Artist, Antonio Gambardelli.

Donated in memory of Filomena Manzera.

Insurance value: $10,000.

But even more telling was the name and telephone number scrawled at the top of the page:

Shirley Manzera, 401-555-6641 (E.G.)

E.G., Cathy thought. East Greenwich .

“I found it,” she exclaimed, handing Markham the paper.

The FBI agent scanned it hungrily.

“We got lucky,” he said finally. “The phone number-Father Bonetti and our mystery deacon have come through for us.”

Chapter 41

The Manzeras’ home occupied the corner lot on a street named Love Lane. Cathy recognized it as having been built in the 1950s-a sprawling, L-shaped ranch, with a two-car garage connected to the house via a narrow breezeway. At the rear of the house-behind a high, perforated stone wall-Cathy could also make out an Olympic-size pool, as well as a tennis court. Yes, from the looks of things, there was no doubt in Cathy’s mind that the Manzeras, whoever they were, could afford a Gambardelli Pietà.

Sam Markham whipped the Trailblazer around the grassy median that separated the north and south sides of the street and pulled up under the shade of a large oak tree.

“Remember, Cathy,” he said, “sit tight and keep the doors locked. This woman was extremely uncooperative on the telephone-very defensive. I don’t want to risk her clamming up if she recognizes you. Only reason she agreed to talk to me is because she thinks the theft of her family’s statue is part of some stolen art ring-thinks there might be a reward in it for her.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll be back in a flash,” Markham said, and kissed her on the cheek.

Cathy’s eyes followed the FBI agent as he made his way up the flagstone walkway and rang the doorbell. She could not see the woman behind the screen door, could not see to whom Markham spoke as he raised his ID-just as he had done for her in another lifetime. And when Special Agent Sam Markham disappeared into the house, Cathy closed her eyes behind her dark sunglasses and waited.

Even if her mind had not begun to wander, even if she had not drifted off into a light afternoon sleep, Cathy most likely would not have noticed the ’99 Porsche 911 cruise past on the cross street straight ahead of her-would not have given it a second look even if she had. Not in this neighborhood anyway.

The Sculptor, on the other hand, spotted the Trailblazer immediately; he recognized it as not only out of place in front of the Manzeras’ house-the house which he drove by every single day on route to his own-but also instantly pegged it as FBI from his countless viewings of the news clips from Watch Hill and Exeter. And although he did not dare drive by it a second time, and although he did not dare take a closer look to see if perhaps Dr. Hildy herself was inside, The Sculptor knew nonetheless why the Trailblazer was there.

Yes, not only did The Sculptor finally understand how Dr. Hildy and the FBI had figured out where he was going to exhibit his Pietà, but he also understood that he had made a crucial mistake early on in his plan. However, the simple fact that the FBI had gone to the Manzeras first told The Sculptor that they had not yet made the connection to him.

Not yet.

But they were close.

And even though he was unsettled by his discovery, even though he thought himself foolish for his silly, silly mistake, as The Sculptor drove back to his home less than a mile away, he took comfort in the knowledge that fate had given him the opportunity to correct it.

Chapter 42

“Sorry I took so long,” said Markham, hopping into the Trailblazer. “But we’ve got some work ahead of us.”

Cathy awoke from her nap disoriented. It was as if time had suddenly leaped forward, and she could not be sure how long the FBI agent had been gone.

“What did you find?”

“Quite a lot. But who knows if any of it is going to help us. Best thing to do now is to get back to the computer-or better yet, get to the library before it closes.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Markham began, driving off, “first thing I found out is that Shirley Manzera’s late husband is the connection to St. Bart’s-the Gambardelli Pietà was donated in memory of his mother. Mr. Manzera’s family was originally from the Silver Lake area of Providence, where St. Bart’s is located. I don’t know the details, but Shirley Manzera said her husband used to own some kind of construction business. Don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that he made quite a killing back in the 1950s, and moved his whole family out of Providence and into upscale East Greenwich. I didn’t want to ask how Mrs. Manzera met her husband, but she was adamant about wanting nothing to do with the Catholic Church-particularly St. Bart’s and her ‘husband’s old neighborhood,’ as she put it. She’s a bit of a snob, quite frankly.”

“How did her husband die?”

“Not what you think. I saw some pictures of him on the mantle and asked. Emphysema, the old woman told me. Four years ago.”

“I see.”

“But hang on. The Manzeras had four children-three daughters and a son named Damon. Damon was the youngest, and judging from the family photos, probably about a ten- to twelve-year spread between him and his oldest sister. All the daughters are married.”

“Wait. You said Damon was the youngest? Did something happen?”

“I couldn’t ask, Cathy. Couldn’t pry because of the reason I was there-the stolen art ring. But, did you see the swimming pool, the tennis court out back?”

“Yes.”

“Again, I don’t know the exact details-but Mrs. Manzera told me that her son Damon drowned in that swimming pool ten years ago.”

“And you think his death is somehow connected to The Michelangelo Killer?”

“I don’t know, Cathy. But we should look for something in the newspapers first-an article about the drowning, the young man’s obituary. If anything seems out of whack, I can get Sullivan on the police and coroner’s reports for Damon Manzera next. I may be totally barking up the wrong tree. It may all be just a bizarre coincidence-”

“You don’t really think that, do you, Sam?”

The FBI agent gave only a weak shrug of his shoulders as the black Trailblazer emerged from the leafy canopy that was the Manzeras’ neighborhood. The silence was long and awkward, but by the time Markham reached Route 95 they were talking again-trading theories as to what to do in the event of a dead end.

Neither one of them noticed the blue Toyota Camry that had entered onto the highway a short distance behind them.

Chapter 43

The Sculptor was careful not to get too close-made sure he left at least six or seven car lengths between him and the FBI vehicle. He had taken a gamble driving back to his house in order to exchange the Porsche for the Camry-did not want to be too conspicuous in case whoever was inside the black Trailblazer spotted him as they exited the neighborhood and made for the highway. It was a gamble that paid off. And now that The Sculptor was onto them, he did not want to ruin this golden opportunity to find out exactly what the FBI was up to-did not want to throw away the stellar hand that fate had finally dealt him.

The Sculptor had spent that Saturday morning in disguise-a moustache, glasses, and a baseball cap-driving around aimlessly in his Porsche, searching for a sign-of Dr. Hildy, maybe, or perhaps where he might later go shopping for some material for his David. And although he had found neither and was about to return home frustrated, just like the day when he unexpectedly spied his satyr walking home from the Cranston Pool, The Sculptor understood that fate had also directed him to drive by the Manzeras’ house just in time.