Stealing Venice

CHAPTER

1

Giselle’s plans were about to spin out of her control. She’d just arrived at the Musée Maillol in Paris, excited to see their new modern sculpture exhibition. Brochure in hand, she stepped into the hushed gallery, blissfully unaware that in rapid succession she would be accosted, escape, and witness a robbery-turned-murder.

She was immediately drawn toward the largest sculpture in the room, an enormous gorilla constructed entirely of clothes hangers. A group of art students encircled the beast, they were holding their ground against eager patrons jostling to get a glimpse of it. With her tall stature and three-inch heels, Giselle had no trouble peeking over shoulders and impromptu easels. She was at home among other artists, each student intensely focused on their sketchpad, their charcoal pencils flying over pages to capture every facet of their subject. Leaning in closer to study one of the developing sketches, she caught a whiff of Gauliose cigarettes and clothing in need of a good washing. Peeking over the shoulder of a lanky boy, she noted that he was sketching only the gorilla’s powerful hind legs.

“You’re drawn to his legs,” she observed.

“I prefer yours,” he replied without looking away from the sculpture.

She ignored his flirtation, and noticed a sculpted school of fish dangling near the ceiling to her left. Careful to avoid the jumble of book bags on the floor, she moved toward it, entranced. The slightest air currents caused the wire filigree fish to undulate as if it was a live school swimming in an invisible stream. The effect had a dreamy quality that was remarkable. She imagined what this piece might look like near an open window, catching the breeze and sunlight.

“Giselle!”

She startled and cringed inwardly at the sound of the booming voice. Ah, merde! This was supposed to be a quiet evening alone! Trying to appear oblivious, she casually looked around the room as if orienting herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a big man in a lilac-colored Izod shirt on the far side of the gallery waving a museum brochure over his head like a distress flag. Looming over him was an enormous bird of prey made of fuzzy white feathers and fragile bones.

Who on earth is that? Maybe if I move quickly enough, I can avoid him.

Ducking around a sculpture that appeared to represent the female reproductive system, it came to her. I recognize that shirt! It’s that American art collector! She’d never met him, but last night at a charity dinner, she was seated next to his wife, “Candice-just-call-me-Candy” Taft. Candy spent the entire meal pushing her phone under Giselle’s nose, tapping a sculpted nail on pictures of her husband posing in front of his latest art purchases. The photos made two things clear: he owned a lot of art, and he owned a lot of Izod sports shirts.

Giselle slipped into the next gallery, moving through its displays of various-sized pink, white and brown Neapolitan ice cream-inspired boxes and bright multi-colored birdcages, but heard his shoes slapping against the polished floor behind her. Ugh! What was I thinking, telling Candy Taft that I was dying to see this exhibit? Why can’t these collectors just leave me in peace? Maybe he’ll be too embarrassed to keep following me. She hustled into the next gallery, but her heart sank as she heard another distinct set of pounding shoes and realized Taft had been joined by another pursuer. She tried to hide behind a small tour group, but in her fiery-peach silk sheath and bronze heels, she stood out like a flamingo hiding in a flock of pelicans.

“Giselle!” He boomed, “It’s me, Hank Taft! My wife was at a fundraiser with you last night!”

With a deep sigh, she turned to face Taft and saw that he was in a footrace with a fastidious little man in an impeccable puce-colored suit. The agile little whip-of-a-man zipped past the American and skidded to a stop before her, just a half step ahead of Taft. She coughed as she was enveloped by a vapor of strong aftershave, and could only guess which of them had been so liberal with their fragrance application.

“Giselle, I simply must have a word with you,” the dapper little fellow huffed.

“Oui, monsieur…” she smiled. Although she recognized the Turkish collector who had been profiled in a recent art magazine, she was not inclined to acknowledge that.

“I am Atan.” He pronounced it with obvious pride, and thrust his thin chest out like a rooster posing before a hen. “I believe your last sculpture should never have been banned by the British! No! But then, my tastes run to outrageous, even dangerous art.” He arched an eyebrow lewdly as his eyes dropped to her décolletage.

Likes dangerous art, does he? My next sculpture will make him re-think that position.

Before she could comment, Taft waved a manicured and meaty paw of dismissal toward Atan. “Oh, cut the crap, Ant Man.” She watched the smaller man bristle at the intentional mispronunciation. “The only thing outrageous about the art you collect are the price tags hanging from ’em.” He leaned toward Giselle and squinted. “I gotta be frank with you, Giselle, your last sculpture makes me think you’ve got a screw loose in that pretty head of yours. But all the same, I want one of your pieces for my collection. What are you working on now? I want you to slap a ‘Sold’ sticker on it.”

The diminutive Turk had risen onto the balls of his feet to get a better look at her earrings. “My dear, I know antique jewelry, and your earrings are superb. They perfectly compliment your emerald eyes. From Cyprus?” Giselle smoothed a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear and forced a smile at the compliment.

Startled by the vibration of her phone, she reached into her little evening clutch, withdrew it, and peered at the screen.

“Oh, I have to take this. It’s my agent, she’s the person you’ll be dealing with if you’re going to buy any of my sculptures. Will you excuse me for a moment Atan, Mr. Taft?”

The men nodded, and she stepped out of the nearest exhibit hall door into an alcove for privacy.

“Alo?”

“Alo, Giselle?”

“Fiamina, how are you?” Glancing over her shoulder, she ducked down an employee service passage.

“Good. I just called to tell you the funds from your last show have been transferred to the Africa Outreach Project.”

“Oh, that’s great news.” She hurried down a handicap access ramp with her phone pressed to her ear.

“Are you all right, chérie? You sound out of breath.”

“Just trying to evade a couple of collectors, named Taft and Atan.”

“Ooh! Good money there! Have them call me.”

“You know I hate dealing with them.”

“Ah, oui. Give them my number. I’ve got another line holding, so I’ll leave you to your escape.”

“À bientôt.”

Nodding to a security guard, Giselle popped the phone back into her purse, then moved fast down a long hallway, and slipped out a side exit. What now? Her driver was expecting her to be occupied for hours. If she called and waited for him, she’d be left standing on the sidewalk and risk being caught by Taft and Atan. They were probably already looking for her.

Making a snap decision, she walked across the street and down a flight of stairs to the Metro. High-heeled sandals wouldn’t be her footwear of choice for the commuter train, but tired feet were preferable to being trapped alone with a couple of rabid collectors. Since she couldn’t enjoy the exhibit, she would go to her husband’s office and persuade him to take her some place fun.

Giselle groaned when she reached the crowded platform. The underground station felt hot, filled with a growing mass of listless commuters all vying for a bit of personal space. An overhead speaker announced that the train was delayed, and her fellow travelers grumbled in unison before returning to their phones. A man near Giselle opened a bag and produced a sandwich, causing her to pivot away from the aroma of pâté and onions on brioche. This was becoming an evening she’d like to forget.

As she stood fanning herself with her exhibit brochure, she felt a dampening patch of sweat at the small of her back that stuck her dress to her skin. It seemed that time was standing still, and she was beginning to regret her mode of escape. The forlorn sounds of a busker’s saxophone floated from a nearby pedestrian tunnel, only to peter out after a few lazy notes. The roar of an approaching train caused everyone to crane their necks and look down the tunnel in expectation. No luck. It was on another track and blew straight through the station with a blast of heat that ruffled everyone’s hair.

“Adele!” It was a screech. “Oh la! Look at this mess!”

Giselle turned, along with the crowd, to stare at an old woman in an outrageous rainbow caftan scolding a toddler. The pair stood in the center of a widening pool of red juice as it fanned across the tile floor. People shuffled backward, bumping one another to avoid the fruit-scented mess. The child held her hands up for assistance, and the woman led her out of the puddle. Taking mincing steps in her green jelly sandals, she lifted her hem and unwittingly gave everyone a peek of support hose rolled down below swollen knees.

A flash of movement to Giselle’s left made her glance over just in time to see the evening go from bad to tragic. She saw a teenager wearing a headband wrench a briefcase out of an old man’s grasp, then shove him hard and sprint away. A second man with ultra-short blonde hair made a lightning-fast swoop, caught the senior, and then lowered him to the floor. Sprinting up the stairs after the mugger, the agile blonde yelled, “Zupynyty yoho! Stop him!”

People glanced around trying to figure out what had just happened as Giselle hurried over to help the old man. Passing a woman standing at the edge of the crowd, she said, “Please, call the police.” The woman nodded and made the call.

“He pushed the old grandpa!” the little girl garbled, pointing to the stairs where the men had just fled.

Giselle knelt next to the fallen man. The old man’s eyes were squeezed shut, and the color was draining from his face. She unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie, and fanned him with her brochure. She noticed his white shirt was ironed and starched, and his suit was tailored. But judging from the frayed cuffs and lapels of his suit jacket, he’d fallen on hard times.

“You’re going to be okay. Do you have a heart condition?” She stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers in an effort to get him to open his eyes.

“Ehhhh…” It came out a sigh.

“Do you take any medication?” She started to lift his head.

“I’m a doctor. Please leave his head on the ground.” A man came down to his knees and opened the old man’s jacket. He glanced at Giselle. “We want his airway open, and cradling his head can restrict that.”

Giselle complied, but it felt cruel to leave the man’s head on the floor. As she took his hand in hers, her eyes fell on a handcuff with a broken chain link dangling from his wrist. The doctor did a quick examination, then looked up at the crowd and yelled, “Someone call an ambulance!” before beginning CPR.

The sound of police sirens drifted from the street above, and Giselle saw a female police officer escorting the blonde Good Samaritan down the stairs. She was carrying the briefcase with the other half of the broken chain hanging from the handle. At the edge of the stairway, she set the case down, handcuffed the Good Samaritan to the handrail, and tried unsuccessfully to open the case. The hushed crowd stood fascinated as the officer questioned her suspect.

Next, a burly policeman hustled down the stairs, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief as he squeezed past the arriving commuters.

“Now, who got robbed?” Following everyone’s pointed fingers, he ignored the cuffed blonde suspect and headed toward the victim, with the female officer following. Seeing the red pool on the floor, he stopped short and his hands fluttered for his handkerchief again. A bystander pointed to the fallen plastic cup. “That’s fruit juice.” Stepping around the mess, the officer whipped out a notebook as he approached the sprawled man.

“This is the victim of the robbery? He was assaulted?” The policeman addressed the doctor, but when he got a look at Giselle, his mouth dropped open and he blinked. The doctor was breathing into the fallen man’s mouth, so Giselle answered for him.

“He was pushed.”

The rainbow-clad grandmother charged toward Giselle and the officer, dragging the toddler by the arm and shouting, “You’ve got the mugger! My granddaughter saw the whole thing!” She pointed at the handcuffed suspect triumphantly. “That guy with the buzzed blonde hair robbed the old man! He yelled something Slavic!”

“No, officer.” Giselle stood up. “You’ve handcuffed an innocent bystander who was helping. The mugger was a teenager.”

Another voice called out, “Oui, I think two or three men ran from the station.”

The conversation was interrupted as paramedics arrived. The medical team came down the stairs toting a gurney and equipment. They quickly assessed him, and after a word with the doctor who’d been performing CPR, they lifted the fallen man onto the stretcher. Just then the delayed train pulled into the station and the platform erupted into chaos. Trying to stay ahead of the wave of jostling bodies, the female police officer grabbed the briefcase, took Giselle’s hand, and rushed her over to the stairway where the suspect was chained.

Disembarking passengers poured from the train’s doors and shoved toward the exits. Impatient commuters bumped against one another, all trying to board the train at once. Even more people stampeded down the steps, jamming onto the already crowded platform in the hopes of just making this train. Frustrated voices raised and echoed off the tile walls, creating a confused roar over the conductor’s announcements from the train’s speakers.

As the melee pushed Giselle and the female officer into the suspect, Giselle felt panic surge through her at the very real possibility of being trampled. She saw that the force of being dragged by the streaming crowd was cutting the handcuff into the man’s wrist, so she tried to shield him with her body. Together they leaned against the churning passersby, but she was alternately pushed against him, and dragged away. She gasped as something hard slammed into her from the side, almost knocking her to her knees, and then suddenly felt a strong arm around her waist holding her upright. She peeked over her shoulder and caught sight of a tourist with a towering backpack crashing his way through the crowd. The female police officer had latched onto the railing with one hand, and was gripping the briefcase handle with the other as she fought to stay on her feet.

“Back up!” she yelled, but no one paid any attention.

The tide of bodies lessened as the train pulled out of the station, but the blonde man didn’t immediately release her. Meaning to thank him, she looked up into his face, and immediately forgot what she was going to say.

His eyes were a startling blue and crystal-clear as aquamarines, set in a classic Eastern European, chiseled face. He had even, white teeth, sculpted lips, and the barest twitch of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His blonde hair was incredibly short and impeccably cut. His features were so perfectly matched, he reminded her of an Italian sculpture. She was aware that his strong arm was still holding her tightly against him.

“Ummmm…” was all that came out of her mouth and she cursed her inability say anything else.

She felt his hand trail across her back as he withdrew it, and nodding toward her arm where she’d been hit by the backpack, he asked, “Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.” She shook her head and took a step back from him. “Merci.”

“Okay, mademoiselle.” The policeman had arrived at her elbow. “What’s your name, and what did you see?” His pen was already jotting notes.

“It’s Madame Giselle Verona, and I saw a teenager shove the old gentleman, grab his briefcase, and run away with it.”

“Race?”

“What? Oh…sorry. White.”

“What did he look like?”

“Medium height, wearing a camouflage bandana as a headband, and a grey tank top. And he had tattoos down both arms.”

“Can you give me a description of any of the tattoos?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Hair color?”

“Dark.”

“Pants? Shoes?”

“Jeans and white high-tops.”

“Anything else?”

“He ran up those stairs.” She pointed to the stairs on the opposite end of the platform, then put her hand on the blonde suspect’s shoulder. “This gentleman broke the old man’s fall and then ran to stop the mugger. You have the wrong person.”

“What’s in the briefcase?” The cop was staring at her.

“Uh, what? I wouldn’t know. I don’t know the victim.”

“My granddaughter saw the whole thing!” The colorful old woman had been watching the paramedics carry the old man from the station, and now she stomped over, bulldozing her way into the conversation. “That blonde skinhead Slav pushed the old man and stole his briefcase!”

Giselle snapped her head around. “No, he didn’t.”

“My granddaughter doesn’t lie!” She drew in a dramatic breath, and yelled up at Giselle, “Are you saying she’s lying?”

“No. I’m saying she’s mistaken.”

The female officer drew the irate woman off to the side. “Oui, madame. Let me take down your phone number.”

The policeman flipped his notebook shut and studied her. “You’re Countess Giselle Verona, the artist?”

“Oui…” She looked at his name badge, “…Officer Bretton, I am.”

“Which is it? Countess or contessa? I see it both ways in the papers.”

“Both are correct, they’re just French or Italian for the same title.”

“Your husband is Italian royalty, so why are you in le Metro?”

“I just came from the museum and was going to my husband’s office at Pont Marie.”

He furrowed his brows in apparent disbelief. “Hrmphf,” he exhaled peevishly. “We’ll need to get a signed statement from you. Let’s take this to headquarters before the next train arrives.”

Giselle nodded. The female officer had dismissed the old woman, unlocked the blonde suspect from the handrail, and was now guiding him up the stairs and out of the station. Giselle followed along with Bretton, who hauled himself upward with the aid of the railing while sneaking glances at her. “Have you ever modeled, Giselle?”

“No.”

“You should.”

He seemed to be expecting a response to this career advice, so she replied faintly, “Mmm, I should check into that.” She stepped past him and moved quickly up the stairs to see what was happening to the Good Samaritan.

Two police cars were parked side-by-side on the sidewalk. The suspect was being put into one car by the female officer, who was speaking loudly into her radio. “Suspect is thirty years of age, last name is Shevchenko.”

Bretton pointed to the other car. “We’re over here.” He opened the door for Giselle, and then glanced back over his shoulder at the suspect, his distaste apparent on his face. He turned back to her. “Sorry for the inconvenience, but a statement won’t take long.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m happy to help. That man is to be thanked, not handcuffed.” Sliding into the back seat, Giselle caught her breath in the confined space. Bretton’s last suspect must have been busted for marijuana. She looked out her window and into the other car. The blonde was looking at her. Meeting his eyes, she mouthed, “It’ll be okay.” He gave her a little smile, but she could see that he was nervous.

Officer Bretton flopped into the driver’s seat, causing the vehicle to sag. He started the engine and drove off the curb with a bump. Giselle made eye contact with Bretton in the rearview mirror.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

Salvio Scortini cruised at a stately pace along Venice’s Rio Apostoli Canal enjoying the admiring looks that his new Riva Iseo speedboat received. The Pope had just stood him up, but he was still in a good mood. Supposedly the Pope’s busy schedule prevented him from attending Salvio’s presentation, but the Vatican advisors who had been present were impressed by his plans to rebuild and gentrify Venice’s crumbling Verdu Mer neighborhood. He knew his vision for the Pope’s pet project was ambitious, but the Vatican housed the world’s richest treasury, so money wasn’t going to be an issue.

Gliding up to the formal entrance of his home, Salvio throttled the engine back and disappeared into his palazzo’s water garage just as a tour boat came by. The automatic gate of the garage swung closed behind him, and he killed the engine so the prow of his boat just kissed the foam buoys on the indoor dock. The sleek race boat bobbed violently as the wakes from the big tourist boat sloshed their way into the stone garage. Hidden from view of the gawking tourists and their cameras, Salvio ignored the shouting loudspeaker.

“And here is the mysterious Scortini Palazzo with its unique black stonework, the second-oldest palazzo in Venice…even older than the Doge’s Palace. What you see here is the relatively new entrance to the palace, added as part of the 1902 renovation. It replaced the entrance around to the left at Il ponte Diamanti, the Diamond Bridge, which dates back to the sixteen hundreds. But farther along is the original entrance at Il ponte di Smeraldi, the Emerald Bridge. You can see that it’s actually green from the moss covering every inch of it...”

As the tour moved down the canal, taking its turbulence and noise pollution with it, Salvio emerged from the garage and climbed the stone steps to his front door. He passed under the marble arches with their carved motifs of boats and horses, and hauled the great door open. His elderly butler met him in the foyer. He had always looked to Salvio as if he’d just stepped off one of the pedestals set along the palace’s foyer—just another marble statue, rigid and lifeless.

“As instructed, I have put Signor Tosca in your office.”

Salvio waved the servant off and marched down the wide corridor. Instead of going to greet his guest, he went to the music room at the far-west corner of the palace to watch the sunset. Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, he admired his city from the very spot his family had chosen to found Venice and establish their seat of power. The historic palace had been added onto and renovated every hundred years or so, and as a result had become a sprawling maze with secret areas no one, not even Salvio, had knowledge of.

Once twilight reduced his city to shadow, his mind returned to this afternoon’s meeting. If it had been Salvio’s father or grandfather giving the presentation, the Pope would have been there. They had always enjoyed a close relationship with the Holy See, but for some reason Salvio didn’t enjoy the same access...yet. With the recent death of his father, Salvio was the only living Scortini, and he was ready to step forward to receive the Vatican’s respect, as was his birthright.

Salvio ran his palms over the coarse material of his suit jacket. He’d always been disappointed that his body lacked the sturdy frame and strong edges that his mind possessed, but he’d devised a solution. He had his tailor construct all of his clothing from sturdy material that masked his rounded shoulders, sloped neck, thick hips, and flat backside, creating the illusion of an imposing physical structure. When he was wearing one of his suits, he was visually impressive.

He glanced down at his watch and decided it was time to see what his visitor wanted. Genero Tosca represented the Venetian Brotherhood of Ironworkers, and this was the first time he’d requested a meeting with Salvio. Tosca had been a frequent visitor of his father’s, but this was a new era.

Salvio did an about-face, exited the music room, and turned down several dark hallways. Moving unseen, he grazed his fingertips along a heavy wall tapestry, lifted a section of it, and disappeared into a secret passageway. He slipped out from behind another panel in his office and silently approached his guest from behind. When he suddenly appeared, as if being revealed in a magic trick, Tosca startled out of his chair and dropped his hat onto the black rug. As Tosca stooped to retrieve it, Salvio was tickled to greet a man who was kneeling before him in his best suit. An appropriate way to begin our working relationship.

“Bunoasera, Tosca. Please sit down.”

Looking embarrassed, Tosca jumped to his feet and moved back to the chair.

“I’ve just come from a Vatican meeting on Verdu Mer, but I’m never too busy for the Brotherhood.”

“Forgive me for such short notice, signore.”

“Call me Salvio. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, grazie.”

“Well then, Genero… May I use your Christian name?”

“Oh, sì.”

“So Genero, what brings you here?” Salvio settled behind his desk. “How can I help the Brotherhood?”

Genero’s brows knit in consternation. “I thought you knew…I came for our patents, signore…er, Salvio.”

“Oh? Now that is disappointing Genero. I assumed you’d come to pledge your commitment to working with me on the Verdu Mer project, just as you and the building establishment have always worked with the House of Scortini.”

“Well, no…you know which documents I’m referring to…”

“My iron casting patents? I inherited them from my father as part of my family’s estate.”

“No, that is a mistake…they belong to the Brotherhood of Ironworkers.”

“No. They belong to me.”

“Your father was our patron, and he—”

“He was entrusted with them for the benefit of all of the Venetian building associations, and that is how they are being used…by me.”

“Ah, well, no. That’s not the agreement we had with your father.” Tosca started to worry the edge of his hat with a fingernail.

Who does this little man think he is? How did my father ever tolerate such an imbecile? Salvio took a breath, and attempted the paternal tone his father would have adopted under these circumstances.

“Don’t give this matter another thought, Genero. I’m using every tool at my disposal to grow your businesses.”

“We thank you for your family’s continued patronage. But the Brotherhood assigned those patents to your father for the sole purpose of safeguarding them for the duration of the Mafia trial. To ensure that the new Mafia-owned building concerns couldn’t get their hands on them.”

“There’s no danger of the patents being exploited by anyone now that they are my property, so your constituents can rest easy.”

“But your father agreed to revert them back to us at the end of the trial, and that date has passed.” Tosca was crushing his hat brim now. “My instructions are to not leave here without our patents. Your father was a man of honor. He gave his word to the Brotherhood in front of the entire membership, with every intention of giving them back…”

Salvio lost the paternal tone, but still fought to keep his voice calm. “I can’t think what I’ve done to cause this mistrust. I don’t have to remind you that my family founded Venice—”

“Mi scusi—”

“Stop interrupting me, Genero!” Salvio snapped. “You dare come into my home and intimate that the Brotherhood has been scheming behind my back to steal my patents from me? Me! Your benefactor! Patents that have been legally deeded to my family—”

“No, sorry, it isn’t like that—”

Salvio sprang from his chair, slamming both palms on the desk. Leaning toward Tosca, he roared, “To be used by ME in concert with THE POPE for VERDU MER! The single biggest building project Venice has ever known!” He was shaking, the heat rising from his armpits, and he felt his face flush. “If you and the rest of the Venetian building community can’t pull yourselves out of the last century and embrace the future that I’m trying to realize on your behalf, you will jeopardize this project and deeply regret your short-sightedness! Now, get out of my home!”

Tosca was out of his chair and out the door as fast as he could manage without breaking into a run.

Count Vincenzo Verona sat behind the medieval carved-oak desk in his Paris office suite, signing what seemed like an endless river of papers. The elegant space was silent except for the sound of papers shuffling and his fountain pen repeatedly scratching out his signature. His accountant, Leonardo, hovered over him, alternately pointing where to initial or sign, and then whisking documents away.

Vincenzo knew that many businessmen had little patience for the mountains of paperwork and documentation global banking required, but he had always felt a deep satisfaction personally completing the contracts and transfers for his charitable deals. He’d grasped his life’s purpose before he was out of diapers. A born philanthropist, what started out as his penchant for sharing his cookies with those who had none was now the part of his character that drove him to donate on a global level.

The silence was unexpectedly broken by his wife’s ringtone, George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun.” He smiled as he reached for his cell phone. “Ciao, Gigi. How was the museum?”

“Ciao, V. Would you mind coming to get me at the police station on Rue Pierre Lescot? I don’t want to call for my driver, and I need to be with you after the evening I’ve just had.”

“What? The police station?” He set his phone down on the desk and tapped the speaker output as he stood up and began putting files into his briefcase. “Of course. Are you all right? What happened?”

“I’m fine. I witnessed a crime and came down to sign a statement.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Grazie.”

“Prego.” Vincenzo glanced at Leonardo and saw the concern on his face.

“V, I’ll finish here. You get going. But don’t leave me in suspense. Call me on speaker when she tells you what happened so I can hear, too.”

“The transfer’s been initiated, so we don’t have anything to do until the bank accepts the funds. Why don’t you come along and hear her story for yourself?”

“I thought you’d never ask!”

Vincenzo called his driver to bring the car around, and within minutes they pulled up to the Commissariat de Police. Waiting for his bodyguard, Petro, to perform his customary visual sweep and open the door for him, Vincenzo saw Giselle stride out of the building with two men attempting to keep up with her. A man in a suit with an air of authority moved along at her elbow, and an officer in uniform hovered at her heels while undressing her with his eyes.

Leonardo scoffed, “Reactions to Giselle never cease to amaze me. It’s actually getting worse as she gets older. These French are completely obsessed with her. It looks like that police officer is about to proposition her. Helpless libertino.”

“She does look spectacular in that dress. And if possible, she’s even more beautiful with her hair coming undone than when it was perfectly coiffed at lunch this afternoon.” Vincenzo felt a familiar protectiveness as he watched the uniformed officer leering at his wife.

“There’s something so creepy about a policeman being a lecher.” Leonardo’s face showed his disgust.

“Okay, that’s it. Now he’s letting his tongue hang out.”

As if on cue, Petro swung the rear door open. Vincenzo got out of the car and walked over to the cop.

“Leave something on my wife. She might catch cold.”

The officer pretended he hadn’t heard him and whipped out a handkerchief to hide behind as he mopped his face. The man in the suit reached out and gave Vincenzo’s hand a firm shake.

“Count Verona, I’m Commissioner Laurent. Please excuse this imposition, but your wife has done a great civic service. She was eyewitness to a murder, and she has given us a statement.”

“A murder? Dio mio!” He reached out to Giselle, who moved into his arms. He hugged her protectively as the commissioner continued to explain.

“Sadly, we’ve just learned that the victim of the robbery she witnessed has died.” He cleared his throat. “So as I say, this is now a murder investigation and we’re looking for the perpetrator.”

“I hope you find the man responsible.” Returning his attention to his wife, Vincenzo gently cupped her face with a palm. “Oh Gigi, I’m sorry this happened.” He turned at the unexpected sound of a shutter clicking.

“Damn paparazzi,” the commissioner growled, and pointed at the man taking pictures. “Bretton, get rid of that idiot.” The officer began waving his handkerchief at the photographers as he ran at them.

Petro expertly blocked the paparazzi’s line of sight as Vincenzo helped Giselle into the car. Once everyone was inside, the driver neatly cut into traffic, barely missing an approaching photographer on a scooter. Thanks to the car’s black windows, he wouldn’t be getting a shot for his gossip rag.

Giselle kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs across Vincenzo’s lap. Squeezing her leg reassuringly, he asked, “So, what happened?” and then both he and Leonardo listened intently as Giselle told them the events of the crime. She ended with a shake of her head.

“The police told me they’ve released the Good Samaritan. The way he moved was unreal! You wouldn’t have believed how he closed the distance to catch the old man. Then he ran so fast up the station stairs, he even got the briefcase back.”

“He’s a good person to help that man. And lucky for him you saw the whole thing and spoke up on his behalf.”

“That poor old man,” Leonardo said. “May he rest in peace.”

Vincenzo crossed himself earnestly as Leonardo did likewise. “I’m sure they’ll catch the mugger soon,” he soothed his wife.

“What could have been in that briefcase?” asked Leonardo.

“My guess would be jewelry,” answered Giselle. “He was well-dressed, though his suit was worn. I can’t image it was a random crime, since the mugger apparently had bolt cutters.” Giselle smiled wanly and turned to Vincenzo. “I can use some good news. Were you able to save the rainforest today?”

“Actually, at this moment we’re paying off a large portion of Caapiranga Brazil’s debt to buy back part of the Amazon’s land rights, which we’re handing over to their Nature Conservancy.”

“Well done! That’s so exciting!” She brightened. “Hey, while your mother is still here in Paris, let’s ask her to make taglietelle alle verdure to celebrate your rainforest coup. Please…” She put her hands together as if praying.

Vincenzo tapped a button to call his mother, and she answered after the first ring.

“Ciao, Vincenzo.”

“Are you busy, Mama?”

“Not at all. Just dictating some correspondence to Ippy. Where are you?”

“I’m done working for the night, and Giselle is in the car with me. Can you make us some pasta, and we’ll tell you about our day?”

“Sì, you know I would love to. Come straight to my house.”

Giselle mouthed, “Taglietelle.”

Vincenzo dutifully requested, “Mama, Gigi wants taglietelle.”

“Sì, taglietelle alle verdure. And invite Leonardo, unless he is flying back to Venice tonight.”

“He’s coming with us. Grazie, Mama.”

“You know it is my pleasure.”

Markus Shevchenko walked out of the police station a free man. Deciding to walk home, he headed down unfamiliar avenues toward the outer edge of the Eleventh Arrondissement heading toward the neighborhood near the Cimetière du Père Lachaise. As he walked, he kept replaying the crime in his head, and wrestled with his fury at the mugger’s escape. He’d been able to tackle the kid from behind and yank the briefcase out of his grasp, but the kid had gotten back to his feet and rounded the corner, just before the police arrived. He was incredibly lucky Giselle Verona had vouched for his innocence.

Arriving at the stout little factory his friends had renovated, he unlocked the old door and stepped inside calling out, “Ivar? Yvania? I am home.” He closed and locked the door and inhaled deeply. Ahhhhh, home cooking… He smiled and headed straight down the back hall to the kitchen.

“Dinner is just ready.” Yvania whisked a clay casserole dish from the oven. “I have made the most beautiful fish.” She was the quintessential mother, with her apron wrapped around her stout body, her twinkling eyes, and an old-fashioned bun perched on the top of her head. He’d always imagined she was what his own mother might have been like.

“It smells wonderful. I must tell you about my day.”

“Come. Sit,” Ivar said as he set glasses on the table and poured each of them some of Yvania’s fresh uzvar.

“Did you find a wife?” Yvania began serving as soon as they were all settled around the table. “You know I am needing a baby to bounce and to sing to.”

“Always the matchmaker,” Ivar sighed.

Markus was so used to her constant plea for him to find love, he ignored her question and took a bite of the whitefish and red peppers. He always appreciated Yvania’s ability to raise old-fashioned meals to the level of gourmet.

“Mmmm, this tastes like when we vacationed at the Dnipro River. Do you remember that party on the shore?”

“Your father caught the biggest carp.” Ivar smiled. “So, what of your day?”

As they ate, Markus told them what happened in the Metro and the police station, lingering over the description of his outspoken defender.

“Countess Giselle Verona made the police let you go?” Ivar asked.

“Oh!” Yvania became animated. “She is everywhere! She is in magazines for her art and her style and her charity! I cannot wait to tell the ladies at the market!”

“Da. She is a woman of strong convictions, and she does look like a magazine cover.”

“I am glad that you are not in trouble with the police. Murder would have you in prison for life, I think,” Ivar said while refilling their glasses. “Many people would not go to the trouble of speaking up for you.”

“I am going to make her a gift of thanks.”

“True, you must thank Giselle,” Yvania agreed as she cleared the table.

Ivar’s brows shot up. “You refer to a countess by her first name?”

“She is famous as ‘Giselle.’ Everyone in Paris calls her by her first name.”

“I tell you, she is the most unforgettable woman.” Markus’ mind drifted back to the Metro.

“Yes, that is what all the magazines say,” Yvania agreed. Her tone brought his attention back to the kitchen, and Markus ducked as she swatted at him. “Ach! Silly! She is not for you! She is married, and the Veronas are the golden couple. So much in love is what everyone says. Vincenzo, her Italian husband, he is tall and dark and handsome and…a count!”

“Markus, do not go and break your own heart.” Ivar looked worried. “If she is so beautiful as you say, her looks have confused you. Made your brain fevered and you do not think right.”

“The debt I owe her for my freedom is very large,” he reasoned

Yvania tapped him on the top of his head as she took his empty plate. “You are infatuated.”

“I will go into the workshop now and make her a small gift.”

“You know, she is artist like you. She makes sculptures everyone is talking about. She will love your beautiful art!”

Markus got up, kissed Yvania on the cheek, and headed down the hall. He recalled the vision of Giselle walking so elegantly through the crowded station, and her enticing perfume that enveloped him when he had his arm around her waist.