Chapter Twenty-Six
Gabriela and Rafer were having breakfast at the café across from the hotel.
They were at an outside table, finishing cappuccinos and croissants.
The cloudless sky was a brilliant blue, and the temperature was inching its way up to seventy with the hopes of possibly reaching eighty sometime around noon. Traffic was minimal.
Jacko parked his wreck of a car in front of the hotel and crossed the street to join Gabriela and Rafer. He pulled a chair up, put a cotton grocery sack on the tiny table, and ordered a double espresso.
“It looks like you got more than information at the deli,” Gabriela said to Jacko.
“I had to look legitimate,” Jacko said. “I got some Asiago cheese, some speck, Gocciole cookies, and Nutella. All my favorite things. It’s a good deli.”
“And the information?” Gabriela asked. “How’d that go?”
“Good. There are five customers who buy Scalucci sausages. Three are occasional drop-ins. Two are die-hard sausage eaters. The occasional drop-ins all live in town. I have their addresses, but none of them sound like they would be involved in stolen art. The other two are interesting. Maria Kartucci stops in once a week to get sausage for her husband, Leo. He’s the mayor of Valgenico.
Sixty-seven years old. The woman working at the deli isn’t a fan. She said he is politico corrotto.”
“Corrupt politician.”
“Yes. And she said he would come in without his wife and expect free mortadella panino because he was the mayor.”
“Anything else?”
“She said he would always stare at her breasts. I couldn’t blame him. They were gigantesco.”
“What about the last sausage customer?” Rafer asked.
“Antonio Tartoni,” Jacko said.
Gabriela froze with her coffee cup halfway to her mouth and looked at Rafer.
“Holy macaroni,” Rafer said.
“Do you know this name?” Jacko asked.
“Maybe,” Gabriela said. “Tell us about him.”
“He sends a manservant to pick up his sausage. I’ve never met Tartoni, but I’ve heard talk about him. Very wealthy. Very respected. Philanthropic. Offered his private helicopter to take a sick baby to the hospital in Milan. The deli woman choked up talking about him.”
“Do you know anything else about him?” Gabriela asked. “Age? Background?”
“No,” Jacko said. “That’s all I know about him. Supposedly his wife likes her cocktails and spends most of her time in Milan.”
Gabriela texted Marcella for information on Antonio Tartoni and Leo Kartucci. There was an inconvenient time difference, but Gabriela knew Marcella would get to it first thing in the morning.
“Let’s do some drive-bys,” Gabriela said. “Start with the three occasional sausage eaters and save Tartoni for last.”
Jacko drove past the three houses in town and idled in front of the mayor’s house. It was three stories with the garage on the ground floor and living space above it. It was attached to three other houses. It was painted robin’s-egg blue.
“It looks like every other house,” Rafer said.
Jacko shrugged. “Some houses are yellow.”
“Let’s see where Tartoni lives,” Gabriela said.
Jacko drove to the edge of the downtown area and took a two-lane road that led up a steep incline.
After two hairpin turns, he pulled up to an elaborate black wrought iron gate.
Beyond the gate, a driveway cut through the mixed pine and deciduous woods for perhaps a hundred feet before the woods disappeared and the grounds became carefully landscaped.
A large tan and white house, with ornate balconies, was partially visible at the end of the long driveway.
“This is it,” Jacko said.
“I’ve got a feeling about this,” Rafer said. “It has ‘big guy’ written all over it.”
“Right under ‘wealthy, highly respected member of the community,’ ” Gabriela said, getting out of the car. “I want a closer look. Drive around a little. I’ll call you when I want to get picked up.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Rafer said. “Not a good idea. This looks like a property with security cameras and big ferocious dogs.”
“I won’t get that close,” Gabriela said. “I just want to see the lay of the land.”
“Two words,” Rafer said. “Google Earth.”
“Good idea,” Gabriela said. “I’ll check it out when we get back to the hotel. In the meantime, maybe I’ll get lucky and the black Jeep Avenger in Jacko’s photo will be parked in the drive court.”
Jacko watched Gabriela take off into the woods. “She’s fearless,” he said to Rafer.
“Tell me about it,” Rafer said, shoving his door open and lurching out of the car. “This is the story of my life.”
Gabriela turned and faced Rafer when he caught up to her. “Go back before he drives off. I can do this better by myself. You’re like a big lumbering bear crashing through the undergrowth.”
“Yeah, I’m a diversion when the snarling, slobbering dogs come after you.”
“That could be true,” Gabriela said. “Welcome aboard.”
They reached the end of the woods and looked out over a green lawn and a house that was a combination of a Venetian palace and a Swiss chalet.
The house was bordered by flowering trees and shrubs.
A detached multicar garage sat to one side.
A helipad with a blue and white helicopter was an appropriate distance from the house.
“Not too shabby,” Rafer said.
“I don’t see any dogs,” Gabriela said.
“No, but I’m sure there are security cameras, and Tartoni would probably love to catch you running across his lawn. He’d probably invite you in for milk and cookies.”
“The milk and cookies will have to wait. I’ve seen enough. Let’s go back to the hotel and try Google Earth.”
Rafer was stretched out on Gabriela’s bed. “Anything interesting showing up on Google Earth?”
Gabriela was at the small writing desk with her back to Rafer.
“It looks like the house sits on a flat plateau that I’d guess is five to six acres.
It’s surrounded by forest and sheer-faced Dolomites.
There appears to be a break in the forest on the south side and the view must be spectacular.
No outbuildings other than the garage. The helicopter isn’t on-site, but I can see the helipad. ”
“Anything from Marcella?”
“It’s coming in now. Leo Kartucci graduated secondary school. Married Maria Maronni. Two children. Five grandchildren. He worked for the Poste Italiane for thirty years.”
“Mailman?”
“It doesn’t say what position he held. When he left the post office he became funeral director for his cousin’s mortuary. It’s not clear how long he did that. He’s in his second term as mayor.”
“I can’t get excited about him,” Rafer said.
“Next up is Antonio Tartoni. Italian citizen with a degree from Harvard. That’s a good start. Age forty-six.” Gabriela swiveled and looked over at Rafer. “I’m liking this.”
Rafer sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Keep reading.”
Gabriela turned back to her computer. “After Harvard he worked for two years in Boston and then returned to Italy. Got a job with Canton Lily Group.”
“I’m not familiar with that.”
“I looked it up. Canton Lily Group fabricates uniforms used in the hospitality industry worldwide. It’s owned by Maurice Canton, Tartoni’s father-in-law.
Tartoni had a managerial position in their Rome office.
He left the company and Rome six years ago and moved full-time into the house here in Valgenico.
At the same time, he bought an art gallery in Milan. ”
“And the wife?” Rafer asked.
“Gloria Canton. Gloria and Antonio met when he was working in Boston. Still married. No children.”
“Is there a connection? He went to Harvard. Did he play lacrosse?”
“He wasn’t in the team photo with Teddy Searl and Rocky Mausud, but Marcella did some digging and found out Tartoni quit the Harvard lacrosse team in his sophomore year.”
“Does he own any properties besides the big house in the woods?” Rafer asked. “Like a warehouse filled with stolen art?”
“He has an apartment in Milan and a storage facility for his art gallery,” Gabriela said. “The storage facility would be a good place to start looking for treasure. Easier than trying to get into the Valgenico house. It’s a three-hour car ride to Milan. If we leave now, we can make it a day trip.”
Rafer was in the front passenger seat of the Fiat, looking relaxed.
Gabriela was cramped in the back seat wondering if her health insurance covered a car crash in Italy.
Jacko was in Formula 1 mode, seemingly enjoying the challenge of surviving rush-hour traffic in Milan, where every street was one-way, going in the wrong direction, and scooter drivers were insane.
“We’re coming up to the gallery,” Jacko said.
“Fortunately, it’s outside the Brera district.
Brera is very beautiful and has wonderful galleries, but it’s a no-driving zone.
This gallery is in a more up-and-coming design district.
I’ve taken customers to this gallery on several occasions.
I never realized it was owned by Tartoni. ”
“I want to have a look at the gallery,” Gabriela said. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Jacko stopped in front of the gallery. “Parking is impossible here. I’ll circle around and pick you up when you’re done.”
Galleria d’Arte Brillante was in the middle of the block, flanked by a dress shop and rare-book store.
A large plate glass window showed the interior of the gallery.
Bright colored paintings on the walls. Some large white sculptures freestanding in the middle of the room.
No customers. A slim young man dressed in a black silk shirt and black dress pants was standing by the door.
“Benvenuti,” he said to Gabriela and Rafer when they entered the gallery.
“Ciao,” Gabriela said. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes, better than my Italian,” he said with a British accent. “My name is Phillip. Are you interested in the Klemmer paintings?”
“I might be,” Gabriela said. “The bright colors caught my eye.”