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Batelli looked at her blankly, not recognizing the name of the famous art historian and restorer.
“But it’s fair to say you know a lot about Botticelli and his work?”
“Yes. I also know that the theft of great art is a crime against humanity.” Her tone had the slightest edge to it.
The inspector appeared puzzled. “That’s an unusual view.”
“Not among those who devote their lives to preserving and protecting great works of art. That’s why I came to Florence.”
Batelli frowned. “The illustrations were copies.”
Now Raven leaned forward in her chair. “Those copies were all we had. The full set of original illustrations have been lost. And the copies were beautiful.”
“We?” he repeated, cocking his head to one side. “Who’s we?”
She felt her cheeks flame. “Humanity. Whoever stole them, stole from all of us. Although I’m sure the Emersons are more upset than anyone, except maybe Dottor Vitali.”
“And the Emersons are—?”
“The patrons who lent us the illustrations—Professor Gabriel Emerson and his wife.”
“You know them?”
“Not really. They’re patrons of the orphanage I volunteer at, but I’ve never met them.”
The inspector opened his file and took out a series of printed sheets that had been stapled together. He pushed the pages toward her.
“This is a list of names. Tell me if you know any of them.”
Raven picked up the pages and began reading.
She looked over at the inspector. “I recognize some of the names. They’re patrons of the gallery. But I don’t really know them.”
“None of them?”
“I work in the restoration lab. The patrons don’t interact with us.” She placed the paper back on the desk.
“Would it be correct to say that you recognize all the names, or only some?”
“Only some.”
Batelli uncapped a pen and placed it in front of her. “Please make a mark next to the names you recognize.”
Raven frowned but did as she was told, marking about one-third of the names listed.
Batelli seemed to take restrained interest in what she was doing, but after she finished, he merely placed the papers aside. He withdrew a single sheet from the file and slid it across to her.
“Read that.”
Raven picked up the paper.
The first thing she noticed was that the page was obviously a photocopy of some handwriting. The style of writing was old-fashioned. Very old-fashioned. It was precise, elegant, and very, very beautiful. A work of art in itself.
The second thing she noticed was that the language was Latin. Suddenly a phrase entered her consciousness.
Cassita vulneratus.
“What was that?” Batelli leaned forward suspiciously.
“I didn’t say anything. I’ve read it. Now what?”
“Read it to me.”
“It’s in Latin.” She gave him a questioning look.
“I know that. Read it in Latin, if you can, and translate to Italian.”
Raven turned her attention to the page. “‘Non furtum facies. Mihi vindictam ego retribuam.’” She looked over at the officer. “Non rubare. La vendetta è mia; io ricompensèro. You shall not steal. Vengeance is mine, I will repay.”
Raven placed the paper on top of the desk.
“Why are you showing me part of a Latin manuscript of the Bible?”
“Why do you think it’s from a manuscript of the Bible?”
“I’m not a paleographer, but I can recognize medieval handwriting.” She gestured to the page. “The text sounds like the Bible, but I’m not an expert.”
“Are the words significant to you?” Batelli gave her a questioning look.
“No.”
“Interesting.” He placed the page in his file and closed it. Then he put his hand, palm down, on top of the file.
“What can you tell me about the security systems in the gallery?”
“Almost nothing. I’m only an art restorer.” She gestured to her identification card, which lay on the desk facing him. “I have access to certain rooms when the gallery is open. I don’t have security codes to the building or to the individual exhibit rooms. I’m not sure what security systems the gallery has. It’s all a big mystery.”
“Would your card open the room that held the Botticelli illustrations?”
She shook her head. “I only have access to the rooms connected with my work—the archives, the restoration rooms, and the office I share with some of the other associates.”
“What about keys?”
“Most of the rooms in the Uffizi are accessed by card. Some of the older rooms and the Vasari Corridor can be accessed by keys. But I wasn’t issued keys. Even if I was, I couldn’t access the building when it’s closed.”
“But you work after hours.”
“Sometimes Professor Urbano asks the restoration team to work late, if we’re doing something particularly delicate or time sensitive. But in those cases, the gallery is kept open, or at least the restoration lab is. Security lets us in if we arrive after hours and they escort us from the building when we’re finished.”
The inspector sat back in his chair. He watched her, unblinking, until she looked away.
“Were you working after hours on May seventeenth?”
“No. I’m working exclusively on the Birth of Venus. We’re doing a complete restoration, which means the painting is no longer on display. We work normal hours except when Professor Urbano asks us to stay later. He hasn’t done that for a couple of months.”
“Your face doesn’t match your card or your passport.” He gestured to the identification on the desk. “I take it the photograph in your new passport is recent?”
“It is.” She shifted in her chair.
“It doesn’t look recent. Your employee file indicates that you are handicapped.”
At this, his gaze dropped to her right leg, which was partially obscured by the desk. His eyes lifted to hers. “You don’t look handicapped.”
“The correct term is disabled.” Raven straightened her shoulders. “And I’m not anymore.”
“Explain.”
She pressed her lips together tightly.
“I can’t.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“I can’t.” She lifted her hands in an expression of frustration. “I have no idea what’s happened. I already told you that.”
A knock was heard at the door and Agent Savola entered. He whispered something to Batelli, who appeared disappointed. They exchanged a few quiet words, which Raven strained unsuccessfully to hear.
Agent Savola resumed his place on Batelli’s left, arms crossed over his chest.
Batelli picked up the pen and began tapping it on top of the file.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
Raven shook her head.
“If you think you were drugged, why didn’t you go to the hospital?”
“I felt fine. I was worried about being late for work.”
Batelli scowled. “You have memory loss, a drastic change in appearance, a miraculous restoration of your ability to walk, and you’re worried about being late for work?”
He cursed a few times, tossing the pen onto the desk.
Raven pressed her hand against her forehead.
“We can take you to the hospital.” Agent Savola spoke in English, in a quiet tone.
She shook her head.
“I have to see Professor Urbano. I don’t want to lose my job.” She swallowed hard. “I have my own doctor. I’ll make an appointment to see her.”
Agent Savola nodded sympathetically. “Is your doctor a cosmetic surgeon?”
