"The same fellow who wrote the article on the hydria and Lola's arrest," I said.
"I believe you are correct," Salvatore said. "Already I do not like him."
It took me awhile to track Veri down. I went to the offices of the newspaper I thought he worked for and was told he was a freelancer. I told them I was very interested in finding him in order to commission an article, and after a few minutes of my being absolutely charming, at least trying to be, someone took pity on me, or possibly on Gianni, given what I was to discover, and gave me his phone number. From that I found his address.
Veri had an office about the size of a broom closet on the third floor of a walk-up in a rather insalubrious part of town. His name was in peeling gold letters on the door, and when I went in, he had to close the door in order for me to get around the desk and sit down. I told him I was an antique dealer, and that I had a newsletter, which regularly contained articles written by experts on subjects of interest to collectors, and having seen his article on the businessman who was smuggling antiquities right from under the noses of the police, I'd wanted to find him to commission an article. He looked rather pleased.
"I'm sorry to drop in unannounced like this," I said to him. "But I was very interested in your article. I thought it showed you really knew what you were talking about. I tried to E-mail you," I added. "Veri at something or other."
"That explains it," he said. "It's Veii, nor Veri. Silly of me to choose something so close to my own name.
It confuses everybody. Veii is the name of one of the Etruscan city states."
"Like Cisra," I said, recalling Godard, "or Velathri."
He looked startled. "Exactly," he said. "I see you are a student of the Etruscans. What did you say your name is?"
I told him, putting my card in front of him.
"Signora," he said, his mood changing abruptly. "I'm afraid this visit of yours is in vain. I am a serious journalist, not a hack. I do not write articles for commercial newsletters. Thanks for dropping by."
He rose from his desk and opened the door, which he could do without moving his feet. I tramped back down the stairs, got out my cell phone, and called Salvatore.
"Add Gianni Veri to the list," I said.
"I already did," Salvatore said. "As soon as you noticed he'd written both articles, I phoned a journalist friend right away. Veri was a real up and comer only two years ago. He was well on his way to becoming editor, according to a friend of mine. Then he wrote a piece attacking Lake. He brought up the rumor about Brandy and her fiance. Lake's response was apparently immediate. Veri lost his job. Everyone thinks Lake had Veri silenced. Nobody else will touch Veri after that, they wouldn't dare, so now he's a freelancer. I'm not sure how well he's doing."
"Not well at all," I said. "Your mention of Brandy and Taso makes me think I should revisit all the files I looked at when I was looking at Lake to see if there's something I missed. I'll call you tomorrow morning as planned."
I had missed something. It was easy enough to do.
I'd been mesmerized by the pictures of Brandy and the dozens and dozens of white roses on Taso's coffin. There were three women around the coffin: Brandy, a woman wearing a veil who was described as Taso's mother, and a third, Taso's aunt. The aunt's name was Anna Karagiannis, and the last time I'd seen her in person, she was serving lemon cake in Crawford Lake's apartment.
I called England. "Is Alfred Mondragon there?" I asked.
"No, I'm sorry. Alfred is on vacation for a week. I'm his associate, Ryan Mcgillvray. Is there any chance I might help you?"
"I hope so, Ryan. I was talking to Alfred just the other day and was hoping to catch him again. Actually, I believe we met at an auction at Burlington House. I'm Lara McClintoch."
"Yes, I believe I remember you," he said.
"Ryan, I've been approached by an agent by the name of Pierre Le Conte or Leclerc. I may not have the name right. He has a painting I'm interested in. He gave Mr. Mondragon's name as a reference."
"Of all the cheek!" Ryan said. "Alfred will be furious. Don't deal with Leclerc or Le Conte or whatever he calls himself, please. It wouldn't surprise me if he had several names. He's a crook."
"I won't tell anyone, I promise," I said. "What do you mean by a crook?"
"I mean, he's absolutely horrible. He worked here, you know, for a few months. Alfred made a little mistake, and Le Conte ... I get so annoyed just thinking about this."
"What do you mean by a little mistake?" I said.
"Alfred purchased a lovely Greek wine jug, thinking the paperwork was in order. But it wasn't. It had been smuggled out of Italy by the owner for sale in Britain. Poor Alfred was exhausted after doing three antique shows in a row and didn't check the paperwork the way he should have. It's as simple as that. It could happen to anyone. Le Conte comes and tells him it was smuggled and tries to extort money from Alfred. Alfred is not one to be blackmailed. He called the authorities, told them he had bought this in error, and returned it to Italy. Then he told Le Conte to get lost, fired him on the spot.
"In revenge, Le Conte then tried to set himself up with Crawford Lake. You know who I'm talking about, right? The billionaire nobody has seen for years? He's a client of ours from time to time, and Le Conte tried to steal him away from us. Lake figured the fellow out right away, of course. You don't get to be a billionaire by being gullible. Blew Le Conte off pretty fast. But still, it was a terrible situation."
"Terrible," I agreed. "I expect Lake is not the kind of client you'd want to annoy," I added. "I've been reading about his financial exploits. People have rather unpleasant things to say about him."
"We've always found Lake to be an honorable person," Ryan said. "He's fair about commissions and certainly not difficult to deal with from a personality perspective. I haven't met him, of course, but Alfred has, once anyway, and says he rather likes the man. I mean, what can you expect from Lake's enemies? They're bound to say bad things about him. All I can say is that we are glad to have him as a client."
"Thanks for letting me know, Ryan. I'm sure you've saved me from making a dreadful mistake with Le Conte."
"I hope so," Ryan said. "The man is a pig."
I figured I had time for one more visit that day, to the Rosati Gallery, located in a huge old villa just off the Borghese Gardens. I paid a rather steep admission, as Salvatore had said I would, and went in. The museum was housed on the main floor of the house. It was small, as museums go, but the pieces in it were exceptional, particularly the Etruscan room. I found the nenfro sphinx that Salvatore had mentioned, and peered carefully at several displays of Etruscan ceramics. It was very quiet: I saw only a woman with a young child and a student sketching the sphinx. At the far end was a door marked Office of the Director. I went in. I was in a small reception area, with no receptionist, that led to only two offices. One said Director; the other had a temporary sign stuck on with tape.
That one said N. Marzolini.
Great, I said to myself. Add another name to the list.
I carefully tried Nicola's door. It was locked. I could hear voices in the director's office, however, and decided to wait to size up the situation before I barged right in. The conversation, in English and quiet at first, became progressively louder. I thought of leaving and coming back in a few minutes, until the words I heard began to make sense.
"Look, I'd like to help," the one voice said. I was pretty sure it was Rosati. "But the point is, you paid far too much for it, way over market. I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but you let your wish to beat out Lake cloud your judgment. I told you what it was worth."