Daniel watched as a curator from a local museum wrapped up the painting of Famine. A policeman stood nearby, as did Remi.
She looked seriously pissed.
“I could have done this,” she grumbled for the hundredth time. “I’ve been working with fine art my entire professional career.”
“If Peeters turns out to be innocent, the cops don’t want a lawsuit on their hands,” Daniel replied, also for the hundredth time.
Remi muttered something in French, then switched to English for his benefit. “He wanted a man to do the job.”
“Serial killers aren’t generally known for their staunch support of feminism.”
“Very funny.” She looked at him curiously. “Do you really think it’s him?”
Daniel scratched his jaw, noticing he needed a shave. “I don’t know. He fits. He lied about going to France and the moment we challenged him on it he lawyered up. He also has a history of violence. And yet … ”
“Your gut says it isn’t him.”
“My gut isn’t sure. But my gut has been wrong before.”
“How often?”
Daniel smiled. “Not often.”
“My gut isn’t sure,” Remi admitted.
“Your gut needs more experience. You’ve been getting plenty lately.”
Remi grimaced. “Perhaps too much.”
Daniel laughed. “Oh, come on. You love it!”
Remi shot him a sly smile. Then her stomach grumbled.
“Sounds like your gut’s got other concerns,” Daniel said.
“When was the last time we ate?” she asked.
Daniel shrugged. “Not sure. That happens on this job. You’ll get used to it. Torsson said the Italian police take their time processing prisoners. We won’t get to question Peeters again for another couple of hours. Let’s go get something to eat.”
Remi gave the painting a nervous glance. The curator had finished wrapping it up and lifted it off the dining room table.
“Are you sure the painting will be safe?” she asked.
“It’s going in a police car to the police station,” Daniel said patiently. “Yes, it will be safe. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not going to stop worrying until we have our man or are sure Peeters is the culprit.”
“Neither will I,” Daniel admitted. “But still, the painting will be safe at the station.”
Remi turned to the curator, and they spoke in Italian for a moment; then the curator and the local police officer headed for the door. Daniel and Remi followed. Two local detectives sat in the living room. They gave them a nod as they left. The pair would stay in the apartment round the clock, in case the murderer made an appearance.
The curator carried the painting down the steps to the curb, Remi fretting just behind and issuing what sounded like instructions to the poor man. He just nodded and kept doing what he was doing.
Once they got to the police car parked out front, Daniel scanned the area. Across the street, the café was full. He saw no single men sitting there. A few couples, sure, but this guy struck Daniel as an obsessive, and most obsessive were loners. Daniel didn’t see any lone men on the street either, except for a guy walking his dog who was at least a foot too short to be the perp.
Wait, who was that? Leaning against a telephone pole half a block down the street was a muscular man in his forties reading a newspaper.
Or at least pretending to read a newspaper. He kept looking around, and not being too subtle about it either.
The curator put the painting in the back seat of the police car as Remi fussed with him in Italian. The cop stood idly by.
Daniel kept an eye on the guy with the newspaper. For a moment the man looked at his newspaper, then right at Daniel and his companions.
Daniel’s hand strayed toward the inside of his jacket, where he had his shoulder holster.
The man looked away, scanning the street. Looking for more police?
Just then his face lit up, he folded the newspaper, and opened his arms wide.
A woman in her thirties, leading a small boy by the hand, crossed the street near him. The boy squealed with delight, ran up to the man, who lifted him high in the air. The woman gave him a kiss and the three of them walked away, the newspaper man giving the boy a piggyback ride.
So much for that suspect.
Daniel looked around again and saw no other lone men. A lot of the people in the café and on the street were watching them, of course. A police car always attracts attention. It was nothing unusual.
The policeman closed the back door to his patrol car and the curator said goodbye. The cop said something in Italian to Remi.
“What’s that?” Daniel asked.
“He says Peeters is getting processed and won’t be available for questioning for at least another hour.”
“Torsson said two hours.”
“Torsson was being realistic.”
Daniel grinned. “Well, since we got a spare moment, let’s get some lunch. The detectives here can cover Peeters’s apartment. One of them speaks English and told me he’d call if they saw anything suspicious.”
“All right. I could use something to eat. And a coffee.”
“Especially a coffee,” Daniel groaned, the stress and grind of the previous few days suddenly feeling like a heavy weight on his entire body. And Remi looked the way he felt.
“The police station is downtown. How about we go with him there and then find a good place?” Remi suggested.
Daniel smiled. “You just don’t want that painting out of your sight, do you?”
Remi smiled back. “Guilty as charged.”
They got in the car, Remi sitting in back and holding the painting as the officer drove through the narrow streets to the station. Daniel looked out the window. Bologna wasn’t as ornate as Florence, but it still had its old stone palaces with crests over the heavy wooden doors, its Renaissance churches so modest on the outside and glorious with stained glass and gold altars on the inside, and its fountains on the corners with marble dolphins spouting out water.
Also, unlike Florence, it was not entirely overrun with tourists. Sure, there were crowds, but not the hordes he had seen on this current visit and the one he had made here when he was thirteen.
Bologna had a third and most important difference. In his teenaged travels through Italy with Mom and the Monster, as he sometimes called them, they never stopped in Bologna. He could look out and appreciate the scene without it being soured by old memories.
They stopped at the police station and Remi insisted on carrying in the painting herself, not letting it go until it was safely stored in an evidence locker, the officer on duty being given strict instructions not to touch it in her absence. The man kept a poker face, and Daniel wondered if he was taking her seriously.
Torsson appeared as they were leaving the station.
“They told me you were here,” the Swede said.
“Yeah, we’re going to get some lunch,” Daniel said.
“Enjoy. I need to stay here and do some paperwork. One of the detectives is ordering some pasta to be delivered. As I expected, Peeters is in a holding cell, waiting to be processed.”
“All right,” Daniel said. “We’ll see you in about an hour.”
As they stepped out of the station, Daniel wondered at the relief he felt that Torsson was staying behind. He’d proved to be a good cop and a decent travel companion so why would he not want him to come along?
“Let’s go this way,” Remi said, pointing to a narrow lane. “I have something to show you.”
“A free tour guide to Bologna! I’m in luck.” Daniel’s mood brightened.
“Not free. You can buy me lunch,” she said with a smile.
“The FBI will buy you lunch. Take everything you can from those bureaucratic bean counters.”
“Fair enough. We don’t have much time, but I’d like to show you Bologna’s great attraction. Then we can get a bite to eat. It’s not far.”
Remi must have planned the street she had taken him down for maximum effect, because as they turned a corner, Daniel stopped and gaped.
Two square stone towers, about three hundred feet tall, stood before them. He had noticed a couple of smaller towers around town; they were a common sight in Italy, but he had never seen any so massive. Their sides were pierced with arrow slits, the top of one crenelated. It looked like a playful giant had grabbed the tops of a pair of castles and stretched them all out of proportion. The taller one had a distinct tilt. Not as marked as the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but enough to make Daniel wonder what would happen to it in a few years.
“These are the towers of Asinelli and Garisenda,” Remi said. “Those were the families that built them in the 12th century. It was common for important families in the Italian city-states to build towers for defense. And also to show off.”
“If they wanted to impress me, they’ve succeeded.”
“They’ve succeeded with everyone who has come here in the last eight hundred years. Perhaps we can find a space in a café in sight of one of them.”
Daniel looked up at the taller tower for a moment.
“How about we climb to the top?” he said quietly.
“You have the energy for that? I feel like taking a week-long nap.”
“So do I. Let’s do it anyway.”
Remi stared at him a moment, then shrugged. “All right.”
Daniel and Remi walked to the base of the tower. The two towers were at an intersection of five roads in a big plaza lined with shops and cafés.
“Are you sure you want to climb all the way to the top?” Remi asked. “There’s no elevator.”
“I’m aware that there were no elevators in the 12th century.”
A ticket agent was posted just inside the tower’s stone portal. Daniel paid for both of them, and they entered.
Once inside, they came to a staircase running around the inside of the tower. Daniel looked up …
… and up.
“Whoa,” he said.
“Are you afraid of heights?” Remi asked.
“I’m not afraid of anything except anchovies on pizza. Let’s go.”
They started up the stairs, Daniel taking the lead. The wooden stairs took them around and around, the top of the tower far overhead, the ground floor gradually dwindling beneath their feet. Every now and then he ran his hand along the smooth, cool stones, imagining the centuries of soldiers and noblemen who had climbed these stairs before him.
What had their lives been like? Had they enjoyed the kind of sick paintings he and Remi were tracking down, or had they been decent citizens? Maybe some of them had been on the city watch, chasing down criminals.
Daniel smiled at the thought. Maybe he was walking in the footsteps of some medieval Daniel Walker. A brilliant investigator tracking down poisoners and plotters in the streets of Bologna’s golden age.
So what would the medieval Daniel Walker think of this case? Would he be able to look Peeters in the eye and see if he was guilty of innocent? Back then, he could have put the guy on the rack and found out the truth soon enough. The modern Daniel Walker was stuck with interrogation while the defendant was shielded by a lawyer.
This was just a brief respite, a bit of tourism while Peeters was getting processed. It would be back to work soon enough. Back to the fight against evil. He wondered if his medieval counterpart would have faced more, or less, evil in his time. Probably the same. Human nature didn’t change all that much.
The medieval Daniel Walker would have probably been better at these steps, though. The modern one was already getting out of breath. Sweat trickled down his back and he flapped his jacket, which felt stuffy. His shoulder holster felt heavier and heavier.
He kept climbing. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Remi and besides, he wanted to get to the top.
Still, he found himself slowing, his breath coming faster.
Damn. Maybe I should start going to the gym like everyone says.
“Are you all right?” Remi asked.
“Sure, why do you ask?”
His effort at nonchalance came out as a strangled gasp.
“We can slow down if you want to.”
“No sweat.”
Daniel looked up. Big mistake. The top was still far, far above. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Man up, he told himself. Let’s see a bit of Italy with some good company for a change.
He started climbing faster, ignoring the pounding in his chest and the lead in his feet.
You never thought you’d come back to Europe, and now here you are. See some of it. For real, this time.
After what seemed like ages, they finally emerged on top. A stiff breeze cooled him, and the sun shone merrily on an open platform surrounded by a crenellated wall. A few other tourists stood snapping photos. Daniel went to the edge and looked over.
All of Bologna lay spread below him. Far, far below, tiny cars and people passed through the square, its five streets running out in all directions like the spokes of a wheel to the gates of the old city wall. Red roofed buildings, large gabled churches, and a few other, shorter towers could be seen in all directions. In the distance rose green hills dotted with farmhouses.
“Is the view worth the climb?” Remi asked. Daniel was secretly happy to hear she was out of breath too.
Daniel only nodded.
He made a slow circuit of the top of the tower, taking in the stunning view.
“This apparently was the tallest of the towers ever built,” Remi said. “There were more than a hundred in Bologna in its glory days. Now there’s only twenty-one.”
“This is enough,” Daniel said, staring.
This is the kind of place he liked. Isolated. He would have had us climb up here right at opening time or just as people were clearing out at closing. He would have gotten me alone up here. It would have been a risk, but he liked the risk.
Daniel shook his head to clear the ugly thoughts.
He didn’t take you here. This is yours.
“You like it?” Remi asked.
“Yeah,” Daniel said, nodding. “Yeah, I do.”
He sucked in a deep breath and turned to Remi.
“Let’s go. We have work to do. I’m sure you took photos of Famine, and you have those photos of the other paintings. Let’s see if we can figure out what those paintings mean as a set.”
“You don’t want to stay a little longer?”
“I’ve seen what I needed to see,” he said. “Thank you.”