Read Online Cold Tuscan Stone by David P Wagner - Free Book Online Page A

street.
    â€œWhat are you—” Canopo’s voice froze.
    Abruptly the man reached down and seized Canopo under his arms. The strong hands pressed in, squeezing a groaning breath from Canopo’s lungs as he stared up in shock. An instant later he realized that his feet were no longer touching the stone pavement. He pulled his hands from his pockets as he felt himself being lifted above the top of the wall. Canopo’s fingers clawed at the face, trying to hold fast to something, anything, that could save him. Suddenly all he felt was the frozen air rushing past him. He was cursing the cold when he hit the stone.
    ***
    â€œDid you see that, Herb?”
    â€œWhat should I be seeing, Shirley, I’m opening the car?” The man in a Nike jacket glanced up and saw a strange look on his wife’s face. “What is it?”
    â€œA man, at least I think it was a man, just fell from the top of the wall, way over there.”
    He squinted through his glasses. “Are you sure? It’s pretty dark.”
    â€œI’m not sure. No, I am sure. What else could it have been?”
    â€œSomebody throwing a sack of garbage? It is Italy, you know. They throw garbage all over the place. Remember Naples last week? This isn’t Davenport.”
    â€œHerb, nobody would be throwing garbage down on the Roman ruins.”
    â€œI wouldn’t count on it.” He opened the passenger door of the rental car. “Come on, Shirley, I don’t want to be on these roads when it’s too dark. They’re dangerous enough with these Italian drivers.”
    ***
    His walk through the quiet streets of the historic center surrounded Rick with the richness of Volterra’s culture. He regretted that Erica wasn’t with him now, explaining all the art and architecture, putting everything in context as only a good art history professor can. He rounded the corner and entered the city’s main square, deserted except for a few people scurrying across its stone pavement. A strong gust of wind swirled through the piazza like a New Mexico dust devil, causing Rick to pull up his collar and hurry toward the police station. After mounting some steps, he entered the building and found himself in a large, bleak waiting room. It was flanked on one side by a classic, long, scuffed reception desk which must be a requirement in police stations worldwide. This one, at least, was wood, perhaps in deference to the age of the building. Various men and women, some in uniform, walked through the room looking busy. Rick approached the desk and asked for Commissario Conti. The uniformed man took his name and added it to a list on a clip board in front of him.
    â€œThe Commissario has been detained.” He pointed to the equally long and scuffed bench at one side of the room. “He has asked you to please wait,” he added, before going back to his papers.
    The bench was hard, and became even harder the longer Rick sat. Fortunately he was not bored; the people circulating through the room kept up his interest, including several sitting with him on the bench. He thought of Grandma Montoya who loved people watching: give her a place to sit where people streamed by and she could not be happier. Periodically a policeman would appear to call out a name, and when someone popped up from the bench he would lead them through the doors into the heart of the building. Feeding the cycle, others came through the main doors to check in at the desk and take their place on the bench until their turn came. Many carried papers, and Rick supposed that they were working their way through the Italian bureaucracy to get some permit or perhaps pay a fine. He tried to analyze the people who sat with him, concluding that they were not wealthy or well connected. Anyone with money would have found some way to avoid the bureaucracy, or at the very least to skip waiting in line. It was not unlike encounters with the state bureaucracy in New