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G abriel was standing outside the entrance of the Hassler the following morning when Veronica Marchese pulled up in her flashy open-top Mercedes Cabriolet.

She wore a pair of movie-starlet sunglasses and an Hermès scarf over her dark hair.

All that was missing, he thought, was a devilishly handsome leading man at her side. He supposed he would have to do.

He dropped into the passenger seat and placed his lips against the proffered cheek. It smelled of jasmine and vanilla. “Is that intoxicating French perfume for me or your friend Giorgio?”

“A little of both.” Veronica pressed the throttle and the car lurched away from the curb. “Did you enjoy Osteria Lucrezia?”

“I don’t believe my text message made any mention of where I dined last evening.”

“How else could I have possibly known?”

“Good question.” They shot past the church of Trinità dei Monti in a blur and a moment later careened around the Piazza del Popolo. “Do the brakes work on this thing?”

“I don’t often use them, if you must know.”

“They can be quite useful at controlling your forward momentum.”

“Venetians,” she said with mock contempt.

“Admittedly we do move at a slower pace.”

“But when in Rome, speed is of the essence. Besides, we don’t want to keep Giorgio waiting.”

They raced along the Tiber for a time, then wound their way through the northern districts of Rome to the Autostrada. Soon they were blazing along at nearly twice the posted speed limit.

“Did you have the trippa last evening?”

“I passed.”

“What was the occasion?”

“A problem regarding security at the Vatican.”

“Father Spada, you mean?” She took her eyes from the road long enough to give him a knowing sidelong look. “Father Keegan told me all about your rather embarrassing discovery.”

“What other details of my investigation did he divulge?”

“That the inside connection was a security guard named Ottavio Pozzi.”

“There had to be another.”

“Someone who knew about the portrait?”

“Exactly.”

“Who do you suppose she was?” asked Veronica.

“The woman you just ran over with your motorcar? I believe it was Myrtle Wilson.”

“The girl in the Leonardo.”

“We haven’t a clue.”

“Perhaps Giorgio will be able to shed some light on the matter.”

“I believe his Leonardo monograph is silent on that issue.”

“It is,” said Veronica. “I reread his notes on the Virgin of the Rocks last night.”

“I did some reading as well,” said Gabriel.

“Anything interesting?”

“Montefiore’s memoirs. He wrote at length about the one disappointment of his otherwise glittering career.”

“And what was that?”

“His failure to find a lost Leonardo.” Gabriel pointed out a speed limit sign. “Don’t you think you should slow down a bit, Signora Buchanan?”

Veronica smiled and put her foot to the floor.

***

Ordinarily it was a drive of three hours from Rome to Florence, but Veronica managed to cover the distance in just under two and a half.

She deposited her car in a garage outside the zona a traffico limitato , and they walked along the Arno to the Uffizi.

Montefiore had promised to meet Veronica at Door 3, the museum’s main visitor entrance, at eleven o’clock.

But at eleven fifteen there was still no sign of him.

“Perhaps you should call him,” said Gabriel.

Veronica sent a text message instead. There was no response.

“He must be in a meeting,” she said.

“Why didn’t he tell you that he was running late?”

“Because he’s Giorgio Montefiore.”

They led themselves on an unhurried tour of the Piazzale degli Uffizi, pausing briefly to ponder the statue of Leonardo, and returned to Door 3 at eleven thirty. Montefiore was nowhere to be seen.

This time Veronica dialed his number. The call went straight to voicemail.

“Try his office,” suggested Gabriel.

She found a number online. A secretary informed her that Montefiore had not yet arrived at the museum .

“We had an appointment at eleven.”

“I wouldn’t worry, Dottoressa Marchese. He’s almost never on time.”

Veronica rang off and dialed his mobile a second time. Once again her call went directly to voicemail.

“Do you remember where he lives?” asked Gabriel.

Veronica pointed toward the opposite bank of the Arno.

“Inside the zona or outside?”

“The latter.”

“Let’s take the car,” said Gabriel. “And never mind the brakes.”

***

The villa stood atop a low hill on the southern fringes of the city, behind a stone wall approximately three meters in height.

The metal gate was tightly locked. Gabriel pressed the call button on the intercom and received no response.

Veronica rang Montefiore’s mobile phone a final time, with the same result.

“What now?” she asked.

“I suppose one of us should climb over the gate.”

“I nominate you for the job.”

“My back is killing me.”

“You’ll manage somehow, I’m sure.”

Gabriel considered his options for a moment, then clambered onto the bonnet of Veronica’s Mercedes.

Even with the added elevation, he was scarcely able to grasp the top of the gate.

The bars were vertical, thus robbing him of a toehold to ease his ascent.

Nevertheless, after several seconds of sustained effort, he managed to hoist a leg over the barrier.

With a simple rotation of his shoulders, the rest of him soon followed.

He dangled there a moment, calculating the distance between his feet and the gravel drive, and then released his grip.

The landing was excruciating but for the most part dignified.

“Bravo,” declared Veronica through the bars of the gate. “You were magnificent.”

“Now you.”

“I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.”

Gabriel brushed the dust from his gabardine trousers and headed up the drive to the entrance of the villa.

He didn’t bother with the bell push, placing a hand on the latch instead.

Like the gate, the door was locked. Breaching it, however, required nothing more arduous than a few seconds of gentle work with the slender tools in the breast pocket of his jacket.

He opened the door and stepped into the cool shadows of the entrance hall.

Which was where he discovered Giorgio Montefiore lying in a crimson pool of recently shed blood, with three tightly spaced bullet holes in the center of his forehead.

His life’s ambition had finally been realized, thought Gabriel.

He had found his lost Leonardo. And now he was dead.