Remi soon discovered that astrology wasn’t her specialty. They sat at a café in sight of the two towers—Daniel had insisted on that—eating Tagliatelle alla Bolognese and staring at the pictures on her phone.
She had images of all four paintings now, those taken on her own phone of Famine and grainy black and white ones of Death, Pestilence, and War from old publications. While the quality of three out of four of the photos was far from ideal, they showed enough that she could figure out the patterns of stars. After much back on forth on their phones, looking at constellations on an astrology site and then back at the photos, Remi and Daniel could make an educated guess of what constellations the paintings showed.
Not that it told her anything. Famine showed the constellation of Pisces, which Remi interpreted as a wry joke about fasting. People were not supposed to eat meat on fasting days, which in the olden days included Fridays since that was the day Jesus died. Fish, being cold-blooded, were exempt from this rule. Of course, the people in the painting of Famine were on a far more stringent fast, and to gaze up at the oversized constellation of Pisces right above Famine’s empty scales was a bit of cruel humor.
Squinting hard at the tavern sign on the painting of Pestilence, she thought she recognized the constellation of Lyra, the harp. One of the people dying of disease also had a harp, so that made her a bit more sure, but not a hundred percent.
For War and Death, the images weren’t as clear.
War, as much as they could see from the old photo, was set in the daytime. But there was that figure of the scholar Remi had noticed before, the only person not looking at the armored figure coming to cut everyone down. Instead, he looked at a book that looked like it showed a pattern of stars. One star shone much brighter than the others.
“What could that be?” Remi asked. “I don’t know of a constellation that has one star so much brighter than the rest.”
“Maybe it’s a planet,” Daniel suggested.
“Mars!” they both said together, making a young woman glance over from the next table.
“The god of war passing through some constellation,” Remi said in a lower voice. “That would signal war. I think the constellation is Sagittarius. That’s a centaur, but also an archer. It makes sense as a constellation of war.”
“None of this makes sense,” Daniel grumbled.
“Not yet. We have to keep trying. Let’s look at Death.”
The young woman’s eyes widened. Remi shot her a smile and she hurriedly went back to her coffee.
The grainy, secondhand black and white photo of Death was somewhat clearer. Death’s scythe framed the constellation of Orion. The Hunter. That seemed appropriate.
“But what does it all signify?” Remi said out loud, expressing her frustration. “If only we had someone who knew more about this.”
“Know any astrologers?” Daniel asked. “You pulled a genealogist out of your hat.”
“I’m afraid not.”
Daniel snapped his fingers. “What about Francesco Costa?”
“The man we found standing over Manetti’s body?” Remi glanced at the next table. The woman looked tense enough that Remi felt sure she was listening. Remi couldn’t decide whether this amused her or made her feel embarrassed. She decided it did a bit of both.
“Costa would be the perfect person to consult,” Daniel said. “We’ve already cleared him of any wrongdoing, and the death of his colleague will certainly give him motivation to help us. Besides, he’s … ” Daniel made air quotes, “ … the most famous astrologer in Sicily.”
Remi chuckled. “You’re right. Do we have his number?”
“The Florence police gave it to me. I’ll give it to you. Remember he didn’t speak much English.”
“Don’t you speak any Italian?”
A flicker of annoyance ran over Daniel’s features. “No.”
“Oh, I thought sometimes you were picking up on what people were saying.”
“That’s just from context and a few similar words,” Daniel said, the irritation making it into his voice now.
“Oh, sorry.” Remi’s apology was automatic. She had stepped on another landmine. But why? That was a puzzle she’d especially like to solve. Costa’s number appeared on Remi’s phone, giving her a way out of the awkward conversation. “I’ll send Costa the images and see what he has to say.”
As Remi got to work on his phone, Daniel looked through the photos again.
“I hope this guy can come up with something,” Daniel grumbled. “Because I don’t see anything in all of this.”
Costa texted back almost immediately, “A most interesting puzzle! Now I see what my dear departed colleague was so fascinated with. I’ll get to work. I must warn you, however, that a detailed horoscope requires much study and crosschecking and scientific precision. It will take at least a day.”
“He says it will take at least a day,” Remi told Daniel.
“We don’t have a day! Tell him to get his ass in gear.”
“I’ll tell him,” Remi said, typing, “in somewhat more restrained terms.”
“Tell him we’re hunting a killer.”
“He’s aware of that.”
“Is he aware that I’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t get us some answers before our evening gelato?”
“Toxic masculinity will get you nowhere.”
“It has before.” Daniel checked his watch. “Speaking of toxic masculinity, it’s time to talk to Peeters again,” Daniel said, rising, “and this time get some answers.”
* * *
Daniel sauntered into the interrogation room and saw Peeters sitting with an older man with slicked back hair and an expensive suit. This could only be a lawyer. Apparently, they looked the same in every country. You learn something new every day.
A bored-looking policeman stood at the door. Remi came in behind him. She had decided she could be present at police investigations. Not exactly by the book, but the book rarely solved crimes.
The man in the suit stood up and addressed him in careful and correct English.
“I am Binidittu Di Mauro, Signore Peeters’s attorney.”
“I could have guessed. I’m FBI agent Daniel Walker and this is my civilian consultant Remi Laurent. Please sit.”
Daniel decided not to play “bad cop” with this character. He looked sharp, and judging by his stylish suit, in demand.
Di Mauro took the lead. “I have been briefed on the timings of the murders you mentioned and have proof that my client was not present at them.”
That was quick.
He pulled out a folder. Inside was a piece of notepaper with several lines written on it in a careful hand. No security camera stills, no receipts, no theater tickets, just a handwritten list.
“Firstly, when you search the flight records you will find that my client was not in either the United States or France at the time of the first two murders. Of course, Florence is a quick drive away, but if he didn’t commit the first two murders, there is no reason he would have committed the third.”
“He could have hired someone,” Daniel said. “And he could have taken the train to France.”
The lawyer ignored him.
“Secondly, at the time of the murder in Florence, he was at his local bar watching a sports match. The bartender and several patrons recognized him. He is a regular there. The police already have the bar’s contact information. I have not yet had time to gather official statements, but I will.
“Thirdly, while my client did go to Paris when he heard the painting of War by Jan Mertens was for sale, he was outbid by Pierre Lafontaine.”
Italo Peeters cut in. “I would have had enough money if that BITCH didn’t take half of everything!”
The lawyer shot him the kind of look you give a surly teenager when they say something particularly obnoxious and stupid. “Signor Peeters, please. Let’s keep to the matter at hand, shall we?”
“Which is?” Daniel asked. He had the feeling this was going somewhere beyond Peeters being released. At least he hoped so. It looked like they were at yet another dead end.
“Considering the weight of evidence in his favor, my client wishes to be released and given police protection. In return, as an act of good faith, he would like to cooperate with your investigation.”
The lawyer said the term “good faith” with a note of irony, as if his client had never done anything in good faith in his entire life.
I was right. This guy is sharp.
“So what can he tell us?” Daniel asked.
The lawyer and Peeters went into a whispering huddle. Once or twice Peeters raised his voice a little, objecting. Di Mauro raised a placating hand and kept on talking. At last, Peeters nodded and turned to them.
“You were right. I did try to buy the painting of War. I lied because I was … afraid.” He said this with a screwed-up face, as if the word left a bitter taste in his mouth. “The police, the FBI, Interpol all show up at my door? It took me aback. I heard War was for sale in Paris and I went there to try and purchase it, but Lafontaine paid a better price.”
“Did you ever meet Lafontaine?”
Peeters shook his head, looking disappointed. “No. And I didn’t try to buy it from him. He paid so much I knew he wouldn’t part with it at any price I could afford. So I gave up. And then, just a few days ago, I heard that Pestilence was up for sale. By the time I heard, it had already been snapped up by Pier Paolo Manetti. I called him several times, but he brushed me off.”
“Who told you about the paintings being up for sale?” Remi asked.
Peeters continued looking at Daniel as he answered. “I hired an art researcher in Rome to track any sales of paintings. He’s quite good. My attorney will supply you with his name so you can check. He found out about the last two sales, but not, sadly the sale of the painting of Death in America.”
Hardly surprising, considering the circumstances of that sale, Daniel thought.
He was more inclined to believe Peeters how. He had volunteered information, like the calls to Manetti they already knew about but hadn’t confronted him with.
“Did you go to Florence to try and persuade Manetti?” Daniel asked.
“No. He was adamant on the phone. After the fourth or fifth call he became suspicious and asked if I was collecting the paintings too, and if I had one to sell. After that I stopped calling.”
“Why were you so eager to reunite the set?”
Peeters eyes glowed with enthusiasm. “You saw them. You know how brilliant they are. The end of the world. Just imagine! The other three paintings were by colleagues—no, friends and fellow travelers!—of my ancestor. How beautiful they would have looked together.”
“As beautiful as those paintings of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre?” Daniel asked.
His sarcasm was entirely lost on the retired accountant.
“Even more beautiful!” Peeters enthused. “I’m so glad you understand. So few do. When I consented to lend my ancestor’s sketches for an exhibition on the massacre, the papers called them ‘obscene.’ Obscene! Imagine that. And most of the public curled their lips and turned away. I met only one visitor to the exhibition who had the moral courage and aesthetic sense to say they were beautiful.”
Daniel blinked. He stared at Peeters for a moment as the man continued to wax lyrical about his ancestor’s genius. The words flowed over Daniel unheard as something on the back of his mind began to push its way forward.
“When was this exhibition?”
Peeters looked confused at the question. “Oh, last year.”
“Did you exhibit Famine?”
“No. It didn’t fit with the theme of the exhibition. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a full retrospective of my—”
“Did any of the publications mention you owned Famine, or were his descendant?”
Peeters puffed out his chest. “Of course. I insisted on it.”
Daniel leaned forward, his excitement growing. “And this man who liked the sketches. Tell me about him.”
“He was at the opening day. The museum here in Bologna always has a big affair for the opening day of their shows. String quartets, champagne, many of the lenders appear. I wore a tux and—”
“How did this man approach you?”
Peeters, still confused, said, “Well, let me see. The public, who had to pay extra to come on the first day, was mostly from Bologna’s smart set. But there was this one man, an American. He had eyes only for my ancestor’s work. I do believe I approached him. When I told him who I was, he became most attentive.”
Oh, my God. Could this really be?
“What did he look like?”
“Well, about six feet tall. I would say in his early forties. Short blond hair, blue eyes. Strange eyes. They sort of devoured you. Wait, you don’t think he is the man who is stealing the paintings?” Peeters turned a shade paler.
Daniel leaned his elbows on the table, getting in close to Peeters.
“Signor Peeters, this is very important. Tell me everything you can remember about this man, and everything you said to him.”
They were interrupted by an Italian police officer coming in and whispering in Remi’s ear. She then leaned in to whisper in Daniel’s.
“They checked with the bartender the lawyer mentioned. He doesn’t remember seeing Peeters in the bar. They also checked his phone records for the time of the Paris and New York murders. His phone was in Bologna, turned on but unused.”
Daniel bit his lip. Damn. He had just begun to think Peeters might have given them a vital clue to the real murderer, but now suspicion had just been thrown over him again. Bartenders were some of the best witnesses you could ask for. They had a good eye for character and always remembered regulars. Sure, there was a game on, and the bar was probably packed, but Peeters would have ordered a drink or two.
And he hadn’t used his phone at the vital times? Given his scintillating personality, the guy was probably a recluse, but he hadn’t even checked the Internet? Hadn’t used his phone at all?
On the other hand, they didn’t have any solid evidence on him.
That slick lawyer gave Daniel the eye.
Damn. He knows something’s up. Think quick.
Protective custody is almost as good as arrest. We’ll keep him surrounded by cops until we find something to nail this guy with. In the meantime, play along.
“Go get a sketch artist as soon as you can,” he told the policeman.
Once the policeman had left, Daniel turned back to the retired accountant. “Please, Signor Peeters. Go on.”
“He was a fit man, I remember that. Like someone who had been an athlete in his younger years and had kept in shape even though he was approaching middle age. He spoke quite intelligently about art history and asked all sorts of questions about Frerik Peeters. I … oh.” Peters broke out in a sweat. He fumbled for a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat that had begun to bead on his brow.
“Did you tell him you owned Famine?” Remi asked.
Peeters seemed to be too worried to remember his hatred of women, because he answered quickly, “Yes! Oh God. He’s coming after me. But wait, that was six months ago. Why didn’t he come after me then? Why is he only killing now?”
“Perhaps the stars are right,” Remi said quietly.
Daniel turned to her. “Text that Sicilian astrologer and ask him about that.”
Remi got on her phone. Before Daniel could say any more, Peeters’s lawyer cut in.
“My client is obviously innocent and obviously in danger. I demand police protection.”
Brilliant. He even suggested it himself.
“He’ll get it,” Daniel said.
The Italian policeman and the lawyer traded some words and the lawyer turned back to Daniel. “He says they will get my client a hotel and post guards.”
“I’ll be one of them,” Daniel said.
The policeman who spoke English came back in. “I’m very sorry, but the sketch artist is out in the city. He says he will return right away but it will take several hours.”
“Don’t you have another?”
“No.”
“Italy is supposed to be the country of artists!”
The policeman looked irritated. “To be a police sketch artist requires special training.”
“I’m aware of that. Why haven’t you trained more than one person for this whole damn city?”
“The sketch artist can meet him at the hotel.”
“Ugh, all right.” Daniel turned to Peeters. “We’ll take you to that hotel now. Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on you until we get him.”
“I must take my painting,” Peeters said.
“It would be safer here,” Daniel said. He didn’t want Peeters anywhere near anything that could be used as evidence at his trial.
“It will be safer with me!”
“You do realize a madman is after it and has already killed to get it.”
The cop says to the madman.
Peeters straightened. “Then it’s your responsibility to protect us both. I demand police protection.”
That took Daniel by surprise. Would the killer really demand the cops watch over him? Perhaps, if he was cunning enough. And the killer had shown himself to be plenty cunning.
“You’ll get it, but it would be better to keep the painting here. If you really want to keep it safe—”
Peeters slammed his fist on the table, making his lawyer jump back a little.
“You have no legal right to take my painting. If you take it, I will sue!”
Daniel shrugged. “It’s your property. You can do what you like. Don’t worry. We’ll keep you and Famine safe.”
And I won’t take my eye off of you, not for anything in the world.
The real question is, how long are you going to be stuck in that hotel until we gather enough evidence against you? And if you’re only under protection, we can’t cuff you.
That means you’re still dangerous.