Koelliker nodded. “Yes, exactly so,” he said. “It is probably nothing at all. But because Campinelli is a new arrival, I feel I must be certain of him. Otherwise I am not doing my job.”
“Yes, of course, but—what kind of small problem are we speaking of?” Father Matteo asked.
“I’m sure it is nothing,” Koelliker said. “Perhaps I am being overcautious. And normally, I would speak to the man myself. But in this case—as I said, it’s probably nothing. And I don’t want to disturb his work—you know how people react when a policeman starts asking questions, hm? And you seem to get along with the man.”
“Yes, he is quite pleasant,” Father Matteo said. “And of course, extremely knowledgeable about art. I enjoy his conversation a great deal—I cannot imagine that he could be involved in anything that, that— What kind of thing, exactly, Capitano?”
Koelliker gave him a small and polite smile, the kind that only a Swiss policeman can produce. It said nothing, expressed nothing except observance of a social formality, and hinted at nothing except that the captain would say nothing at all in answer to the question. “In any case,” Koelliker said, “I would appreciate it very much if you would let me know of any small thing that seems out of place?”
“Of course,” Father Matteo said. “But—”
“Thank you, Father,” Koelliker said, rising abruptly, giving the father a small bow and leaving.
Father Matteo watched him go, sighing and wondering what on earth he was supposed to watch for.
* * *
—
Something was not right.
Somebody somewhere nearby had hit one of my mental tripwires. A small and silent alarm was ringing in my head. I didn’t know what caused it, or who or why, but I knew. My inner alarm is right more often than it’s wrong. Even if it’s wrong I pay attention. Because the one time I laugh it off will be the time the hammer comes down on my head.
So I paid attention when the alarm went off. It was going off now. It was a small alarm, but it was persistent. Something had fallen off the tracks. Somebody was on to me, and that was not a good thing.
I went over my back trail. I replayed and rethought every single step I’d made since I got here. Nothing stuck up out of the dirt. As far as I could tell I’d done everything perfectly. And I’d kept a close eye on Monique, just to be safe. She’d been fine, too. Probably gotten a reputation for being aloof, and that could hurt her social life in the long run. I couldn’t work up a lot of feeling about that possibility.
I rethought it all again. And again. And I came up with nothing, no mistake, no flaw. And I knew that didn’t matter. Because somehow, some toss of the dice had come up snake eyes, and somebody else was grabbing for my ante.
I hadn’t been doing a whole lot outside of working on the fresco. I said hello to all the gendarmes on guard—it never hurts to be on good terms with the cops. But other than that, nothing but grinding away. Really the only contact I’d had was with the priest, Father Matteo. He seemed like the least suspicious person in the world. And I couldn’t believe his innocent talk was a front for a devious mind. But there was nobody else. It had to be him. If not him in person—then was it possible that somebody was using him to stalk me?
My alarm had gone off this morning, when Father Matteo stopped by for his usual chat. He’d been coming around a lot, practically begging for stories about gallery openings, parties with artists, all that stuff. Sort of pathetic, really. He was like a little kid who couldn’t go out to play because of his bad allergies, so he wanted to hear all about what the other, healthy kids got to do.
This morning he’d been different. His chatter had been slow, unnatural, kind of forced, like he was trying to act like nothing was wrong when he knew something was. An
d I had to think that meant somebody was on to me and using him to find an opening.
It really seemed unlikely. Father Matteo was open, honest, sincere—exactly the kind of person who made a really bad cat’s-paw. But something was wrong, and there was nothing else I could think of that might be even a remote possibility. So I assumed just for a minute that I was right. And never mind who was using him; somebody was. I didn’t believe he’d try this on his own. So it had to be a cop of whatever flavor, and not Boniface or Stone.
All right: a cop. On the surface that didn’t make sense. Why? Because normally any cop with more than a hunch would just haul me in and smack me around until I confessed.
This approach, if that’s what it was, was a lot more subtle, and that meant two things. First, whoever it was didn’t have anything but a suspicion. Probably based on me being new and unknown. Second, and a little more troubling, it meant they were very damn sharp, and they were looking at me. And sooner or later, they would find out that Carlo Campinelli was a kid from Bologna who had died fifteen years ago in a Vespa accident, and the guy using his name was up to no good. When they figured that out, the game was over. And all future games with it.
So right, obviously I couldn’t let that happen.
On the other hand—how the hell did I stop it? Especially since I didn’t know who it was or what they might have on me. I needed more time to finish, and if I had to spend some of that time taking care of this problem, that would just leave me vulnerable longer—and probably create new problems at the same time. Particularly if I solved this problem by finding out who the cop was and taking him out. A second “accidental” death would be too much for anybody to swallow.
I had to throw suspicion away from myself, and at the same time give myself time to get finished and get out of here alive. Which sounds simple—but how?
I pondered that for two more days and didn’t come up with anything. Like everything else in this crappy game, it was a blank wall.
And that, in a weird way, was what gave me my answer.
Because I remembered feeling exactly like this just before I’d come up with this plan. And that made me remember what had pushed me over the edge into figuring it out: my imaginary talk with Mom. Remembering how she’d always had a proverb for every situation. And she had one for right now, too.
Good old Mom. She came through for me again. It was even the same old saying.
Stumbling blocks into stepping-stones.