bow and scurried off.
“Are you going to work on this case actively?” Alex asked.
“I’m going back to Rome tomorrow,” Rizzo said. “Or maybe the day after. I’ll give it some attention. It will be on the top of my list but so will a few other things. What about you?”
“This one fascinates me, just a bit, at least. I think I’m hooked.”
“Then I will leave you with three thoughts,” he said.
She waited.
“One: perhaps the most famous art theft of all time occurred in 1911,” Rizzo said, “when the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre. The French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, who had once called for the Louvre to be ‘burnt down,’ came under suspicion. He was arrested and put in jail. Apollinaire pointed to his friend Pablo Picasso, who was also brought in for questioning.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Why would I joke about world-class crimes?” he said with a grin. “That’s point number two. Picasso as a youth had been an art thief. He stole some sculptures from the Louvre. They were returned eventually, but it’s another reason why he was a suspect in the theft of La Giaconda .”
Alex shook her head, half in amusement, half in disbelief.
As they made their way to the door, Rizzo continued.
“Both Picasso and Apollinaire were later exonerated, and at the time the painting was believed to be lost forever. Two years later, the real thief was discovered, a Louvre employee named Vincenzo Peruggia. He stole it by putting it under his coat and walking out the door with it. Peruggia was an Italian who believed da Vinci’s painting should be in an Italian museum. He kept the painting in his apartment for two years, then grew impatient, and was finally caught when he attempted to sell it to the directors of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. It was exhibited all over Italy and returned to the Louvre in 1913. Know how much time Peruggia served for the theft of the most famous piece of art in the world?”
“Tell me,” she said.
“Four months. In Italy he was hailed as a patriot. And set free. Who says things never work out for the better?” said Rizzo. “Maybe next time I’m in that museum I should steal something for myself.”
Alex would have laughed, but she wasn’t certain it was a joke.
“What’s the third thing?” she asked.
“Just this,” he said.
He put his hands on her, drew her close, and kissed her on the cheek.
“I was really worried about you,” he said. “I’m glad to see you back to yourself, as much as can be hoped for right now. You’re a good person. I admire you. You know where to contact me, and you know I will help you in any way I can,” he said.
“Grazie mille,” she said. “You’re more than kind.”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m the most disreputable person you know. It’s just that I’m on your side.”
EIGHTEEN
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, MID-AFTERNOON
F inally, after a half hour’s wait, Jean-Claude thought he heard something outside. Then he knew he did. The sound of a car engine. Diesel, rattling to a stop.
Friend or enemy, he didn’t know.
Under his shirt, he gripped his gun.
Then, almost on cue, Jean-Claude could tell from Ceila’s reaction who was present. She quickly pulled on a robe and her headwear. To be caught this way by her husband might result in a thrashing and she knew it. She also picked up the child and carried him to another room. Within a few more seconds the garage doors swung wide open.
It was Basheer. His taxi was parked outside. It was an old blue Mercedes Benz, an elderly 300D workhorse of a vehicle.
Jean-Claude stepped from the back of Mahoud’s car. He walked to the street and embraced Basheer. Both men looked around. They saw nothing that didn’t fit within the neighborhood. Old men sitting at the café a few doors down, mothers keeping watch on children. Many parked cars, but only ones they recognized.
Mahoud made a hand gesture from across the street. All clear. He had seen nothing
“Are you going to work on this case actively?” Alex asked.
“I’m going back to Rome tomorrow,” Rizzo said. “Or maybe the day after. I’ll give it some attention. It will be on the top of my list but so will a few other things. What about you?”
“This one fascinates me, just a bit, at least. I think I’m hooked.”
“Then I will leave you with three thoughts,” he said.
She waited.
“One: perhaps the most famous art theft of all time occurred in 1911,” Rizzo said, “when the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre. The French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, who had once called for the Louvre to be ‘burnt down,’ came under suspicion. He was arrested and put in jail. Apollinaire pointed to his friend Pablo Picasso, who was also brought in for questioning.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Why would I joke about world-class crimes?” he said with a grin. “That’s point number two. Picasso as a youth had been an art thief. He stole some sculptures from the Louvre. They were returned eventually, but it’s another reason why he was a suspect in the theft of La Giaconda .”
Alex shook her head, half in amusement, half in disbelief.
As they made their way to the door, Rizzo continued.
“Both Picasso and Apollinaire were later exonerated, and at the time the painting was believed to be lost forever. Two years later, the real thief was discovered, a Louvre employee named Vincenzo Peruggia. He stole it by putting it under his coat and walking out the door with it. Peruggia was an Italian who believed da Vinci’s painting should be in an Italian museum. He kept the painting in his apartment for two years, then grew impatient, and was finally caught when he attempted to sell it to the directors of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. It was exhibited all over Italy and returned to the Louvre in 1913. Know how much time Peruggia served for the theft of the most famous piece of art in the world?”
“Tell me,” she said.
“Four months. In Italy he was hailed as a patriot. And set free. Who says things never work out for the better?” said Rizzo. “Maybe next time I’m in that museum I should steal something for myself.”
Alex would have laughed, but she wasn’t certain it was a joke.
“What’s the third thing?” she asked.
“Just this,” he said.
He put his hands on her, drew her close, and kissed her on the cheek.
“I was really worried about you,” he said. “I’m glad to see you back to yourself, as much as can be hoped for right now. You’re a good person. I admire you. You know where to contact me, and you know I will help you in any way I can,” he said.
“Grazie mille,” she said. “You’re more than kind.”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m the most disreputable person you know. It’s just that I’m on your side.”
EIGHTEEN
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 7, MID-AFTERNOON
F inally, after a half hour’s wait, Jean-Claude thought he heard something outside. Then he knew he did. The sound of a car engine. Diesel, rattling to a stop.
Friend or enemy, he didn’t know.
Under his shirt, he gripped his gun.
Then, almost on cue, Jean-Claude could tell from Ceila’s reaction who was present. She quickly pulled on a robe and her headwear. To be caught this way by her husband might result in a thrashing and she knew it. She also picked up the child and carried him to another room. Within a few more seconds the garage doors swung wide open.
It was Basheer. His taxi was parked outside. It was an old blue Mercedes Benz, an elderly 300D workhorse of a vehicle.
Jean-Claude stepped from the back of Mahoud’s car. He walked to the street and embraced Basheer. Both men looked around. They saw nothing that didn’t fit within the neighborhood. Old men sitting at the café a few doors down, mothers keeping watch on children. Many parked cars, but only ones they recognized.
Mahoud made a hand gesture from across the street. All clear. He had seen nothing
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