“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?”
“No.” Raven’s tone was clipped.
“Only a cosmetic surgeon with great skill could transform you from that”—he pointed to her identification card—“to that.” He gestured to her face.
“Are you trying to be insulting?” she fumed.
“Do you have a psychiatrist, signorina?”
“Of course not!” Raven snapped. “What about you, Agent Savola? Do you have a psychiatrist?”
The agent took a step toward her and swore.
Batelli held up his hands.
“This isn’t helpful,” he said, looking pointedly at Raven and his associate.
She pointed to the file.
“If you have my employee records, you know I’ve had a criminal background check. I’ve also had a psychiatric evaluation.” She glanced in Savola’s direction.
“More importantly, I’ve devoted my life to saving art, to preserving it for future generations. I don’t destroy things and I don’t steal. Art thieves are almost the lowest form of humanity, because they take something beautiful and hide it so the world can’t see it.”