THE HEAD OF HOMICIDE handed the investigation over to Teodori. At first I wondered why they’d chosen someone of retirement age who was past his prime. I still didn’t understand all the subtleties of politics, in particular the politics of the Christian Democrats.
What I did know was that there were powerful forces surrounding Elisa Sordi’s death. A luxury residential complex, a cardinal, an aristocratic senator who wanted to bring back the king to rule Italy: spiritual power on the one hand, temporal power on the other. On the other side, two parents from the working class and some girl of theirs from the outskirts. In all probability she’d asked for it, mixing with bad company or some random meathead attracted by her exceptional beauty.
I was assigned to be Teodori’s deputy in the investigation because I was the precinct captain and was familiar with the residential complex, its inhabitants, and the victim. I’d even been on Via della Camilluccia that day, just before Elisa Sordi went out for her last walk before the World Cup final. I’d spoken with her that afternoon, as the phone records showed. That was an accident, of course. I’d been looking for Dioguardi. In any case, I was Teodori’s ideal stooge.
It was another indication of the superficiality of the Italian police’s bureaucracy that no one in the Flying Squad went to check the personal details in my file. If they had, they’d have kept me a thousand miles away from the paradise of Via della Camilluccia and that inquiry.
Reconstructing the facts was the easy part. After lunch, Elisa worked in her office. Her mother spoke to her just after 6:00, immediately after my call. Before 6:30 the concierge had gone to her office to pick up a file to take to Cardinal Alessandrini. But no one saw Elisa Sordi when she left at 6:30. By that time, the complex was deserted. I had seen Paul leave, and then all the others afterward. The priest from the neighboring parish confirmed that he had seen the concierge, now in a village in India, in the front pew at Mass that evening.
When I went to Teodori’s office for the first time, his young secretary, Vanessa, caught my eye right away. She was tall and wore her black hair in a pageboy. She was narrow through the hips and chest, but she had great legs.
Teodori had a small office, a clear sign he wasn’t held in much esteem. The posters on the walls were of Italian seaside resorts in the middle of winter. Pretty depressing. He was slumped behind a desk that was in chaos, pipe tobacco all over the place, no air-conditioning, and a ceiling fan that made his papers fly around, adding to the general disorder.
“The problem is that we don’t know whether the girl was taken away before, during, or after the match. The first results of the autopsy indicate that she was already dead on Sunday, but it’s impossible to give a precise time with the body in the condition it’s in.” Teodori’s tone was grave.
“We don’t know whether she was taken forcibly or went with someone of her own free will,” I objected.
Teodori gave me a funny look. “Balistreri, don’t let your imagination run wild. The violence lasted for a long time. A psycho did this. An animal who gets pleasure from making people suffer.”
“Okay, but maybe she knew this animal.”
“Sure—one of her friends from her neighborhood,” Teodori agreed. The Sordis’ working-class neighborhood was certainly a long way from Vigna Clara and Via della Camilluccia, but it was hardly a notorious breeding-ground for maniacs.
I tried to object. “Elisa’s parents say she didn’t have a boyfriend. She was always in the office or at home studying. She never went out at night. Every so often, on a Saturday or a Sunday afternoon she saw Valerio Bona.”
“We have to know where Bona was on Sunday from 6:30 on.”
Of course, Bona was from a less well-off neighborhood, too, a member of the violent working class. A perfect suspect.
“We really should find out about everybody else, too,” I put in.
Teodori looked surprised. “Everybody else? Who else?”
“Everybody who lives on Via della Camilluccia, where she worked. She was extraordinarily beautiful—she could have turned anybody’s head.”
Teodori’s eyes were more yellow than usual. This line of reasoning didn’t agree with his liver. “If you’re referring to the senator, I’ve already checked the register at the ministry of the interior. Just for the record, obviously. The senator arrived at 6:50 p.m. and was with the minister from 7:00 to 7:30. From there he went straight home, where he entertained guests, and he didn’t go out again.”
“Who told you he didn’t go out again?”
Teodori shot me a look. “All the general staff of his party were guests at his home, to see the match. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“There were a lot of people, and maybe in the heat of the excitement,” I said, to provoke him more than anything else.
He ignored me and continued talking.
“His son and his wife came home around 8:00. They watched the game, too, and then celebrated on the terrace.”
How Teodori had come to know these details was a mystery.
“But before that? I saw them going out with the count around twenty past six. What did they do between that time and eight o’clock?”
“I don’t know, and I see no reason to ask them.”
Now Teodori was acting decidedly testy, banging the stem of his pipe forcefully on his desk, staring at a spot on the floor toward which he was directing his thoughts.
“Look, Teodori, I don’t want to be a pain, but I find it hard to believe that there was a forcible kidnapping in the middle of a Roman street, even on a Sunday evening without many people around. She would have reacted. Someone would have heard her screaming.”
“Young man, no one would authorize you to question these highly respectable people just because you find something hard to believe.”
“There’s also the distance,” I added, putting a cigarette in my mouth.
“Please don’t smoke in here. What about the distance?”
I still didn’t know if he was really like this or just trying it on.
“The Tiber runs through all of Rome. The spot where her body was found is close to Via della Camilluccia.”
“Exactly. The girl leaves her office. Someone attacks her and takes her down to the river.”
“But how? By car? In broad daylight at six thirty in the evening? Rome was nearly deserted, but no one heard or saw anything?”
The phone rang and Teodori picked it up.
“No, no, I can’t come right now. Tell the medical examiner I’ll be there later.”
His whole face was yellow. We were wasting time.
“You were saying, Balistreri?”
He stroked his sparse tufts of white hair with his sweaty hands.
“My thought is the murder occurred in a different way. Someone she knew gave her a lift, and they went down there together in agreement onto the riverbank. Perhaps Elisa thought they were only going to talk. And only then, among that foliage, the fury of the assassin was revealed. We need to get authorization to question Valerio Bona and all those in Via della Camilluccia.”
Naturally Teodori decided to start with the working-class kid in the glasses.
. . . .
We tried to find Valerio Bona at his parents. They told us he’d gone to Mass, as he did every weekend, and then he had plans to go to Ostia, where he was participating in a regatta. We could try to speak to him at the sailing club at the end of the race.
It was already lunchtime, and Teodori decided he couldn’t possibly go all that way to Ostia, where he might end up stuck in a traffic jam. When I offered to go alone, he appeared relieved.
“Naturally this would be informal, without a lawyer. He could refuse to speak to us,” I explained.
“We’re investigating a murder, not a bag-snatching. If Bona makes trouble we can interrupt his weekend, and tomorrow morning he can come in for an official interrogation.”
Our wonderful justice system at work: it was already mapped out.
I called Angelo. We hadn’t seen each other since our argument in the Camilluccia complex.
“Want to grab some dinner?”
“I’m not really in the mood, Michele.”
It was time to make a move before the rift between us became permanent. I didn’t want to lose this friendship because of my stubborn pride.
“I was wrong, Angelo, and you were right.”
The only reply was silence. After a while I heard his voice, and it was more friendly.
“It’s not your fault. Even if you’d started looking for her right away . . .”
He was generously coming to my assistance. As always.
“We don’t know, Angelo. Maybe when they called us at the end of the first half Elisa was still alive. Maybe she was even alive after the game.”
He sighed. I felt his suffering over the telephone line.
I changed the subject.
“I have to go to Ostia to question Valerio Bona. We want to know where he was when Elisa left the office.”
“Michele, he’s a good kid.”
“Sometimes even good kids fuck up.”
Silence. It was his way of showing disapproval. Maybe he was thinking that I was just going after the weakest link in the chain. We said good-bye.
I could easily have taken the train to Ostia, but I didn’t feel like mingling with tourists and beachgoers. I hated public transportation. Although there was no hurry, I put the siren on the roof of my Duetto and got there in half an hour. There was a huge crowd. Cars were parked everywhere. The beach was overflowing with people, and the glistening sea was full of swimmers and boats.
If she weren’t dead, perhaps Elisa would have been there among the those who were eating ice cream, sunbathing, and swimming. Instead, her wounded body was lying in cold storage in the mortuary and her parents were looking at her empty room in a house in the suburbs.
I found the sailing club easily. The regatta was under way. I sat at a table under an umbrella on the terrace and relaxed with coffee and a cigarette. The two-man boats were Flying Dutchman class. Valerio Bona was in one of them. I deduced from this that Elisa’s death hadn’t shaken him up too much. Inexplicably, the kid had irritated me since the first time I’d laid eyes on him. And that gold crucifix round his neck. Elisa was out of his league. He was puny, and he had a small personality, too. That’s what I thought as I sat in the sun and smoked. From there the boats were white dots moving along between buoys on the blue of the sea. I asked the people at a neighboring table, who were using binoculars to watch the regatta, if they knew who Valerio was.
“Of course. He’s been sailing here since he was a child. He’s in the second position in number twenty-two.”
They lent me their binoculars. It took a while to find number twenty-two and get it into focus. What I saw was a surprise. Valerio Bona, wearing a sailing cap and sunglasses, was at the helm, his crucifix gleaming in the sun. His bearing and his every gesture suggested absolute calm and command of the situation. And yet they were at the end of a close-hauling maneuver with over twenty knots of wind. I watched his features closely. Only his lips were moving as he spoke to his partner at the jib. In the stretch before the wind, number twenty-two jib bed over and over, forcing the leading boat to do the same, and in the end Bona succeeded in passing it and crossed the finish line first. Through the binoculars I saw him take off his cap and sunglasses. There was no smile on the little bastard’s face. He appeared to thank his fellow crewman.
I kept watching him as the crews came back to the marina to moor the boats. Valerio Bona was receiving compliments from all the contestants, thanking them in a serious and polite manner as he shook their calloused hands. He was confident, relaxed. Then his gaze met mine and he recognized me. I waved a hand to greet him. His face changed rapidly, and I saw once again what I had seen on the other occasions. He was ill at ease, anxious, insecure. Out of his boat, Valerio was without the shell that protected him from the world around him.
He came toward me, putting on sunglasses to cover his worried look. It would have been too easy to scare him.
“We’ve met before, Mr. Bona. I’m Captain Michele Balistreri and I’m investigating the murder of Elisa Sordi.”
I showed him my badge, but he had already stopped a few feet from my table. “What do you want?” he asked hesitantly. I decided to play bad cop.
“You should get yourself a lawyer. You need to come to the police station for formal questioning.”
His hands were trembling slightly. While he was standing there staring at me, some more sailors came by and congratulated him.
“Way to go, Valerio!” they said, clapping him on the back.
But he was no longer on the waves, he was back on land—a land that he felt was hostile and difficult. Here not even his faith was enough to calm him down and protect him from far worse weather.
“Please sit down. I’d like to ask you some questions. If you don’t feel like answering them, we can always go to the Homicide offices back in Rome.”
My authoritative tone convinced him. He sat facing the sun, staring at the sea, probably wishing he were still out there on a boat.
“When we met on Monday you said that you were a friend of Elisa Sordi’s. Were you her boyfriend?”
I deliberately chose a yes-or-no question so he’d have to answer. He shook his head.
“No, we were just good friends.”
The emphasis on just betrayed his disappointment. At the same time, having seen Elisa Sordi myself, I realized it couldn’t have been easy for a guy to be just friends with her.
“How long had you known her?”
He pointed to the sea. “We met right here, last summer. She came to see a regatta with a group of friends, and a friend of hers introduced us to each other.”
“Were you interested in her?”
I could sense the hostility behind the dark lenses. “Elisa was a lot like me. We came from similar families and we were both religious. We lived in the same neighborhood; we were practically neighbors. Most Sundays we went to Mass together.”
I’d never had any sympathy for little couples who go to Mass together, especially since adolescence. Did they go there to pray or to be seen together?
“And did you speak only of God and works of charity, or did you do other things together, Mr. Bona?”
He ignored my tone. “Elisa was curious about everything; she wanted to know all about boats, about the wind and sails. I took her out and we talked a great deal. Or rather, I talked. She asked questions and listened.”
I could just see it: he carefree and assured at the helm, she reassured by his shyness on land. Valerio Bona was the only male friend possible for a girl like Elisa Sordi. A faithful little altar boy. But perhaps she hadn’t taken into account how, in the end, a friendship like that was impossible for an eighteen-year-old. However shy or awkward he was, he was still a young man with raging hormones.
“Did you see her often after that?”
“That summer we used to come to the beach on my moped and go out in the boat almost every day. Then we’d go for a walk, and at eight I’d take her home. Elisa’s parents wanted her home for dinner. They’re old-fashioned.”
“So there was nothing between you?”
“I already told you, we were good friends. Is that really nothing?” Now his hostility was stronger than his insecurity. I could make use of that.
“A close friendship with a beautiful young woman your age. Was that enough for you, Mr. Bona?”
He twisted the cap in his hands and skirted that direct question.
“Elisa wanted to earn a little money to help out her parents, so I gave her a hand.”
“Really? How?”
“I work for Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno. I mentioned her to him, and he mentioned her to Cardinal Alessandrini, who sent her to Dioguardi.”
Quite a paper trail. “And what do you do for the count?”
“I do some filing and I type his correspondence on his computer.”
I could hear in his tone that he didn’t like the count much. It was probably the only thing we had in common. I decided this was the moment to change the subject.
“Were you here for a regatta last weekend?”
He nodded to show he was.
“But Elisa Sordi wasn’t with you, was she? She had work to do.”
He nodded again.
“While waiting I checked the regatta calendar. I saw that you won, but the Sunday regatta was in the morning.”
“Yes, there are three heats: two on Saturday and the third on Sunday morning. Last Sunday I went to early Mass on my own, because Elisa had to work. Then I came here.”
“What did you do after the regatta?”
“I went straight back to Rome. The game was that evening. I didn’t want to get stuck in traffic coming back from the beach. I’m a big soccer fan.”
“Did you go to see Elisa Sordi?” I already knew part of his reply, because I knew what Gina had said.
He was hesitant.
“I called her at work from a pay phone at about half past one, as soon as I got to Rome. I wanted to have lunch with her, but she wasn’t there. She’d already left. So I hung around Via della Camilluccia and waited until she came back.”
“Did you look for her in the cafés in the area?”
“I just waited on the corner and watched for her to come through the green gate. I didn’t want that weird guy with the binoculars or Gina to see me. When I spotted Elisa I went up to her.”
“Did you arrange a meeting for later?”
“No, Elisa said she wouldn’t be done until six at the earliest. Then she had to go home to watch the game with her parents. They didn’t want her to be late.”
“But you could have waited for her and taken her home on your moped, seeing as you were neighbors.”
It was difficult to decide how much his unease was habitual and how much was due to the question.
“No, Elisa didn’t want me to wait for her.” He was now somewhere between scared and aggressive.
“Was she upset? Did you argue?”
“I couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to—”
It was time to go in for the kill.
“Maybe she was meeting someone else.”
He turned pale. I sensed his eyes were troubled behind the dark glasses, even though I couldn’t see them.
“She hadn’t arranged to meet anyone else,” he answered stubbornly, his hands now worrying the gold crucifix, as if God could help him.
“How can you be sure? Couldn’t she have been screwing around with someone without you knowing about it?”
This was too much even for someone as timid as Valerio Bona. “How can you talk like that about someone who’s just been killed?” he said, standing up.
I stood up as well, and I towered over him. “You’re right. I meant to say she could have been having sex with someone without you knowing about it. Is that better?”
He was both indignant and scared. “Elisa wasn’t that kind of girl—”
“Give me a break,” I said, interrupting him. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that about girls who then turn out to be total sluts?”
I hated myself a little for being so rough, but I wanted to see whether Valerio Bona was capable of attacking someone and striking them. He tried to land a punch, but I was too strong for him, and too quick. I grabbed his wrist with an iron grip.
“Don’t be stupid. I could arrest you for assaulting a public official.”
A good many people had stopped to look at us. Several sailors came menacingly close. I waved my badge.
“Keep your distance and mind your own business,” I ordered.
I was making him look bad on his home turf. I was doing it on purpose, because he was hiding something from me. I didn’t give a damn about the consequences for him—a pious little neurotic fixated on God, sailing and his computer, who locked himself in the bathroom to masturbate after talking to Elisa Sordi.
I let go of his wrist. “Now, tell me what you did last Sunday.”
Valerio Bona was shaking. “In the afternoon I went to the park in Villa Pamphili. I had an exam two days later; I had to study.”
“And you were there all afternoon?”
“Until seven forty five. The sun was going down, so I rode my moped home to watch the game with my parents and some relatives.”
“You didn’t see anyone all afternoon?”
“There weren’t many people in the park. I was completely alone with my books under a big tree.”
“And you got home just in time for the start of the game?”
“Just before. My cousins were already there.”
“And after the match you went out to celebrate?”
His face grew dark again. “They did, but I didn’t. I was worried about the exam. I wanted to get some sleep.”
“You stayed home alone? You, the big soccer fan?”
“Yes. I watched a few commentators talking about the game, and then I went to bed.”
I decided to leave it at that, even though his story was hard to believe.
“You mentioned a weird guy with binoculars. Who did you mean?”
“The count’s son. He spies on everyone from his balcony.”
“Do you know Manfredi?”
Valerio made a face.
“He usually keeps his helmet on so people can’t see his face. But three Saturdays ago I paid Elisa a surprise visit and found him there chatting with her. As soon as I got there, he found an excuse to leave. He didn’t say one word to me.”
“Did Elisa say what he wanted?”
“She met him outside in the courtyard a few months ago, one morning when it was raining. He had an umbrella, so he walked her from the gate over to Building B. Then he called her on the intercom around the time when she usually went and got a cappuccino in the bar. It was still raining, and he offered to walk her over again. I think he kept tabs on her with the binoculars and knew her schedule.”
“Could be. Did you say anything to Elisa?”
“Yes, but she didn’t think anything of it. She said he was always very polite and kind and every so often he came to the office to talk. She felt sorry for him.”
“Elisa never said whether he hit on her?”
“She was positive he’d never do anything like that, but I’m not so sure. A guy like that . . .”
Elisa Sordi had been either a naive, kind-hearted soul or a tease. If I hadn’t seen how embarrassed she’d been that day in Angelo’s office, I would have assumed the latter.
“Did you ever see Manfredi again?”
“Just once, in the courtyard. He was wearing his helmet. I was waiting for Elisa next to the fountain. I was smoking a cigarette. He came up and told me to go outside the gate if I wanted to smoke. He stood there next to his Harley-Davidson and waited for me to go outside. Then he left.”
“Did you see him on the balcony last Sunday when you were talking to Elisa?”
“I saw the reflection of his binoculars. He was spying on us.”
“How did your exam go, Mr. Bona?”
He grimaced.
“Elisa’s disappearance ruined my concentration. I withdrew.”
I nodded over to boat number twenty-two.
“But her death hasn’t affected your sailing abilities.”
He looked at me seriously.
“You don’t understand. The only time I stop thinking about it is when I’m on the boat.”
“And when you do think about it, what do you think?”
“That Manfredi’s dangerous,” he said, immediately regretting his words. “Well, I think . . . maybe . . . I mean, I don’t know.”
I left feeling strangely satisfied.
. . . .
I arrived at the rapid response team headquarters after three hours stuck in traffic. Teodori had told me to wait for him. Vanessa wasn’t there, so I went straight into his office.
On the desk sat a framed photograph of a teenage girl who was pretty enough, if a little chunky. She was wearing a lot of makeup. I knew that Teodori was separated from his wife and that he had an eighteen-year-old daughter named Claudia. A detective who had a daughter the same age as the murder victim. That might have helped Teodori understand the victim’s state of mind, but he was too afraid that he might disturb the illustrious guests on Via della Camilluccia to act on it. And Claudia Teodori was certainly very different from Elisa Sordi—you only had to look at the photo to see that.
The light on the phone blinked to indicate two messages. Years working for the secret intelligence service had taught me that any source was legitimate and every opportunity should be taken. The first message was from a woman.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Teodori, this is the Via Alba clinic. We would like you to come by as soon as you can to see your daughter and talk to the doctors. Good-bye.”
The second message was from a man.
“Teodori, Coccoluto here. I wanted to tell you not to worry. I’ve spoken to the public prosecutor and the judge. If we can find out who slipped her the pills she can plead a lesser charge.”
Coccoluto worked in juvenile crime involving drugs and alcohol. Now I knew why they’d chosen Teodori for this investigation. He could be blackmailed. His daughter must have gotten into big trouble. It would be hard to convince him to disturb the tranquility of Via della Camilluccia. However, there was one pathway open, even if it was a very narrow one. I left him a message saying I’d call him later in the office.
. . . .
I parked the Duetto and went up to Gina’s gatehouse, now occupied by her young daughter.
Five minutes later I was at the door of Building B penthouse. Father Paul, worried and much less his usual sparkling self, came to open the door.
Alessandrini sat at the same desk where I’d seen him the previous Sunday. He didn’t get up to shake my hand.
“Any news, Captain Balistreri?”
“Not at the moment. I’m here to ask for a helping hand.”
“Earthly justice isn’t my field, Captain.”
I decided that getting straight to the point was the best way with this man.
“You can help by allowing me to investigate this little corner of paradise.”
I caught Paul’s glance at the Cardinal. Alessandrini gave me a serious stare.
“And you think you need my permission? It appears to me that you’re doing a fine job upholding the Italian state’s freedom from the Vatican’s shackles all on your own. However, you can ask me anything.”
“There’s also Building A,” I said.
Alessandrini took off his glasses and massaged his temples, smiling.
“I imagine Chief Superintendent Teodori wouldn’t approve of this conversation.”
“If you want Elisa Sordi and her parents to get justice, you have to help me investigate. The girl worked for the Vatican. You have every right—”
The cardinal interrupted me with a gesture. “As you’ve seen, I have no problem getting the police involved. But that isn’t the point. Elisa’s body was found by the river. She’d left the office.”
“She likely knew the killer. The river’s too far to walk from here. Elisa must have gone there in a car or on a motorcycle. No one saw or heard a thing. Surely if she’d been kidnapped by a stranger she would have screamed.”
“Even so, she had friends in her neighborhood, school friends—there are thousands of possible suspects,” objected Alessandrini.
“I agree. But that would require her running into one of them. Dioguardi told Elisa only the night before that she’d have to work on Sunday, and until he and I came to your apartment, no one knew when she’d be able to leave.”
Alessandrini was silent for a moment. “Very well. I’ll see to it that you can question everyone so that you can clear away even the slightest suspicion. But the count won’t be happy. You’ll see.”
“Thank you. We need to question everyone who lives or works here, including you, Your Eminence.”
Alessandrini was silent for a while. Then he spoke.
“You want to know my whereabouts on Sunday after we left here with you and Angelo? As you’ll recall, I took a taxi at six twenty. I entered the Vatican at six thirty. I went to pray in a chapel below the offices, where I remained for about an hour.”
“Were you alone?” I asked. For some reason this powerful man didn’t unnerve me. The difficult question came out lightly, easily.
“There are no witnesses who can confirm I was there. I came out of the Vatican toward eight, and that is recorded. I was here at home by about ten past eight, in time to see the game. Count Tommaso was parking his car precisely as I was exiting the taxi. We waved to each other from a distance. He was in a hurry, presumably because he had guests.”
“Was his wife with him?”
The cardinal thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Before the game started I walked out onto the terrace. Rome was deserted by then. I saw Manfredi arrive on his motorcycle at eight fifteen.”
“Was Manfredi alone?”
“Yes, he was wearing his helmet, as usual. He got off very quickly. He probably didn’t want to miss the start of the game. He went right into Building A.”
I wasn’t satisfied, but there was little else I could ask. I turned to Father Paul.
“We met downstairs on Sunday about five thirty. I was coming up to see the cardinal, you were in a hurry—you were going to San Valente.”
He looked at the cardinal and received a small nod. Permission to speak. “I went straight to San Valente. There was another volunteer there, Antonio. He drove the children to the parish youth club in our bus. They were there until eight.”
“And what did you do for those two hours?”
“I cooked. At eight, when Antonio returned with the children, everything was ready. We ate in front of television.”
“And after the game?”
“Antonio and I put the children to bed. Then we also went to sleep.”
“Did you know Elisa Sordi, Father Paul?”
There was a shade of apprehension in those blue eyes that darted to Cardinal Alessandrini for a moment and then turned back to me.
“Of course.”
“Did you ever talk to her?”
I felt Alessandrini’s eyes on me, but I kept my gaze on Paul. Beneath those freckles something was stirring. He ran a nervous hand through his red curls.
“Every so often Elisa brought some papers here. Two, maybe three times.”
“What did you talk about?”
It appeared to be painful for him to remember.
“About my vocation,” he replied in a whisper.
I had to keep myself from laughing. Valerio Bona went to Mass with Elisa. Father Paul talked about his vocation with her. Manfredi escorted her courteously to a nearby café. Then someone dragged her under a bridge, violently murdered her, mutilated her body, and tossed it in the river like a piece of garbage. Perhaps after making the sign of the cross.
“Was Elisa planning to become a nun?” I spat out sarcastically.
Paul answered seriously.
“Perhaps. She asked many questions about the religious life.”
I turned to Alessandrini.
“Do you know anything about this, Your Eminence?”
“I never exchanged more than a few words with the young woman when she delivered some documents. We spoke only about work.”
The cardinal was deep in thought. It must have been a disturbing thought, because his usually affable features had hardened in a stern expression.
I turned to Paul. “Did you ever visit her in her office on the third floor?”
Now the flush and embarrassment were clear. “On Saturday she called me on the intercom.”
“You mean the day before she disappeared?”
“Yes, about five o’clock. She asked if I would take some books up to the cardinal. We spoke for a few minutes.”
“And what did you speak about?”
“About her work, that she was there on a Sunday, but that was okay. She said something strange: that she wanted me to hear her confession. I told her I wasn’t a priest yet.”
“And then she left?”
He hesitated, then continued. “I waved good-bye from the terrace. She was standing by the fountain with Gina. They both saw me and waved.”
There was the motive for this little confession. There was a witness, the concierge, who would be coming back from India and perhaps would remember that they had exchanged good-byes.
“Then another thing happened,” added Father Paul, looking worried.
My instinct told me what that was, before he could say it. “She waved good-bye to someone on the terrace of Building A?” I asked.
I could read the stunned look on Paul’s face, and for the first time a mixture of respect and fear on the face of Cardinal Alessandrini.
“You knew already?” murmured Paul, confused.
“I don’t know anything, except that I’m more convinced than ever that evil lurked in this little earthly paradise.”
Father Paul nodded. “The boy with the binoculars is strange. He—”
Alessandrini decided it was time to put an end to this conversation.
“This isn’t paradise, Captain Balistreri, but neither is it hell. You won’t find any evil here. However, I will take what action I can, as I promised, so that the count will be obliged to cooperate with the police. As for Father Paul and myself, I think we have told you everything we know.”
I had one more question for Paul, but I couldn’t ask it then. Did you see Elisa Sordi the Sunday she died?
. . . .
I left as July’s unrelenting sun was finally setting on the horizon. I looked up at the third-floor window, the office where Elisa Sordi used to work. The flower that had sat on the windowsill since before her death was now drooping and shriveled. I caught the usual reflection from Building A’s penthouse. From there Manfredi could keep an eye on everything and everyone. He could see without being seen, the ideal condition for him. He could see Elisa Sordi’s window. And in that moment, he could see me. I couldn’t resist the temptation. I lit a cigarette and, blowing smoke through my nose, waved good-bye to him.
I walked across the magnificent grounds, enjoying my cigarette and the singing of the birds. I was in Rome, but it felt like the countryside. I glanced at the swimming pool. A woman in a bathing suit was lying on the grass, tanning in the sun’s last rays. I’d already caught a glimpse of her while she was getting in the car with the count the previous Sunday. She could have been my age, although her physique was that of a twenty-year-old, lean and slender. I saw her face sideways on, extremely delicate features and tiny crows’ feet in the corners of her eyes. She turned to look at me, her eyes a greenish-blue.
“Strictly speaking, smoking isn’t permitted on the grounds,” she said politely. It was a warning more than anything else. I looked instinctively toward Building A’s terrace, but it was hidden by the trees.
I should have said that I had lit it on purpose to provoke that overbearing husband of hers and her nosy young son. In that way we could have spoken. Instead, I did something very unlike me, meaning I did the diplomatic thing. I mumbled a few words of apology, stubbed the cigarette out on the ground and then picked up the stub and put it in my pocket. I cursed myself; the count was making me feel uncomfortable in a way I never had. I’d met men who were just as powerful and dangerous, but the difference was that I appreciated some things about Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno. Or at least I would have appreciated those things at one time, in my bad years: uncompromising belief in an idea, whatever the cost. There were other things I detested in him, such as fidelity to a king who had rejected Fascism and favored a medieval aristocratic system that left power over land and people in the hands of a few.
Whatever it was, I’d had a bellyful of that unease and wanted to get away from there as soon as possible. I crossed the city in my Duetto with the top down in the first cool of sunset. Thanks to a special permit I was allowed to enter the historic center, which was closed to traffic. I parked nonchalantly next to a squad car below the Spanish Steps, showing my badge to the men in uniform. I bought a large cone of pistachio and chocolate ice cream and leaned against the Duetto looking around, shamelessly eyeing up the beautiful female tourists. And between the fountain and the steps there were plenty of them, some already looking curiously at the red Spider and the dark suntanned young man not giving a shit about the cops while peacefully enjoying his ice cream. A platinum blonde, suntanned and elegant in high heels, was coming out of Via Condotti with a Gucci shoulder bag and wearing a short Valentino dress. She was about ten years older than I was.
It took me only a moment to see the moped coming and the two kids without helmets. The one behind stretched out his arm to grab hold of the bag and wrench it from the blonde in one swift move. In an instant and with a loud slap, my pistachio and chocolate cone was plastered over the eyes of the one in front. The moped wobbled off course, hit the edge of the fountain, and overturned, taking the two kids with it as it fell.
The patrolmen ran over. I again showed my badge and recovered the lady’s Gucci bag, leaving my colleagues to deal with the two little would-be thieves.
“They’re juveniles, Captain. We’ll take their names and let them go if they don’t have records,” one of the officers said.
I shot a glance at the two kids. They were from the suburbs for sure. One was wearing an earring; the other had a Che Guevara tattoo on his muscular biceps. “No. Lock them up. A night in jail will be good for them.”
The woman was waiting for me off to the side. She held her shoes in one hand.
“Broken heel,” she explained with a smile.
She was as tall as I was, even without her shoes. Then I noticed the wedding band and diamond ring on her left hand.
“You can’t walk around barefoot. Let me give you a ride,” I offered, pointing to my car. She smiled.
“I haven’t ridden in one of those in ages, but I remember it was fun.”
The patrolmen were watching me, and I could imagine what they were saying to each other.
“Where do you live?”
“In London, with my husband and two children,” she replied.
“Well, I can hardly take you all the way there. Where are you staying in Rome?”
She pointed to the Spanish Steps leading up to Santa Trinità dei Monti.
“I’m at the Hotel Hassler up there. But if you’re not in a hurry, I’d love a tour. This car is bound to make me feel like a kid again, and I see you can drive through the zones forbidden to common mortals.”
In the Duetto with the top down, we crossed the city. The golden domes of Rome’s many churches were lit by the setting sun. I drove slowly into the pedestrian area. Mine was the only vehicle. All around us were Romans and tourists heading out on a Saturday night. She asked me to show her Piazza Navona and do a loop around the Fountain of the Four Rivers, and I obliged her, to the surprise of the tourists.
“This is the car from The Graduate, isn’t it?” she asked me, while we were driving up toward Santa Trinità dei Monti.
“Yeah, the one Dustin Hoffman drives.”
“It suits you. You’re as good-looking as he is, but taller.”
It was dark by the time we got to her hotel.
“Thanks for rescuing my bag. And thanks for the tour,” she said, turning toward me.
I couldn’t tell whether she was teasing me or being serious.
“And I’m sorry about your gelato,” she continued. “If it weren’t impossible to park here in front I’d ask you to come in with me—the gelato at this hotel is exceptional.”
I put the top up and left the car directly under a sign that said no parking. all vehicles will be towed. On the windshield I left my own sign, one that clearly said, police. on duty.
The vanilla gelato came with strawberries and whipped cream, and champagne was delivered as she was taking a shower. She stepped out of the bathroom in her robe, and I opened the bottle.
“You won’t believe it, Michele, but this is the first time I’ve strayed in seven years of marriage. I’m a little nervous.”
“Let me take care of it. Just sit back and relax.”
She laughed as I slipped the robe off of her and lowered her naked body onto the bed. She laughed as I tied her wrists together with the belt from the robe. She laughed while I placed the sleep mask thoughtfully provided by the hotel over her eyes. She laughed some more as I spread the vanilla gelato, the whipped cream, and the strawberries on the most sensitive parts of her body.
Then I began to eat my dessert.