as it made its way through what surely were prehistoric pipes, and the sounds in the next room, the rhythmic creak of the bedsprings and the grunts and groans of a rather energetic couple, came through the walls as if they were cardboard, which maybe they were. Still, the place had one overwhelmingly positive feature: No one, with the exception of Antonio, assuming he picked up his voice mail messages, knew I was there. I'd been very careful about that. I'd called the car rental agency and convinced them that the car they'd leased to me stalled all the time and insisted they give me a new one, which they did. Then I called the hotel in Volterra and told them that I would be checking out earlier than anticipated. I went back to the room and as quickly as I could, packed my bag, settled my bill, paying for an extra day so there would be no argument, and then disappeared—at least I hoped that was what I'd done—into the sunset.

I'd pulled out a map and at random picked a town that was far enough away from Leclerc and the carabinieri but close enough to Volterra that I could still meet Lake wherever and whenever—and I sincerely hoped it would be soon—that he called. The town I chose was Arezzo.

The hotel had several advantages from my perspective. The staff was pleasant enough but not too familiar or, worse yet, curious, and the clientele was, by and large, transient: backpacking students and the occasional businessman who stayed only briefly. It also had a nice little breakfast room—it became the bar later in the day—and in it they served a decent cappuccino and a better than average breakfast of cold cuts, cheese, fruit, and lots of croissants and bread.

"Would you mind if I sat with you?" a voice asked the second morning I was there, as I was drinking my coffee and searching the newspaper in vain for any mention of a stolen Etruscan vase or the arrest of the man I knew as Pierre Leclerc. "The dining room is rather crowded, and I'm afraid there doesn't seem to be a free table."

I wanted to say no. A couple of days before, I'd been eager for some company. Now, given what had happened, all I wanted was to be left alone. I looked up to see a woman of perhaps sixty or sixty-five, gray curly hair and sunburned complexion, clad in jeans and a flowered shirt. She was tiny, an inch or two under five feet, with the delicate features that make me feel, although I'm average just about everything, like a galomphing giant. I found I couldn't bring myself to snub her. "Please," I said, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.

"Espresso, please," she said to the waiter. "Don't let me interrupt you," she said. "Go right ahead and read your paper."

"I'm finished with the first section," I said. "Would you like it? It's in Italian."

"I would, indeed," she replied. "And Italian is fine. You have saved me a few lire today. Thank you. I confess I'm watching my pennies. On a pension of sorts. I usually watch and see if anyone leaves one, then I pounce on it."

"My pleasure," I said. I turned back to the newspaper, hoping she wouldn't talk. I was disappointed.

"Are you touring around Tuscany?" she asked.

I set down the paper. It was hopeless. "Yes, I am," I said. Tourist was as good an explanation of my presence as anything. "How about you?"

"In a manner of speaking," she said. "I've been here in Arezzo for about a month now. No reason to go home, so I stay on."

"There are lots worse places than here," I offered.

"Indeed there are. I love it here. I even like this little hotel. I wish they'd use another color for the rooms though. I feel as if I'm staying in a bordello."

I laughed. "My sentiments exactly."

"Well, if you have nothing planned for today," she said. "You can always come and help me look for Lars Porsena."

"Who?" I said.

"You know," she said. " 'Lars Porsena of Clusium/ By the Nine Gods he swore.' "

" 'That the great house of Clusium/Should suffer wrong no more,' " I said. "I can't remember the rest of it."

" 'By the Nine Gods he swore it,' " she said. " 'And named a trysting day I joined in, and we finished it together. " 'And bade his messengers ride forth/East and west and south and north/To summon his array.' " We both laughed.

"I know I recited that in grade school, but I can't remember who wrote it, and I don't think I ever knew who Lars Porsena was."

"Thomas Babington Macaulay," she said. "That would be Baron Macaulay to you. Lays of Ancient Rome, published in 1842. Not much as poetry goes, but it has a certain schoolboy charm, wouldn't you say? We also have the baron to thank for Horatius at the bridge."

"I know that one, too," I said. " 'With weeping and with laughter/Still is the story told/How brave Horatius kept the bridge/In the brave days of old.' How's that?"

"Brava," she said. "I have only just met you, and already I know you are a woman of education and refinement. Even if you don't know who Lars Porsena was."

"I don't know where Clusium is, either."

"Clusium is Chiusi, just a few miles south of here. Several Tuscan towns are mentioned in the poem. Even Arezzo here, by its Roman name. 'The harvests of Arretium/This year, old men will reap.' Volterra, too. Volterra was called Volaterrae by the Romans. The Etruscans called it—"

"Velathri," I said.

"You do know about the Etruscans!" she said. ' 'From lordly Volaterrae/Where scowls the far-famed hold/Piled by the hands of giants/For godlike kings of old.' "

"Stop!" I groaned. "No more Macauley, please. 'Where scowls the far-famed hold.' What could that possibly mean? No, don't tell me. I want to know who Lars Porsena was."

"An Etruscan who tried to reestablish Etruscan rule in Rome sometime around 500 B.C.E. It is quite possible that he was successful, but if he was, it wasn't for long. His son was defeated at the battle of Aricia shortly thereafter. Porsena's supposed to be buried in an absolutely fantastic tomb, complete with labyrinth. It's never been found, although many have claimed to discover it. Giorgio Vasari was one who did. He was positioning, if that's the word, his patron, Cosimo de Medici. You know who he is, I presume?" I nodded. I most certainly did. Indeed I'd been lectured on the subject by none other than Crawford Lake, but I couldn't tell her that.

"Vasari was trying to persuade people that Cosimo was the new Lars Porsena. In any event, Vasari was wrong, I suppose about Cosimo, but certainly about the tomb. The tomb wasn't found then, and it hasn't been found since. For some reason, I took it into my head that I would come upon it first. It's supposed to be near Chiusi, Clusium, that is, which is just a few miles south of here. In fact it's supposed to be under Chiusi, 'sub urbe Clusio,' according to Pliny, who also said it was three hundred yards wide with a labyrinth, and topped by pyramids.

"There are tunnels under the city that some say are part of the labyrinth but I think were just drainage or water systems. I decided that the tomb could be just about anywhere in the area. I mean what did Pliny know? He was writing long, long after the event. I looked around Chiusi for a few weeks, then moved up to Cortona—that would be Curtun to the Etruscans— and then here. I'm working my way north. The wonderful thing about this project of mine is that many of the Etruscan cities evolved over the centuries into some of the most beautiful hill towns in Tuscany and Um-bria, if not all of Italy. You're welcome to come with me. I mean it. It's not too difficult, doesn't cost anything, gets you to some glorious countryside, and it's rather entertaining, in a way."

"I'm afraid I have a couple of things I must get done today," I said. I'd just confessed I was at loose ends, so this rang false, but if she was offended, she didn't give any indication.

"Maybe another time," she said.

"Yes, it sounds like fun," I said. I didn't tell her I'd already seen one Etruscan tomb too many. As I spoke, she quickly slipped a roll, a pear, and some cheese into her bag.

"I guess you saw that," she said. "I load up on breakfast. It saves me stopping for lunch. No, I suppose I should be truthful. It saves me having to buy my lunch. I'm on a rather strict budget."

"That's okay," I said. "I remember only too well doing that in my student days and even well beyond."

"Thanks," she said. "I'm Leonora Leonard, by the way. Ridiculous name, I know. Thank heavens women don't have to change their names when they get married now, so they don't have to be saddled with a name like that. Please call me Lola."

"Okay, Lola," I said. "I'm Lara. Lara McClintoch."

"Lara and Lola," she said. "I think we're going to make a good team."

"Perhaps we are," I said as I got up to leave. "See you later."

I tried Antonio's cell phone. Still no answer, much to my annoyance, so I stomped out of the hotel. I'd told Lola that I had things to do, and I suppose I did, although nothing of any urgency. I checked out a couple of antique stores on the Via Garibaldi, got myself some money from a bank machine, had some lunch, and then did a little grocery shopping. I treated myself to a rather fine bottle of Tuscan wine, a Rosso de Montalcino, plus bread, cheese, and some prosciutto and melon. It was starting to rain, and I thought if it really got miserable, I'd have a picnic in the room that evening.

My heart was in none of these activities, and I thought that perhaps I should have gone looking for Lars Porsena's tomb with Lola. As unlikely a task as it was, it seemed to serve more purpose than simply marking time, which was exactly what I was doing, waiting for Lake to call. I decided I might as well go back to the hotel and have a nap. Sleeping might make the time go faster.

As I approached the hotel, I saw a shape I recognized. It was Antonio, I was sure, and I went dashing after him. He was well ahead of me, moving along the Via Cavour toward the Church of San Francesco, and while I called his name, he didn't appear to hear me. He turned right onto Via Cesalpino, striding uphill quickly toward the Duomo, the high point of the town, with me in hot pursuit. I was gaining on him when he reached the top, but he got into a car parked there and drove off as I came puffing up. I watched in dismay as the car turned the corner a block or so from my position, heading down the Via San Lorentino, presumably for the city gate.

I dashed back to where I had parked my car, and although I knew it was hopeless, I tried to follow him. I got caught in traffic near the city gate and sat pounding the steering wheel in frustration. From there, the road out of town went steeply downhill, then on to the main road between Arezzo and Cortona. There was no sign of Antonio's car. He could have turned either north or south, and for no particular reason, I chose south. The road was not all that busy, but the visibility was obstructed by the rain and the fog that was rolling in from the fields on either side of the road. I passed a couple of sodden people on bicycles and one on foot. After several minutes of this, I decided to give up and turned the car around to head back to town.

I was almost back to town when I passed the person on foot a second time, and this time felt a twinge of recognition. I was in such a bad mood that I tried to ignore it and drive on, but a hundred yards or so past the hapless walker, I stopped, pulled over to the side of the road, and backed up.

I leaned over to open the passenger door. "You look like someone who could use a ride, Lola," I said.

"You have no idea how grateful I am for this," she said after she'd climbed in and I pulled away. "Looking for Lars was not particularly entertaining on this occasion, I must say. I am soaked right through to my undies." She was shivering as she spoke, and I turned up the heat. Her trousers were covered in mud up to her knees, and she had a smudge on her cheek. The rain had made its way past the collar of her wind-breaker, and there were streaks of wet down her flowered shirt.

"No tomb today, I guess," I said.

"Not today," she agreed. "Have you seen any of the Etruscan tombs?" she asked. "You really should, you know, while you're here."

"I've seen an Etruscan tomb of a sort," I said. "Someone I met in France was painting his own tomb in the Etruscan style, modeled on the tombs in Tarquinia. I've only seen pictures of the real thing, but this one looked pretty authentic."

"Painting his own tomb? Where would he be doing that?"

"In his basement," I said.

She laughed out loud, a deep, rumbling laugh that seemed to come from her toes. "Another victim of Etruscomania," she said. "Has to be. It's an incurable mental disease, I'm afraid, although I haven't heard that it's been properly documented as such by the medical profession. But what do they know? I'd like to meet this person."

"Unfortunately, he's dead," I said.

"What happened?"

"He fell into the tomb—from the main floor."

"Oh," she said. "That's terrible." Then she started to giggle, and much to my amazement, I did, too.

"It's really not funny," I said, gasping for breath.

"No, indeed it is not," she agreed between fits of laughter. "It just sounds so ridiculous. I've always said that Etruscomania is a terminal condition. I've just never thought of it quite that literally."

"He was absolutely bonkers, I have to tell you. He just kept maundering on about the Etruscans, and some Societa he was a member of," I said.

"An academic group of some kind?"

"I have no idea. There can only be thirteen members, twelve plus one, whatever that means."

"One for each Etruscan city state, I'd think," she said. "The Dodecapolis. It was a loose federation of Etruscan cities. They met every year at—"

"Velzna," I said.

"Yes," she said. "Velzna or Volsinii to the Romans. I think you know more about the Etruscans than you're letting on. There are any number of organizations that get together to study the Etruscans. If it's not expensive, I'd probably like to join."

"Somebody has to die before you can get in," I said.

"Then maybe I don't want to join. Come to think of it, though, there's a vacancy, isn't there, now your friend is dead? Maybe someone killed him so they could take his place. Now there's a thought," she said.

We both dissolved into giggles again. "This really is silly, isn't it?" I said.

"Silly but creepy," she said.

Lola's teeth were chattering by the time we got back to the hotel. "You've caught a chill," I said to her, sounding like my mother. "I think you should go to your room and have a hot bath right away."

"Good idea, but there is a flaw. There's no hot water this time of day," she said.

"That's true," I said. In fact, the only way to get a hot shower was to leap out of bed the moment you heard the pipes clank, about six in the morning. That's when the water got turned on, or at least got up to a half-decent temperature. After that, it was pretty much tepid, if not downright cold, water for the rest of the day.

"Too bad," I said. "Are there any messages for me?" I said, turning to the young man at the desk.

"No," he said, checking my box.

"Are you sure?" I demanded. "Did someone not come and ask for me this afternoon?"

"I wasn't on duty," he said.

"Then could you check with someone who was, please," I said.

The boy, with some reluctance, opened the door behind the counter and poked his head around the corner. "There was," he said a moment later. "A man. We rang your room when he came, but there was no answer.

He didn't leave a message. He said it wasn't urgent, and he'd come back later."

Not urgent? It was, from my point of view. "Did he say when?"

"I don't know," the boy said. I glared at him. He poked his head around the door again. "No," he said. "He didn't."

Annoyed, I turned back to Lola. She was taking some olives from a small bowl on a table in the lounge. I was about to go to my room in a snit and leave her to fend for herself, but she looked so pathetic in her muddy, rumpled clothes that I couldn't do it.

"I have an idea," I said, taking her arm. "How does a glass or two of a really fine red wine sound to you? A little cheese, a little bread, and maybe even some prosciutto and melon."

"You're toying with me," she said.

"It's in my room," I whispered, signaling we should be quiet so the kid at the desk wouldn't hear.

"I'm your slave for life," she said.

We went up the stairs to the second floor arm in arm, then down the hall to my room. I unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. As I did so, I caught sight, out of the corner of my eye, of a flash of bub-blegum pink blanket.

"Oh, my," Lola said. "What is that?"

SEVEN. CORTONA

LONG AGO, I HAD A GROUP OF FRIENDS who enjoyed a running gag. One of us had received, as a birthday gift from her mother-in-law, one of the ugliest platters ever produced. That Christmas, the original recipient of the monstrosity wrapped it up in an elaborate fashion and gave it to another member of the group. Soon the platter was being passed from one friend to another in more and more ingenious ways. It arrived in pizza boxes, was slipped into kitchen cupboards when no one was looking, hidden in garden sheds, or taped to the back of a box of laundry detergent when no one was looking. It was even placed in a toilet tank. You just never knew when that unpleasant object was going to turn up in your home. Contemplating the chimera hydria, swaddled in its pink blanket on my bed, I thought of that platter. The only difference was that one was a gift from a relative with no taste. The other was a priceless, stolen, twenty-five-hundred-year-old antiquity.

"It's gorgeous," Lola said. "Can I have a closer look?"

"Ah, sure," I said.

"It almost looks real," she said. "I mean, it looks authentic. Except it's so perfect. If it were old, it would have some flaws, cracks and things like that, wouldn't it? Wherever did you find it?"

"A student made it," I said. "An art student in Rome. I ordered a few more. We'll put them out and see how they do, and if they sell well, I'll reorder. I co-own an antique shop in Toronto, you see. Did I mention that?" Amazing how the lies were just tripping off my tongue these days.

"An antique shop! How lovely!" she said. "I've always wanted to do something like that."

"It would look good with the antique furniture we sell," I said. "If someone was looking for accessories and such."

"Yes, I can see that," she said. "Good idea. But he— is it a he or a she?"

"Who?" I said.

"The art student."

"It's a he." One has to be vigilant when telling tales.

"He hasn't signed it."

"Hasn't he?" I said. "You're quite right, he hasn't."

"He should. You wouldn't want to be stopped by customs," she said. "Someone who doesn't know anything about it, thinking it's an antiquity."

"That's good advice," I said. "I'll make sure he signs the others I've ordered."

"This one, too, if you can send it back to him. Isn't it illegal to even possess certain antiquities in Italy? I'm sure I read that somewhere. Or maybe it was India. In any event, you can't be too careful."

"Point taken," I said. I really wanted to scream at her to shut up, but then the phone rang.

"Hello," the familiar voice said. Lake was almost whispering. "Is that—"

"Lara McClintoch speaking," I said rather formally for both Lake and Lola's benefit.

"Look, it wasn't supposed to go this way," he said.

"No, it wasn't," I agreed. "Would you like to set a time and place for us to meet, Signore Marchese?" I said.

"Who? I see: You're not alone, are you?" he said.

"No, I'm not," I said, smiling at Lola and gesturing at the bottle, while digging a corkscrew out of my purse with my free hand.

"Have you got the chimera vase?" he asked.

"Yes, I do."

"Good. I think it's our only chance."

"I agree," I said. I'd have to tell him about Plan A.

"Where and when should we meet?" I repeated.

"Do you know Cortona?" he said.

"I know where it is, if that's what you mean. Not intimately, though."

"Do you know the Tanella di Pitagora?"

"No."

"Someone's coming. I've got to go. Meet me at the Tanella di Pitagora at seven A.M. tomorrow morning. There won't be anyone there, then. Bring it with you."

"But Signore—" The phone clicked in my ear. I had found the conversation more than a little annoying. I was going to have to get up awfully early the next morning to head out to find something called a tanella, in a town I'd never been to before, with absolutely no instructions on how to find it, or even what it was. I thought the word meant den, but that left me no wiser.

"How's the wine?" I asked, trying to sound normal.

"Really lovely," she said. "You are so kind."

"This looks nice," I said, admiring the way she'd arranged the food on paper plates on the tiny table by the window.

"Not much of a view, is it?" she said, pulling the curtain against the dull grayness outside. "My room's across the hall, but the view is much the same. No fire escape, perhaps, but another blank stone wall on the building next door. Shouldn't complain, though. The price is right. So tell me about your antique shop," she said, as we clinked glasses and sipped the wine.

I told her all about it, how I'd started the business, married Clive and then divorced him, losing the shop when I had to sell it to give him half as part of the divorce settlement. Then, how I'd bought back in, and now Clive and I were back in business together. I told her that my best friend, Moira, and Clive were now partners, a confession that made her raise her eyebrows theatrically. I told her just about everything, chattering away nervously, while I kept glancing at the chimera hydria, despite every effort not to, and starting whenever she looked at it.

"Your turn," I said finally, as I poured more wine. "What have you been doing for the last several years?" We both laughed.

"I was a secretary for many years, over twenty, actually. I suppose now one says something fancy like admin assistant, but still, I was secretary to the president of a manufacturing company. We made auto parts. I started as the receptionist and worked my way up from the typing pool."

"Good for you," I said.

"I suppose," she said. "I married very young, you see, and when it didn't work out the way it was supposed to, and I was on my own, I had to get a decent job. But it didn't turn out very well."

"How so?" My mind was racing, trying to figure out how to first of all put the chimera hydria away somewhere so neither she nor I could see it, and then to turn the conversation around to some subject that would permit me to ask directions to the Tanella in Cortona.

"Here I am, broke, and relying on the kindness of strangers. Not that you feel like a stranger, but you know what I mean. I wouldn't be drinking Rosso de Montalcino and eating prosciutto if it weren't for you."

"So what happened? Did the company go bankrupt or something?"

"No. In fact it was very, very successful. I got fired when the president died suddenly. Heart attack. His son took over, and poof, I was gone."

"That's not fair," I said.

"I suppose it sounds that way, but I got what I deserved," she said.

"Why on earth would you think you deserved that?"

She was silent for a minute. "Because," she said, "I behaved very badly. For several years that I worked for him, we were lovers. His wife was a good friend, too. Oh, I can't believe I'm telling you this," she said, putting her hand up to her mouth. "It must be the wine. You are going to think so badly of me."

"You're hardly the first secretary to find herself in that position," I shrugged. "And who's to say, anyway? Why would I judge you for that?"

"You're very generous," she said. "In more ways than one. I think my behavior was reprehensible, even if I was wildly in love with him. I feel terribly guilty about it still. Getting fired was a relief. His son called me in the first day, said he needed someone more in tune with the times to assist him, and handed me a check. I suppose his mother must have known all along. How awful for her."

"I hope you got a decent settlement, whether the son and his mother knew or not. After all, you'd worked there a long time. Over twenty years, didn't you say?"

"I gave most of it to charity," she said. "Part of my penance, I suppose."

"Isn't that rather—I don't know—Calvinist, of you?" I said.

"Calvinist." She laughed. "That's an interesting way of putting it. There are days I wish I were Catholic. Confession might help. I can't even bring myself to go to any place of worship, though. I haven't since I took up with George. That was his name: George. It seemed rather hypocritical to pray to God when I was acting the way I was."

"So how have you managed to get by, then?" I said. "Did you get another job?"

"I took a few temporary assignments. I was too old to get another permanent position."

"So how did you get from temp assignments to looking for what's his name's tomb?"

"Lars Porsena. One day, after a particularly trying assignment, I ran into an old acquaintance of mine. We were reminiscing about the summer we'd spent in Italy many years ago, working on an archaeology project at Murlo, Poggio Civitate, a great site south of Siena. We'd both signed up as volunteers on a dig being conducted by Bryn Mawr. It was the most wonderful summer of my life, I have to tell you, and suddenly I just decided to come back to Tuscany. I have some savings, and I think my Italian is good enough that I may be able to do some secretarial work from time to time. Finding the tomb of Lars Porsena was as good an excuse as any."

"And are you glad you did it?"

"You know, I am. I still get mad when I think about those louts, both of them, father and son, but when I'm out in the countryside poking around, I feel quite at peace. Telling you about it is making me angry again, though, so let's talk about something else."

"That's a remarkable story," I said. "But if you want to change the subject, I have a question for you. I've been thinking of doing some sightseeing tomorrow in Cortona. Is there anything you'd recommend I see while I'm there?"

"Yes, indeed. There's a nice museum, not huge, but a lovely collection. It has a fabulous Etruscan bronze lamp."

"I was thinking more outdoors." I don't know what made me think a tanella was outdoors, but given that I was reasonably sure that the word meant den, it made sense to me that it would be.

"Cortona itself is quite wonderful. Medieval hill town. It's certainly worth many hours of wandering.

I'm into Etruscan stuff, of course, so I'm slightly biased in what I'd recommend. As is the case with most of the old Etruscan city sites, there's not much Etruscan left to be seen. There are a couple of places, though, that are quite worth seeing: I'd be sure to go to see the Meloni and the Tanella di Pitagora."

"What's that?"

"The Meloni are tombs, melon-shaped, as the name implies."

"And the Tanella?"

"It's wonderful," she said. "It's an Etruscan tomb as well, but very unusual. It's barrel-shaped and sits on a very large stone base. The roof is supported—I'm telling you more than you care to know, I'm sure."

"It sounds very interesting," I said. "Where would I find it?"

"It's not difficult to find. You take the Arezzo-Perugia road toward Cortona. It's about two kilometers from the highway, on the main road into Cortona. You just follow the signs for archaeological sites. The tanella is well marked. It's partway up the hill on the way to the old town. You can just park on the side of the road and walk up. It's not far. You're supposed to make an appointment at the museum to see it, but don't worry about that. Just follow the fence around, and you'll find a place you can crawl under without too much effort."

"I'll do that," I said, picking up the wine bottle. "There's still some wine left. I vote we finish it."

Her reply was interrupted by loud banging on a door down the hall. "What is that?" I said.

"Signora Leonard, open the door," a voice said. I turned and looked at Lola. Her face was white as a sheet, and her hands were shaking. "No, please," she said. The banging continued for a minute or so, and doors opened and slammed down the corridor, as other guests presumably looked into the hall to see what was going on. There was a pause, finally, and the sound of a door opening, then a few seconds later closing, and then footsteps in the hall, heading in our direction. Soon there was a sharp knock on my door. We both stood motionless, hoping it would go away, but then I heard the clink of keys. It was obvious if I didn't answer, they'd come in anyway. "Who's there?" I said, grabbing my bathrobe.

"Polizia," the voice replied.

"One minute, please," I said, quickly pulling off my blouse and pants and putting on the robe. I motioned Lola to get into the bathroom. She just stood there as if rooted to the ground. I scooped up the hydria from the bed and handed it to her, gave her a push, which got her going, and slowly opened the door a crack, as the bathroom door clicked shut.

"What is it?" I said. Two police officers stood at the door, one tall and thin with a rather dashing mustache, the other short and rather plump. They did not introduce themselves. Behind them, looking nervous, was the young man from the front desk.

"We are sorry to disturb you, Signora," the short one said, looking at my bathrobe and almost leering. "We're looking for Signora Leonora Leonard."

"I'm afraid you have the wrong room," I said, pulling the robe tight around me. "I believe she is staying down the hall."

"She's not there," the tall police officer said.

"Looks as if she took off without paying," the young man from the front desk said. "Clothes gone and everything." The taller man glared at the kid, who blushed.

"She was here," I said, "For a drink. But she left." I knew the kid had seen me talking to Lola and might even have heard me invite her up to the room, so denying it would be a very bad idea. Lola had, however, neglected to mention the fact that she was no longer a resident of this hotel.

"Do you mind if we have a look?" the tall one said. I opened the door and stood in front of them, but they pushed past me.

"You didn't finish your wine," the tall one said, looking at the table. Two half-full glasses of wine sat there, along with the remains of our picnic.

"No," I said. "We'd had enough."

"Good wine," he said, picking up the bottle and peering at the label. "I wouldn't waste it, if I were you. Did she mention where she was going? Signora Leonard, that is?"

"No," I said. "I'm afraid not. I just assumed she was going back to her room. I wasn't aware she'd left the hotel, and she didn't mention it. I don't really know her very well, of course. We just met this morning."

The short policeman peered into the closet, then walked over to the bathroom door and pushed it open. He looked in but didn't actually walk into the room.

"Sorry to bother you," he said at last, and the three of them left. I half expected one of them to ask me to get in touch with them if I saw her, but they didn't. I closed the door and waited as their footsteps receded down the hallway. After opening the door a crack, just to make sure they were gone, and then securely locking the door, I leaned into the bathroom.

"It's okay, Lola," I said quietly. "They've left." Silence greeted my words. I pushed back the shower curtain. No Lola. I checked behind the door. It took me a minute to realize that the window was unlatched, although it was pushed closed. I opened it and looked out onto the fire escape. No Lola there, either. I couldn't see anyone down in the alleyway below, and there was no sound except the drip of the rain and the sound of cars out on the street to the left. "If it's a money problem," I called down as quietly as I could. "I could lend you some cash to pay your hotel bill." Still no answer. I could only assume that Lola was gone. It took another minute or so to realize that the chimera hydria had gone with her.

AT SOME POINT IN OUR WINE-FUELED Exchange of confidences, Lola had told me that Cortona was the site of a major battle between two implacable enemies, the legions of Rome and the Carthaginian general Hannibal, who, seeking to avenge his family's earlier defeat, had done the impossible and marched on Rome from the north by crossing the Alps in the dead of winter.

Ever the clever strategist, Hannibal ambushed the Roman army, under Flaminius, in the early morning, when, as is often the case, a thick mist covered the low-lying areas at the foot of the hill on which Cortona stood. The Romans, lost in the fog, panicked, some of them to be cut down by Hannibal's troops and the Etruscans of Cortona, who came down upon them from the hilltop. Others, disoriented, fled, only to plunge into nearby Lake Trasimeno and drown.

I know exactly how the Romans felt. It was pitch dark as I left the hotel and negotiated the road between Arezzo and Cortona. A thick fog covered the road that morning, too, and from time to time headlights of oncoming cars would appear out of the haze, startling me. I missed the turnoff for the town and had to do a U-turn, a hazardous undertaking at the best of times, and almost suicidal under the circumstances, narrowly missing a collision with a red sports car heading the other way.

The mist thinned only slightly as I started up the hill toward the town. I almost passed the sign for the Ta-nella di Pitagora but caught sight of it just in time. Cautious now, and a little frightened by the isolation of the place, I drove around the next switchback before pulling the car over to the side.

I walked back to the sign for the archaeological site and followed a path up the side of the hill, moving as quietly and carefully as I could. It was still dark, just before dawn, but the sky was lightening. The Tanella, a rather odd-shaped, arched stone structure on a large stone pad, sat perched on the side of the hill, surrounded by cypresses, in a enclosure of chain-link fence. There was a gate, locked, and a bell to summon the custodian, but no one was there.

I circled the enclosure on the uphill slope so that I could see someone coming from the road below. Sure enough, as Lola had predicted, there was a place on the downhill side of the site where the fence had been pulled up, and where someone with a reasonable degree of agility could climb under and up a slight rise to the tomb.

I was several minutes early, deliberately so, and found myself a position, a rather damp one, where I could watch the site without, I hoped, being seen, and settled down to wait. I tried not to think too much about my circumstances. I'd had pretty much the whole night to think about Lola and the vase, and what exactly it was I was going to say to Lake when he asked to see it. 'Where is it?' would be only one of the many questions for which I had no answers. For instance, how had the vase gotten in my room in the first place? Had it been delivered to the hotel and placed in my room by the staff? I went down to the desk after Lola's disappearance, but the day porter had gone home and wouldn't be back for a couple of days. Antonio himself? But why? And how had he gotten in, in the first place? The last person who had it was the unpleasant Pierre Leclerc or whatever his name was. If Lake wanted it, and Antonio had it, why didn't he just give it to him? And what about Lola in all of this? Had she just seen an opportunity and taken it, knowing, given her interest in the Etruscans, that it was real, despite my ridiculous story about the art student, or was she more actively involved in this mess?

Seven o'clock came and went with no sign of Lake, and soon a slight breeze caused the mist to swirl. Rather than thinning, it became thicker, as the valley mists started to lift with the sunrise. Soon I could see no more than a few feet around me. Olive trees that had been quite distinct a few minutes earlier became ghostlike wraiths that hovered about me. Sounds became muffled, and I couldn't discern the direction they were coming from.

I had a sense of unreality, of being in some netherworld where alien beings, malignant in intent, lurked.

I thought I heard footsteps, but then I wasn't sure. Next I thought I heard voices, whispers almost, but it could have been the wind in the cypresses or early morning birdcalls.

A minute or two later, I was certain there was someone nearby. A foot slid in the mud, and a slight cough pierced the silence.

"She's not here," a voice said. I think that's what I heard.

"She'll be here," another voice said.

"Then we wait," said the first. Utter silence followed. I sat on the wet ground, wondering whether to announce myself or wait until the mist rose and I could see who was there.

All of a sudden, there was a great flapping of wings and a shriek. Was it a bird? A person crying out in terror? I didn't know.

I simply could not sit there another minute. I got up, and without worrying about how much noise I was making, tried to make my way back to the road. I could just see a few feet in front of me and had only a vague sense of whether I was heading up the hill or down. I kept telling myself that, because of the switchbacks, I had to come out to the road at some point. Just when I thought I should have reached safety, I found myself back at the Tanella. Mist swirled about the stones, and what just a few minutes before had been an interesting architectural novelty was now cold and menacing. For just a second, I could have sworn I saw a man on the downside of the hill, his back to me, but then he disappeared, if he existed at all, into the fog.

The Tanella had given me my bearings, so I went uphill, away from the man I might or might not have seen. There was a path of sorts, and I took it, keeping my eye on the ground ahead of me. A bump appeared on the path. It took only a second or two to ascertain that the bump was a man, that man was Pierre Leclerc, and that Pierre Leclerc was dead, garrotted. The wire was still around his throat. I stumbled the remaining few yards to the road and, scratched and frightened, got into my car and fled.

As I headed back down the slope, a police car, blue light flashing, came up the road from below. In my agitated state, I debated about flagging them down and telling them about Leclerc. Fortunately, I didn't have to. As I rounded the next turn, I saw the car pull over at the bottom of the path that led to the Tanella, and two carabinieri get out and head up the hill.

I went back to the hotel, packed, and checked out, and moved again, this time to a hotel in Cortona. I left only my cell phone number on Antonio's voice mail.

EIGHT. CORTONA

THE DARK FIGURE, FACE HOODED against the rain, stared for a moment at the osteria's window display, then walked past it and turned the corner down a tight little cobblestoned street. A few yards along the way, a door was checked, then the end of the street surveyed. As I watched, the figure turned right, then right again, and went into a church, reappearing a minute or two later, finally retracing the route back to the osteria.

"Hello, Lola," I said. "You have something of mine that I would like back, please."

She started and turned as if to flee, but I had blocked her escape route.

"You have no business with something like that," she said, obviously deciding that the best defense was a strong offense. "I may not know antiquities the way you do, but I bet that hydria is real. I have no idea how you got it, and I'll give you the benefit of the doubt that you think it's legal, even though you made up that ridiculous story about an art student. I saw the way you looked at it, and kept looking at it. It's Etruscan, and it should be in a museum, not in the hands of a collector!"

"Lola," I said. "Believe me, you do not want to have that hydria. It could be dangerous. If you would give me a—"

"People blame the tombaroli" she said. "But they are usually just poor farmers. If there wasn't a market for what they loot, they wouldn't do it. Who said that collectors are the real looters?"

"Ricardo Elia," I said. "But Lola—"

"I'd say he would have been more accurate if he'd said collectors and dealers like you! People who buy the treasures, or even steal them, then smuggle them out of the country—"

"Lola!" I exclaimed. "Shut up for a minute." She was waving her arms about, and speaking louder and louder, and people were beginning to stare at us. "I am not planning to smuggle the vase out of the country," I whispered. "I smuggled it in."

"Oh, right," she said. "What kind of idiot do you take me for? Smuggling an Italian treasure into Italy!"

"Well, it's true," I said. "I have a client who wants to return it to the museum it was stolen from. Now, where is it?"

"Why should I believe you?" she said.

"That's a very good question, Lola. I don't know quite what to believe about you, either. Why should I be standing here in the rain trying to reason with someone who leaves hotels without paying, thereby attracting the attention of the polizia, and who steals something from someone she's been sharing a picnic dinner with only moments earlier? Answer that one for me, will you?"

"Because I have something you want?" she said.

We stood glaring at each other, rain dripping off our noses. My jeans were wet up to the knees, my shoes soaked through to my socks. "Let's go in and get something to eat and discuss this somewhere dry," I said at last.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

"Yes, you are. I saw you doing your little match girl impersonation at all the food store windows, and just now you were checking out an escape route, weren't you? You chose this restaurant because it's on a corner, and has a back door. You were planning to eat and run, weren't you? Maybe duck into the church and hide in the confession box?"

She didn't answer, but she couldn't meet my gaze. I suddenly felt very sorry for her. "You won't have to, because lunch is my treat."

"I don't need charity," she sniffed. I couldn't tell if it was the rain or tears on her face.

"You can buy next time," I said. "Now, let's eat." I took her by the elbow and led her into the restaurant. It was a tiny little place, with a rather gruff proprietor, but it was warm and dry, the food was delicious, and the house wine just fine. For awhile, we stuck to neutral subjects: the weather, the relative merits of Cortona versus Arezzo, her ongoing search for Lars Porsena's tomb.

"It was nice of you to offer to lend me the money to pay my hotel bill," she said suddenly. "I did hear you, down in the lane, but I didn't say anything. I will pay it off, you know. I have found myself some work, a little freelance bookkeeping for a lawyer. I start next week, just a few hours a week, but I sent the hotel all the money I have and told them the rest would come as soon as I was able to send more. I hope that takes care of the polizia thing. I'd have paid off the restaurant with my first paycheck, too, if you hadn't come along."

"The offer still stands, Lola," I said, thinking that there were still a few dollars left in my now rather emaciated Swiss bank account. "But we need to talk about the hydria."

"You're not going to tell me again that you smuggled it into Italy, are you?"

"Yes. I found it in France," I said. That was true. I wasn't going to tell her I found it in the trunk of my car in France. That would be too much for just about anybody. "I have, as I said, a client—I'm not at liberty to reveal his name—who wants to return it to the museum it was stolen from."

"Where might that be?" she said.

"Vulci," I said.

"That makes sense," she said. "Vulci, or Velc, was a center for the production of Etruscan pottery. Some of the greatest Etruscan artists, like the Micali painter, were based in Vulci. ,It looks like the Micali painter, by the way, or one of his followers. Did you know that?"

"I thought it might be, but it would take an expert to ascertain that," I said. It was Micali school, the Interpol database said as much. I was afraid if she knew that, she'd never take a chance on returning it to me.

"You do know what you've got here, don't you?" she said. "Or at least what I... we've got."

"I think so," I said. I assumed she was talking about Micali. I liked the idea of we, though. It sounded promising in terms of my getting it back.

"Would I recognize the name of this client of yours? Given that you can't reveal it?"

"Probably," I said. "Where's the hydria?"

"It's safe," she said. "You have to tell me the name of the client."

"I really can't."

"Then you'll not get the hydria back."

That was progress of a sort. At least she was considering returning it to me.

"You'll have to promise not to tell," I said. There seemed no way around this, despite Lake's requirement for anonymity.

"I promise," she said. I looked at her carefully. "Cross my heart and hope to die," she said.

"You haven't got your fingers crossed behind your back, or anything, have you?" I said.

She grimaced, placed both hands on the table, and said, "I promise."

"Crawford Lake," I said.

"The Crawford Lake?" she said. I nodded. "Wow," she said. "Have you met him?" I nodded again. "In person?"

"Yes," I said.

"Where?"

"In his apartment in Rome. Why does this matter?"

"I'm not sure I believe you. I've heard no one gets to see him."

A cell phone was ringing somewhere in the osteria. It took me a minute to realize it was mine.

"Hello," I said.

"What happened?" Lake said.

"Why don't you tell me?" I replied.

"I'm told there were other people there. Did you bring them with you?"

"I did not. What do you mean by 'I'm told'? Were you there?"

"Of course not," he said. "I sent one of my people. Did you tell anyone about this meeting?"

"No!" I said. "Did you?"

"Where are you staying?" he asked, ignoring my question. "I called your hotel, and they said you'd checked out. You know you are supposed to let me know where you are at all times. Why didn't you tell me you'd moved?"

"I'm in the general area," I said cautiously. "And I left a message for Antonio, telling him I was on the move and letting him know you or he should call me on my cell phone, which is what you're doing."

He sighed loudly.

"And about Leclerc?" I said, waiting for his reaction.

"Leclerc who?" he said. "What are you talking about?" I said nothing. There had been nary a word in the papers or anywhere that I could find about a body found near the Tanella. I was beginning to think I'd been hallucinating in that fog.

"Where are you staying?" he said. "I'll contact you there later and set up a rendezvous place and time."

"Why don't we set it up right now?" I said. The man was beginning to annoy me.

"Today, then. I must have that vase," he said.

"Fine. Just tell me where and when. Please make it somewhere I can see you; that is, not in a fog bank, and not at night. Right out in the open. And come yourself this time."

"The Melone di Sodo," he said.

"Just a minute," I said. I put him on hold. "Do you know a Melone di Sodo?"

"Sure," Lola said. "Melon-shaped tombs here in Cortona. Is it him?"

"Yes."

"Ask him which one."

"Which one?" I said to Lake.

"The big one. Melone two."

"Melone two," I said, so that Lola could hear. She nodded.

"Five o'clock. Melone two. It's Sunday, so there'll be no one working there. It will be private. Bring the vase."

"Okay, Lola," I said, putting away my cell phone. "Here's the deal. You come to that Melone tomb at five this afternoon. With the hydria. I introduce you to my client. If you believe him and me, you hand it over."

"Okay," she said. "I guess that's fair. Do you want directions to the Melone? It's actually just across the Arezzo-Cortona road from where you turned up toward the town to get to the Tanella."

"Yes. Do you want me to pick you up and take you there?"

"No," she said. "I'd like to meet Lake. I'll be there."

“I hope you will, I thought.

"Here," I said, handing her a hundred thousand lira note. "A loan to tide you over. You can take a taxi from town if you want."

She looked at it for a minute. "Is it a loan or a bribe?"

"It's a loan," I said firmly. After a moment's hesitation, she took it.

"Thank you," she said. "I'll pay it back."

At four o'clock, I was at the Melone. It was a huge mound, melon-shaped as could be predicted from its name, surrounded by fencing. It was under excavation, and on the eastern side, below ground level, there was a large staircase, ceremonial in nature, that had been uncovered. Around the back, to the west, were two very long and narrow shafts, which I presumed were tombs of some sort.

I carefully scouted the site, not wanting a repeat of my awful experience at the Tanella. Lake had acceded to my wishes for a more open spot. The main road was clearly visible from the site. To the south of the mound was a slight incline, and beyond that, a narrow road, then a grassy area. I found a spot where I could see, but once again, hopefully not be seen until I was ready to be. It had stopped raining, and the sun was low in the sky, so I was careful to have my back to it. I'd brought a sheet of plastic to sit on this time, so I settled down reasonably comfortably to wait.

At about quarter to five, I heard a motor scooter approaching, and a man clad in jeans, tan jacket, and a helmet, appeared. I was worried it was someone checking the site, and that we might be interrupted, but when he took off the helmet, I saw, with some surprise, that it was not Lake, as might be expected, but Antonio. I was about to stand up and wave to him when he wheeled his motor scooter, a rather dashing purple number, around the corner where it couldn't be seen by anyone approaching from the highway. Then he, too, hid from view. It seemed a little peculiar, so I decided to remain hidden.

About five minutes later, Lola hove into view, walking along the edge of the highway and turning down the dirt and gravel lane that led to the site. She was walking rather slowly, indeed limping a little, and she looked vulnerable and tired. She must have walked a fair distance carrying a large wicker picnic basket, not by the handle, but in her arms as if it was a baby, or, given current circumstances, a priceless treasure. I hardly dared hope. As she came nearer, I could see the corner of a bright pink blanket protruding from the basket. Thank you, Lola, I thought.

I was just about to stand up when, from out of nowhere, three police cars appeared, blue lights flashing, sirens screaming, streaking down the hill from the town across the main road. They crossed it and bounced down the dirt road toward us. Lola stumbled and started to run, but she was immediately surrounded by six carabinieri, guns drawn. One of them grabbed the basket, opened it, and with a triumphant gesture held the hydria aloft so that the others could see it. Lola stood there, completely stunned, her mouth moving, but no sound that I could hear coming from her. In a matter of seconds, she was handcuffed, roughly pushed into the backseat of one of the police cars, and the three backed up the road to the highway, then sped away.

I sat there, absolutely aghast, until the cough of a motor scooter springing to life brought me back to my senses. It was too late. As I stood up, Antonio roared away and soon was a mere speck on the horizon. I sat on the plastic sheet, watching the sun set, until my cell phone rang.

"Something very bad has happened," Antonio said. He was not bothering to practice his English anymore, and was speaking so rapidly in Italian I was having trouble understanding him. "It is fortunate that you were not at the Melone. I believe you're in danger. We both are. Get away from here. Go home. Don't tell anyone about this."

"I know what happened," I said.

"How could you know? Are you, too, part of this?"

"Part of what?" He didn't say anything, but I could practically hear his brain working. "I was hiding out the same way you were."

"I don't believe you," he said.

"Nice scooter," I said. "Lovely plum color."

"If you saw, then you must understand it is necessary for you to go away."

"I can't," I said.

"What's to stop you?"

"Leonora Leonard. Better known as Lola," I said.

"Who is Lola?"

"Lola is the woman we both watched being ambushed by the police and carted away in handcuffs, probably because she hasn't paid her hotel bill, but now probably because she has been found in possession of an Etruscan hydria. A stolen Etruscan hydria to be precise. The same stolen hydria you placed in my hotel room in Arezzo. She had it in safekeeping." That was something of a lie of omission, but in a way, true. "She was bringing it to me so I could give it to your employer, so he could be a hero. I think that pretty much obliges both him and me to try to help her."

"I didn't do that," he said.

"What?" I said. "You didn't do what?"

"Put the pot in your hotel room."

"I saw you near my hotel," I said.

"Yes, but I didn't put it there."

"Who did?"

"I can't tell you."

"Antonio!" I exclaimed in exasperation. "Tell me right now!"

"You don't understand," he said. "I don't know who it was. It wasn't supposed to be like this. There is nothing I can do to help your friend."

"Yes, there is. You can talk to Mr. Lake and tell him he must come here to straighten this all out. Or better still, you can take me to him, and I'll talk to him about it. One word from him, and all would be well."

"No," he said. "That is a very bad idea."

"Then I'll have to find him myself."

"No!" he repeated. "It won't do any good. Hold on, don't go away." There was a pause. "I had to put more coins in the phone."

"Why won't it?"

"Why won't what?"

"Please don't be evasive, Antonio. Why won't it do any good to go to Mr. Lake?"

"I can't tell you."

"Then I'm going to the police."

"Don't you understand? I think that's what you're supposed to do."

"I guess I don't understand, Antonio. Why don't you explain it all to me?"

"You, I, that woman, what's her name, are all pawns."

"Of Lake?"

"Sort of," he said.

"I'm going to the police," I repeated. "Your name is certain to come up in the conversation. Your lovely Teresa isn't going to see you for a long, long time."

"No, please. We must discuss this. Not by telephone. I will try to explain everything. Now I'm running out of coins. There's a little town called Scrofiano south and west of here. Near Sinalunga. There's a house a mile or so outside the town." He gave directions rapidly. "Tonight."

"Not tonight," I said. There was no way I was wandering around in the dark under the circumstances.

"Tomorrow morning then. Early."

"Not until the fog has lifted," I said. "Noon."

"Noon might be too late," he said. "Make it ten."

"Noon. Will the carabinieri be there, too?" I asked. "They do seem to have a way of turning up whenever I'm supposed to meet Mr. Lake. Maybe it will be the same when I'm supposed to meet you."

"No," he said. "This is worse for me even than for you. Make it noon, then. Just be there, please. And be—" The call ended. I guess he ran out of coins in midsentence.

It took me all that evening and much of the next morning to find where they were holding Lola, in a cell in the carabinieri station in Arezzo. She looked old all of a sudden: pale, wan, and with a listlessness about her that made me really concerned for her welfare. She looked both surprised and pleased to see me.

"I didn't think you'd come," she said.

"Of course I came," I exclaimed. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because," she said, but didn't finish.

"Because you thought I set you up?"

"Maybe. I don't know what to think."

"If I wanted the hydria for myself, letting the police get it wouldn't be a very good idea would it? And if I really intended to give it to Lake, then it wouldn't be a good idea in that case, either."

"No," she said. "I really didn't think you'd set me up. It didn't make any sense. One thing I do know is that I wish I'd never seen that hydria. If I hadn't taken it, then—"

"Then I'd be in here," I said. "I'm going to tell you something. I didn't purchase the hydria. I saw it in a chateau near Vichy and tried to buy it, but the owner wouldn't sell."

"Not the man who fell into his tomb?" she said. "Did he have it?"

"Yes. It was gone when I went back to try again to purchase it. Maybe it was stolen, maybe he decided he would sell it, and someone else got it. All I know is that it wasn't there. Then it turned up in the trunk of my car in France. I got it across the border because I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know it had been stolen at the time, but I found out later when I checked the Interpol database of stolen antiquities. In any event, when I got it here, Volterra actually, the carabinieri arrived at the hotel I was staying in and started going through the trunks of cars. Then I did something really awful. I put it into a car belonging to a French dealer that I thought had been the one to put it in my car in the first place."

"Why would he do that?"

"He was annoyed I wouldn't cut him in on the purchase of an antiquity."

"But you got it back," she said.

"Yes. It showed up on the bed in my room in Arezzo. I have no idea how it got there, and I was as surprised to see it as you were when we came through the door. I was supposed to take it to the Tanella, but of course I couldn't, because you had it."

She grimaced. "You seem to have found yourself in the middle of something. We both have."

"Yes, but what? The carabinieri showed up at the Tanella, too, but by then I was on my way back to the hotel. So that's three times when I had, or at least was supposed to have, the hydria with me, that they showed up. But it would have to be a coincidence, wouldn't it? They also showed up at the door of my hotel room while the hydria was lying on the bed, but it was you they were looking for that time."

"It was," she agreed. "Can you imagine a hotel calling the carabinieri just because someone leaves without paying their bill? It was only a few dollars. A couple of hundred. Maybe three. I suppose that's why they caught me with the hydria. They were after me, anyway, and just lucked out on the antiquity. It makes me mad, though, after I went to the hotel, in person, and paid off a big chunk of what I owed them, and promised the rest of it within a month. They agreed to my terms, too. Maybe I should give them the benefit of the doubt and say they just forgot to inform the police that we had reached an accommodation, but I think it's a bummer. You're probably thinking this serves me right."

"No," I said. "I'm not."

"Thank you. I suppose I should try to look on the bright side," she said. "They do feed you here. Nothing like the lovely meal you treated me to yesterday. Was it only yesterday?"

"Lola, everything is going to be okay."

"Yes. Before I forget, would you mind phoning Signore Vitali, the lawyer I'm supposed to be helping with his bookkeeping, and tell him I won't be showing up for work? Have you got a piece of paper? I memorized the number. They took my purse. He's a nice man; at least, he seemed to be. I feel bad letting him down like this."

"I'll take care of it," I said, writing down the number.

"He's semiretired. Just keeps a few clients now. He's interested in Lars Porsena, just like me. He's researched the area. We thought of combining forces to try to find the tomb. I don't know what he'll think when he hears I'm in jail. He's a lawyer. I don't expect he'd be too keen on an employee, even a contract one, who has been in jail. Too bad, really. I really liked him, and I thought maybe he liked me, too. No doubt he'd been even less keen on having a lady friend who'd been in jail."

"You don't know that," I said.

"Yes, I do. Didn't you tell me your partner is a Mountie? How thrilled would he be if he found out you were in jail?"

"Not very," I said. That was an understatement. I hoped I never had to find out how "not very" it would be.

"Maybe you could tell Salvatore—that's his name— that I've come down with laryngitis, or something, and can't talk, and don't want to infect him, but that I'll call him soon. I hope I'll be out of here in a few days. Do you think so?"

"Lola, listen to me. Everything is going to be okay. I'm meeting a colleague of Lake's later today, and I'm going to make him come in and explain everything."

"He'd be willing to do that?"

"I'm sure he would." He will when I'm finished with him, I thought. I was in no mood for Lake's delicate sensibilities about appearing in public. "You'll be out of here by the end of the day, or tomorrow at the latest. I promise I won't leave you here."

"Lots of people have made promises to me over the years," she said. "Few have kept them."

"I will," I said.

"I don't know. Sometimes you get what you deserve, and maybe this is it for me."

"Don't be silly, Lola. Sneaking out of a hotel without paying shouldn't get you in jail for possessing illegal antiquities."

"You don't know what I've done," she said. "I wouldn't blame you if you just went home."

"I'll be back," I said.

"I hope so," she said, as they led her away. I winced as the cell door clanged shut behind her.

I picked up the Autostrada del Sole at the Arezzo exit and headed south, pulling off at the turnoff for Sinalunga. From there, I picked up the raccordo, or trunk road, heading in the direction of Siena, staying on it until just past Sinalunga, at a turnoff for Scrofiano. The road climbed rather sharply and turned into the town, a pretty place with very steep and narrow cobbled streets, flowerpots in every window and doorway, and not much more in the way of public buildings than a church and a general store. I stopped at the store to buy water and to check my directions.

"Ah, that's Signore Mauro's house you're looking for," one of the customers in the store said. "You are perhaps interested in buying it?"

"Yes, I am," I said. Why not? One takes these opportunities when one can. I wondered if Signore Mauro was a name Lake used for purposes of anonymity, or whether he was just borrowing the place for the occasion. "Actually I was wondering if it is available for rent, rather than purchase. It is still available, is it? Or am I too late?"

"I don't think he's sold it yet, although from what I hear, he'd like to sell it rather than rent."

"I'm sure I couldn't afford that," I said. "Although it would be wonderful to have a place here. Quite expensive, I'm sure. Is Signore Mauro here, do you think?"

"Haven't seen him around here lately. As for expensive, the place is less than it would have been even six months ago. There are those who say he has to sell, a bad marriage, according to some. Others that he's fallen on bad times."

"Then perhaps I stand a chance," I said. He came outside with me and gave me directions. The road out of town quickly turned to gravel. To either side were vineyards, the grapes still on the vines, and fields already plowed under, the soil a raw ochre. By a white stone fence, I turned left onto a bumpy road, which I followed past several houses, and many dogs, all of whom raced my car from behind wire fences. The road came to an end at a row of cypresses, beyond which sat a lovely genuine old Tuscan stone farmhouse, two storys high. Home at one time, no doubt, to contadini, farmers, before it had been acquired by the likes of Signore Mauro, whoever he was, it was the last house on a ridge, blessed by a spectacular view across the valley to Cortona perched on its hill, and sweeping vistas of olive groves and vineyards the other way, with the dark outline of misty hills farther south.

The shutters on the house were closed up tight. I knocked on the door but heard nothing. I walked around the house to find a small but charming vine-covered terrace, with a small table and two chairs set out there. A jacket hung over the back of one chair.

"Antonio?" I called out. "Where are you? You don't have to hide. It's only me."

There was no answer. Not a sound, even, except the wind stirring the silvery leaves of the olive trees. I pulled out the other chair and sat down. Beside the terrace, a rosemary bush and sage gave off a wonderful scent. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A little closer, came the squawk of a small animal or bird. Something creaked nearby, then banged, a shutter perhaps. For the first time since I arrived, I looked up.

The house had been outfitted with a pulley arrangement in the peak of the roof on this side of the house, presumably to pull large pieces of furniture, like the family's baby grand, up to the second floor. It was now serving a new purpose, supporting Antonio, a noose tight around his neck. He'd been strung up, perhaps still alive and fighting for his life, given that the fingers of one hand were caught between the noose and his neck, as if he'd struggled to keep it from strangling him. The rope that held him aloft had then been neatly and firmly wrapped in a figure eight around an iron cleat anchored in the wall at about shoulder height.

As I stood there, horrified, I heard something. It was almost indefinable: just a rustle perhaps, or the sound of a breaking branch. Nonetheless, I was certain someone was there. I had a sense of a malign presence very close by. Stumbling, I ran to my car, and hands shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition, somehow managed to drive away.

NINE. ROME

THE NEXT DAY BROUGHT ITS OWN SET of unpleasant surprises.

"Now, let's go over this one more time," Massimo Lucca said. He was a tall, thin man, with reddish hair and a dashing mustache. He was pleasant enough, polite, quiet spoken. He was also a police officer.

"What you're telling me is that you found the chimera vase, hydria, or whatever it is called—you corrected me on that score already—in France, and that you brought it back into Italy."

"That's right," I said.

"And your intention was to return this hydria to the museum in Vulci from which it was stolen many years ago."

"That's also correct."

"And Signora Leonard?"

"She was assisting me. She had the hydria in safekeeping and brought it there to give to me. You arrested her before she was able to do that. Once the transfer was complete, Signora Leonard would most certainly have paid off her hotel bill."

"What hotel bill?"

"Her hotel bill in Arezzo," I said, heart sinking at the thought that I might have made Lola's situation even worse. "That's what you arrested her for, is it not? She already reached an arrangement with them. Go ask them."

He made a note on the pad in front of him. "No," he said. "We were not chasing down someone who didn't pay a bill. We were looking for the antiquity."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had already reached that conclusion, even if I'd refused to admit it to myself until now. "How would you know she was going to be there with the hydria?" I said.

"I'm not going to tell you that."

"Oh come on," I said. "It will all have to come out at her trial, won't it? You'll have to tell her lawyer." I had no idea whether or not this was true, given that I had no previous requirement to learn the intricacies of the Italian justice system, but it sounded good and did the trick. Furthermore, it had given me an idea.

"We were acting on a tip from a concerned member of the public," he said.

"Who?"

"You know I can't reveal that," he said irritably. "Anyway, I don't know. It was an anonymous tip, a phone call, which we are trying to track down."

"I don't suppose this was the first such anonymous tip on this subject you'd received, was it?" I said, as the events of the past few days started to come together.

"No, it was the second. We were told a woman would be at the Tanella di Pitagora with it a couple of days earlier, but nothing came of it. We almost didn't go to the Melone, thinking it was a prank, but my supervisor, a very meticulous man, made us go. You will understand, I hope, that I have more important things to do than go dashing about the countryside looking for pots."

"I don't suppose you could check whether there was a similar call in Volterra," I said.

"I could, but why would I?"

"Doesn't it strike you as a little unusual, all these anonymous calls?"

"A little," he admitted. "But there are people who value Italian heritage and are less than sympathetic to those who traffic in illegal antiquities."

"But we were planning to return it to its rightful place in the museum."

"Here we are back at that story again," he said. "I don't understand why you are doing this. Signora Leonard has already said that she didn't realize that the pot was an antiquity. That, I gather, will be her defense. Your story would appear to contradict what she is saying, and if you think you're helping her by being here telling me this preposterous tale, then perhaps you should think again. I'm tempted to record this conversation to use in court ourselves, but I'm going to do you a big favor and ignore everything you said to me on the basis that you are trying to help a friend. If you persist—" The phone at his elbow rang, and a young woman knocked quickly and poked her head around the door.

"The call you've been waiting for, sir," she said. "Signore Palladini."

Palladini, I thought. Familiar name. Where? Then I had it. Vittorio Palladini was the fellow who'd got Boucher to put me in touch with Robert Godard in Vichy. It was a common enough Italian name, of course, but still.

"Grazie," he said, picking it up. "Yes," he said, and after a few moments, "I'm afraid so." Another pause. "It's being checked out right now."

He grimaced slightly. "You know that is not possible. There is nothing we can do now that it is here. Regrettable, I know. Perhaps next year. We'll speak again soon." He hung up and looked at me. I opened my mouth to speak, but the door opened again, and a rather pleasant-looking man poked his head around the door. He was dressed in jeans and a turtleneck and expensive-looking jacket and was carrying a small duffel bag of the sports variety, as if he was off to his gym any moment. He certainly looked as if he worked out regularly.

"All done," he said. "Oops, sorry to interrupt."

"No problem," Lucca said. "Everyone else is. Is it what we think it is?"

"Most certainly," the man said.

"Well, there you are," Lucca sighed.

"Indeed," the man said. "I'll be off now."

"Tell the others, will you?" Lucca said.

"I will," the man said.

"Could we talk a little more about my friend Lola?" I said.

The young policewoman interrupted us again. "Sorry, sir," she said. "Can I speak with you for a minute?"

"Not right now," he said.

"But sir, we have a problem."

"We always have problems," he said, irritably. "In a minute."

"A body, sir. Near the Tanella in Cortona," she said. I gasped quite audibly at her words.

"Don't say that kind of thing in front of visitors," Lucca said. "You've upset Signora McClintoch." The young woman rolled her eyes. In truth, I didn't know whether to be upset or just relieved I hadn't been losing my mind in the fog.

"As you can see," he said, turning to me, "I have more urgent matters to attend to. This may be a blessing for you, because I think you've said enough, don't you? I can sympathize with your wanting to help your friend, but that is enough. Signora Leonard has already told us you had nothing to do with this. If you persist in this fabrication, I'm afraid I will have to charge you with mischief, and you will get to spend more time with your friend, in circumstances you might not like. Now, I'm going to do you a favor, and terminate this interview. Thank you for coming in to assist us with our investigation, signora." He rose from his chair and extended his hand, then walked to the door of his office and opened it, ushering me through. "See that Signora McClintoch finds her way out," he said to the young policewoman. There seemed nothing else to be done, at least nothing in Arezzo.

But I wasn't giving up. First I went to get myself some traveling money. I was going to find Crawford Lake and make him come forward to clear Lola's name, and I was going to use his money to do it. I went back to my hotel, got out my laptop, and logged on to the Internet. I went to Marzocco Financial Online and entered my account number, 14M24S, and then my password, Chimera.

"Access denied," the screen said. "Either the user ID or the password is incorrect. Please try again." I tried again. Same response. I tried a third time, and got booted right out of the web site. It seemed pretty clear that Lake was distancing himself as far as he could from this fiasco.

Furious, I stomped out of the hotel. I'd think about this later. In the meantime, I had things to do. First, I drove back to Cortona and paid a visit to S ignore Salvatore Vitali, Lola's lawyer. I wanted to meet him in person, rather than simply phoning, to decide what to do.

A very pleasant-looking man opened the door. He was in his midsixties maybe, about Lola's age or a little older, dressed in nicely tailored pants and a lovely sweater. He had a shock of white hair, which he kept brushing back off his face when he spoke. When I told him I was a friend of Lola's, he welcomed me in and insisted on making me an espresso on a rather formidable machine he kept in a little kitchenette off the main room.

"Such a genteel lady," he said, when I told him Lola had laryngitis and was unable to call him. "I am so sorry to hear of her illness. Will you please assure her for me that she can start here whenever she feels well enough. She is not to worry."

"Thank you. I'll tell her." We sat sizing each other up for a few minutes, commenting on the weather, and sipping our espressos.

"She has seen a doctor, I hope," he said.

"Yes," I lied.

"You will forgive me for asking. . . . Would you like a biscuit? No? Another espresso? I am not, as you can see, a very accomplished host. I have been living alone for too long."

"Another espresso would be great," I said.

He got up, and soon the machine in his kitchen was wheezing away. He returned soon enough, and we went back to contemplating each other.

"There, you see, I am putting off asking you a question," he said at last. "An important one, which I found myself unable to ask Signora Leonard. There was no reason at all to ask her under the circumstances, which is to say we were discussing a position in my office. As you can see, I am somewhat reluctant, actually quite nervous, to ask you. Something, though, is compelling me to do so."

"Yes?" I said.

"Is she married?"

"No," I said.

"I thought not. There was no ring. But she is attached?"

"No, I don't think so. As far as I know, she's free as a bird."

He positively beamed. "I confess that is the answer I was hoping for."

"She likes you, too," I said. "Please don't tell her I told you."

"Of course not," he said gravely. "Nor, please, will you tell her I asked you that question. She is very interested in Lars Porsena."

"She certainly is," I said.

"I am as well. It seemed to me to be fate that brought us together."

"Actually, Signore Vitali," I said, "fate is keeping the two of you apart right this minute. I've been sitting here debating whether to tell you this, and I'm taking a big chance doing so, but Lola needs help, and even if she never forgives me for telling you, I'm determined to get it for her. Lola, Signora Leonard, I mean, is in jail. She has been quite wrongly accused of possessing a stolen Etruscan hydria. In fact, I was the one who had the hydria. She was keeping it for me and was bringing it so that I could give it to someone who was going to give it back to the museum, when she was caught with it, apparently because of an anonymous tip from a member of the public. The police do not believe her, nor do they believe me. She needs a lawyer, and she can't afford one. I am prepared to pay you to represent her." I had to stop to catch my breath.

"And this person who was going to return the hydria?" he said, waving away my attempt to get money out of my wallet.

"I can't tell you who he is," I said. "But I'm going to find him and make him come forward in person."

He raised bushy white eyebrows. "I see. You think he will corroborate this story?"

"I hope so," I said. "He likes his privacy, and not only that, but he seems to have closed a bank account that was supposed to cover my expenses. Needless to say, I'm going to try to get him to change his mind."

"Where is she?" he said, getting out of his chair and taking a jacket off a hook by the door.

"The carabinieri station in Arezzo," I said.

"I will go there now," he said. "Will you come with me?"

"No," I said. "I can't right now. But I'll be working to get Lola out of this mess, too." I meant it, too. Lola was big on getting what one deserved. Right now, she was getting what I deserved. I wasn't going to spend a lot of time beating myself up about why I was in the situation in the first place. But I was going to fix it somehow.

I hit the Autostrada del Sole once again and headed south to Rome. The next morning found me sitting under a market umbrella in a cafe in the Piazza della Rotunda, a lively spot, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Antonio had gotten his wish to be famous, unfortunately. There was a lurid account, as only the Italian papers can provide, of the man found hanging from the roof of a farmhouse in Tuscany. The man had been identified as an out-of-work actor by the name of Antonio Balducci. There was speculation it might be a mob hit of some kind, although the police were quoted as saying he'd hung himself. I kept thinking about the body, wondering how he would have done that. The owner of the farmhouse, Gino Mauro, who had, it was said, an ironclad alibi, given that he and his family were in New York at the time, was also said to be horrified at what had happened at his place. Mauro, reached by the intrepid reporter by telephone, said he did not know the dead man nor what he would be doing there.

I, too, was famous. A shopkeeper in Scrofiano had told police that a woman, English or American—there are some advantages to being an anonymous Canadian—had asked directions to the house the day before Antonio's body had been found. Police said yet another anonymous call had led them to the body, and police were looking not only for me but for whoever it was had telephoned. The call had been traced to a pay phone.

Lola, too, made the news. There was a page-three article that said that the carabinieri had been successful in tracking down a stolen Etruscan antiquity. They had someone in custody, the article said, and were now proceeding with an investigation into its disappearance. Further charges were expected to be laid. I hoped that didn't mean me.

I sat for awhile, thinking about all this: about Lola in jail, but particularly Antonio, swinging from a rope. At the same time, I was contemplating the edifice that dominated the piazza where I was sitting. Variously known as the Pantheon, the Church of Santa Maria dei Martiri, and the Rotunda, it is one hundred forty-two feet wide, and the same high, with twenty-five-foot walls, and an oculus, or opening, in the top of eighteen feet, and it is truly an impressive sight. Built originally in 27 B.C.E. by Marcus Agrippa, then rebuilt in the early second century by Hadrian, it is considered one of the architectural marvels of the world, and as I sat there, drinking my cappuccino, tourists by the hundreds were pouring through its doors. The only feature that interested me at that moment, however, was the inscription etched over the entranceway. M. AGRIPPA L.F.COS.TERTIUM. FECIT, it said, and FECIT was what I'd been able to see from Crawford Lake's bathroom window.

From my vantage place in the square, there seemed to be only one street that could be the location of Lake's apartment. Given the narrowness of the street, a lane really, I couldn't get back far enough to see clearly. But there was one building that looked to have a roof garden—there were vines hanging over a railing at the top—and I headed for that. There was an Apartment for Sale sign on the front of the building, and the door was locked. I went and got myself a bag of groceries, making sure a nice Italian loaf and some carrot tops were plainly evident, and then waited until someone came along and unlocked the door.

I made it before the door closed. The person, an elderly woman, looked at me suspiciously, but I smiled pleasantly and wished her a good day. She glanced at my bag of groceries and decided I was all right. I took the elevator to the top floor. I was wondering how I'd know which apartment on that floor I'd been to, but I figured it would have to be the front, for me to have seen the inscription. It didn't matter. On the top floor there was only one apartment, something I should have suspected, given Lake's means.

I knocked at the door, but there was no answer. At that point, the elevator sprang to life, and before I could get away, a man stepped out. He looked surprised and not altogether pleased to see me. "There's no one there," he said. "You have to make an appointment."

"How would I do that?" I said.

"The number on the sign," he said. I must have looked baffled, because he added, "The For Sale sign n the building. You have to make an appointment with the real estate agency." He waited until I left the building.

I called the agency and was put through to a woman by the name of Laura Ferrari. I told her I was only in Rome for a few days, was interested in purchasing an apartment, and was specifically interested in the one on the Via della Rosa.

"Who told you about the unit?" she said.

"Signore Palladini," I said. It was the first thing that came into my head, the name I'd heard at the carabinieri station, but it had the most wondrous effect on Ms. Ferrari.

"Ah," she said. "The owner. Then you have some idea of the price." She told me what it was. Needless to say, I couldn't afford it. Not even close, in fact. Knowing what I did about doing business in Italy, I had to assume it was probably even higher than the price she'd quoted me, given the Italians' propensity to avoid paying taxes at all costs. What was most interesting, however, was the fact that Signore Palladini— quite possibly the same Palladini who'd called Massimo Lucca while I was sitting there, and who could have been the same Palladini that had arranged for me to meet Godard—was the owner of the apartment. A coincidence? It was difficult to think that was all it was. It also begged the question as to whether or not Lake had a place in Rome or simply borrowed Palladini's place when he was in town. Surely Lake could afford a pied-a-terre of his own. Or—and this had a nice conspiracy ring to it—were Palladini and Lake the same person, a pseudonym Lake used for convenience?

Laura Ferrari and I arranged to meet at the building an hour later. A dusty smell washed over me as we went in, and I had to stifle a sneeze. It was the same apartment, all right. The layout was the one I remembered, the painting over the mantel that Lake had claimed to be an original was there, as was the wall fresco. But everything else, all the furniture and the ceramics and books, all the collectibles, was covered in sheets. I got to see into the rooms where the doors had been closed shut on my first visit, but there, too, all was covered. No Anna. No lovely lemon cake. No sign of Lake.

"It would be better," Laura fussed, "to see the place without everything covered up, but I hope you can imagine what a wonderful apartment this is. I have a little surprise for you, signora," she added, beckoning to a door upstairs. "Ecco!" she said, with a flourish. "Magnificent, isn't it?"

I found myself in the roof garden, complete with a statue of David. "See," she said, pointing. "You can just see the Pantheon. The location here is marvelous. You could not ask for a better place for your stays in Rome. How is it you know Signore Palladini?"

"It's my husband who knows him, actually," I said.

"Then your husband is in insurance, too? Or is it law?"

"My husband's a lawyer. He argues cases before the World Court, so we're in Europe a great deal. They were at law school together." My, how the lies just rolled off my tongue. "I don't suppose Signore Palladini ever rents it out, does he, for short stays? I was thinking perhaps we could just try it out for a few days. I suppose we might ask him."

"I don't think so," she said. "I think he very much wants to sell it. Are you interested?"

"My husband will have to see it before we make a final decision," I said, edging toward the door. "I will speak with him this evening—he's in Brussels right now—and will get back to you as soon as I can. But I do think it's just perfect, exactly what I imagined our apartment in Rome should be.

"It is a gem," she said. "I look forward to showing it to your husband. You would have to be approved by the other residents," she added, "but I'm sure, for any friend of Vittorio Palladini, that would not be a problem."

I'd almost made it out of the place—we were standing in the entranceway—when a key turned in the lock, and the door began to open. Laura looked surprised. My heart was in my throat. A rather tall, slim, casually dressed man in jeans and a turtleneck came through the door. He started when he saw us.

"Signora Ferrari!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry. You startled me. I didn't know you were showing the place right now. I was just checking it."

"Signore Palladini!" Laura said. "I did leave you a message I'd be showing it, but we just made the appointment an hour or so ago. You know Signora McClintoch, I think," she said.

"Do I?" the man said, shaking my hand.

"We haven't met," I said.

"That's right," Laura said. "It's her husband that you know. You were at law school together."

"McClintoch..." he said, stroking his mustache with a perplexed expression.

"That's my name, not his," I said. "His is Rosati."

It was the only name I could come up with, that of the nice man I'd stood up in Volterra. I hoped he wouldn't mind.

"Rosati," he said, slowly. "Yes, I think I recall him. How nice to meet you. I hope you like the apartment."

"It's lovely," I said. "You must hate to part with it."

"I'm finding it a bit cramped," he said. "I'm looking for something a little larger." So Palladini was moving up, not down.

"But Signora McClintoch and her husband are looking for a small pied-a-terre, are you not?" she said, clearly worried her client was talking her out of a sale.

"I am a little concerned about the size," I said. Most of us could have managed to squeeze ourselves into it, given that it was well over two thousand square feet. "But it is really attractive."

"And the location," Laura said. "You could not do better."

"Do you let it out on a short-term lease at all? Rent it for a week or two, for example?" I said.

"No," he said. "I have too many treasures here. You can't see them with the sheets over everything, but I collect. No, I'm only interested in selling it outright."

Well, somebody got to use it, somehow, I thought, looking from Palladini to Laura Ferrari and wondering. "You live outside Rome now, do you?" I asked him.

"No. I rent an apartment not far from here that I plan to buy, once this is sold."

"Ah. Then, I'll let you know," I said. "And now I must run. I'll tell my husband I ran into you."

"Please do that," he said. "Give him my regards."

I went to the little hotel I'd booked myself into the evening before, a very disappointed and confused person. Disappointed, but not defeated. I didn't know what Palladini and Rosati had to do with it, although I'd certainly eliminated the possibility that Palladini and Lake were one and the same. There was no denying that the same names kept cropping up in my life. Regardless, I knew Crawford Lake was responsible, whether knowingly or not, and in some way I couldn't yet define, for Antonio's death and Lola's incarceration, and perhaps even—and this was the first time it had occurred to me—for the death of Robert Godard in Vichy. I didn't care how much money the creep had, I was going to find some way to make him pay. There had to be someone who knew where he was.

TEN. INISHMORE

I MAY NOT HAVE KNOWN WHERE LAKE was, but I certainly knew what he was up to, as did anyone who read the financial pages of any of the major newspapers. Lake was on the move, it seemed, inexorably swallowing up his rivals. Right now he had two opponents in his sights, a small Internet trading company that had started out as a sort of electronic-age version of the family business, two brothers in their early twenties who'd had a good idea and had, with some fanfare, gone public a few months earlier. Now the young men were pictured on the front page of the business section of the International Herald Tribune, both of them with deer-caught-in-headlights expressions on their faces, as they recommended to shareholders not to accept the offer of Marzocco Financial Online. I figured it was hopeless.

Hank Mariani, the Texas businessman who had outbid Lake for the Etruscan bronze statue of Apollo, was also in trouble. His photo showed a man in his early fifties, I'd say, and rather than the startled expression of the two brothers, he had a world-weary look to him as he sat, his company's logo behind him, his elbow on the desk and his hand over his mouth, as if holding back a scream. He'd tried to find another buyer for his company when Lake tried to take control. The courts had ruled in Lake's favor, and Mariani was about to be looking for another job. In neither case, of course, was there a picture of Lake, but it was clear he was making good on the pledge he'd made to me when I'd met him: to deal with Mariani.

Neither of these stories was going to get me in to see Lake, however, so I kept on looking. It took me the better part of the next day to find a link, however tenuous, to Lake. I started with the only person I had any connection with who was associated with Lake in some way, an English art consultant and dealer by the name of Alfred Mondragon, who, as I'd indicated to Lake in Rome, I knew often handled Lake's art purchases.

I'd only met Mondragon once, but that didn't stop me from calling him. Although we were rivals, I suppose, for Lake's business, I was counting on a guarded collegiality among those of us in the same trade to carry the day.

"I don't suppose you remember me," I said to him. "We met at an auction at Burlington House a couple of years ago." I certainly remembered him. He was a large man who wore velvet smoking jackets any time of day and any place, and who favored expensive and particularly malodorous cigars.

"Did you buy anything?" he said.

"Yes, I did. Two large David Roberts drawings. I have a client who collects Roberts."

"I seem to recall it," he said. "One was Kom Ombo and the other . . ."

"Edfu," I said.

"Edfu," he agreed. "Yes, I remember you now. I'm not good at names, but I do recall objects rather well, and then sometimes the people who come with them. Reddish blond hair, reasonably attractive woman of about forty? Am I correct?"

"Yes, thank you."

"You were with a set of bone-handled steak knives. He paid too much for them."

"My business partner, Clive Swain," I said. "He did pay too much. That's why I do most of the buying for the store. You purchased a Carlevaris," I said, not to be outdone. "Architectural drawing. Venice, of course. It was gorgeous, and way, way, beyond my means. I was quite envious."

"Quite right," he said.

"You were with Derby biscuit porcelain," I added. "He overpaid for it, too."

"My life partner, Ryan. I adore him. He can buy whatever he likes," he chuckled. "Now that we've established beyond any reasonable doubt that we are birds of a feather, what can I do for you?"

"I need to get in touch with Crawford Lake."

"You and everybody else," he said. "I can't help you."

"I really need to get in touch with him. A friend of mine is in an Italian jail. You can imagine how awful that is. It is not her fault. The only person who can get her out is Crawford Lake."

"That is most unfortunate, but I really can't help you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't. That's not the way it works with Lake, you see. He calls you, not the other way around. He wants something, he tells you. You go and get it. I have no idea how to get in touch with him."

"But what if you found something that he didn't ask you to get, but you knew he'd want?"

"Doesn't matter. Right now, for example, I have a rather handsome piece of Egyptian statuary I know he'd like, but I have no way of doing anything about it."

"Have you ever met him?"

"Once."

"And?"

"Pleasant enough chap."

"Good-looking?"

"I suppose so, but not my way inclined, if you catch my drift."

"Where did you meet him?"

"Here in London. Look, I'd help you if I could, but I really can't. If he happens to call me in the next while, I'll tell him you're looking for him. Give me a number where you can be reached. I'm afraid that's the best I can do."

"Thanks," I said. "You can't think of any other connection I could pursue?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm sorry I can't help your friend."

"Me, too." He had no idea how sorry I was.

Next I combed the Internet, checking newspaper archives where I could, and anything else that came up when I keyed Lake's name in. There was a lot of stuff about him.

The bare facts were these: Lake was born in 1945 in Johannesburg, South Africa, to Jack, some kind of industrialist with links to the diamond trade, and Frances O'Reilly, an Irish model and socialite, who was better known as Fairy, if you can believe it. Crawford had an older brother, Rhys, and a younger sister Barbara. Carrying on the family's naming tradition, Barbara was always called Brandy. If Jack, Rhys, or Crawford had pet names, they were mercifully not mentioned.

Both parents and Rhys were killed in a plane crash when Crawford was about twenty-five and Brandy, sixteen. The two of them inherited fair amounts of cash. Even though Rhys had clearly been the designated heir where the family business was concerned, Lake proved himself adept at it, using it to build an even larger fortune and ultimately to become the billionaire that he was.

Brandy, on the other hand, spent lavishly. By the time she was eighteen, she was already a fixture on the social scene in Europe and in the U.S. I say "the social scene," but really it was the club milieu where she regularly had her picture taken with what I took to be signature items. She always had a white rose in her lapel or pinned to her clothing, and she always wore sunglasses, even though it was dark. Unlike the rest of the set she ran with, she was never photographed skiing in Gstaad or aboard somebody's yacht. She was obviously a person of the night, the last to leave the party. I learned a surprising amount about her. She was, at one time, the kind of person who gets in all the gossip columns. Her favorite drink was a mimosa, her favorite flower the white rose she always wore.

If her brother had an opinion of this lifestyle, he said nothing publicly about it, not, that is, until she took up with a young man by the name of Anastasios Karagiannis, a Greek playboy, there is no other word for it. Brandy and Taso, as he was generally referred to— perhaps in those circles it's de rigueur to have a nickname; I wouldn't know—were pictured together dancing at Regine's, or enjoying some revelry in Paris, and so on.

The trouble with Taso, in addition to the fact that he had no visible means of support, was that he was seriously into the drug scene, and he drank way too much. It was at that point that Crawford came on the scene, and there was one archival photo in which someone, with head averted, was pulling Brandy out the door of a hotel somewhere. The caption said the person doing the dragging was Crawford Lake, although it could have been anyone.

Undeterred, Brandy and Taso announced their engagement and set the date for the wedding. Two days before the event, which was to take place somewhere tacky, one of those clubs with bare-breasted dancers, Taso died, killed in an absolutely horrendous car crash. The car, a snazzy little sports job that Brandy had given him as a wedding present, had spun out of control on a hilly road, and Taso had plunged to his death in a fiery tumble down the side of the hill. The car was checked over, what was left of it, and nothing mechanical was found that would explain the crash. Taso's blood-alcohol reading, however, was over the top. The medical report also said he'd burned to death, which must be a truly horrible way to go.

Brandy placed dozens and dozens of white roses on Taso's casket, and then, like her brother, disappeared from public view. Unlike her brother, however, her whereabouts were known to anyone who was prepared to do some digging: her mother's family home on Inishmore, one of the Aran Islands off Ireland's west coast. I tried calling, but there was no listed number for Brandy Lake, nor for the O'Reilly family, at least not the one I wanted. I booked a flight for Shannon.

Before I went, though, I called Salvatore Vitali, Lola's lawyer friend. "How's she doing?" I said.

"Not well," he replied. "She's refusing to eat. She's such a tiny woman. . . ."

"I'm working on this," I said. "Try to get her to eat."

ACCORDING TO THE TIMETABLE I PICKED UP AT the airport, I'd missed the last ferry from Dolin. In yet another rental car, I headed up the coast for Galway, stopping only once, at a florist shop, and then on to Rossaveal. I caught the last ferry with only minutes to spare. The sea was rough and the air chilly as the boat plowed doggedly toward the island, about six or seven miles offshore.

At Kilronan, where the ferry berthed, I got a horse-drawn carriage and asked the driver to take me to a nice bed-and-breakfast inn. There was a light drizzle falling, and storm clouds hung low to the horizon. The island was rather bleak, small patches of grass surrounded by low stone walls the most prominent feature. Some might find it romantic, a windswept and rocky island, but in my present state of mind, I found it merely depressing.

The climate may have been unpleasant, but the welcome wasn't. The driver dropped me at a pleasant inn, and I was ushered to a cheerful spot by a warm fire, where I enjoyed a very nice glass of wine or two, a surprisingly fine dinner, and a very comfortable bed.

The next morning, the sun was shining brightly, and I felt I was in a different place and that I was a new person. I asked directions to the O'Reilly house and was delighted to find it was close enough to get there on foot. "Funny one, that," the innkeeper said. "Brandy Lake. Never goes out. She has help, of course. A maid she brought with her. Name's Maire. But herself hasn't been out in years. Too bad. I remember when she was young. She came here summers with her family, the grandparents, the O'Reillys. Lovely little thing. Always laughing and running about. Can't bear to think what happened to her to make her such a recluse now."

"Do people visit her?"

"People came a lot when she was first here, but not anymore. In the early days, those reporter types showed up, but we always said we didn't know anybody by that name. You're not a reporter, are you?" she said, suddenly suspicious.

"Absolutely not," I said. "I have a message from her brother."

"Crawford? He's not been seen around here since she first came. A serious young lad, he was. Doing rather well for himself, I'm told. It will be nice for her to hear from him, even if he won't come in person."

The road rose and fell gently, and there was a wonderful view across the water to the mountains of Connemara on the mainland, purple against the bright sky, and up ahead on a high promontory, the ruins of the fort of Dun Aengus. I found myself feeling much more optimistic, that I'd found a real link to Lake, that I was about to learn something that would make my path clear. Surely, if I could persuade her to get in touch with her brother, he'd have to listen.

The Lake—or rather I should say the O'Reilly— house was one of the largest on the island, but not in any way palatial. It was stone, two stories, with a large front yard. For some distance before I got there, a border collie ran alongside me in the fields, taking the stone fences easily, and barking in a not unfriendly fashion. He followed me right into the yard and up the stone walk to the door, his barking getting more intense the closer we got. I rang the doorbell.

I heard footsteps inside, and a voice called through the door. "Just leave it on the step."

"Hello?" I said.

The door opened a crack, and the dog, all excited now, started jumping up and down and putting dirty paws on my coat. "Who are you?" the voice inside said.

"My name is Lara McClintoch. I'd like to talk to Ms. Lake," I said over the din created by the dog.

"Hush, Sandy," the voice said. "Down. Don't bother the lady." Sandy ignored her. Finally, the door opened wider. "You'd better come in or you'll be a mess from that dog," the woman said.

"Many thanks," I said, brushing doggie prints off my coat and pant legs.

"She doesn't have many visitors here," the woman said. "Not many come to visit. I was expecting a delivery of some milk."

"Are you Maire?" The woman, a rather solid woman in her forties, I'd say, who'd worked hard all her life, nodded. "Would you ask Ms. Lake if she would talk to me?"

"She won't," the woman said. "Why are you here?"

I'd thought a lot about this question, given that it was an inevitable one. I'd thought I could say I was a friend of her brother's, or that I knew someone she did, although who that would be I couldn't imagine. In the end, standing there, I opted for the truth.

"I have a friend who is in an Italian jail for something she didn't do. The only person who can help her is Crawford Lake, but he won't see me, so I'm trying to find a connection to him, some way of getting in touch with him, so that I can help my friend."

"I'm sorry," Maire said. "But she still won't talk to you."

"But won't you ask her?"

"It won't do any good."

"Please. I'm throwing myself on your mercy, here. I'm getting pretty desperate. I mean, an Italian jail!"

"It won't do any good, I tell you. No."

I decided retreat, at least for the moment, was the only option. "Will you at least give her these?" I said, handing over a package that I'd babied all the way from Galway. The woman peered in the top.

"White roses," she said, wistfully. "She'll like these. I'm sorry we can't help you."

"Me, too," I said. "I'm staying at the inn outside Kilmurvey," I said, "in case she changes her mind." I walked away from the house. The dog was nowhere to be seen. At the gate, I turned back. In the upstairs window, a lace curtain moved slightly, and I caught a glimpse of a face, probably Maire's. I trudged back to the inn.

I was sitting in front of the fireplace, feeling sorry for myself, and for Lola, when the phone rang at the desk. "Miss McClintoch," the innkeeper called to me. "Maire just called. You can go back to the Lake house."

Maire was waiting for me, the front door slightly ajar. The house was still rather dark, with heavy blue velvet curtains pulled against the light. The house was center-hall plan, with two pleasant rooms on either side of the entranceway, one filled with books, a desk, and sofa and chairs, the other with leather furniture and a television set. It was, however, all very gloomy.

Maire led me up dark stairs. "Are you sure you want to see her?" she said at the top. "You may regret it."

"That may be," I said, "but it's the only route open to me at the present time."

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Well, then, come in."

The room she led me into was so dark, it took me a minute to adjust to the light. It was rather chilly, too.

"Are you the one who brought me the roses?" a voice said, and I peered into the gloom to see a woman in a rather pretty blue dress and pink fuzzy bedroom slippers sitting in a chair in the darkest part of the room. She was wearing sunglasses. The roses were in a crystal vase on a small table beside her.

"Yes," I said. "I hope you like them."

"They are my favorites," she said. "Do I know you?"

"No," I said. "I'm rather desperately trying to get in touch with your brother."

"Rhys?" she said.

"No, Crawford." Rhys was dead, didn't she know that? My heart sank.

She arched her head back in a grimace. She had bad teeth, discolored, and an eyetooth was missing. I was horrified. Was she being kept prisoner here against her will, suffering pain from her teeth? What was going on here?

"He killed him," she said. I was about to say who killed whom, but I suddenly knew the answer.

"Taso," I said. "You think Crawford killed Taso."

"I don't think, I know. I just don't know how he did it. Perhaps you could find that out for me."

"Now, Brandy," Maire said. "You shouldn't talk like that about your brother. You know he's very generous, sending money every month."

"He's buying my silence. Crawford can't stand not to get his own way. He was always like that, even when we were little," she said. "If someone crosses him, he gets rid of them. He was such a beautiful boy. They wouldn't let me see him. I expect they thought I wasn't strong enough. But I am strong," she said. "Look at me. I would have to be, wouldn't I? I think Crawford forbade them to let me see him."

"Do you know where Crawford is?"

"No, do you?" she said. "I wish I knew where he was. It's nice to have a visitor. Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," I said. The place was giving me the creeps.

"I'd like some," she said. "Would you get me some, Maire?"

Maire looked at me for a moment and then nodded. "I'll be right back," she said. I couldn't decide whether her comment was reassurance for Brandy or for me.

"Now she's gone," Brandy whispered. "I think you can help me."

"What would you like me to do?" I whispered back.

"I've been watching that fly on the ceiling," she said, pointing upward. It was too dark for me to see if there was a fly there or not. I wasn't even sure there were flies on the Aran Islands. "And I think I know how it's done."

"How what's done?"

"Walking upside down on the ceiling, of course."

"Oh," I said. "I see."

"Yes," she said. "Now, if you'll help me to get up there—you could give me a boost up on to the dresser or perhaps even the top of the cupboard door—I think I could do it. Will you help?"

"Uh ..." I heard Maire's steps on the stairs.

"Shush." Brandy said. "Don't tell her, will you? You come back sometime when she's not here. She shops every Monday morning. Come back then."

"Okay."

"Do you think I'm pretty?" Brandy said, as Maire pushed open the door and set down a silver tea service, which she placed on a table near Brandy.

"Now, dear," Maire said. "Of course she thinks you're pretty. Here's your tea. I've brought you some nice biscuits to have with it. Are you cool enough?"

Cool enough? I was getting the shivers. I didn't know whether it was the room temperature or the general atmosphere.

"Are you the one who brought me the flowers?" Brandy said again, cupping her hands around one of the blooms.

"Yes," I said. "I hope you like them."

"Perhaps you should leave," Maire said.

"Yes," I said.

"Can we go out today, Maire?" Brandy said.

"No, dear," Maire said. "The sun is shining."

"Oh well," Brandy said, in a philosophical tone. "Perhaps it will be foggy tomorrow."

"I'm sure it will," Maire said. "We'll go for a little walk tonight, maybe. I'm going to show this nice lady out, all right?"

"All right," she said.

"Do you know where her brother is?" I asked as we descended the stairs.

"No," Maire said.

"But he sends money every month."

"Yes. Bank transfer from Switzerland. It doesn't help you. I'm sorry. It's part of the arrangement, you see. Her brother is very generous in his support, but that is all. I don't know where he is. I should never have let you come. I felt perhaps I'd been too abrupt with you, when you came here this morning and were so evidently distressed. And she seemed better earlier. She was so excited about the roses."

"What's the matter with her?" I asked.

Maire looked at me for a minute. "Porphyria," she said at last.

"Isn't that... ?" I bit my tongue.

"Vampire's disease? Is that what you were going to say?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." That explained, though, the sunglasses all those years, and the bad teeth. People with the disease often had a terrible sensitivity to light.

"Promise you won't tell anyone. If you tell people, they'll harass her. It's a horrible disease, and people do not understand it. It frightens them. They think they'll catch it, or worse, that she's out at night sinking her fangs into animals or people. They always tried to keep it a secret. Their father had it, too. It's like a terrible curse on the family. This is one of the few places she can be comfortable. It's cool most of the year, and it rains a lot. If we had to leave, I don't know where we'd go."

"I promise you I won't tell anyone. Is that what has affected her mind?"

"Perhaps," she said. "It could. I've always rather thought it was the death of her lover, though. She was wild about him."

"It can't be much of a life for you, either," I said. "Do you ever get away from the house?"

"Her brother pays me well, although," she said looking across the bleak landscape, "there's nothing much here to spend it on. If rocks were worth something, we'd be the richest people in the world, wouldn't we? Anyway, you've seen her, the state she's in. How could I leave her when she's like that? My mother worked for the family, the O'Reillys. We're joined somehow, my family and hers. And do I get away sometimes? I do. A friend comes to visit from time to time to give me a bit of a holiday, when she can get out. It's just she does it less and less. So I'll say good-bye. It's been grand having a bit of company, but I don't think there's any point in your coming back here, do you?" "No," I said. "But thank you." "I hope your friend comes through all right." I turned to go, but then thought of one more question. "It's hereditary, isn't it? Porphyria? Does her brother have it, too?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm afraid he does." I thought of the man I knew as Crawford Lake, that first and only time I'd seen him in person, tanned and standing in a beam of sunlight in the apartment in Rome. Oh shit, I thought.

ELEVEN. ROME

SO THE MAN I KNEW AS CRAWFORD Lake, wasn't. There was no other possible interpretation of what I had learned. To say that one fact put a different spin on the situation was merely facile. It was much more fundamental than that. Three people were dead, two of them, at least, at the hands of someone else. Another innocent was in jail.

It was a very long trip back to Italy, not just in the hours spent traveling but in the mental ground I had to cover. The most generous interpretation of what had happened was that Lake, given his medical condition, had asked someone to stand in for him in his discussions with me. In this rather halcyon version of events, Lake really had chosen me to find him the Bellerophon, the whole affair was perfectly legitimate, and the deaths a horrible coincidence. It was a scenario I found I could not cling to for long, and I soon sank into gloomy self-pity and blame. Why had I ever thought that someone like Crawford Lake would ask me to do anything? I wouldn't get to carry out the garbage of someone like that, let alone buy him a bronze horse. Was it vanity that had made me so vulnerable? I didn't play in Crawford Lake's league. I just liked to think I could.

Still, I'd been skeptical, hadn't I? I'd asked him why he'd called on me. His reply had been that he had been looking for someone no one had ever heard of. Surely that was not an appeal to my vanity. On the other hand, he'd praised my ability to do research and get things done. Was that so terrible?

The point was that it didn't matter why I'd done it, why I'd believed him. What counted was that it happened at all. Was it a hoax, a practical joke gone terribly wrong? Then who was the joker? I couldn't think of anyone who'd do anything that elaborate, nor could I think of anyone who'd stoop to murder to protect the hoax.

Was it worse than a joke? Was it a deliberate attempt to discredit me in some way? Why bother? I co-owned a nice little shop in Toronto, had my regular customers, got occasional mention in the design and antique magazines. Why did that make me a target? Thinking that someone would go to such trouble for poor little me was perhaps even more vain than I'd been in the first instance, when I'd accepted the assignment.

So, what to do? The sensible choice would be to simply go home. I hadn't been accused of anything, no one knew, really, about my involvement in the sorry affair. I could get on a plane at any time, be in my usual spot in the little office off the main showroom in the shop within twenty-four hours. I would feel chastened for awhile, but I'd get over it. Life would go on.

But pictures kept floating across my consciousness: Antonio rescuing me from robbers in Paris and then practicing his English over a bottle of wine, Lola sitting on the edge of my bed eating cheese and telling me about her love life and her search for Lars Porsena's tomb. And then, more sadly, Lola in prison and Antonio, his lovely smile stilled for all time, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze.

Suddenly, I was no longer feeling sorry for myself. I was really, really angry. Someone had made a fool out of me, but much worse, had used me in a horrible plot. And I was damned if I was going to slink home, tail between my legs, leaving Lola starving to death in prison and Antonio swinging, figuratively now, from a hook on a Tuscan farmhouse, no matter how lovely the view! To be a friend was a joy, but it was also a responsibility, Antonio had said. He was right.

Yes, I would have to be careful. I would have to get used to the idea that any event, no matter how innocuous it seemed, carried the potential for menace. And I was going to have to go back over a lot of ground. I would reinterpret every event since the first moment I walked into that apartment in Rome from this different vantage point, hoping a pattern would emerge. I would have to try to reconnect with all the people I'd come in contact with, however peripherally, in the last several days, to try to find out how it all fit together: Boucher and Leclerc; Dottie and Kyle; Signore Mauro, the owner of the farmhouse; Palladini, the owner of the apartment; Cesar Rosati, the nice man at the restaurant in Volterra, just because he was there. But first and foremost, I could somehow track down the man who had passed himself off as Crawford Lake and force him to tell me who'd talked him into doing it. I had no idea how I was going to find him, of course, but I was just going to have to do it.

Finding Dottie, however, was easy. Or to be more accurate, she found me. "Lara!" she trilled, and I turned to see her ensconced at a table in the cafe in the piazza near my hotel. "Over here! Isn't this just amazing, the way we keep running into each other?" It certainly was, just way too amazing, despite the fact I'd known her for years, and it is, as they say, a small world. She got up and hugged me, holding me for a second or two longer than really necessary, as if she really was glad to see me. "Here," she said, pushing some newspapers aside. "Come and sit with me. This is Angelo, by the way. My new beau."

Angelo was almost as good-looking as Kyle and, if anything, even younger. "Why don't you go and buy yourself that lovely suit you liked, sweetheart," she added, getting some rather large bills out of her wallet. "So Lara and I can have a little gab, just us two girls." Angelo pouted, as if he couldn't bear to be away from her for even a few minutes, but then got up and swaggered off.

"I'm so happy to see you," she said. "And glad you're okay."

"Why wouldn't I be, Dottie?" I said, looking at her suspiciously.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "The last time I saw you, you'd just found that poor man Godard. You didn't look too good that night." There was no arguing with that, but taking a closer look at Dottie now, on this occasion, she was the one who didn't look so hot. She had lost weight, and there were dark circles under her eyes that her makeup, which looked as if it had been applied with a trowel, couldn't hide.

"What happened to Kyle?" I said.

"I got bored with him and sent him packing," she said. "Anyway, when in Rome, take up with a Roman, isn't that what they say? Angelo is such a darling," she rattled on. "I can't tell you how much I'm enjoying Italy. I'm really glad you mentioned it when we saw you in Nice. I don't think I would have come here, otherwise. Now I'm wondering why I spent all those years just going to France. My business, of course. I'm thinking of adding some Italian antiques. Just try out a few, and see how it goes. Where have you been since I saw you last?"

"I've been a few places," I said, with what I thought was considerable understatement. "Tuscany, primarily, as I told you." Maybe she knew exactly where I'd been. That was the trouble now. Everyone was a suspect in my mind.

"Isn't Tuscany wonderful? Florence: absolutely fabulous. Siena: if anything, even lovelier. Now Rome. I thought I was just going to hate it. I'd heard it was so noisy and dirty and that the Roman men were all old lechers. Instead, I just adore it. I've already extended my European trip by a couple of weeks, and I may keep right on going. Until I get tired of Angelo, anyway. He's an actor," she added.

"Where do you find all these younger men?" I said. I was just making conversation and didn't expect an answer, but I got one anyway.

"An escort agency," she replied. "They call it an agency for actors. I know that's not a good idea, but I was kind of lonely after Kyle and I busted up, and I didn't feel like going home just yet, so I called one of those places. I really just wanted someone to have dinner with, but it has kind of worked out, if you know what I mean."

I suddenly felt grateful to Dottie because she had given me an idea. Antonio had told me he was an actor, at least a wannabe, and he'd mentioned an agency. If Antonio had been hired from this agency, then why not the other one, the Lake impersonator, too?

I was quite pleased with myself for having thought of that, until I caught a glimpse of a headline on the newspaper on the table.

"Would you mind if I had a look at that newspaper?" I asked.

"Go ahead. I can't read it. It's in Italian. Angelo got it."

"I haven't seen an Italian newspaper for a few days," I said. "I'm feeling a little out of touch."

"Feel free," she said. "It's pleasant just to sit here and read, isn't it? You read that, I'll look at Italian Vogue. I can't read a word of it either, but the photos are spectacular."

The article I was interested in was right on the front page and was written by a reporter by the name of Gianni Veri, a name I thought I'd heard before, although I couldn't imagine where. It had caught my eye because of a rather nice photograph of an Etruscan hydria, almost certainly the same one, in fact, that I'd had in my possession more than once. Veri was on something of a rampage, journalistically speaking.

NATIONAL DISGRACE!

AUTHORITIES FIDDLE WHILE ITALIAN PATRIMONY LOOTED.

Members of the Commando Carabinieri Tutela Patrimono Artistico are sitting idly by as hundreds if not thousands of Etruscan artifacts are stolen, looted, and then smuggled out of the country. This reporter has seen with his own eyes the exquisite Etruscan hydria pictured here, a hydria touched by the hands of none other than the Micali painter from ancient Vulci, and knows for a fact that it was on its way to Switzerland when the local police force apprehended an American woman who had it in her possession. The woman is part of a smuggling ring, headed by a foreign businessman, that systematically moves priceless pieces of our Italian heritage to foreign countries where they are sold illegally to collectors worldwide, where they are destined to remain hidden in the private collections of those with no scruples, never to be seen by Italian eyes again. While the woman remains in police custody, the ringleader moves about the country, indeed the world, without fear of prosecution. One has to ask whether it is incompetence on the part of Italian officials that permits this to happen, or worse yet, complicity. Or, perhaps worst of all, that the police are being directed by the most corrupt of politicians.

The article went on to talk about how the Etruscans, as all Italian schoolchildren knew, were the true ancestors of the Italian people, a fact that would no doubt be proven when the results of DNA testing became known, and that all Italians should be enraged by the fact that evil foreigners were allowed to go free. It was all rather overwrought, if not inflammatory, and a little light on both details and accuracy as far as I could see, but it was really depressing when one thought of Lola in jail. It was definitely not looking good for her. The article ended by asking Italians to express their views by E-mailing the reporter at Veii at an Italian ISP address.

I looked up to find Dottie watching me over the top of her reading glasses. "Anything interesting?" she said.

"I was just reading about some stolen antiquities," I said. "Apparently someone is smuggling Etruscan artifacts out of Italy. I suppose people like you and me have to be careful when we're buying."

She looked startled. "We certainly do," she said after a moment's pause.

"Speaking of buying," I said. "I'd better be on my way. I can't be idling away the hours here, no matter how pleasant it is, when there's work to be done. It was nice to see you again, Dottie. Perhaps our paths will cross again."

"Why don't we get together for dinner?" she said. "Angelo knows some fabulous places."

"That's very kind of you," I said. "But really—"

"You have to eat sometime. We'll come and pick you up at your hotel around eight. Where are you staying?"

I gave her the name of the hotel. There didn't seem any way around it. She wrote down the name and the street address. I kept thinking she must know, somehow, where I was staying, because here she was in the square just a few yards away. But there was absolutely nothing in her manner that would lead me to believe that. I decided I was being paranoid and that I should just get on with finding the fake Crawford Lake.

"See you this evening," she said. "Maybe I could ask Angelo to bring one of his young friends for you."

"No, thanks, Dottie," I said. The idea of spending an evening in Rome with a young man from a modeling agency just depressed me.

I went to check telephone listings. My memory was a little fuzzy on the subject, but for some reason, I recalled that the agency name Antonio had told me about with evident pride had made me think of an Italian classical composer. I looked at the listings again. Arcangelo Corelli, seventeenth-century Italian composer, pioneer of the concerto grosso form. Corelli Ponte, actors' agency. That was it.

I telephoned Corelli Ponte for an appointment. I spoke only in English and told them I was an advance scout for a small but particularly highly thought of film company. I told them I was looking for actors who looked good in suits and could pass for successful businessmen. I also told them my name was Janet Swain, and while I knew I was being completely unreasonable, hoped they'd be able to accommodate me that very day. There was a little protestation about such short notice, but in the end, they suggested I come in and look at some photos that afternoon.

It was a small office in a very old building but in a good location off the Via Veneto. I rang at the street door and was buzzed in, then entered the office, which was on the main floor. A young woman took my jacket, motioned me into the first of a series of rooms that led off a central hallway, and then took her seat at a desk. The walls were covered in photos of very beautiful people, male and female. Two particularly large photos, one a man, the other a woman, were front and center behind the reception desk. The woman looked very familiar, one of their star models perhaps. The young woman at the desk asked for my business card. I made a show of rummaging about in my bag and then shrugged my shoulders. "Sorry," I said. "I must have left them at the hotel. The Hassler," I added, naming one of the more expensive hotels in town, and one, now that Lake's money had been cut off, way beyond my means. The receptionist, however, did not look impressed.

"You'll be seeing Signora Ponte," she said in a low voice. "I would ask that you not mention the incident. She has just returned to work this week."

"The incident?" I said.

The young woman looked about to ask me if I were new to the planet. "Her husband," she whispered. "Killed himself." She may not have wanted me to mention the incident, but she was obviously rather keen on discussing it with me herself.

"Of course," I said, suddenly putting the face and the name together with the news reports. "Dreadful. He threw himself off the baize in Volterra, didn't he?"

"Yes," she said. "Can you imagine? Just left his office without saying anything, drove all the way to Volterra, and then threw himself off. They say the place is haunted, you know."

"So I've heard," I whispered back. "Why do you think he did it?"

"You just never know, do you? He ... shhh," she said. I could hear footsteps in the hall, and the woman whose glorious face, albeit a few years earlier, was on the poster behind the desk, entered the room.

"Eugenia Ponte," she said, extending her hand. "How may we be of service?"

She was a very attractive woman of about forty, shoulder-length hair bleached reddish blond in the style that Italian women of a certain social status seem to favor in Rome and Milan. She looked casually elegant in very slim black pants and a white silk shirt, black flats, and some simple but expensive looking gold jewelry, a bracelet, necklace, and a pair of large, round earrings. If she was grieving her late husband, she didn't show it. Her manner was completely professional.

"I'm looking for actors who appear well-to-do, professional businessmen," I said. "They have to be able to act. It's not good enough they just stand there. They have to present themselves well verbally, too. Smart enough to learn their lines. Very presentable."

She asked a couple of questions about age, height, and so on, and then led me into a small conference room. "I'll have some photos and resumes sent in to you right away. I'm sure you will be able to find what you want here," she said. "Just make yourself comfortable. I'll have Angela bring you a coffee. Will an espresso do?"

"Thank you," I said.

"When you've made your selection, bring the albums to my office. It's the last one on the right," she said, gesturing down the hallway.

The men were in alphabetical order, and given I didn't have a name, I had to start at the beginning. I found Antonio right away, Antonio Balducci. He looked so nice, with such a lovely smile, I just had to stop for a minute, a lump in my throat, and pull myself together. Angelo was next, Angelo Ciccolini. He looked rather fetching, too. It took me almost half an hour, but finally, there he was, Crawford Lake smiling out at me, only his name was Mario Romano.

I was a little surprised by Mario's credentials. He'd actually appeared in a rather impressive number of films, and not always in small roles. He wasn't the male equivalent of Sophia Loren in terms of name recognition or anything, but he wasn't doing badly at all. I couldn't imagine why he'd bother to accept a small part playing a mysterious billionaire, a role in which, as far as I knew, he'd never be seen by anyone but me.

I took the photos of Romano and Antonio to Eugenia Ponte's office, as directed. It was much larger than the other offices, befitting her status, and had glass doors that led out to a courtyard garden. Everything was very high style, great Italian design, elegant and contemporary.

"Lovely office," I said, trying to establish some rapport.

"Thank you," she said. "I like it, too. Now, what have you found?"

"I'm interested in these two," I said, handing her the photos and watching her reaction.

She fiddled with one of her earrings, but other than that, showed no emotion.

"Can you tell me about them?"

"Excellent choices," she said. "Two of our very best actors. I'm sure you'd be happy with both of them. However," she said, and this time, she chewed her lip. "Only one of them is available. This one is available," she said, pointing. "Mario Romano. Unfortunately Antonio Balducci is ..." she paused for a moment.

Deceased? I thought.

"Unable to accept assignments," she said, finally. "I suppose we should remove him from the catalog."

"In that case, how about Romano's availability?" I said. "We'll be shooting in the next couple of weeks."

"Mario is extremely busy. You've seen his resume," she said. "But I'm sure we'll be able to work something out."

"Would it be possible for me to interview him in person? It's rather difficult to tell from a photograph if he will suit our purposes. I'd have to hear his voice. It is just a small part in a commercial, but my director believes that all the details must be perfect. I'm sure you know the type of person I'm talking about."

"Indeed I do," she said. "Difficult, of course, but attention to detail always shows, doesn't it? I can assure you Mario is utterly professional, so he will understand."

"Could you tell me where I could get in touch with him?"

"We will arrange for you to meet him here," she said.

"Great," I said. "Could that be later today or tomorrow morning? Deadlines, you know."

"I think so," she said. "But let me call Angela and ask her to see what she can set up." Removing one earring so that she could use the telephone more comfortably, she dialed an extension. I could hear the phone ringing down the hall.

"Where is that girl?" she said with more than a touch of impatience. "Give me a minute, please.” She got up and I listened to her footsteps recede down the hall. In a flash I stood up, reached over to the file folders, opened Romano's, and found the address. As I did so, I inadvertently knocked her earring on the floor. I could hear footsteps coming my way. In a panic, I whipped around the desk, found it and was about to set it back in its place, when I noticed something that gave me pause. The earring was gold, heavy, and obviously good quality. On it was embossed a scene of some kind. I took a closer look. It was a chimera, with Bellerophon poised for the kill above.

Seeing it stopped me dead in my tracks. I just stood there, holding it and staring at it, thinking that the earring reminded me of something else, although what, I just couldn't recall, and wondering what it all meant. Almost too late I remembered the footsteps in the hall. I set the earring in its place and, given I was on the wrong side of the desk and she was nanoseconds from coming through the door, turned quickly and stared out the doors.

"Gorgeous garden," I said. "It makes such a difference, doesn't it? To have something beautiful to look at, I mean."

She looked suspiciously at me but then, checking her desk and seeing nothing out of order, agreed. "Angela says you're staying at the Hassler," she said, reaching for her earring and putting it on. "Lovely hotel. We will set up an appointment for you with Romano and leave a message for you there. I know that time is of the essence, so we'll try to set up something for later this afternoon or first thing tomorrow."

"Many thanks," I said. "I'm glad we'll be doing business."

"I am as well. How did you hear about us?" she asked.

Good question. I thought of the photo of Angelo Ciccolini. "Dorothea Beach," I said. "She's an antique dealer in New Orleans. She recommended you highly."

"Ah, Signora Beach. Of course. We deal with her whenever she's in Rome. I must be sure to tell her we appreciate her recommendation," Eugenia said.

I turned to go but then had another thought. "Do you have any older women actors? Say about sixty. The kind who could play the part of somebody's mother, for example, or perhaps an older maid?"

"Not many," she said. "But you're welcome to look at more photos if you wish."

"Thank you," I said.

In the older woman category, the pickings were pretty slim, a comment, I suppose on how society treats women actors over the age of about thirty. After only a few minutes of leafing through photos, I was interrupted by Signora Ponte, who had slipped a rather smashing black cashmere shawl over her shoulders. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you," she said. "I have a luncheon appointment. But if you see anyone you're interested in, Angela will make the appointment, and you can see her at the same time you see the others. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

"For me, as well," I said. "I look forward to seeing you when I come to meet the actor." I had no intention of returning, of course, something they'd figure out when they tried to leave a message for Janet Swain at the Hassler. It took me only a few more minutes to check the rest of the photographs. No sign of Anna, she of the lemon cake and tea. I went outside and hailed a taxi.

Mario Romano, aka Crawford Lake, lived across the Tiber in Trastevere, a neighborhood known for good food, night life, and a place for artists, and I suppose, reasonably successful actors, to live.

Romano, according to the names on the mailboxes, was on the top floor. A little girl sat outside the first-floor apartment, and after some smiling and waving on my part, she opened the door and followed me up to the first floor before giving up and going back to sit outside her door.

A rather pretty young woman of about eighteen or twenty, close to Jennifer Luczka's age by my estimate, opened the door a crack. She was dressed very casually in jeans and a white T-shirt, her long, dark hair pulled back and tied with a black ribbon. She looked as if she had a bad cold, with her red nose and eyes. "I'm looking for Mario Romano," I said.

"He's not here right now," she said.

"Can you tell me when he'll be back?"

"Soon," she said, but I wasn't sure she was telling the truth for some reason, a certain look about her eyes. It occurred to me she was alone and possibly a little nervous about strangers appearing at the door.

"I'm a friend of Antonio Balducci's," I said.

"Oh," she said, opening the door. "Come in. Isn't that the most awful thing? I can't believe Antonio would do that. Oh," she said, bringing her hand up to her mouth. "You do know that he's dead, don't you? I hope I'm not giving you a terrible shock."

"I heard," I said. "So you're . . ."

"Silvia," she said. "Mario's my dad."

"Of course!" I said. I could see the resemblance now that she'd told me. "I've heard about you. I'm Lara. I'm just in Rome for a few days, and I saw the newspaper story about Antonio," I said. Silvia gestured toward the sofa, and I sat down. The newspaper article I'd just referred to was faceup on the coffee table.

"Is there going to be a funeral?"

"It's today," she said, glancing at her watch. "I'm terribly sorry, but you've missed it. You could never get there in time. Antonio lived in Rome, of course, but his family wants him buried in his village down south. That's where my dad is now. It's going to start in about an hour."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I would have liked to have gone." That was true, actually. "I didn't see anything in the paper about the funeral."

"No," she said. "It took a long time for the carabinieri to release the body so Antonio could have a proper funeral. But given what happened, the suicide and everything, it's just family and really close friends. I can't believe he did that, can you? I wouldn't have thought suicide is something Antonio would even think about. Do you think it had something to do with Teresa? He was so afraid she'd take up with someone else."

"Yes, he was," I said. "He told me about Teresa and how all the other men were like bees around a lovely flower."

She smiled a little. "That sounds like Antonio. I was, still am, a little bit in love with him. You won't tell my dad, will you? I've had a crush on Antonio for at least three years. I've just been sitting here having a bit of a cry about it. Dad wouldn't take me along, unfortunately, because he's going somewhere else directly after. Look, I'm being terribly inhospitable here," she said. "I haven't even asked you if you'd like a drink or something."

"I'm fine, thanks. But tell me how your dad is doing."

"He's okay," she said. "I suppose you heard he and my mother have split."

"No," I said.

"Well, they have. I'm supposed to be at my mother's right now, so please don't tell my dad if you happen to run into him. I like staying here better." She waved her hand about the room. I could see why she'd like the place. It was a cozy apartment by North American standards, but probably sizable enough for Rome. The walls were covered in art and framed posters, a couple of them for exhibits of Etruscan art, and one whole wall was devoted to bookshelves. The furniture was large and comfortable, and the place had a nice, casual feel to it.

"Dad's taken a few months off to get his life back together again. But his agency called a few minutes ago with something for him, so maybe he'll get back to it. He's with the Corelli Ponte agency. They're huge," she said. "The people wanted to see him today or tomorrow, though, so maybe it will be too late when he gets back."

"Is your dad coming back tomorrow, after the funeral?" I said. "I'm only here for a day or two, so I'd like to get in touch with him if I could."

"I'm afraid not," she said. "He's taking a holiday weekend in the country. He won't be back until Monday. I'm glad for him. I hope it means he's getting over the split with Mum. I'd like him to find a new girlfriend. Hey!" she said, brightening. "You're about the right age. Are you available?"

"No," I said, laughing. "I'm spoken for. But thanks for asking."

"Too bad," she said. "He really needs something or someone to cheer him up. The business with him and my mother was bad enough, and now he's just devastated over what happened to Antonio. They were like brothers. Dad even called Antonio his little brother. He was always trying to help Antonio find work. He kept telling Antonio he'd make it. Antonio had the looks for it, that's for sure."

"He did," I said. "And he was also really kind."

"Yes," she said, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "And funny."

I gave her hand a rather awkward pat.

"When did you see him last?" she said. I told her, omitting several details, of course, about how he'd saved me from the Gypsies, and how we'd shared a bottle of French wine on the Left Bank in Paris, and Antonio had practiced his English. It wasn't the last time I'd seen him, of course, but it was the time I wanted to remember forever. We both snuffled a little.

"I can't figure out how he would have even managed it," she said. "I know the papers said it was a mob hit or something, but Antonio never had anything to do with the mob. Dad says Antonio killed himself. But how would he get himself up there in the first place? My dad says the carabinieri claim he got into the house somehow—there was one window that wasn't properly fastened—attached the rope lower down, went upstairs, and threw it over the metal pole on the peak of the roof from a second-floor window, put the noose around his neck, and then jumped out of the same window. It seems like such a lot of trouble to go to. I don't know ..."

In my mind I heard again the banging of the upstairs shutters that had made me look up. It was possible, I supposed, when I thought about it, but she was right. It was a whole lot of trouble to go to.

"You have to wonder why he'd even know about that farmhouse, let alone use it," I said.

"Dad knows the owner, Gino Mauro."

"He does?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm not sure how, but he does. He talked to him when it happened. Mauro lives in New York but is coming over in the next day or two. Dad is expecting to get together with him at some point."

"Look," I said after a few more minutes of conversation. "I'd better be going. I have work to do. It was really nice to meet you."

"I'll tell Dad you were here," she said. "If he calls. He won't, of course, because he thinks I'm at Mum's, and he doesn't like to call there unless he's sure I'll be the one to answer the phone. But I'll tell him you were here."

I gave her my card and wrote my hotel number on the back. "I know you opened the door for me," I said. "But really, you shouldn't have. Don't answer it unless it's someone you know and you're expecting them." I was suddenly frightened for this sweet young woman and also for her dad. Antonio was involved in the same hoax Mario was, and Antonio was dead. "Promise me you won't open the door," I said. "In fact, I'd be a lot happier if you went to stay with your mother."

"Okay," she said. "I will, as soon as I pull myself together. You'd be perfect for Dad. You're both fusspots."

"Thank you," I said. She actually gave me a hug. I felt like a jerk. I waited outside the door until I heard the bolt click.

I went downstairs and walked along the street, looking for a taxi. As it turned out, I didn't need one. I'd gone only a few yards when a limousine pulled up beside me. I ignored it at first. It couldn't have anything to do with me. But after a cyclist went by and rounded the corner, and I was the only one on the street, a very large man got out and grabbed me. I tried kicking and scratching, but I was no match for him. I was pushed into the backseat of the car. The last thing I saw, through the rear window, was the little girl from the first floor in the doorway, watching, as we pulled away.

The limo came to a stop some time later, maybe twenty minutes, although I wasn't sure. I was pulled rather roughly out of the car and found myself standing in a garage of some sort. There was another limo there, and a scooter, and an air-conditioning unit was blasting away. The man who'd abducted me punched a code, and the door swung open. I was led up a flight of concrete stairs and then pushed down a hall and into a dark room. The door closed behind me, and I was alone.

At least I thought I was alone, until a voice emanated from a very dark corner of the room. "I understand you've been looking for me," a voice said out of the darkness.

"Mr. Lake?" I said, peering in the direction of the voice.

"I don't like extortionists," the voice said. My eyes were adjusting to the light, and I could make out a man in dark glasses and a dark suit sitting in the gloomiest corner of the room.

"Nor do I, Mr. Lake," I said. "It is Mr. Lake, is it not? If you're calling me an extortionist, then you're wrong."

"Then perhaps you will explain why you visited my sister in Ireland. Bribed her with roses, didn't you? White ones? It shows some inventiveness, I'll grant you. What do you want?"

I told him about how I'd met this actor who was impersonating him, who'd asked me to get Bellerophon, about everything that had happened since.

A long silence greeted my account. "Then I'm afraid you've been made the goat, haven't you, Ms. McClintoch?" he said at last. "You've been played for a fool."

"I'd have to agree with you," I said. "Are you telling me you know nothing about any of this?"

"That is exactly what I'm saying," he said. "I would go even further and say your troubles have absolutely nothing to do with me."

"But they just have to, Mr. Lake," I said. "In some fashion or another, they just have to. If you could just look into this for me—"

"Do you have any idea," he said suddenly, "what I would give to be able to stand on a lovely beach with the wind from the sea in my hair, the sand shimmering from the hot sun and the heat, without feeling as if maggots were crawling through every blood vessel in my body?"

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Good day, Ms. McClintoch," he said. "Kindly refrain from invoking my name in this matter. If you do not, I will have to resort to legal action. Indeed, if you so much as mention this meeting, or your discussions with my sister, or anything at all you have learned about either of us, I can assure you, you will very much regret it. You will not have a friend left nor a dime to your name when I'm finished with you. I hope I'm making myself perfectly clear."

He was perfectly clear, all right. Really pleasant fellow, Crawford Lake. When it came right down to it, I preferred the fake one. I could have clawed the real one's eyes out in frustration. I went back to my hotel, packed, and checked out, leaving a note for my dear friend Dottie Beach.

TWELVE

DOTTIE BEACH OPENED THE ENVELOPE I'd left for her and frowned. In it I apologized profusely for standing her up, citing the excuse—entirely fictional, given I was standing a few feet from her but hidden from view—that I'd been called away to Geneva to check out a silver collection a client wanted. I told her I'd tried to reach her at the Hassler to let her know but hadn't been able to leave a message for her for some reason. She'd know perfectly well what that reason was, given that I had indeed tried to call her there, only to discover that Dottie wasn't staying where she said she was. More and more about Dot-tie seemed false.

She crumpled the paper with some force and then turned to leave the hotel, pulling her cell phone from her bag. Once outside, she placed a call, at the same time signaling to Angelo, who was parked nearby in a lovely silver Mercedes convertible, top down. In a minute, I was in a taxi following them. Angelo dropped Dottie at the eastern entrance to the Piazza Navona. After taking my time paying the taxi driver, to give Angelo time to pull away, I followed her into the square.

The piazza was packed with tourists and locals, and I almost lost her, but I caught a glimpse of her taking her seat at one of the outdoor cafes. I, too, found myself a seat across the wide expanse of the square from her and on a slight angle. I'd bought opera glasses for the occasion, and ordered a Campari and soda, which I was determined to make last as long as necessary.

Angelo joined her shortly. They were seated at a table set for three, and the waiter cleared the third place. Soon they were sipping cocktails interspersed with a kiss or two. I waited for about thirty minutes, with my waiter hovering about hoping I'd order at least another drink. I did, a San Pellegrino, which wasn't what he had in mind, despite the fact the place was charging about three times more than it should for Italian designer water.

Across the piazza, the waiter brought Angelo and Dottie dinner menus, and they proceeded to order. It all looked absolutely legitimate. They'd made a reservation for three, just as they said they would. They were having dinner. What was sinister in that? My only reason for suspecting her was that she turned up once or twice too often in my life, and now that I knew Crawford Lake was actually Mario Romano, I had to look back on every single event in the last several days with a jaundiced eye.

It was difficult not to be suspicious. The carabinieri had turned up three times when I was supposed to have the chimera hydria in my possession. The fact that I didn't on two of those occasions was something known only to Lola and to me. That seemed to be at least three times too many that my path and that of the carabinieri had almost crossed.

The question was, who had known where I was going to be on each of those occasions? Antonio had been able to pick up my trail in Paris very easily, because I'd left a message for him, giving my hotel number in case there was a problem with my cell phone. He'd shown up in Vichy, too, although I had not seen him following me there from Paris. Yves Boucher knew I was going to Vichy, as did Pierre Leclerc. I'd met Dot-tie for the first time that trip in Vichy, and both she and Leclerc had presumably been out to the chateau before I was, the morning Robert Godard took a header into his tomb.

Mario Romano had known where I was staying in Nice and in Volterra. Indeed, he'd recommended the hotels and arranged to have a reservation made for me. Dottie turned up in Nice but not in Volterra. In fact, she'd vanished for a few days, not reappearing until Rome. Leclerc was in Volterra; I saw him, and I saw his car in Nice. It was in Nice that the hydria had miraculously made its way into the trunk of my rental car. Somehow he'd managed to get the chimera hydria out of his trunk before the carabinieri got to it, because it had turned up in my hotel room in Arezzo, and he ended up dead in Cortona.

Both Antonio and Romano knew that I'd moved to Arezzo but hadn't known about my consequent change to Cortona. I'd seen Antonio near my hotel in Arezzo, just before the hydria had turned up in my room.

Romano and Antonio had also known about my early morning visit to the Tanella di Pitagora in the fog, but Romano had said something about leaving Antonio out of it when he told me to go to the Melone di Sodo. Antonio had shown up, though, and hidden in the bushes the same way I had. He obviously knew that something was wrong, or he wouldn't have done that. Was that the reason Antonio had died?

After about an hour of watching Dottie and Angelo nuzzle each other between bites of their dinner and sips of their wine, I decided I might as well give up and go back to my hotel. The thought of spending another evening alone in a small room with a television the size of a toaster was terribly depressing. Several people were hanging about, waiting for a table, however, and the waiter clearly wanted me to leave. I signaled for the bill and started to gather up my belongings.

"This is probably rude of me," a man's voice said, "but you look as if you're leaving. Would you mind if I sat here so I could lay claim to this table?"

I looked up to see an attractive man in dark turtle-neck and slacks and a nice tan suede jacket, wearing lovely Italian leather loafers with socks. I like men to wear socks with their loafers. "Please," I said. "Help yourself. I'm just leaving. I'll pay my bill and be out of your way in a minute or two."

"Thanks," he said, pulling out the chair opposite mine and sitting down. "Rather difficult to get a table in the Piazza Navona this time of the evening. Have we met? You look familiar to me," he said.

Oh right, I thought. The universal come-on. And when it came right down to it, too many strangers had been asking to sit with me since I'd arrived in Italy.

But when I looked at him more carefully, I realized he looked familiar to me, too. It took a second or two before I placed him.

"I don't think we were formally introduced," I said. "But our paths crossed in the carabinieri station in Arezzo."

"Yes," he said after a pause. "That's right. You were with that fellow—what's his name?—Lucca. Massimo Lucca. I hope it wasn't anything serious."

"No, it wasn't." Merely a friend in jail, I thought. "And you? I hope it wasn't serious for you, either."

"No," he said. He wasn't being any more forthcoming on the subject than I was, which was fine with me.

"It was nice to meet you," I said, handing the waiter some money.

"Please," he said. "Permit me to buy you a drink."

"I don't think so," I said. "But thank you."

"How can I persuade you?" he said. "I really dislike drinking alone."

I stood up and was about to decline a second time, when I saw someone come over to Dottie's table across the way. I sat down again. "Well maybe just one," I said. The man at Dottie's table sat down, too. Dottie had phoned someone as she left my hotel. Was that someone there now?

"Terrific," my new companion said, signaling the waiter again.

"A glass of white wine would be lovely," I said. Across the way, Angelo stood up and looked as if he was going to punch the newcomer out. In a split second, the stranger was behind Angelo and had pulled the young man's arm up behind his back in what I've been assured, by people who know these kinds of things, is called a chicken wing hammerlock. Within seconds, Angelo was out in the square. The man came back and sat down.

"So," my new companion said. "Is this your first visit to Rome?"

"No," I said. Dottie dug a handkerchief out of her bag and blew her nose. I couldn't see the tears from this distance, but I was sure there were some.

"Of course it isn't," he said. "Your Italian is too good. It was a stupid question, a rather prosaic opening line. You'll no doubt have noticed I'm a little rusty when it comes to meeting attractive women. I'm Nicola Marzolini, by the way."

"That's okay," I said. "I'm a little rusty at opening lines myself. I'm Lara McClintoch. And thanks for the compliment." The stranger at Dottie's table poured himself a glass of wine and chugged it down. The one at mine went on talking.

"You're welcome. I believe then, that the next conversational gambit is yours, signora."

"Okay," I said. "So what was your business in the police station?"

He burst out laughing. "You American women are so direct. I like that. I like you."

"But you didn't answer the question."

"It's no secret," he said, smiling. He had a really lovely smile, not as beautiful as Antonio's perhaps, but still, rather attractive. "I act as a consultant to the police on some matters. Now you will no doubt ask me which matters these might be, so I'll tell you. They ask for my professional expertise in the field of antiquities. I'm a curator for hire, as it were. I assist museums on a contract basis, and I work with the police, as a public-minded citizen. Now, of course, it's your turn. What do you do? Why are you here? And what were you doing in the police station?"

Warning bells were clanging away in my head at the mention of antiquities, but he looked perfectly innocent. "I'm an antique dealer from Toronto. I'm here on a buying trip for my shop."

"Interesting. What kinds of things are you shopping for?"

"Mainly I've been shopping in Tuscany. The Tuscan farmhouse look is very hot right now."

"So I understand. You're not into antiquities, I hope."

"Not if I can avoid it," I said.

"Good," he said. "I will then be able to spare you my lecture on how the antiquities trade is destroying culture."

"Sorry I have to miss that one," I said.

He laughed again. He had a really nice laugh, spontaneous and genuine. He was, when it came right down to it, a very attractive man.

"I don't suppose I could talk you into having dinner with me. I hate eating alone even more than I hate drinking alone. There I go again," he said. "Another horrible line, rife with implied insult. What I'm trying to say is I'd be delighted if you would have dinner with me."

Before answering, I checked out Dottie's table again. They were both still there.

"Thank you," I said. "I'd like to have dinner with you."

"Shall I pick the restaurant?" he said.

"What's wrong with right here?" I said.

"I know a much better place near the Campo dei Fiori. We can walk."

I was about to protest, but then Dottie and her new dinner companion got up and started to leave. There didn't seem to be any point in hanging around the piazza anymore. Nicola tossed a bill onto the table, took my arm, and we were off. Using Nicola as a shield of sorts, I had a quick look at the mystery man of Dottie's as they left the square. I didn't recognize him, but he and Dottie seemed to be close. He handed her his handkerchief as they went by, and she blotted her eyes.

Nicola chose a pleasant restaurant where he seemed to be well-known, and where, despite the lineup outside, we were seated at the bar immediately and at a table a few minutes later.

"How did you manage that?" I said.

"I eat here a lot," he said. "It's not far from my place. The maitre d' is a cousin, which doesn't hurt. The gnocchi are wonderful, by the way, and I'd recommend the steak or any of the seafood."

We spent a very pleasant evening together. We talked about art, music, theater, all the subjects I love to talk about. He told me he painted for relaxation. I told him I had no hobbies except my store. He flirted a little. I flirted back, just a little. It was altogether a rather wonderful evening.

"Can I interest you in a nightcap?" he said. "At my place?"

I smiled. "Thank you, but I think I have to say no."

"You're spoken for, aren't you?" he said.

"Yes, I am," I said.

"I thought so," he said. "I don't know why. No ring, but I just thought you were."

"I hope you don't think I've been unfair here. I've had a wonderful evening."

"I have, too, and I don't want it to end just yet," he said. "So please, come and have a nightcap. Despite what you have heard about Italian men, I promise to behave myself. What does this partner of yours do?"

"He's a sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"Really?" he said. "A Mountie? Then I really must behave myself. How daring of you. Or is it public spirited?"

I laughed. "He's a really fine person," I said. "I grow fonder of him all the time."

"Fond," he said. "Interesting word, but I think I won't probe. Speaking of police," he said, "I don't believe you ever answered my question about why you were in the Arezzo carabinieri station."

"I was checking on an antiquity," I said. "As you know, you can't be too careful."

"Very wise," he said. "There was a beautiful one there, by the way. I was called in to have a look at it. They caught some woman red-handed with it. An Etruscan hydria. You know what I mean by hydria, don't you? Water jug with three handles? Yes? Stunning."

"And was it authentic?" I said in my most neutral tone of voice.

"Almost certainly," he said. "A really fine example, in perfect condition. Now, let's go see my place."

The building was rather unprepossessing, and the elevator more than a little rickety. I took a quick look behind us as I entered the place, but I couldn't see anyone I knew. To my surprise, Nicola's place was a stunner. It was a very large room on the top floor, loft-style we'd call it, with a glass wall on one end, and a fabulous view over the rooftops. There was a small kitchen on the wall opposite the window, a partitioned-off area for the bed, which I stayed away from, and decorated with a few pieces of very modern, beautifully designed, Italian furniture. While I'd been rather careful not to ask him about his personal life, it was so obviously a bachelor's place, I knew I didn't need to probe. The walls were covered in art, some of it really quite good.

"Can I take your coat?" he said.

"Sure," I said. "But just toss it somewhere."

He took it and, despite what I'd said, he carefully put it on a hanger and placed it in a closet near the door. He then took off his jacket, folded it very carefully, looked about to put it on the back of a chair, but then hung it up as well.

"I'm surprised we've had such a pleasant evening," I said with a smile. "I'm rather untidy, you see. I call it creative clutter." We'd end up killing each other, I thought.

He smiled, too. "You've noticed I am somewhat compulsively neat," he said. "Sorry, does it bother you?"

"Of course not. I'm just jealous," I said. "I'd love a modern home like this. It's just that modern is minimalist, and as certain friends have pointed out on more than one occasion, I don't do minimalist. Mine is rather more, shall we say, eclectic in taste. Modern, primitive, whatever catches my eye, and lots of things do."

"Seriously," he said. "Do you like the place?"

"It's fabulous. I'm surprised, for some reason. I'd have thought a curator would have, I don't know.. .."

"Less modern furniture and art?" he said. "It's not as strange as you think. I've found I enjoy good design, regardless of era. But more to the point, I can't own antiquities, now, can I? And once you've seen the real thing, reproductions don't work, at least not for me. This furniture is the genuine article. I've collected some of the best examples of what I think is called mid-century modern where you come from. I work with thousands-of-years-old artifacts during the day, which have a beauty all their own, and then I come home to a different kind of world, a different kind of beauty, I suppose you might say."

"I can tell you picked each of these pieces, the furniture, the area rugs, the glass vase here, the paintings, individually. I know I'm not expressing this properly, but some people just buy stuff, they don't choose it with real care. They buy sets, or something. Or is that a North American phenomenon?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "But you are rather perceptive. I did pick each piece individually. I'm a collector at heart, I guess."

"But a very selective one," I said.

"Perfection is an important concept for me," he said. "In people, too, I'm afraid. It no doubt explains why at forty-six years of age, I still live alone. That and the fact I'm compulsively neat."

"You paint, obviously," I said, gesturing toward an easel by the window. "Are any of these paintings your own work?" I felt we were entering dangerous territory here, conversationally speaking, and I thought I'd just change the subject.

"No," he said. "I'm afraid mine are considerably less exuberant than these abstract paintings. I'm a detail person. You have to be to do the kind of work I do. So when I paint, I'm afraid that love of detail comes out, despite persistent efforts on my part to break free. I could show you some of my work, if you promise not to judge me against these other paintings."

"I'd love to see it," I said.

"There's one piece on the easel," he said. "And I'll bring a few more out." He went out into the hallway, and I started to follow him. "Just wait there," he said. "I have a little work space just down the hall, where I keep my work. It's a glorified bathroom really, just some extra storage space and a worktable when I bring stuff home from the office. Don't come, though." He laughed. "It's almost untidy." I followed him anyway. The room was filled with books, most of them on antiquities, and there was a worktable covered in shards of ceramics, and a kiln in the corner. It was messier than his living quarters but still awfully well organized. "I do some of my research here, as you can see," he said. "It's not a very sophisticated setup, but I can test a few hypotheses from time to time."

I pulled one of the books from the shelf. It was a well-thumbed tome on Etruscan art. After idly flipping through it while Nicola looked through drawers, I put it back. As I turned away, I caught him pushing the spine of the book I'd just replaced, so that it lined up perfectly with the others.

Despite his modesty on the subject and his compulsive tidiness, Nicola's painting was quite exceptional. It was, as he said, rather detailed, small works on canvas, some as small as six or eight inches square, that drew heavily, to my eye, anyway, on ancient designs.

The brushwork was confident and the overall impression very pleasing. "I love these," I said, as I sipped a limoncello. "In many ways, perhaps because of the work I do, I feel more of an affinity to yours than some of these others. It's the ancient quality to it, I think, that appeals to me."

"You are very kind," he said. "I don't show my work to many people. It's a little like baring your soul, isn't it? Thank you for being so gentle with it."

He was standing so close, our shoulders were touching, and I knew it was time to go home.

"I'd better go," I said.

"I'll take you back to your hotel," he said.

"No," I said. "You don't need to do that. If you'll just find me a cab?"

As I left, he kissed my hand. "Here," he said. "For you." It was a small painting. "I think this was your favorite?"

"You mustn't," I said.

"Please, I want you to have it."

"Thank you," I said. "I'll think of you every time I look at it."

"If you're ever back in Rome," he said, handing me his card. "Or if you grow less fond of the policeman, I hope you will think of me."

The streets were almost empty when I left. I looked back through the rear window of the taxi and saw him standing, framed in the light, watching me leave.

For some reason, the way the light hit the glass, perhaps, or the way the windows were framed, he looked to me as if he were imprisoned. Which maybe he was, with his immaculate clothes and his perfect furniture, carefully placed, and not so much as a crumb to be seen. For me, it was a stab to the heart.

THIRTEEN. AREZZO

I SPENT MOST OF THE NEXT DAY IN BED, in a funk so black I could hardly lift my head from the pillow. I snapped at the chambermaid, ordered food but couldn't eat it, opting instead to drink cup after cup of coffee, until my nerves were so frayed my eyeballs hurt. Then I checked my E-mail, thinking it would make me feel better, but it made me feel even worse.

"Hi Lara," the message said. "Hope you 're enjoying France, Italy, or wherever it is you are. The operation I'm involved in is taking a little longer than expected, but everything is fine. In fact, the assignment, as usual, is rather boring. I'll be back home soon. Hope you will be, too. I love you, Rob."

I hit Reply. "Hi Rob," I typed. "Italy is fine. I just have a couple of things left to get under control here, and then I'll be home. I'll see you soon. Love you, too. Lara"

I hit Send, then just stared at the screen for awhile. Rob had never actually said to my face that he loved me, although I suppose I knew that he did, in some fashion at least. Had he had to do it the day after I'd had dinner with a handsome Italian? Come to think of it, I'd never told him I loved him, either. I wondered what it was that had made him say it now, even if it was only electronically. I hoped his brief and cheery message wasn't covering up the kind of situation that mine was, both in terms of the mess I was in or the evening I'd had the night before. If it was, he'd be as suspicious of my message as I was of his. My mood grew even blacker.

At about nine at night, I realized I had two choices: I could sit in the hotel room, staring out at a bleak interior courtyard as the rain dripped on the pavement below and the smells of the kitchen permeated the room, until I rotted, or I could face the music, as it were, and do what I'd been putting off for about three days.

By ten o'clock, I'd showered and was in the car and back on the road. It occurred to me that, at that point of time, my personal version of purgatory was driving up and down the misnamed, at that moment at least, Autostrada del Sole, as the windshield wipers flapped and the rain poured down.

"Come in, come in," Lola's friend Salvatore said.

"I'm sorry to show up so late," I said. "But I need a place to stay. Can I crash on your living room sofa, or the floor, or something?"

"Most certainly not," he said. "I have a guest room.

I don't have much company, but I believe the bed is reasonably comfortable, and the room is yours. I'm so happy to see you. Please tell me you've come with good news. Tell me you've found the businessman who was going to return the hydria and that he'll come forward and my Lola will soon be free."

"Unfortunately not," I said, and his face fell. "I found him, but he wasn't who I thought he was."

"You must tell me everything," he said. "Come, sit down and tell me." So I did.

"Do you think if I told this story to the police, to that Massimo Lucca fellow, that he'd believe me?"

"No," he said.

"Well then, I'm just going to have to tell him the hydria was mine. There's nothing else for it. I don't know why Lola doesn't tell them herself, but I gather she hasn't."

"I don't think that will help," he said.

"You know, last night at this time," I said, checking my watch, "I was having a very pleasant evening with a man I just met. I went to his apartment, and he gave me a piece of his art."

"So?" Salvatore said.

"So, I'm in a relationship," I said. "My partner is a policeman, and right now he's on an assignment of some sort, which I can't know about, and which I'm sure is dangerous."

"And did you violate the terms of that relationship?"

"I didn't stay there, if that's what you mean."

"And how would you feel if this partner of yours, the policeman on a dangerous mission, spent an evening with someone he met, and then left."

"I don't know how I'd feel about it, but I know what the really terrible part of it is," I said. He waited. "I was traipsing about in Rome, eating a good meal, drinking fine wine, and flirting with a stranger, while Rob may have been in danger and Lola is fading away in jail."

"Perhaps that's your way of dealing with difficult situations."

"Perhaps it is. You know, for the last few years, I've felt reasonably comfortable about who I am and how I react to things. I'm not perfect, I know, but I've learned to deal with it all. Now, for some reason, I feel like the most awful person in the world.

"I don't know what to do now," I said. "I feel so tired, so terrible. I don't even know whether to be angry or depressed."

"If you have a choice, then be angry. It is so much healthier."

"Then angry at whom? Myself? The reason that Lola is in this mess is that I was stupid enough to believe that someone as important as Crawford Lake not only knew who I was but wanted to do business with me. I mean, how stupid can I get? As for helping either Lola or myself, I simply have no idea how to proceed from here."

He looked at me for a moment. "I know what you need," he said, rising from his chair at the kitchen table. "First: grappa," he said, taking a bottle down off a shelf and pouring a small tumblerful. "Drink," he said. "You're shivering.

"Second," he said, taking a large pot and filling it with water before setting it on the stove and turning on the flame. "Pasta. You haven't eaten much today, have you." It was a statement, not a question, and he was right. "Pasta conaglio e olio, garlic and oil," he said, setting a skillet on a second burner and reaching for the olive oil. "And perhaps to fortify you, peperoncini, hot peppers. That should do the trick. Why don't you cut yourself a slice or two of bread to go with it.

"And third," he said, walking over to a small CD player on a table by the window. "Music. Opera, of course. One is tempted, on these occasions, to move outside Italy, Mozart perhaps, or Wagner. Big music, even bigger emotions. Tannhauser or Don Giovanni. But no. Verdi. Otello," he said as the first jarring chord washed over us. "No matter what else there is for us to learn from Otello, it is about finding out the hard way whom to trust.

"And now, while I cook," he said, handing me a pen and a large pad of paper, "you will write down the names of the people you have come in contact with, even in the most peripheral way, since this whole Crawford Lake affair began. Everyone, you understand? And if you can, put them in the order in which you came in contact with them. You must take action, not sit here feeling sorry for yourself."

"Okay," I said and wrote for a minute or two.

"Let me see," he said, taking the list in one hand, as he stirred with the other. "Antonio Balducci, the young man who followed you everywhere. Mario Romano, that's the fake Crawford Lake, no?"

I nodded.

"So you went to this apartment and only Lake or Romano and Balducci were there?"

"Yes. I mean no. There was a maid by the name of Anna."

"Just Anna? No surname?"

"Just Anna, I'm afraid."

"So then you went to Paris, and Antonio followed you. There you met... ?"

"Yves Boucher," I said.

"And you were put in touch with him by Lake, Romano, I mean."

"Not exactly. The person who set it up, according to Boucher, was Vittorio Palladini, who just happens to own the apartment in Rome."

Vitali handed me the paper again. "Is his name here? Yes? Now, who is next? Pierre Leclerc, wasn't it? Or Le Conte with a question mark," he said.

"He told me his name was Leclerc. Godard thought it was something else like Le Conte. Godard may simply have been mistaken."

"And he is the one who died at the Tanella. I read about that in the paper. They hadn't identified the body yet, but foul play is suspected."

"More than suspected, I'm sure," I said. "Didn't the paper say he was drugged first, then strangled?"

"Let's not dwell on that. Boucher took you to meet Robert Godard, is that right? But first you met Dottie Beach, yes, and Kyle. Who is Kyle? One name only?"

"I'm afraid so," I said. "He was always just Kyle. American, young, very attractive. But he's gone back home, according to Dottie."

"And this Dottie. You have known her for many years, you've told me?"

"Yes."

"You aren't competitors in business or even in love? She didn't fancy your ex-husband Clive many years ago?"

"No. I don't think so. Dottie was married to Hugh Halliday when I met her. They're divorced now. Anyway, when Clive fooled around, it was with younger women than Dottie, and Dottie likes younger men than Clive."

"Robert Godard, the man in the tomb. Do you think he fell?"

"Not really. I thought he was quite adept at getting himself down into the tomb. It's possible he fell, but given all that has happened since, I wouldn't want to bet on it."

"Eugenia Ponte I know, of course. Palladini owned the apartment, as you have already pointed out. He's in insurance in Rome? And Cesar Rosati? That name is familiar."

"I met him in Volterra. Other than that, I have nothing that links him to this. He owns something called the Rosati Gallery. I need to check that out."

"Perhaps I can help with that," he said. "But you don't have enough names here. You must try harder. Who would have told whoever is behind this that you were even in Italy? Who knew?"

"My shipper, Luigi D'Amato, but I've been dealing with him for years."

"Never mind. You told me you've known Dottie Beach for years also, and I think now you are not so certain about her. Signore D'Amato goes to the top of the list, given he is the first person in all this you dealt with. But he can't be the only person who knows you're in Italy. Your business partner?"

"Clive? I used to be married to him," I said.

"Bad marriages have been the cause of many a crime, I'm afraid," he said.

"I know, but Clive, for all his faults, wouldn't be involved in something like this. I suppose he might inadvertently have told someone where I was. In fact, he did, now that I think of it. He mentioned that someone by the name of Antonio phoned the shop asking what hotel I was staying in. Clive thought Antonio worked for D'Amato."

"And your partner in life, Rob his name is, I think you said."

"Rob knows where I am, but he's unavailable at the moment. His daughter Jennifer is well-trained and wouldn't tell anyone where I was unless she knew them really well. She'd E-mail me with their name and phone number, but she wouldn't give mine to them directly."

"But many people know you are in Italy now."

"Yes," I said. "I can see Lola's court case will be in good hands."

He smiled. "Am I interrogating you? Perhaps a little. But we must go on. Do you know who owned the house where Balducci was found?"

"Yes, it was in the newspapers. Mauro, Gino Mauro. And he knows Mario Romano. His daughter told me."

"His daughter? Put her on the list, too. Anyone else?" he said, setting a steaming bowl of pasta in front of me and pouring a grappa for himself and another one for me, "People who would know that you are looking for Lake. His sister."

"Brandy, yes. And Brandy's nurse and housekeeper, Maire. I don't know her last name, either. She told me that she couldn't get in touch with Lake, but someone did. He knew I'd been there and even that I'd taken white roses."

"We're speaking of the real Crawford Lake now, are we? Then we have twenty names. That's it? Twenty?"

"I forgot Angelo. Dottie's new boyfriend. Also young and cute, and she found him at Eugenia Ponte's agency."

"Angelo," he said. "Twenty-one."

"Angelo Cippolini," I added. "And Alfred Mondragon."

Salvatore looked at me. "I told you there were many people you were overlooking. Who is Mondragon?"

"I talked to him on the telephone. A British art dealer. He buys art for the real Crawford Lake, but he said he didn't know how to reach him, either. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't."

"So, twenty-two. Actually twenty-four."

"Twenty-four? Who are the other two?" I said.

"Lola and me," he said. "Life, as I've already mentioned, is about learning who to trust. Right now you should trust no one. You should make it twenty-four, despite what you think of your partner in life and his daughter and your business partner."

"Salvatore," I said. "I think we can narrow the list down just a little. I may have more enemies than I can ever know, but I do know who my friends are. Please delete you and Lola, Rob, Jennifer, Clive, and D'Amato. I'm godmother to one of D'Amato's kids, for heaven's sake. I had dinner at his home only a couple of weeks ago. Also delete Silvia. She's a lovely and innocent young woman, no matter what her father is up to. And I think we should eliminate Godard, because he's dead, Antonio and Pierre Leclerc for the same reason, and also Yves Boucher. That makes it thirteen, and that's more than enough."

"Why do you eliminate Boucher?"

"Because I talked to him at length, and he was just too out of it, too ineffectual to have anything to do with this. He was completely out of his depth. I'd like to take Brandy off the list, too, given she can't really leave her house, but I suppose she has the wherewithal to get the job done if she chose to do so. I'd also eliminate Kyle, and maybe even Angelo, although he worked for Eugenia Ponte."

"All right then. Tomorrow, we will begin. I will take this list of names, and I will learn what I can about every single one of them. There must be something here. We already know there is a connection between your friend—I use the term loosely—Dottie, and Eugenia Ponte's agency, and between Ponte and Romano and Balducci, and again between Romano and Mauro. Perhaps there are other connections as well. If there are, I am determined to discover them. But first I will tell Lola about the disappointment about Lake."

"No," I said. "I'll tell her. That's what I came up here to do."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I said.

"And after that?"

"I don't know. What do you suggest?"

"You have been the prey all along, have you not? Now I think you will have to become the hunter. These people who are always popping up in your life? Perhaps it is time you popped up in theirs. Tomorrow you are going back to Rome to pay them each a visit."

LOLA WIPED A SINGLE TEAR FROM HER EYE when I told her about Lake and the whole sorry mess. She looked thin, pale, and ill. "That's okay," she said.

"No, it's not, Lola. It's not okay at all. I was the one who was so proud of myself and what I do, that dishonest people were able to get the better of me. I'm the one who should be in here, not you."

"But that's not true!" she exclaimed. "This is about me. It's not about you."

"How do you figure that, Lola?" I said. "Where can you see any justice in this situation?"

She looked away from me for what seemed to be a long time, staring at a stain on the wall beside her. "You at least were trying to do the right thing," she said. "I wasn't. I don't think I can ever begin to describe my feelings when I saw that Etruscan hydria sitting on that awful pink blanket on your bed, but I want to try to explain it to you. It's important to me that you understand just what I did.

"I was sure, despite what you said, that it was the real thing. It almost seemed a sacrilege that it was in that kind of grotty hotel, with that lurid red bedspread and curtains, and that hideous wallpaper. It was so perfect: the workmanship, the shape, and most of all the decoration. It could only have been the Micali painter. It is, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said.

"It was absolutely gorgeous. I've never seen anything like it up that close. I wanted to touch it, try it out, run my hands over the surface." She laughed a little. "It sounds as if I'm describing a lover, doesn't it? And you know, it was love at first sight. Like a besotted lover, I had to possess the object of my love.

Or was it lust? I don't know. I've spent most of my life studying the Etruscans. People laugh when I tell them I'm looking for Lars Porsena's tomb, but it's out there somewhere, isn't it? And it would be a worthwhile thing to do, wouldn't it, to track it down?"

"Yes, it would. But—"

"I don't know why I picked the Etruscans, rather than the Romans, or the Maya, or North American Indians for that matter. Maybe it was opportunity, more than anything else. My class was going to Italy, so I went, too. I can remember going to Tarquinia that summer and making my way down into The Tomb of the Leopards, and just gaping at the sight of it. I've spent more hours than you can imagine studying them since then, standing in front of glass cases in museums, peering at Etruscan ceramics from every angle, tramping the countryside looking for Lars.

"And you know what else I've done? I've written letters to Italian authorities and UNESCO, decrying the trade in antiquities. I've penned articles for the local archaeological society newsletter, telling everyone not to purchase antiquities. I even picketed outside one of the large auction houses in New York, protesting their sale of an Etruscan bronze! You heard one of my declamations on the subject that first morning we met over breakfast. All rather holier than thou, wasn't I, lecturing you on the subject! I'm surprised you didn't toss a bun at me. Can you believe anybody could be that hypocritical? I keep thinking about those people, you know, policemen who go into schools warning students about the dangers of drugs, or psychologists and priests who counsel against extramarital sex, who succumb to the lure of the very evil they've been advocating against."

"Lola, please. Don't be so hard on yourself. You made a mistake."

"And then I see the hydria," she said, ignoring my protestations, "and every single thing I thought I believed in flew/ out the window. I had to have it. Not only that, I told myself it was already stolen goods, so I could have it. I was prepared to smuggle it back home and hide it somewhere. Even though I knew I could never show it to anyone, I wanted it. In the few seconds it took for you to open the hotel room door that evening, I was already plotting how to get it home, no matter what the risk. And then there you were, holding off the police at the door, and I was stealing it from you. You'd fed me, given me a ride in the rain. You even offered to help me with my hotel bill. I heard you, when you were out on the fire escape. I heard you say you'd pay my bill, and I just stood there clasping my beloved to my bosom and waited until you gave up and went in. You have no idea what I felt at that moment."

"In a way, I do, Lola," I said. "Lots of times I've seen rare artifacts I know I shouldn't buy, but that I really want, not for the store but for myself, and there's always a moment when I almost give in to the urge."

"But you don't," she said. "That's the difference between you and me. You tell me that you let yourself be duped by these people. Maybe you did. Maybe your pride got the better of you for awhile. But you never lost your moral center the way I did." She started to cry.

"That's ridiculous," I said. "You came to your senses. You brought it back. You can't pay for a lifetime for one small slip, can you?"

"People pay for slight slips all the time, don't they?" she said. "A moment of inattention, and someone dies. Another plans a joke, perhaps, that goes terribly wrong. Someone makes one mistake, and a lifetime of hard work is like nothing. So you talk about justice? I'd say justice has been served."