The Raven (The Florentine 1)

“Gina Molinari. She works in the archives.”

“Where did you go after the party?”

Raven focused on a spot on the wall, over his shoulder, willing herself to remember.

“I went home.”

Ispettor Batelli leaned forward in his chair.

“What time was that?”

Her eyes met his.

“I don’t remember, but the party was still going on. I said good-bye to Patrick and to Gina and walked home.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone.”

“Do you live with anyone? Did anyone see you when you arrived home?”

“I live alone and no, no one saw me.”

“Do you have a lover? A boyfriend or girlfriend?”

“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“When did you first hear about the robbery?” The inspector’s voice was casual. Too casual.

“This morning, when I came to work.”

The agent’s eyes narrowed. “What about newspapers? Radio? Television?”

“I don’t take the newspaper and I don’t have a television. Sometimes I listen to the BBC in the morning but I woke up late for work and didn’t bother.”

“Why are you carrying your passport and other important documents? Aren’t you afraid of thieves?” Batelli gestured to the items, which were sitting on the desk next to her identification card.

“My old passport was going to expire. I picked this one up at the consulate the other day, but I had to present the paperwork that showed I was working in Italy legally. I must have forgotten to take everything out of my knapsack.”

“The name on your documents doesn’t match the name on your identification card.”

She clenched her teeth. “My name is Raven.”

“That’s not the name in your passport.”

That’s because the name in my passport is dead, she thought.

She tried to appear relaxed, folding her hands in her lap. “In America, it’s common for people to have nicknames.”

“What part of America are you from?”

“New Hampshire.”

“Your employee file states that you attended Barry University and New York University.”

“That’s right.”

“How long have you been in Florence?”

“I spent a year here while I was finishing my master’s degree from NYU. Then I returned three years ago while I was writing my dissertation. When I graduated last year, Professor Urbano hired me to work for him at the Opificio.”

Batelli’s eyes narrowed. “I thought Professor Urbano worked at the Uffizi.”

“He does, but only on contract. He runs a lab at the Opificio, which is a world-renowned restoration institute. He was hired by the Uffizi, along with his team, to work on a single project. I’m part of that team.”

“So you have a Ph.D. in art history and conservation?”

She squirmed. “And restoration. I was trained in both, but focused on restoration for my dissertation.”

“Interesting,” he said. “How is this restoration work done?”

“We begin by doing scientific research on the artwork. There’s a lab in the Fortezza da Basso where we use microscopes, spectrophotometry, and X-ray machines. Sometimes we use ultraviolet rays or infrared photography. We also do archival work, comparing previous restoration and conservation attempts with current scientific findings.”

The inspector stared. “You do all these things?”

“I help where needed, but on this project I spent most of my time removing layers of varnish from the painting so we could get at the paint beneath. Then, someone more accomplished than me fixed the cracks and flaking in the original paint. This week, we’re supposed to start applying a transparent varnish to the artwork in order to protect it. Because of the size of the piece and its age, this process could take months.”

Batelli nodded.

“Professor Urbano says you were absent from work all week and that you didn’t call in. Where were you?”

“At home, I guess.”

“You guess? You don’t know?” The officer’s tone was no longer casual.

She didn’t answer, for truthfully, she didn’t know what to say.

“Is it common for you to disappear from work for a week and not remember where you were?”

“No.” Unconsciously, her fingernails began digging into the palms of her hands.

“Where were you?”

“I don’t remember.”

Batelli exchanged a look with Agent Savola.

“Where were you yesterday?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you remember going home after the party?”

Raven closed her eyes, sifting through her memories. “I remember saying good-bye to Patrick and leaving Gina’s party. I remember starting to walk home.”

She opened her eyes. “That’s it.”

“Tell me, Dottoressa Wood, do you drink?”

She shrugged. “I’ll have a glass of wine when out with friends. But no, I don’t really drink.”

“What about drugs?”

“Drugs?” she repeated, her body growing noticeably tense.

“Do you take drugs or medication?”

“Sometimes I take pain pills for my leg, but I have a prescription for them.”

Batelli’s gaze dropped to her leg. “Do you ever take too many pills?”

“No.” She clasped her hands together, trying not to twist them in her lap.

“What about other drugs—cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy?”

“I don’t do drugs.”

“Tell the truth.” Batelli gave her a hard look. “Y

ou go to a party. You miss work for a week. Somehow, during your absence, the Uffizi is robbed. Make this easier on yourself and tell us what really happened.”

“I told you. I don’t remember.”

“This can become very unpleasant if you lie to me.” His tone grew sharp.

“I’m telling you the truth!” She raised her voice, momentarily startling the two agents.

The inspector leaned closer.

“Where were you last week?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“I don’t remember.”

He slammed a fist down on the table. “Where were you last night?”

A hazy swirl of colors danced before her eyes, accompanied by a low whisper. All at once, she felt a sharp pain at the back of her head.

She closed her eyes.

“Dottoressa Wood?” he prompted.

She didn’t respond.

“Signorina?” he said, slightly louder.

“Maybe I was drugged,” she whispered, as the pain in her head sub-sided. She fanned a hand over her eyes.

“Drugged?” he repeated.

She dropped her hand. “Maybe someone drugged me.”

“What makes you say that?” Savola spoke for the first time, his voice low and gravelly.

Raven’s eyes met his. “I can’t remember yesterday. I can’t remember anything after Gina’s party. I didn’t drink much, but I had a couple of glasses of wine. Maybe someone slipped something into my drink.”

Batelli waved Agent Savola over and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and left.

The inspector placed his hand on top of one of the files. “You can’t remember anything from the past week? Anything at all?”

“No.”

“Are you experiencing any pain? Dizziness?”

She rubbed at the back of her head.

“My head hurt a few minutes ago. But I don’t feel dizzy.”

He was quiet for a moment, studying her.

“What do you do for Professor Urbano?”

“I told you, I assist him with his restoration project.”

“And what is he restoring?”

“The Birth of Venus.”

The inspector nodded. “So you are a Botticelli expert?”

She shifted in her seat. “Not like Professor Urbano. He worked on the famous restoration of Primavera with Umberto Baldini.”