Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) Read online

  Drago picked up his glass of water and drained it. A drop of water fell from his lips to his jacket. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the spot.

  I said, “What does Tommaso have to do with the BFF rumor?”

  “For that I have to tell you the story of the most famous gemstone in the world. Have you heard of the Hope Diamond?” Drago asked.

  I looked at Street.

  “A huge blue diamond, right?” she said. “Isn’t it in the Smithsonian?”

  “Yes. The gem that eventually became the Hope Diamond was acquired by a French gem merchant named Jean-Baptiste Tavernier from the Kollur Mine in southeast India around sixteen fifty. In the beginning, it was a huge gem, one hundred fifteen carats, and it was known as the Tavernier Blue. Jean-Baptiste Tavernier sold it and many others to King Louis the Fourteenth in sixteen sixty-nine. It began to be called the French Blue. The price was the equivalent of about five million euros today, which, compared to modern diamond prices, was a huge bargain. Louis the Fourteenth had the diamond cut to a much prettier shape that really sparkled. This process shed about half its weight so that it was only about sixty-five carats. Of course, that was still very large. It then became known as the Blue Diamond of the Crown of France. But some still call it the French Blue.”

  Drago put his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Skip ahead one hundred twenty years to seventeen ninety-two. The French Blue was still part of the French Crown Jewels. King Louis the Sixteenth was under siege from his own people at the beginning of the French Revolution. He and his wife Marie Antoinette were convicted of treason, and they were beheaded. During the turmoil, thieves stole all the crown jewels. Many were later recovered, but not the French Blue Diamond, which disappeared, never to be seen again. Or so people thought.”

  Drago paused to breathe. Just to tell the story made him winded and upset.

  “Twenty years later, just as the statute of limitations on the theft of the crown jewels ran out, came reports of an amazing blue diamond in London. This stone was forty-five carats, smaller than the French Blue because it had been recut to disguise its source. However, in recent times, new scientific measurements combined with detailed historical descriptions have proven that this new diamond was actually the French Blue.

  “The history of this supposedly new diamond was hard to trace. Some people think that England’s King George the Fourth had acquired it for his collection, but no one reported actually seeing it. When King George died, it turned up in the hands of a rich London banker named Thomas Hope. From there, the various owners of what became known as the Hope Diamond have been numerous but documented. It went from London to New York to Turkey to Paris to Washington D.C. where a dramatic socialite named Evalyn McLean liked to hold big parties during which she put the necklace with the Hope Diamond over the head of Mike, her Great Dane, and he trotted around with the diamond swinging from his neck.”

  Street looked at me, grinning.

  “What?” I said.

  “That would be a nice complement to Spot’s ear stud, don’t you think?”

  I smiled.

  “What is that?” Drago asked.

  “Sorry. Nothing,” I said. “How did it get to the Smithsonian collection?”

  “After Evalyn McLean died, her children inherited it, and they later sold it to a diamond merchant named Harry Winston. Winston exhibited it for many years, and then donated it to the Smithsonian.” Drago looked off through the window, his eyes vacant as if visualizing the diamond. “Sometimes wealthy people do a very nice thing and give their art and gems to museums to be enjoyed by everyone.”

  “Interesting story,” I said. “How does it connect to our question?”

  Drago turned away from the window, back toward us. “What I’ve just explained about the Hope Diamond is all true, verified by countless experts and historians. The history of the Hope Diamond is extensive and, except for the twenty-year gap from Louis the Sixteenth to Thomas Hope, largely comprehensive. The point of telling you that history is to show that the documentation of ownership, what we call provenance, is critical to a gemstone’s value, just as provenance is critical to a painting’s value.

  “The story I’m about to tell you now is all rumor. Not one part of it has been verified. There is no documentation at all. It is in the contrast between these stories that we find the difference between truth and fiction.”

  “Understood,” I said.

  Drago continued, “As I said, the Hope Diamond originally came from the Kollur Mine in southeast India. While the gem that became the Hope Diamond was mined around sixteen fifty, a similar gem had supposedly been found about a hundred years earlier. It was a little smaller and not quite as perfect. Nevertheless, it was huge and had a blue color very much like the Hope Diamond.”

  Drago shifted in his chair. “You remember our Tommaso de’ Medici. Tommaso was a very awkward child, especially around girls. And he was unable to shake that as he grew to an adult. More than his illegitimacy or his dark skin, it was because of his awkwardness that he was kept at the periphery of Medici power. Not being in the inner circle, he was excluded from all major decisions. Even so, his adoptive father was prominent in the family and a very successful businessman. So Tommaso did have access to certain discretionary funds to use as he pleased.”

  Drago took several breaths as if he’d been swimming and just come up for air. “According to the rumor, Tommaso de’ Medici received a proposition by courier back in fifteen fifty-three. He was thirty-four years old. Tommaso de’ Medici was understandably eager to make a name for himself and show the rest of his family that they’d underestimated him. Perhaps Tommaso was the Medici contact by chance. More likely, the sender of the message knew that Tommaso chafed at not being granted family power equivalent to his cousins, and the sender thought that Tommaso would be more likely to grant the sender an audience for his proposal.”

  Drago again glanced out the window. It appeared that he was looking at the Pitti Palace.

  “The courier came from Constantinople, which had just fallen to the Muslim Conquest and had become the capital of the new Ottoman Empire. This courier, who may have been a thief or may have been legitimate, is said to have brought a letter that described the death of a Persian businessman. After this businessman’s death, his fortune was reportedly stolen and scattered, and his widow was left with almost nothing from her former life. She wanted to sell the diamond her husband had given her for their marriage. The diamond had never been seen by anyone at the time because it was so valuable that her husband had insisted it be hidden away from the moment he gave it to her.”

  I was getting impatient. “This is about the BFF rumor?”

  After a long pause, Drago said, “The letters BFF refer to this diamond, the diamond that had supposedly come from the Kollur Mine one hundred years before it produced the Hope Diamond. This diamond was reputed to sparkle unlike any other diamond ever found.

  “When Tommaso received the courier’s letter, he was intrigued and realized that this might be his opportunity to prove to the rest of the Medicis that he was worthy. Tommaso turned out to be a skillful negotiator, and he arranged to purchase the Persian widow’s diamond for a good price.

  “After Tommaso received it, he gathered all of his family at the Pitti Palace in the presence of Florence’s most celebrated diamond experts and revealed the diamond. The experts inspected it at great length, and all agreed that it was the most impressive diamond they had ever seen. Tommaso named it Fuoco Blu di Firenze.”

  Street figured it out first. “The Blue Fire of Florence,” she said.

  “Scarlett Milo’s BFF,” I said.

  THIRTY

  Drago nodded. “As you can see, the story is enticing. It is precisely because of this that the story endures despite no evidence whatsoever.”

  Drago paused as if gathering his words.

  “According to the rumor, the acquisition of what at that time was the most impressive diamond ever seen gained Tomm
aso the credibility that he desired among the family. And Tommaso was apparently so impressed by Fuoco Blu di Firenze’s singular quality, that, like the Persian businessman, he hid it away so that it could never be stolen by a thief or even his Medici cousins.”

  “What happened to it?” I asked.

  Drago shook his head. “That’s the point. No one knows. The creative storyteller who dreamed up this diamond neglected to fabricate any supporting details or records. Nevertheless, it became part of the oral history of the Medicis. And now the legend has been passed down for five hundred years.”

  “If we were to operate on the notion that the story is true, where might we learn more about it?”

  Professore Giovanni Drago stood up, turned away from us, and walked over to the window. He looked out at the Pitti Palace as if he were gazing back into history. After a minute, he turned, came back to his chair, and sat.

  “I hate to continue with this. I don’t want to think that you or anyone else could attach my name to such nonsense.”

  “But…” I said, waiting for Drago to continue his thought.

  “There is a man named Bruno Valenti, originally of La Cosa Nostra.”

  “The Sicilian Mafia,” I said.

  “Yes. A few decades ago, he was convicted on murder and racketeering charges and sent to prison for life. After many years, he was let out under the laws of libertà condizionata, the Italian version of what you call parole. Now he is an old man and living in a town in southern Tuscany. I’ve heard rumors that he’s in very bad health.”

  “You think he had something to do with the Blue Fire of Florence?”

  “No. But if there were such a thing as the Blue Fire of Florence, and if someone were to have obtained it through theft or purchase or fraud, my guess is that Valenti would know about it. His specialty was acquiring hard-to-acquire things. Paintings. Rare automobiles. Ancient illuminated manuscripts. Stashes of gold, silver, and platinum. Historical artifacts. Jewels.”

  “Do you know how I might approach him?” I asked.

  Drago shrugged. “I suppose you could simply knock on his door and ask him. He is in his dotage. I don’t imagine that there is any kind of a moat to ford.”

  I appreciated Drago’s small sarcasm. It made him seem a little less like a stuffed shirt.

  “Having said that,” Drago continued, “even if the Blue Fire of Florence existed and Valenti knew about it, I can’t imagine that he would be forthcoming to you.”

  “Do you have any idea of his address?”

  “No. But I can make a call to someone I know in the prosecutor’s office.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

  Drago stood. “Wait here, please.”

  He left. We waited. We didn’t talk. I think both Street and I felt that getting all of this information had been a tenuous procedure at best. Talking might distract Drago if he could hear us from wherever he went.

  Drago returned ten minutes later and handed me a slip of paper. On it were letters and numbers written in cursive. Most I recognized, some I didn’t. Italians use the same alphabet as other western countries, but they form certain letters differently.

  I got out a pen. “Let me double check what you’ve written.” I rewrote what he’d written. He explained where I was confused.

  “This town you’ve written,” I said. I sounded it out syllable by syllable. “Roccatederighi.”

  “Yes, that is close to how we say it,” Drago said.

  “You said it is in southern Tuscany.”

  “Correct. I’ll show you on a map.” He left again, then returned shortly with a map of northern Italy. He opened it and pointed. “Here is where we are in Florence. An hour south of here is Siena. An hour south of Siena is a turnoff to Roccastrada.” He traced with his finger. “From there, you follow these little mountain roads up to Sassofortino, then continue on to Roccatederighi. I’ve been there, but it was long ago. I don’t remember the streets. Perhaps you can get the map details from your Google company.”

  “Thank you, professor. I very much appreciate your help. I’m sorry for the time it took out of your day. And I’m very sorry that I felt I had no choice but to pressure you.”

  He made a small nod. “I’m sure you will discover that the Blue Fire of Florence is one of the great fictions to come out of the Renaissance.” Drago spoke as if he was done with us.

  “There is one more thing I’d like to ask you,” I said.

  Drago looked frustrated and impatient.

  I pulled out the warning note that had been stuck in my cabin door and handed it to him.

  “Does this image mean anything to you? It looks a bit like da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man drawing with a star and circle drawn around it.”

  Drago looked at the piece of paper. “This has nothing to do with da Vinci. This is Agrippa’s pentagram.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa was a Renaissance magician from Germany. He wrote three important books about occult philosophy. This pentagram was in one of the books. It is a symbol of magic. The signs at the points of the star are astrological symbols.” He lifted his head from the paper and looked at me. “I assume you know about the Reformation.”

  “Not much, no.”

  “The protestant Reformation, which, literally, was an attempt to reform the Catholic Church, began during the Renaissance. The church fought back. The resulting turmoil brought a renewed focus on people who didn’t worship exactly as the Church wanted. Specifically, the Church fixated on witchcraft and on those people, especially women, who practiced ancient traditions of magic. The Church felt that many kinds of magic had Satanic inspiration. Agrippa noted that this was one of the main symbols of magic.”

  “Is there a reason the drawing is upside down in relation to the writing?”

  “Yes. A pentagram that points up refers to white, or good, magic. An inverted pentagram refers to evil magic, otherwise known as Black Magic.”

  “What does this mean for me?”

  “It suggests that you are being targeted by someone who believes in evil Satanic ritual, someone who practices modern-day witchcraft.”

  I stood, and Street joined me.

  “One more thing I should tell you,” Drago said.

  We turned back.

  “This man, Bruno Valenti. He is old. Maybe eighty, maybe eighty-five. And he is also ill. He will seem feeble. But don’t let that lull you into thinking you don’t need to be careful. Bruno Valenti is a sociopath, a very dangerous man. As bad as they come. He has no empathy. He cannot understand anything from another person’s point of view.”

  “Got it,” I said. “I’ve known many people like that. No empathy means they’ll kill you without concern beyond whether they might get caught.”

  “Exactly,” Drago said.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said.

  We left.

  The next morning, we asked the woman at the residenza desk if there was a train that ran to Roccatederighi.

  “I’ve never heard of this town.”

  I glanced at Street. She raised her eyebrows. She pulled out her phone and showed the woman where it was on the map.

  “Oh, there. There are so many places I haven’t been. But I have been to this nearby town, Roccastrada, and I can tell you that the train does not go there. So it won’t go to Roccatederighi. There are many towns... how do you say, of no account. In the middle of the country. You would have to rent a car.”

  “Is there a car rental at the train station?”

  “Sì.”

  We said our grazies and walked to the train station.

  A rental agent put us into a tiny Fiat 500, which was cute. But it felt like something a forest fairy would ride to a hobbit meeting among the mushrooms. My legs straddled the steering wheel, and every time I let up the clutch, my left knee nearly hit my chest. But the car had gopower, and we could keep up with the big BMWs as we took the freeway south out of Florence.

  On o
ur map, the drive to Roccatederighi looked straightforward, a stretch of big freeway to Siena and then a smaller divided highway south until our turnoff. From there we would take a smaller road with many more turns, which itself was followed by an even narrower paved path that snaked through the country.

  Because the speedometer was in kilometers per hour, I kept being startled when I glanced at the dash and saw that we were going 120 or 130. Even adjusting the kilometers to miles, we were still moving at speeds that would get us a ticket in the States.

  “This little car goes fast, huh?” Street said as we raced toward Siena. The city had just appeared on a distant hill, a picture postcard with patchwork fields in the foreground and a rock-fortress with bell towers in the background.

  “Yeah.” I patted the dash. “This baby may have worked up a sweat, but there’s still more oats in her tank.”

  “Is that guy speak or something?”

  “Standard gearhead lingo.”

  “You being a gearhead and all,” she said.

  I didn’t turn to look at her, but I knew her eyes were rolling. I said, “Whenever I get the chance, I pop the hood of my Jeep and leave it up so people can admire the motor.”

  “I thought motors were electric and cars that run on gas have engines.”

  “Motors, engines, whatever,” I said. “Anyway, it’s the guy stuff in me that appreciates the way you look in your turquoise confetti. You wouldn’t want to forego that, would you?”

  “If it means that you keep the hood of your Jeep closed, yes. I would die of embarrassment if you left it open when I’m around. The guys who do that are the ones who walk into the Seven Eleven without a shirt on, buy a six-pack, and then pop a can open and guzzle it before they get out the door.”

  “You’ve never been with me when I do that?”

  Street smacked me on the shoulder. “We’re in Italy, the essence of high-style, refined living. You should squelch your primitive impulses and...” she trailed off.

  “And start listening to opera?”