Chapter 29

ERIC

While Riley drove us home, I called Kevin Knoppfler, the detective handling my case. The results from the fingerprint search still hadn't come through. With no new leads or incidents, it felt like we'd never find the stalker—unless the break-in at the cottage wasn't as random as it seemed.

Riley was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. "I think I'm cursed," he muttered.

I glanced at him, worry tightening my chest. "What do you mean?"

"This is the third time my home has been broken into. The odds of that happening are so low there must be more to it."

Kathleen leaned forward from the back seat. "You only told me about one of the burglaries in Venice. When was the other one?"

"About a month before my paintings were stolen." Riley's voice was strained. He looked in the rearview mirror at his mom. "The only thing they took the first time was my laptop."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to worry."

Kathleen sighed. "Next time anything like that happens, tell me."

"It worked out okay. Lorenzo was great. I stayed with his family the night of the burglary. The next day, he found a company to install a monitored security alarm."

My eyebrows shot up. "How did the burglars break into your apartment the second time?"

"They short-circuited my alarm and the security camera in the front entrance. The police didn't find any fingerprints, and no one saw them enter or leave the building."

My mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle. Riley hadn't said much about Lorenzo, apart from him not being his boyfriend. I had no idea if the gallery owner could be trusted, but I needed to find out.

"What did the police say about the first burglary?" I asked.

"They said to be extra careful. Sometimes burglars come back if they see something of value in the apartment. That's why I had the alarm installed. I made sure it was on whenever I wasn't there, but it wasn't enough."

From what Riley told me, he kept a low profile in Italy. Most people wouldn't have known where he lived or that he was an artist. And most people, except for Lorenzo, would have no idea that each of his paintings sells for more than fifty thousand dollars.

Lorenzo had the means, motive, and opportunity to stage the burglaries. In my world, that's too much of a coincidence.

"What's Lorenzo's last name?"

Riley frowned. "Ricci. Why?"

"Did the police ever consider him a suspect in the burglaries?"

Riley's eyes widened in shock. "You can't be serious. Lorenzo didn't have anything to do with what happened. He's a good man."

"Good men do stupid things. You haven't answered my question."

"I don't know who they interviewed."

I picked up my phone and texted Kevin. If the NYPD couldn't pull the reports on Riley's burglaries, my next call would be to Bryant Security. If Lorenzo Ricci was even remotely involved in the Italian burglaries, we needed to know.