Free A Thousand Tombs by Molly Greene Page B

explanations.”
    Gen shrugged. “No, you don’t. But I think the police might be interested in hearing what you have to say. Maybe you’d prefer to talk to them.” She turned away and took three steps toward the door before he stopped her.
    “Now, now. Don’t be hasty.”
    Gen pivoted and regarded him, waiting to hear what he had to say.
    “Vitelli is the only one who passes by here every afternoon. I’ve seen him stop and listen to Luca play. I put two and two together.”
    “And you assumed Luca went to Vitelli’s house and took the coin, because it wasn’t realistic to think the man could have dropped it by accident.”
    “That’s right.” The bouncing resumed.
    Gen took in some air. She was tired of feeling like a Ping-Pong ball, following his eyes as they rose and fell. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Zuccaro.”
    She turned away again, this time for real. From the corner of her eye, she saw the appraiser’s head go down; he’d been watching. As she pushed through the door, she speculated about Ralph Zuccaro, his anxious behavior, and the possible source of his concern.
    The traffic outside was heating up. She stopped on the sidewalk to check out the other merchants on the street, wondering if she should ask around about Luca’s musical talents.
    That was when the door to the neighboring business opened, and a twenty-something nerd walked out with a scowl on his face that he wasn’t afraid to share. The entry was inset into a cut-out in the building that hid it from Ralph Zuccaro’s domain. Gen glanced at the sign. A dry cleaner’s. Or it used to be, anyway; the store looked deserted.
    The young man was wearing jeans and trainers and a short-sleeved shirt with a pocket protector, three ball-point pens, and that serious frown. He leaned against the glass door and stared. What was his problem?
    On the off chance it might irritate him even more she gave him a big dumb grin and a wave, but scrapped the plan to ask questions and headed for her car.

Chapter Eleven
     
     
    Gen booted up her laptop and typed in the phrase Carabinieri art squad . Google spat out a list of suggested sites, and she browsed.
     
    Created in 1969 as part of both the Ministry of Culture and the Italian military police, the 300+ officers of the Carabinieri Department for the Protection of Cultural Heritage work at home and abroad to thwart the trading of illegitimately obtained antiquities.
    Known as the Carabinieri Art Squad, this outfit is devoted solely to the protection of their country’s cultural heritage. They team with international law enforcement agencies to locate stolen works, they maintain the world’s most complete database regarding illicit trafficking, and they are tasked with preventing the criminal defiling of Italy’s important archaeological sites.
     
    * * *
     
    The bank was nearly silent when Gen pushed through the door. She stood just inside, scrounging through the bottom of her purse for the box key she’d dropped into it twenty minutes before. Four windows were open and at least a dozen people were in line, but they were all as quiet as a bunch of librarians.
    Ever since Gen had seen the movie Jerry MacGuire, she’d been tempted to yell “Show me the money!” when she walked through the door of a financial institution. But she figured there was a good chance the employees would take it as a robbery attempt, so instead she just shouted it in her head and went about her business.
    It was often a surprise to her how reverent people became when they were handling bank-related needs. To some, visiting their dough was as sacred as going to church, a spiritual event. Others were intimidated enough that they spoke in hushed tones, acting as if the tellers held their life in their rubber-finger-tipped hands. For some, she assumed, that was probably true.
    She’d always had enough capital, and she knew she always would. She thought that was the secret to getting it. And keeping it. Things people chased