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one another?”
    Patrick cursed and took a step forward, but Raven intervened, placing her hand over his.
    “It will be all right. I’ll just go and answer their questions. But please, tell Professor Urbano what’s happening. He’ll be expecting me in the restoration lab.”
    Patrick fixed the officer with a look of defiance. “I’ll be notifying Dottor Vitali, the director of the Uffizi, and the American consulate. And I’ll be naming names, Ispettor Batelli.”
    The officer shrugged.
    “Dottoressa Wood.” He gestured to the street, where a police car had just pulled up to the curb, lights flashing.
    Patrick squeezed Raven’s hand before sprinting in the direction of the Uffizi.
    “This way.” Batelli’s voice was gruff as he and the other men led Raven to the car.

Chapter Five
    “F or your information, I should state that this is not an interrogation. You are not under arrest. We are interviewing you in connection with the theft of art from the Uffizi because you work at the gallery. This conversation is being video recorded.
    “Dottoressa Wood, where were you on Friday, May seventeenth?”
    Batelli sat across from her in a small interrogation room in the Florence police station, his dark eyes keen and peering.
    He had files in front of him, but they were closed. He wasn’t even taking notes. He was simply watching her.
    Another man, wearing a dark suit, stood behind him and to his left. He’d been introduced as Alessandro Savola, an Interpol agent from Rome. He, too, was watching Raven, arms crossed, eyes alert.
    She felt as if she were a sample being examined under a microscope.
    She contemplated her options for a moment, staring back at the agents and wondering about her predicament.
    She loved her work. She loved the Uffizi. She was willing to do anything to help the police find whoever had stolen the illustrations. That included answering the officer’s very uncomfortable, potentially hazardous questions.
    “I came to work in the restoration lab. At the end of the day, a group of us went to a friend’s party.”
    “Which friend?”
    “Gina Molinari. She works in the archives.”
    “Where did you go after the party?”
    Raven focused on a spot on the wall, over his shoulder, willing herself to remember.
    “I went home.”
    Ispettor Batelli leaned forward in his chair.
    “What time was that?”
    Her eyes met his.
    “I don’t remember, but the party was still going on. I said good-bye to Patrick and to Gina and walked home.”
    “Alone?”
    “Yes, alone.”
    “Do you live with anyone? Did anyone see you when you arrived home?”
    “I live alone and no, no one saw me.”
    “Do you have a lover? A boyfriend or girlfriend?”
    “No.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
    “When did you first hear about the robbery?” The inspector’s voice was casual. Too casual.
    “This morning, when I came to work.”
    The agent’s eyes narrowed. “What about newspapers? Radio? Television?”
    “I don’t take the newspaper and I don’t have a television. Sometimes I listen to the BBC in the morning but I woke up late for work and didn’t bother.”
    “Why are you carrying your passport and other important documents? Aren’t you afraid of thieves?” Batelli gestured to the items, which were sitting on the desk next to her identification card.
    “My old passport was going to expire. I picked this one up at the consulate the other day, but I had to present the paperwork that showed I was working in Italy legally. I must have forgotten to take everything out of my knapsack.”
    “The name on your documents doesn’t match the name on your identification card.”
    She clenched her teeth. “My name is Raven.”
    “That’s not the name in your passport.”
    That’s because the name in my passport is dead,
she thought.
    She tried to appear relaxed, folding her hands in her lap. “In America, it’s common for people to have nicknames.”
    “What part of America are you from?”
    “New