Where did that come from? “Has that happened to you?” I asked, yet again trying to turn the question around. “Have you stumbled into a dangerous situation?”

“Me?” he said. “No, not me.”

I didn’t know what sort of cat-and-mouse game Smith was playing, but I was willing to play. For now. “Who then?” I asked.

He took a long pull on his beer, dragging out the moment. “When it comes to valuable objects, people can be ruthless,” he said. “Believe me, I’ve seen it in my line of work.”

I felt like we were at a tennis match, lobbing non sequiturs back and forth. “So how are you spending your days here? Exactly. I mean, without an office?”

“I go from dealer to dealer, client to client, like I said.”

“Did you? I forgot.”

“You have a poor memory, Luke Perrone.”

“Actually, I have a very good memory, John Smith.” I added a thin smile. “Like, didn’t I see you hanging in front of San Lorenzo the other day?”

“What? No. You must be mistaken.”

“One of the monks described you.”

“So was it one of the monks or you who saw me?”

I didn’t bother to answer, let my silence hang there, suspended between us.

A moment passed, then Smith asked, “Which monk?” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, let the smoke out slowly while I stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

“Just one of the brothers of San Lorenzo.”

“I see,” he said. “Well, I’ve been too busy to hang out.”

“I thought you said your work was going slowly.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. Perhaps it’s you who has the bad memory.”

He scoffed a laugh. “Not when it comes to something important. Then I remember everything. In detail.”

“Good for you,” I said, but I’d had enough of this—whatever this was. I said good night, and this time, he didn’t try to stop me.

At the café door, I glanced back, caught Smith chugging the last of his beer. Then he raised the empty bottle like a toast, though there was nothing celebratory about it.

37

The morning was dark, the clouds low. As I headed out of Piazza di Madonna, there were sirens in the distance, a normal part of Manhattan’s background music but here, in Florence, something I was unused to hearing. It was not until I came around the long, curved wall of San Lorenzo that I saw the cop cars, their lights flashing, and all the polizia and the crowd lining the perimeter of the piazza. Carabinieri were stationed at the alleyway and the cathedral and by the stairs that Brother Francesco had pointed out to me as the place the stranger had waited. The door behind the stairs was ajar, red-and-white diagonally striped police tape across it.

I asked one of the polizia what was going on, but he ignored me. Then I spotted Chiara, weeping theatrically, dabbing her eyes and cheeks with a lace handkerchief. I asked what happened, but she was crying too hard to answer. I put my arm around her, and she sagged against my chest, sobbing.