Free A Thousand Tombs by Molly Greene Page A

those.”
    And then Zuccaro was back, adding, “They’d make a lovely Christmas present.”
    Gen laughed and replaced the earrings in their former place in the display. “You’re both great salesmen, but the holidays are still months away and I’m not that organized.” She turned to face Zuccaro. “I’m actually here to ask about a boy and a coin.”
    The appraiser was about to move on, but he halted within earshot and made himself busy. Logic told her he’d been in the shop the day Luca came in, and he had also seen the coin. He wanted to hear what she had to say.
    “Luca.”
    The owner’s mouth curved downward and he started to bounce again. Luca was apparently not a subject that made him happy.
    “How do you know about that?”
    “An interested party told me.”
    His frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”
    “I’m not sure I do, either, that’s why I’m here. Will you tell me what happened before he came in to show you what he showed you?”
    “What’s it to you?”
    “I found Mr. Vitelli taped to a chair Saturday morning and got this black eye for my trouble. I’m taking it personally.”
    Zuccaro’s standoffishness melted just a bit, but Gen wasn’t sure why. “The boy had been playing his guitar for tips. Just up the street there. He was talented. People stopped to listen, and the music was good for business. I even sold a couple of guitars I’ve had hanging around here for years. He seemed like a decent boy, so I tipped him once in a while. Then he came in with the coin, and my opinion changed.”
    “Is it valuable?” Gen asked.
    Zuccaro’s frown morphed into a downright scowl. “It’s priceless.”
    “Priceless? As in rare?”
    “Beyond rare. Museum quality. Irreplaceable. Is that an adequate description?” His voice grew strained, and he began to fiddle with a button on his sweater vest. He was clearly nervous, or afraid. But of what?
    “How do you know?” Gen asked.
    “I’m an avid coin collector. I recognized it from a numismatics text I own about ancient Roman currency.”
    “So you assume he stole it from someone.”
    “He told us a story about an old man, but only a fool drops a medallion worth a quarter of a million dollars into a penniless musician’s guitar case as a gratuity.”
    “How did you know to call the Italian brass?”
    “I didn’t call anyone. But in case you were not aware, the United States has an agreement with Italy not to allow the import of plundered antiquities.”
    “You didn’t call the cops and tell them about the boy.”
    Zuccaro drew himself up to his full height. “No, I did not. I threatened him that I might, so he would tell me where he’d gotten it. But that was as far as I went.”
    If he hadn’t alerted the Carabinieri, Gen wondered who did make the call. “I’m curious how you made that leap, from a boy with an old Roman coin to stolen artifacts and looters.”
    “This coin is not something the average person would have in a cigar box under their bed.” Zuccaro looked over his shoulder, then back. His expression was stark.
    “There is evil in the world, Miss Delacourt. Many in my profession have no integrity, but I’ve learned to ask a lot of questions about the provenance of goods brought to me for sale. People lie. People steal. Must I draw you a picture?” Once again, he began to bounce on the balls of his feet.
    “No,” Gen replied. “I get it.” She offered her hand and he shook it. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Zuccaro. One more thing, though. You think the boy stole the coin. Why couldn’t it have been a family heirloom or something? And how did you know Vitelli was involved? You knew who I was referring to when I mentioned it earlier.”
    The bouncing ceased. The crease between Zuccaro’s eyebrows deepened and he looked startled. He was thinking about something, that was certain. “All good questions, Miss Delacourt.”
    “And the answers?”
    “Again, what is your involvement? I don’t owe you any