Page 118 of The Grave Artist
Mouse consulted the list Fresca had sent and picked up the phone.
Carmen stopped her to add some quick pointers. “Listen for their tone. If they’re awkward or hesitant or the pitch of their voice changes, that might indicate deception.”
“Accordo,” Mouse said, well into the game. Then she frowned. “I guess I can’t say I’m an HSI agent.”
“No,” Carmen said.
“But I have an idea. One that won’t get any of us arrested.”
Again, the hour was late, but at least hotels and motels could be counted on to have one or two clerks on duty.
The first clerk spoke English and so there was no need to translate. Carmen could only be amused by her approach.
“Signore, I am calling from America on an urgent criminal investigation regarding an American who may have stayed at your hotel. Have you heard of the IICI? ... No? It’s the Institute for International Criminal Investigations. I must inform you that there will be serious consequences if you do not answer my questions or if you answer falsely. Do you understand?”
Carmen noted that Mouse had not actually said she was with the IICI, which Carmen knew was not a police outfit at all but a nonprofit devoted to information gathering about war crimes.
And it was completely true that if a clerk lied there might be serious consequences—the Honeymoon Killer might strike again.
She and Heron shared a smile.
The man knew nothing about such a guest, however.
Call after call, the same.
Until number twenty-three: the clerk at the Bella Flora Motel off SR222, the Chiantigiana highway, running from Florence to Siena. They spoke in Italian, and after a few minutes Mouse translated. “This could be it. American came in and paid cash in advance. He said his wife had his ID and would bring it before they checked out. But he just left. So they have no record of his name.”
“Damn,” Tandy said from his flat-screen perch. “But he must remember the name.”
Mouse asked the question and received an answer. She turned to the others. “The name he gave was Joe Buck.”
Carmen scoffed bitterly. It was a variation on John Doe.
“His car, or tag number?”
“He claimed he arrived by taxi, but the clerk thinks he was lying. He’s sure he had a car, but he parked it somewhere else. Not in their lot.”
Too suspicious not to be their suspect.
She asked, “Maybe there’s something about HK that we can use to track him down. Did he have any particular food he liked? Alcohol?”
The clerk didn’t know, though he added that he dressed very well. “His suit was Italian,” Mouse told them.
Heron tried another question. “Did he have any friends come to visit?”
A good inquiry, Carmen thought.
But this answer was negative too.
Carmen asked, “Did he ask for directions anywhere? Restaurant, airport, anything?”
After posing this question, Mouse tilted her head. And lifted an eyebrow. “Yes. He asked how long it would take to get to the Uffizi.”
The clerk had nothing more to add. Mouse ended with some stern words and disconnected. She smiled at the others. “I told him not to leave town. I always like it when the detective tells the suspect that in a movie, and they look way nervous.”
Carmen asked, “Declan, tell us about the Uffizi.”
“The Uffizi Gallery, Florence, Italy, is one of the premier art museums in Europe. The Uffizi, which means ‘offices’ in Italian, was originally the home of the administrative and judiciary services of Florence. Upon the death of the last of the Medicis their collection of art was moved into the structure to make a museum, which has been expanded over the years.”
