Translated from Italian by Judith Forshaw
I
Night had fallen like a heavy blanket over the city of Mestre. Clelia looked out of the window. The Bora, the northeast wind with its erratic, ill-mannered gusts, was tormenting the tops of the maritime pines. As a little girl, her father would light a fire during the long winter nights. They would all sit together around the fireplace, and he would tell her that the wind could steal the souls of careless passersby. “When the Bora blows, you have to stay at home, safe. Anyone who braves the wind risks losing their soul, as well as their hat,” he would say to her in his deep voice. And the little Clelia would open her eyes wide and beg him to tell her the story of Grandpa Domenico, who had rescued Isabella’s hat one windy night and had made her fall in love with him. In the glass, Clelia could see the reflection of her round face with its soft features framed by short black hair; her large brown eyes stood out clearly. The roofs of the houses reflected the leaden light of the streetlamps. Smoke escaped from a few chimney pots, suggesting a domestic warmth that hadn’t been felt in her own home for a while. Clelia thought how nice it would be to go back to her childhood and hear once again that incredible, romantic story, narrated in her father’s voice. But he had been dead a long time, and she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She could stay at home to escape the wind, but she couldn’t escape her anxieties. Not since Giovanni had left her, to start a new life with another woman. “It’s too hard living with a policewoman,” he had said to her, not looking her in the eye. They had been having problems for some time, and the love they shared for their daughter Laura wasn’t enough to keep them together. In the last two years Clelia had struggled to ensure that her daughter didn’t suffer because of the absence of a man in the house, trying to create a cozy home environment and attempting to limit her overtime as much as possible. Sometimes, after supper, she even found the energy to take a look at her daughter’s homework. The most difficult moments were the weekends that Laura spent with Giovanni’s new family. Laura would come home thrilled; she would chatter about the two little twins, the children Giovanni had had with Giorgia, his new partner. She was so beautiful, as well as being such a good cook—a full-time housewife. For Clelia, Giorgia was the template of the perfect woman: a nice, straightforward mother and wife. The partner that Giovanni would have liked her to become. But he had never succeeded with her. Clelia loved her work too much. When, at just twentythree, she had passed the exams to go into the police force (before she had even finished her law studies), she had known that it would be a difficult environment, especially for a woman. And male competition had made itself felt right from the start. Giovanni, who was then her fiancé, had raised the first objections. “Couldn’t you do a normal job?” he had asked her one evening. They had just made love. They were still in each other’s arms, their skin burning and their hands clasping their bodies tightly together.
“What do you mean, normal?” she had asked with a smile.
“I don’t know … working in an office, or a shop in town. I could even see you as a lawyer. But being a policewoman is dangerous. You’ll be walking around armed. You might see people die. And I’d be worried all the time knowing you were out there.”
“But I’d be out there to protect honest people. People like you, darling.” Clelia had run her finger over his nose and then his lips. An affectionate gesture that had been lost during the first years of marriage, after too many fights and after reconciliations that became less and less satisfying.
“Mommy?” Laura’s small voice called her back to reality. The little girl, from under the covers, was waiting for her usual goodnight kiss and chat before going to sleep.
Clelia sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair.
“I don’t like the wind,” Laura confided, looking in the direction of the window.
“But the wind brings stories from all over the world, sweetheart. If you learn how to listen to it, you’ll never feel alone,” said Clelia, continuing to stroke her hair.
“Will you tell me a story?”
“I’m very tired, but I promise that if you’re good and close your eyes the wind will bring you a lovely story. It’s traveled a long way, the Bora, to get here to us. It’s come through woods and forests. Through its eyes you can see fabulous animals …”
“And maybe a fairy?” asked Laura.
Clelia was lost in thought again. That weekend her daughter was due to go ice-skating with Giovanni and Giorgia. For weeks she had talked of nothing else. Giorgia had been the local skating champion, but then, according to Giovanni, she realized that she had to give up an adolescent passion in order to focus on real life. That was the truth of the situation: for him, Clelia’s desire to pursue a career in the police was a childish dream. A way of following in the footsteps of her father, her hero, killed in an ambush while working as a bodyguard for Judge Di Gennaro.
“Mommy, why don’t you come skating with us too?” asked Laura in an attempt to reclaim her mother’s attention. “I know you’re sad when you stay at home on your own.”
Clelia forced a smile. “I can’t skate. I’d end up breaking my leg,” she replied, her voice tinged with a note of melancholy.
“But the twins can’t skate either! They’re too little. They’ll just stand and watch us and Daddy and Giorgia will take turns skating with me.”
“Thank you for the lovely thought. I’m sure you’ll be really good, a real ice princess. I’ll come another time, I promise.”
Laura’s eyes darkened. She knew that kind of promise. It was a way of softening a no.
The ringing of the phone shattered the moment of intimacy between mother and daughter. At that time of night it couldn’t mean anything good.
“Sorry,” Clelia muttered. She had no choice but to run into the corridor and rummage for her phone in her bag. “Where did I put the damn thing? Ah … here we are!”
The voice at the other end sounded frantic. “Clelia, it’s Franco. I wouldn’t have disturbed you this late if it wasn’t something really urgent.”
“What is it?”
“Just over an hour ago someone called HQ to report a noise that sounded like a shot. Officers found a body—it’s Luciano Restivo, the owner of an ad agency on the Lido. You must’ve heard of him—he made a name for himself with those campaigns for the Venice Film Festival.”
“Yes, I know the name. Is it murder?”
“That’s the thing. Everything suggests suicide, but my sixth sense says it isn’t. You know when my alarm bell goes off?”
“I know it well, your alarm bell. It usually means trouble.”
“Judge Carmine Mezzogiorno is here already. I’d feel better if you’d come over here and share your opinion.”
“Give me the address. I just need time to find a babysitter and then I’ll be there.”
Clelia arrived at the Ad Work agency with an ominous feeling in her bones. The street was crowded with police vehicles. An ambulance was parked in front of the gate, surrounded by a small crowd of onlookers. Inspector Franco Armati came toward her with one of his crooked smiles. He was a good-looking man, Armati, and he knew it. Chestnutbrown hair, always tousled, aquiline nose, untidy beard, and blue eyes ringed with laughter lines that only added charm to his seemingly disheveled appearance.
“I have to say that you’re even more attractive than usual this evening, Clelia.”
“Spare me the sweet talk, Franco—you sound like a geriatric Latin lover. Where’s the body?”
“Always in a hurry, eh? It’s one of the things I like about you most.”
Clelia gave a snort, but she couldn’t help letting a smile play on her lips. In the beginning Franco’s one-liners had annoyed her. As the commissario, she was still his boss. Besides, she didn’t put up with sexist remarks. She was an officer in the police force, and the fact that she was a woman was irrelevant. Then, as time went on, she had discovered that Franco was the best colleague she could wish for, vigilant and thorough in investigations: he didn’t leave any stone unturned and his razor-sharp instinct helped him to solve complicated cases. In addition, he was the only person who ever noticed—with just one glance—if something was wrong in Clelia’s private life. “Everything okay, boss?” he would ask. “Sometimes a coffee’s all you need to feel better.” He always managed to get a smile out of her.
“This way.” Franco led her along a narrow corridor lined with doors, all closed, to the office of the agency’s chief executive, Luciano Restivo. As she went in, she was struck by the sharp smell of blood. The body was sitting at the desk, its head bent backward. The wall behind was awash with blood and splattered with bits of brain. One hand was still resting on the desk, next to a piece of paper with writing on it. The other hung down near the floor, a few centimeters from an automatic pistol.
“The gun?” Clelia asked her colleague.
“It belonged to Restivo. It’s licensed.”
Clelia moved toward the body to examine it close-up. It was a horrendous sight: the man had shot himself in the mouth. She managed to stifle a feeling of revulsion. From her jacket pocket she pulled out a pair of latex gloves, slipped them on, then picked up the sheet of paper; it looked like a goodbye note. She read it carefully.
“Notice anything strange?” Franco asked her.
“Yes, actually. Some letters are more pronounced than others.”
“I knew you’d notice. And have a look at what they spell out if you put them together.”
Clelia took a Post-it and a pen from the desk, and set to work on the highlighted letters. The first was an m, followed by a u. After a while, her eyes widened. “It says murder,” she whispered.
“Perhaps Restivo was forced to write the note, and he tried to leave a final, desperate message. I’m sure it’s not suicide, even if someone wants to make us think it is,” concluded Inspector Armati.
II
Judge Carmine Mezzogiorno’s office was big and bright. The white marble floor reflected the light that filtered through the large windows. By the side of the desk were two luxuriant ferns, and, on the walls, framed photographs of the highest state appointees.
“I’m willing to consider opening a murder file. The highlighted letters in the suicide note can’t be just coincidence.”
“That’s what I think too,” said Commissario Clelia Vinci. “Inspector Armati sends his regards,” she added. “He couldn’t come with me because he’s questioning a witness.”
“Give him my regards. Naturally, I ask you to keep me informed about any developments in the inquiry.”
“Of course.” Clelia bid him goodbye with a strong handshake and marched out of his office. She quickly ran down the stairs of the Tribunale della Repubblica and left the building. She paused for a moment to admire the vast expanse of Piazza San Marco, the only true piazza in Venice. She glanced up at the gray sky, streaked with clouds. A sustained rumbling announced the first drops of rain, which gradually became heavier. The tourists who crowded the piazza took refuge inside the basilica or under the arched colonnades of the Procuratie, so-called because the building once housed the offices of the Procurators of St. Mark.
Clelia decided to permit herself a coffee in the eighteenthcentury Caffé Florian. She strode in and ordered an espresso. History had unfolded in front of the full-length windows of the most celebrated Venetian coffee shop. It had played host to, among others, Charles Dickens, Lord Byron, Ugo Foscolo, Silvio Pellico, Modigliani, D’Annunzio, Eleonora Duse—and, as Florian’s was the only café of the time that women were allowed to enter, it was said that Casanova used to stalk his romantic prey here. But Clelia held onto an important personal memory linked to the café: in the Oriental Salon, painted by Pascuti, its walls adorned with exotic women dressed in skimpy outfits and pairs of lovers, her husband had proposed to her. His eyes had never once left hers as he had asked her. “You’re stubborn and not very likely to change your point of view if you think you’re right. You’re proud and touchy. And you’ve chosen to take up a career I don’t like, but I love you. Clelia Vinci, will you marry me?” he had said to her without pausing for breath. She had looked at him, her eyes teary with emotion, and had uttered a single word: “Yes.” Clelia fought against the urge to go into the Oriental Salon. She hadn’t set foot in their since she and her husband had split up, even if every now and then she went back to the old Caffé Florian—despite the fact that she would then be in a bad mood for the rest of the day. She drank her bitter, still scalding espresso in one gulp.
A few minutes later she was at the quay where the police motorboat was moored; she waved to the uniformed officer who was waiting for her. The journey toward the Santa Croce district, the oldest part of Venice and home to the Questura, proved to be more difficult than expected because of the Bora, which was still blowing, forming ripples on the surface of the canals. Clelia, despite having been born in the city on the lagoon, had always suffered from seasickness.
Half an hour later, pale and slightly the worse for wear, she joined Inspector Armati in his office. She found him deep in conversation with Rossana Piva, Restivo’s charming personal assistant. The young woman’s eyes were red from crying and she sobbed as she talked.
“He had no reason to do something like this … I think Luciano had a meeting yesterday evening.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Armati.
“He didn’t tell me exactly, but there are five of us at Ad Work and it’s rare for all the work to be finished by six, so we often stay late. But yesterday evening it seemed like Luciano couldn’t wait to be left on his own.”
“The fact that Mr. Restivo wanted to be on his own, couldn’t that suggest he was planning to commit suicide?”
Rossana jumped to her feet. “No!” she cried, clenching her fists. “Luciano would never have done that …”
After she left, Franco looked at Clelia. “What did you think?”
The commissario replied, “Her reaction was a bit over the top.”
“I thought so too. Maybe there was something more than a working relationship between Restivo and his secretary. She’s a very attractive girl, and a colleague of hers just told me she was the last person to be hired, but has risen very quickly in her career.”
“What do you mean?”
“Besides being the boss’s PA, it just so happens she has been personally handling negotiations with some of the most important clients.”
Clelia gazed out of the window. It was raining heavily and the sky looked like a sheet of steel.
“You’re miserable today,” Franco said to her.
“Sometimes I wonder how come you know me so well. Do you know that my ex always said I don’t show my feelings enough?”
“After lunch I’m meeting Restivo’s widow. Do you want to grab a bite with me and then we can go there together?”
“Okay. Laura’s with her father for a few days anyway, and the more time I spend at work the better I’ll feel.”
Neither Clelia nor Franco had armed themselves with an umbrella, so they ran through the rain to the nearby bar. Clelia’s hair was dripping wet. Franco brushed a strand from her face and smiled at her. She shivered, but not because of the cold. They ordered two sandwiches and sat at a table in the corner.
“I called Enrico Lettieri, Restivo’s lawyer, and he seemed pretty shaken up as well,” said Franco.
“Do you think he’ll be able to tell us anything useful?”
“I think so. I found out that Lettieri was a good friend of Restivo, someone he really trusted. He’s out of town at the moment, but he’ll drop by the station on Monday.”
III
The Restivo villa, with its art nouveau design and huge garden, stood in the area near the Lungomare d’Annunzio on the Lido. Mariasole Vincenzi Restivo had been a very beautiful woman: you could tell from the shape of her face and the light that occasionally lit up her eyes, green like precious stones. But time had superimposed on her features a certain harshness. Clelia imagined that she must have suffered greatly in her life. A woman understands these things. The thought contrasted with the ostentatious splendor of the house’s decor.
Restivo’s widow led them into a classically styled sitting room and offered them a seat on a sofa upholstered in golden velvet, with exquisite inlaid wooden arms.
“Is that an original?” asked Franco, pointing at one of the paintings.
“Yes. It’s a Canaletto, painted in 1730. My father was an art dealer. The other paintings are originals too—they’re part of the family collection. As an only child, I inherited them together with this villa.”
“It’s truly amazing,” Clelia said, looking up at the ceiling frescoed with flowers.
“Sometimes I think it’s too big. Especially for a woman on her own.” There was a note of sadness in her voice.
“I’m sorry for your loss. It must be awful,” Franco mumbled quickly.
During their brief chat, the woman proved to be happy to talk at length about the nineteenth-century copy of the Nike of Samothrace that dominated the hall, of the virtues of her Filipina maid, and of her gardeners’ poor work ethic. On the other hand, she was reluctant to talk about her husband. It appeared that their relationship had cooled after their daughter, Annalisa, had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Marghera.
“Signora Restivo, I’m sure it’s difficult for you to talk about this, especially now. But can I ask why your daughter’s in the hospital?”
For a long while Mariasole simply gazed around the room. Clelia thought that perhaps she hadn’t heard the question. She was about to repeat it when the woman cleared her throat. She caught Clelia’s eye, peered straight at her, and replied: “The only thing wrong with my daughter is that she was born a girl.”
Inspector Armati leaned forward. “Why do you say that?”
“Because girls are good at falling in love with the wrong man. Now excuse me, but I’m rather tired and I’d like to rest.”
As they left, the two police officers noticed a silver station wagon parked under a canopy in the villa’s courtyard. Clelia guessed that it belonged to Mariasole, given that she was currently alone in the house. She wondered what made so many women choose such huge cars.
It was dusk when Commissario Vinci and Inspector Armati left the villa. The sky above the Lido was stained with orange streaks that faded toward the horizon. The rain had finally stopped, but the weather forecast said that high tides would be back again soon.
“When I see sunsets like this, I feel nothing’s impossible. Perhaps two people—like you and me—could even fall in love again …” said Franco, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Clelia didn’t respond. At the commissariato, Armati had a reputation as a bit of a charmer. Six years ago he had lost his wife in a horrific car accident, and since then he had not been seriously involved with anyone. At first he had fallen into a deep depression, but then he had begun going out more often with women he described as “friends.” People all have their own ways of dealing with their pain, thought Clelia. But Franco was different with her. When he talked to her, his voice became gentler. He was attentive in a way that went beyond the relationship between an inspector and his superior officer. He couldn’t help worrying if she was looking anxious. Franco Armati would never have admitted it—not even to himself—but what he felt toward Clelia was very close to love. Clelia was definitely not indifferent to the charms of her colleague, but the only man in her life, Giovanni, had always tried to change her. He had never accepted her work, and he had ended up using their daughter Laura to blackmail her. How many times had Clelia been made to feel that she wasn’t a good mother, that she left her daughter on her own too often, or that she brought her most difficult cases home with her? Love—for Clelia Vinci—was a complication and, at this particular moment in her life, there wasn’t room for another complication. So she didn’t respond.
Once she got home, Clelia heated up a cup of milk and forced herself to eat a few biscuits. She felt on edge and she couldn’t help imagining Laura with Giovanni’s new family. Who knew if during the weekend Laura would think about her at all.
Clelia read the pathologist’s autopsy report: there was no trace of gunpowder on Restivo’s index finger, so it was impossible for him to have pulled the trigger of the gun. Someone had made him write a fake suicide note.
IV
“Hi, Annalisa. This is Commissario Vinci and Inspector Armati. They’re here to ask you some questions. Is that okay?” the psychologist asked the girl sitting opposite her.
Annalisa had her mother’s green eyes, but her stare was vacant. The blankness was that of a child who had grown up too quickly. Blond hair framed her pinched face; her thin lips turned down at the corners and were edged with fine frown lines. She simply nodded, and continued playing with the ring she wore on the ring finger of her left hand.
“Can you tell us about your father, Annalisa?” Clelia began.
“My father is a very bad man.”
The commissario glanced at Armati in surprise. Then she asked: “Why is he a bad man?”
“He thinks he can make me forget what he did, with all these pills. The pills keep me quiet, but I’ll never forget.” She stressed the word never as if it were a promise, or a curse.
The psychologist pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and said: “Annalisa, please. Your father loved you. And he’s no longer with us. I explained it all to you yesterday, do you remember?”
“He’s dead.” Annalisa burst out laughing. “He won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore.” Then she became serious again and turned her head toward Franco. “Roberto had blue eyes, just like yours. He gave me this engagement ring after we’d been together for just a month,” she said, stroking the ring that sparkled on her finger. “Are you engaged, inspector?”
Franco swallowed loudly. “Err … no,” he replied, embarrassed.
“My father killed Roberto. Because he couldn’t stand another man touching his baby girl.”
“Annalisa, your father didn’t kill anyone. You shouldn’t talk about him like that.” The psychologist’s disapproval was visible in her face.
“They asked me to talk about my father, and that’s what I’m doing. Do you know what my Roberto always used to say?” She paused for a moment, then pressed her lips together in a faint smile and said: “Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies. It’s something Nietzsche said. My father’s convictions killed Roberto and imprisoned me here. And now more people will die …” She bit her bottom lip and sought Clelia’s eyes. “Look for the truth, commissario. Don’t be fooled by appearances.”
The psychologist frowned at Annalisa. “You’re getting upset. You can talk to them when you have more control of yourself.” Then, turning to the two police officers, she said: “I’m sorry, but my patient is in no condition to continue with this questioning at the moment. Let’s go back to my office.”
Clelia saw that there was no point in challenging the woman; it was an ultimatum, not an invitation.
Doctor Sofia Ghelfi had been looking after Annalisa Restivo for a couple of years; her care had begun when the girl returned alone from a trip to Tunisia—her fiancé, Roberto Milan, had been arrested in Monastir and had then disappeared without a trace. Once they were in her office, the psychologist let out a long sigh. She looked down at the floor, then toward Clelia. “It seems that Roberto was found in possession of drugs at the airport, while Annalisa, thanks to the intervention of the family’s lawyer, Lettieri, was brought back home without a criminal record. Since then, Annalisa has blamed her father for the loss of her one great love.”
“Love. It’s always love that’s to blame,” Armati muttered.
The psychologist pretended not to have heard. She continued: “Annalisa developed an acute depressive syndrome with a persecution complex, and shortly after her return she was admitted here, where I follow her progress personally. Recently she seemed to have regained an equilibrium, but in the last few days that has vanished.”
“In your opinion, what’s caused this relapse?”
“Annalisa had a visitor, about a week ago. We don’t allow patients to receive phone calls from outside, but the visitor, disobeying our rules, handed her a cell phone. By the time I arrived, Annalisa was in tears and kept shouting Roberto’s name.”
Clelia’s face lit up with a flash of intuition. “I’ll need to know the name of the visitor.”
“I’ll check the records right now.” Sofia reviewed a folder and moments later announced: “Francesco Bonifazi.”
V
Francesco Bonifazi lived in a small apartment on the edge of Mestre with two other architecture students. He was surprised to find two police officers at the door. He glared at them, full of hostility. “Do you have a warrant?”
“Of course not,” Armati replied, annoyed. “We’re here unofficially. But, if you prefer, I can call the judge and have you summoned to appear in court for questioning. I can promise you that will be a lot less pleasant.”
The boy, dreadlocks hanging down to his shoulders and a stud in his nose, seemed to think about it for a few seconds, then said: “Come in. I was just making coffee.”
They entered a kitchenette in which chaos reigned. Unwashed plates were piled up in the sink. On every surface there was a jumble of cans, glasses, and cutlery.
“Let’s get straight to the point. Luciano Restivo was killed on Thursday night. I’ve heard that you visited his daughter Annalisa at the hospital a few days before.”
“So what? Can’t a person visit an old friend?”
Clelia moved toward Francesco. “Don’t take us for idiots. You don’t have the time and neither do we. That was the first time in two years you’ve visited Annalisa. I know you let her take a phone call that upset her. You’re in touch with her exfiancé—isn’t that true?” Although Annalisa maintained that Roberto was dead—and that her father was to blame—Clelia had sensed that this wasn’t the case.
Francesco put the coffee pot on the stove. “I’ve always thought there’s no point in talking to the cops. You decide for yourselves what the truth is, and most of the time it’s the innocent who are the losers.”
“Like Roberto Milan?”
“Exactly. Roberto and Annalisa were crazy about each other, but her dad couldn’t accept that a boy with his background, who loved having a good time, could get engaged to his daughter. Tunisia was supposed to be their first holiday, an unforgettable trip.” He stopped talking for a moment, then peered directly at Clelia and said: “And in a way, it was. Roberto was framed. Someone hid the drugs in his jacket pocket. The airport police were waiting for him. He was banged up and Annalisa was brought back to Italy by Restivo’s bulldog, his lawyer. I think his name is Lettieri.”
“You’re making some very serious accusations.”
“The truth is difficult to hear. And to think that for a second I thought I saw the glimmer of justice in your eyes, commissario.”
Clelia Vinci reflected on the fact that in just a couple of days two different people had pointedly asked her to search out the truth. She looked across at her colleague. She had to play her cards right. “We know Roberto Milan came back to Italy.” She didn’t have any proof, but she decided to follow her instincts. Annalisa’s ex-fiancé had a perfect motive for killing Restivo: revenge. She added: “If you know where he is, you have to tell me. We can help him, before he makes any more mistakes.”
“So you’re accusing him of murder? Don’t you think he’s already paid enough? And for a crime he didn’t even commit.”
At that moment the sound of running caught their attention. They heard the click of the front door opening and then it slammed shut.
“Clelia, quick! It’s Roberto Milan!” shouted Franco, rushing out into the hall. Without waiting for his colleague, he dived down the steps, holding on tightly to the banister. From the stairwell he managed to glimpse the figure of a boy with long hair and a long beard, wearing an army-green parka. “Stop!” he shouted.
The boy took no notice and ran out of the block of apartments. Franco, ignoring the fact that he was already out of breath, kept running without a pause, until he caught up with him. He flattened the boy against the wall of an old building and, holding him still with one arm against his throat, searched him. He was clean.
“I had nothing to do with it!” Roberto cried out.
“You can tell that to the judge.” Franco tightened the handcuffs around his wrists.
VI
“Roberto Milan’s still maintaining he’s innocent,” said Clelia, as if she were thinking aloud.
“He’s spent the last few years in prison in Tunisia—do you think he wants to be sent away again?” Franco retorted.
“Still, those aren’t the eyes of a murderer. There’s regret, like when a love affair ends.”
“I didn’t think you could be so romantic, Clelia. But come on—we need to stick to the facts. Everything points at Roberto Milan being guilty of murder. Restivo ruined his life, so once he was back in Italy, he faked the man’s suicide. Don’t forget that he’d spoken with his ex-fiancée just a few days before. Perhaps he hoped he and Annalisa could get back together again, once he’d gotten rid of her father.”
“Have you heard anything from Lettieri?”
Franco glanced at his watch. “No. We had an appointment half an hour ago in my office, but he didn’t show up. I tried calling his cell, but it’s switched off.”
“And the office?”
“No one’s answering.”
“That’s odd. At this time of day his law firm should be open. Shall we go and pay him a visit? If I’m not mistaken, the office is in the San Polo district, not far from here.”
They boarded the police motorboat and Inspector Armati moved to the controls. The surface of the Grand Canal reflected the palazzi and the moving clouds like a mirror. It struck Clelia that she would never get tired of the magic of Venice. Certain views still took her breath away even though she had marveled at them thousands of times. It happened as they passed under the Ponte degli Scalzi, with its single Istrian stone arch. Franco went slowly, and every now and then he stole a glance at her. Neither of them talked during the journey.
In twenty minutes or so they arrived at Lettieri’s offices. The front door was ajar.
“Anybody there?” called out Inspector Armati.
Papers were scattered over the floor of the entrance hall. The phone had been thrown to the ground. A woman’s leg was sticking out from behind a desk. Commissario Vinci approached the body and checked the pulse. “She’s still alive,” she whispered. “Someone must’ve hit her over the head.”
Inspector Armati took out his Beretta and walked slowly toward Lettieri’s office, while Clelia, service gun in hand, covered his back, crouching next to the desk.
“It’s a mess in here. Come and look,” Armati said. The commissario joined him. Enrico Lettieri had been murdered. His body, which was lying faceup on the floor, was covered in stab wounds. There was blood everywhere.
Instinctively, Clelia covered her mouth with her hand.
“The killer went at the victim in a fit of rage,” said Franco. “Lettieri tried to defend himself as best he could. See? Multiple cuts on the hands and arms. Then he was struck in the chest and stomach, but the fatal wound was presumably the one to the throat.”
“You contact the station, and I’ll call an ambulance.”
Just before the ambulance arrived, Lettieri’s secretary regained consciousness. “They buzzed the intercom,” she spluttered. “They said they had to deliver a package and I opened the door. I had my back turned—I was putting a file away—when someone hit me. I felt an excruciating pain in my head. I must’ve passed out …”
“Can you tell us anything about the voice?”
“All I can tell you is that it was a woman’s. I can’t believe that Signor Lettieri was killed while I was here … It’s awful,” she said, unable to hold back the tears.
“Try to stay calm. You’re safe now,” Commissario Vinci reassured her, clasping her hand in a motherly way. Then she stood up and looked at Franco. “Roberto Milan is innocent.”
“You were right, Clelia. I was wrong about him being the murderer.”
“But we weren’t wrong about the motive: it’s revenge. A revenge someone’s thought about for years.” Commissario Clelia Vinci pushed a lock of her dark hair behind her ear and frowned.
“What do you mean?” At that instant Inspector Armati’s cell phone rang. “It’s Rossana, Restivo’s secretary,” he said, surprised, before answering.
The girl sounded frightened: “Inspector, please! Come here now. I’m scared—”
“Calm down, miss. The important thing is not to open the door to anyone.”
“I got a phone call, a threat. They said all the traitors will die and that Lettieri was murdered. It can’t be true!”
“I’m afraid it is. We’re at his office now—we’re still searching it.”
“It’s not possible! It shouldn’t end like this!” she sobbed.
“Rossana, try to stay calm. Tell me exactly what happened.”
The girl’s agitated breathing could be heard on the other end of the line. After a few seconds of silence, Rossana began talking again: “Me and Luciano were in love. It’s not what you think … I wasn’t with him just because he was someone important. I really loved him, and he loved me too! So much that he’d made up his mind to run away with me.”
“What?!” exclaimed Franco. “And why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“I was afraid.” Rossana explained that no one knew that Restivo’s ad agency was going through a difficult time. Before long, Ad Work would have had to declare bankruptcy. So Restivo had falsified the accounts and, with embezzled funds hidden away in a tax haven, he was getting ready to leave Italy with Rossana.
Franco pressed her further: “Who knew about your getaway plans?”
The girl replied: “Only Lettieri.”
“Where are you now?”
“I couldn’t stay in my apartment in Mestre. I didn’t feel safe. I’m at 140/B Calle de la Madonna, near the Rialto Bridge. Luciano bought this penthouse for us to meet. It was our love nest.”
“Are you sure that no one else knows about your nest?”
“Only Lettieri knew. He told me to keep quiet and not to talk to anyone, but then I got that threatening call. I got scared and I decided to call you.”
“You did the right thing. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”
“But it will! They’ve killed Luciano, Lettieri, and now they’re coming after me! They said they know where I am and they’ll kill me.” She stopped talking suddenly. “Someone’s here!” she screamed.
“Rossana, stay calm. Who said they’d kill you? Stay with me, we’re on our way!” But the phone had already gone dead. “Let’s go!” the inspector barked at Clelia.
On the way to Calle de la Madonna, Franco explained to her what Rossana had said on the phone.
“There’s no doubt now—it’s clear who’s behind these deaths,” the commissario said. “I just hope we’re there in time.”
“I’ve told them at the Questura. They said they’ll get there as quickly as they can, but there aren’t many motorboats available, and we’re closest.”
As soon as they were near the Rialto Bridge, Franco moored the boat. The famous bridge, with its arcades and white stone, was packed with tourists taking their souvenir photos. Franco held out his hand, helping Clelia to step ashore. They started to run, cutting through the chaotic crowd of passersby. When they reached Calle de la Madonna, they noticed that the front door of 140/B was open. Franco doubled over to catch his breath and Clelia sank back against the wall, gasping.
“Wait here,” said Franco after a moment, looking her straight in the eye.
“No. I’m coming with you. It might be dangerous.”
“I’d prefer that you stay here and watch my back, in case the killer tries to find a way out.”
“I’ll be able to watch your back better if I’m just behind you.”
“You’re so stubborn. Okay then.”
With their guns drawn, they headed up the steps. The building seemed deserted. Presumably it was made up of luxury apartments, currently vacant. The elevator wasn’t working, or perhaps someone had deliberately tampered with it.
By the time they were outside the apartment, they were both short of breath again. Clelia’s hands were sweaty and she had a tightness at the back of her throat. There was a key in the lock. “That must be Luciano Restivo’s key,” she whispered. “The killer must still be inside.”
“Be careful,” Franco said quietly to her before sidling into the entrance hall. Perhaps it was in that very instant that Clelia realized how much she cared about him.
As they cautiously approached the living room, a muffled groaning caught their attention. The noise was coming from the room at the end of the hall. Armati burst in, followed by Clelia a step behind. What greeted them was a sight that froze their blood: Mariasole Vincenzi Restivo was on her knees on the bed, her hands fastened tight around Rossana’s neck. The girl’s eyes were staring, her face turning blue, her tongue protruding.
“Let her go! Now!” shouted Clelia, pointing her gun at Mariasole.
The woman looked up, loosening her grip. Rossana started coughing.
“Move away from the bed with your hands up.”
Mariasole seemed to come out of a trance. She glanced around her, as if she didn’t understand where she was, and she let go. Slowly, she slid across the covers until she reached the window. “We women are so good at choosing the wrong man,” she murmured. She grabbed the handle of the window frame and opened the shutters.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” said Commissario Vinci in a firm but gentle tone of voice.
“I gave Luciano everything. My youth, my beauty. A daughter. He was no one, but with my money he was able to make his way in society.” Mariasole’s face was a mask of pain. “And now he wanted to leave me. He was bankrupt. He would’ve run off to the tropics to enjoy life with that slut of a secretary, while I would have been left here. They would have taken everything from me to pay his debts. Even the house that my father built and loved so much. But I discovered everything, and I wouldn’t let him hurt us again.”
“No one’s going to hurt you anymore. We’re here now, to help you.”
“No one can help me. It’s too late. My husband was a bad man. He made my daughter ill—did you know that? He took away the love of her life, but even then I was able to forgive him. Not this time. This time he’s paid, and all the others had to pay as well.”
Clelia realized that Mariasole was about to do something rash. She started to advance slowly toward her, moving around the bed. “Just take it easy,” she said, but her words were lost in a gust of cold air. Mariasole looked at her helplessly. Clelia saw the glimmer of green in her eyes that must have made her so beautiful when she was young. Mariasole threw herself out of the open window.
Clelia rushed forward, trying to grab hold of her, but it was useless.
A thud, then silence.
VII
The sunset blazed in scarlet streaks against the leaden sky behind the psychiatric hospital in Marghera. The Bora had returned, and the howling of the wind echoed through the branches of the trees. Clelia, breathless, got out of the police car and started to run toward the entrance. Behind her, Franco struggled to keep up.
Roberto Milan was sitting on the steps, staring down at the ground. In front of him passed two nurses with a stretcher carrying a body covered by a white sheet. They loaded the stretcher into the back of an ambulance where a small group of hospital employees had gathered. Clelia made her way through the crowd to where Dr. Sofia Ghelfi was standing.
“What’s happened?”
The psychologist studied her for a long while before replying. Then she murmured: “I don’t know how it could have happened. Annalisa … she found a newspaper … There was something about Roberto Milan being arrested—”
“She must have thought history was repeating itself,” Clelia interrupted. “That people like them don’t get a second chance at happiness.”
“She cut her wrists sometime before dawn. She used a bread knife; it’s possible she took it from the kitchen.”
“She couldn’t have known that her boyfriend was being released this morning.”
“She was such a sweet girl. I can’t believe it …” Dr. Ghelfi couldn’t hold back a sob. “Excuse me,” she cried out, hurriedly retreating toward the doors of the hospital.
Franco shook his head. “Mother and daughter, both of them ended up the same way.”
Clelia moved closer to Roberto Milan. She bent down, trying to look him in the eye. He didn’t return her gaze. He just said: “For two years all I’ve done is dream about the moment when I’d hold Annalisa in my arms again. But I couldn’t protect her from the world. Or from herself.” Clelia laid a hand on his shoulder. Roberto shrank from her touch. “Is this the kind of justice you joined the police for? Your law should have protected Annalisa. And instead it’s killed her.” The boy’s voice trembled with rage.
Clelia noticed that he was wearing a silver ring, identical to the one Annalisa had worn. She remembered what the girl had said: Roberto had given her the ring only a month after they had gotten together. Clelia couldn’t help thinking that the ring—representing the promise they had made to each other—had become the symbol of a shattered love affair. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
Franco came closer and took her arm for a moment. “We should go,” he said. Indeed, there was no reason for them to stay. They went back to the car and headed full speed in silence toward the Ponte della Libertà. Commissario Clelia Vinci stared stubbornly at the landscape beyond the car window. It wasn’t just an innocent girl who had died that day, but also the hope she had clung to that—despite all the suffering and death—something good could be salvaged.
When they arrived at the Questura, Franco invited her into his office. He closed the door behind her and began to speak: “Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we want. You’ve got nothing to blame yourself for, Clelia.”
“Thanks for saying that, but it’s not true,” she replied. She paused, then: “Certain people come into the world like shooting stars. You look up at the sky and all that’s left is a shining trail. Sometimes I wonder why I chose this job.”
“You chose it so you could keep your father’s dream alive. Your dream, Clelia.”
“My dream’s becoming a nightmare. Or perhaps it’s just all this wind; bit by bit it’s taking my soul.”
Franco took a step toward her, but Clelia stopped him. “Sorry. My daughter’s waiting for me at home. I think I’ve already neglected her far too much recently. And for what?”
Franco stood motionless, watching the silhouette of his boss disappearing down the corridor.
A few days later, Clelia took her daughter to Murano. The days were getting longer and the air brought with it the first signs of a biting spring that seemed intent on sweeping away the ghosts of the winter.
The church of Santi Maria e Donato rose up in front of them in all its grandeur. Light glinted off the red bricks and the white marble columns. Clelia sat down on a bench and helped Laura put on her rollerblades. Then she pulled a package out of her coat pocket. She unwrapped it to reveal the small crystal unicorn they had bought a few minutes before in one of the glassblowers’ workshops. She gazed at the blue shimmer of its coat, its outstretched wings, and the mane that seemed to be tousled by a never-ending breeze.
Laura started skating backward and forward in the large square, waving her arms and shouting to attract her mother’s attention. Her voice sounded muffled by the time it reached Clelia.
Clelia looked at her and forced a smile.