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with a few tables on one side, and a long counter on the other. Tall bottles with strange shapes and decorations ran along the shelves behind the counter, looking like no one had dared to take a drink from them in years. Old men, and no women, sat at one of the tables playing cards, none of them smoking. The yellow tint on the ceiling was a reminder of when cigarettes were not just allowed but encouraged. Rick and Betta walked to the bar where a woman in a white apron sat on a stool staring at the screen of a small TV hanging from one corner. It was black and white, which fit with the rest of the room, and the program Rick guessed was a soap opera.
    â€œ Due caffé, per favore ,” he said.
    The woman pulled her attention from the TV, stood, and took two small cups from a shelf next to the espresso machine. As they watched, she placed them under the double spigot of the machine, pulled off the handle above it, filled the filter with brown coffee and slapped it back into place. Soon the water was hissing and dripping through the coffee, becoming a dark brown liquid. Still glancing every few moments at the TV, she put the half-filled cups on their saucers and placed them in front of her two customers before positioning a large sugar bowl between them. Rick noticed that Betta took her espresso without sugar. He added two spoonfuls to his cup.
    â€œExcuse me, Signora,” said Betta. “Just before we came into town we noticed a beautiful villa on the right. Is it a Palladio?”
    The woman sighed, finally accepting that she would not be able to give full attention to her TV program. She squinted in thought. “That would likely be Villa Berti. Not a Palladio, but I don’t know who built it. The new owners had it renovated a couple years ago before moving in. It took forever to complete the work.”
    Betta exchanged a glance with Rick. “Who owns it now? Must be someone with a lot of euros.”
    â€œThat’s for sure. It’s some businessman, owns a few factories in the area. It seems like every day somebody’s building a new factory. More than one farmer around here is selling his land for a small fortune, then sitting around all day counting his money. It beats working in the fields, I suppose.” She looked at the men playing cards. “Not them, of course. They’re just regular pensioners. One coffee when they come in, and then they sit there all afternoon.”
    â€œDo you know the name of the owner?” Rick asked. “We’re architecture students and thought there might be a way to see it inside.”
    The woman frowned and took their empty coffee cups. “Doubt if they’d let you in. The man’s name is Rinaldi. You could try, I guess.”
    â€œThanks,” Betta said, “we just may.” She looked at Rick. “Shall we be on our way? Riccardo, are you all right?”
    He snapped his attention to Betta. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He pulled change from his pocket, left it on the counter, and thanked the woman behind it.
    Later, as the noise of the engine once again made conversation impossible, Rick returned to his thoughts. The woman at the bar had said the villa owner’s name was Rinaldi. His friend Beppo had an uncle who lived in the area, a businessman like Beppo’s father and many others in the family. Could it be that Sarchetti was calling on Beppo Rinaldi’s uncle? If so, an art dealer with a shady reputation was meeting with the uncle of a man who works for the art squad and happens to be his close friend. Wonderful .
    Rick squeezed his arms a bit tighter around Betta’s thin waist. Despite the visor covering his face he managed to catch a trace of her still unidentified perfume, taking his mind off Beppo’s uncle.

Chapter Six
    A group of elderly German tourists stood along the northern side of the bridge, posing for a picture taken by a tour guide who was as young as they were old. It was not