Thursday, December 29, 2005

Morning

BALISTRERI WAS AWAKENED BY the sound of someone cursing. He turned over in bed and looked toward the window. Dawn was breaking. He glanced at the alarm clock: five forty. He put his head underneath the pillow but couldn’t fall back to sleep. His mind was racing.

This part of Rome was a mixture of heaven and hell. For three years he’d been forced to live here in the historic center, which he hated; it looked magical at night, but during the day it was smelly and chaotic. He lived in a building near the ministry of the interior reserved for members of its staff. The small apartment on the third floor overlooked a narrow street crowded with traffic and tourists in a shopping frenzy. Almost every evening he shut himself away with a CD or a good book, ever more rarely with a woman, and he closed the windows on the world outside. He slept little and poorly. Every sound seemed amplified. And he couldn’t take sleeping pills because they interfered with his antidepressants.

There was the cursing again, more loudly this time. Resigned to being awake, he got up, opened the window, and looked down onto the street. Two guys who looked like immigrants were unloading goods from a white van and carrying them into the clothing shop below. The owner, an elderly Jewish man, was arguing with an enormous guy who had gotten out of an SUV as large as he was. The white van was blocking the SUV. The SUV driver swore a third time, gave the elderly man a push, and screamed at him in a strong Roman accent.

“Get these fucking gypsies out of my way!”

The two young guys stopped unloading the van and moved toward the SUV. Balistreri saw the man with the mouth on him reach a hand underneath his black leather jacket.

“Don’t do that,” he yelled down to the man. The four men looked up.

“Who the fuck are you? Mind your own fucking business and go back to bed,” the man with the big mouth shouted at him.

“Just leave your gun in your jacket,” Balistreri said. “There’s nowhere to run here, and I happen to have a gun myself.” He waved the fake .44 Magnum he’d been given years earlier when he took a course with the FBI.

The man took shelter below the main entrance, out of range. The elderly Jewish man remained in the middle of the road and looked up at Balistreri.

Balistreri said, “Mr. Fadlun, kindly ask these young men to drive the van around the block so this gentleman can pull out.”

“The road is now free, sir; you can drive off, no worries,” Balistreri said to the hidden thug.

The huge brute looked up uncertainly from his hiding place. “The pistol’s a fake,” said Balistreri reassuringly.

Upon hearing that the thug got his courage back. “Come down here and I’ll break your fucking neck.”

Balistreri smiled, but he didn’t move. Sometimes he wondered if he was getting soft.

“Calm down,” said the shop owner to the man as sweetly as he could. “This gentleman’s a policeman; he certainly wouldn’t fire at you.”

The white van had gone around the block and was now behind the SUV.

“I am, and I’ll shoot out the tires on your SUV if you’re not out of here in five seconds,” Balistreri warned him. He held up his unloaded Beretta.

The man jumped into the SUV and left. Balistreri shut the window and went into the kitchen to make coffee.

After a few minutes, he heard the doorbell ring. It was Mr. Fadlun. He was standing on the threshold with a package in his hand that smelled sublime.

“My wife has just taken this baklava out of the oven. I know you like it very much,” Mr. Fadlun said, full of contrition. Balistreri had told him, he didn’t know how many times, that he should unload after six a.m. like all good Christians did.

“Please thank your wife, Mr. Fadlun.”

“Again, I’m sorry,” said Fadlun, now smiling a little. They had known each other for three years. “It’s business—what can you do? Over Christmastime you have to have plenty to sell.”

Balistreri looked at the old man’s wrist, where the number that identified him as a Holocaust survivor was clearly visible. He shuddered to think what the Balistreri of thirty years earlier would have done to this old man. He thanked him again and decided to let it go.

The last two weeks of the year had been impossible. As usual, the center of Rome had been full of people hunting for Christmas presents and had turned into a pit of hell that was impossible to live in.

Balistreri took his acid reflux pill and ate a piece of dry whole-wheat toast while staring longingly at Fadlun’s wife’s baklava. Then he drank his decaf coffee, smoked his first cigarette of the day, and checked that there weren’t more than five in the pack. His coffee was like his life: insipid. His Sicilian father had been fond of saying that drinking decaf was like pulling out or smoking a cigarette without inhaling. But Balistreri had wiped out the Sicilian half on his father’s side, the part he detested and had forgotten about, in favor of the half he loved.

He took a shower and got dressed. His pants hung loose. He had lost some more weight and gained some more gray hair. He swallowed his antidepressant with the last sip of coffee. Once I wasn’t frightened of death. Now I’m reduced to putting it off for as long as possible.

It wasn’t yet seven when Balistreri left his apartment. He arrived at the office five minutes later. The guard at the entrance obsequiously rushed to open the elevator door for him. Balistreri disliked having people serve him, but the other high-ranking officials didn’t feel the same way. After his fall from grace, he didn’t have any latitude to criticize the system. In any case, it was a system he’d worked in for twenty-five years. He’d been an integral part of it for too long.

He went up to the fourth floor, where his team’s offices were located. His office was in the corner, a large room with an eighteenth-century frieze in the center of the twelve-foot ceiling and a view of the Colosseum and the Roman Forum.

All the other offices were empty except for the cubicle that belonged to Margherita, the new switchboard operator and secretary. She greeted him with a smile. She wore no makeup and had the appearance of a good clean girl.

She could be my daughter. If I tried coming on to her, she’d laugh in my face . . .

Over the years, he’d gradually eased up on his womanizing. He no longer had the ability to thoughtlessly inflict wounds with no feelings of guilt. Slowly the number of areas he had forbidden himself had spread into almost all female categories: those who were married or engaged and singles young enough to still entertain the hope of marriage. As a result of these self-imposed moral limits and his physical and mental decline, the field was reduced to the occasional one-night stand.

He had a good half-hour before his two deputies, Corvu and Piccolo, were scheduled to arrive. He started in on his daily routine. He put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, switched on his computer, and checked his email. As he did every morning, he read only the two that seemed most important. The first, from Graziano Corvu, was an update on investigations. It was a summary of all investigations begun in the past two years that hadn’t been solved, with the latest findings highlighted in red. There were only four cases. One of them was Samantha Rossi and the case of the letter R.

There was only one brand-new case: a young Senegalese man had been stabbed to death outside the Bella Blu nightclub a block from Via Veneto on the night of December 23, or rather, early in the morning on December 24. Papa Camarà was a bodybuilding instructor at the Sport Center gym. In the evening he also worked as a bouncer at the Bella Blu. There had been an argument at the club entrance between Camarà and an unidentified motorcyclist just before the stabbing, which took place about two thirty in the morning. The Bella Blu’s manager was a lawyer named Francesco Ajello. He was the one who called the police.

Balistreri made a note on a Post-it, stuck it on his desk, and lit his second cigarette. He turned to Giulia Piccolo’s email: new cases. The special team on foreigners dealt not only with serious crimes, but also with any offense or relevant aspects of any investigation that involved foreigners—assault with intention to do bodily harm, rape, missing persons. Over the holidays, Piccolo’s emails had been short. Around Christmas nothing very serious happened: women’s bags were snatched as they were out shopping, shop tills were robbed, and merchandise was stolen by bored young boys on vacation. Then there were the tramps found frozen to death and fights between relatives of different ethnic groups rashly gathered together for the holidays, and obviously road traffic accidents increased tenfold because of the number of Italians on the roads and the abundant drinking. It was all commonplace and you could live with it. Nothing that warranted his attention.

But that day there was something new. The morning before a Romanian prostitute had reported her friend missing since the night of December 24. Another Post-it.

Beyond the blinds, which Balistreri kept lowered, Rome was lazily beginning to wake up. He left his desk lamp on and turned over the overhead light, then put on a Leonard Cohen CD at low volume. His psychiatrist had suggested he stop listening to Cohen, Lennon, and De André for a while, but he couldn’t. He stretched out on the worn and cracked leather sofa, a symbol of both his status and his state of mind, and dozed off. He dreamed he was lighting a cigarette.

Balistreri’s two deputies entered his office at seven thirty sharp. Both were extremely punctual and absolutely dedicated to their jobs, but apart from that they couldn’t have been more different.

Graziano Corvu came from a poor family in a small village in the Sardinian interior. He’d studied like crazy and earned a cum laude degree in math at the university in Cagliari. Once he was employed by the police, he enrolled in evening classes and earned a second degree in economics. The youngest of five sons, he possessed the innate skill of pleasing everyone and had friends everywhere for whom he had done favors. Corvu was the ablest analyst in the Rome police. His Achilles’ heel was women. In this endeavor, the indefatigable Corvu was a mixture of awkwardness and bad luck, despite the advice and encouragement of an old hand such as Balistreri.

Giulia Piccolo had grown up in a small seaside town outside of Palermo where her ambiguous sexuality was a hot topic of conversation. She left as soon as she turned eighteen. She was almost six feet tall and muscular, attractive in an angular way. She had earned a degree in physical education in Rome and held a black belt in karate. There was no talk of men in her life, which—according to Balistreri—was a bad sign. She was perhaps too impulsive, but her apparent courage and uncompromising nature were the very qualities the head of the special team knew to be the ones that over the years he himself had lost.

“Good morning, sir.” It had taken everything for Balistreri to persuade Corvu not to address him by his official title, Associate Deputy Police Captain. Corvu had agreed to call him “sir” only after Balistreri had appealed to his analytical skills, noting that his title contained two diminutives—“associate” and “deputy”—and was therefore actually rather insulting.

“You look tired, sir,” Corvu observed.

They’re worried. They’ve heard rumors in the corridors that I’m on the list for early retirement.

“This guy have any priors?” Balistreri asked Corvu, changing the subject.

“Both Camarà and Ajello have clean records—immaculate, in fact,” Corvu replied.

“Have you checked with Interpol?”

“Yes. Nothing.”

“Civil court?”

“Checked.”

“And SISDE?” It was a rather impertinent question. Corvu didn’t have sufficient authority to access the secret intelligence service computer records.

“Checked. Nothing there.” Corvu looked away. Balistreri didn’t ask how he’d managed that.

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that the manager of a nightclub with cage dancers and bouncers, who are most certainly paid under the table, doesn’t have a record? I don’t necessarily mean a conviction, but being reported for stealing apples, that sort of thing . . .”

“With a lot of cash lying around, there’s always something,” added Piccolo.

Corvu scowled. “Sorry, sir, I should have thought of that. I’ll check with the revenue agency.”

“Good, you can tell me what you find tomorrow. For now, tell me about the dead man.”

“Papa Camarà started working at the Bella Blu in early September. His shift was from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., when the club closed. He stopped any ‘unsuitable’ types from coming in, so Ajello said. There was an argument outside the club.”

“And what do we know of this argument?”

“We’ve got a witness. An American tourist who turned up about two o’clock, saw Camarà arguing with a motorcyclist, who then sped off. Camarà was found dying on the pavement outside the club at two thirty. Stabbed in the stomach with a knife.”

“Any description of the motorcyclist?”

“The American was drunk. But he did say the rider was wearing a full-face helmet.”

“Okay, talk to him again. And find out more about the victim, Ajello, the money.”

He turned to Piccolo, picked up the other Post-it, and passed it to her. On it he’d written, “28!?”

“You’re right, sir. The girl waited four days. For a variety of reasons, she claims. I’ve got the statement she gave at the Torre Spaccata police station yesterday. Name’s Ramona Iordanescu. She only met the missing girl, Nadia, a month ago. She didn’t even know her last name. They both came from small towns in Moldova near Iasi. She hadn’t heard from Nadia since late afternoon on December 24.”

With a gesture Balistreri held Corvu back from the torrent of clarification he was about to request.

“Can you just give me the nitty-gritty?” he asked Piccolo politely. He was always very polite with her, less familiar than he was with Corvu. She didn’t seem to mind.

“Ramona Iordanescu, born April 4, 1986, in Iasi, Romania.”

“You said Moldavia,” Balistreri said.

“Moldova, sir, not Moldavia. It’s a region of Romania,” Corvu explained.

“Since December 1, 2005, she’s been living in an apartment on Via Tiburtina owned by Marius Hagi, who’s also the owner of the billiard hall next door and employer of a distant cousin of hers, Mircea Lacatus. She met Nadia on the bus she took from Moldova to Rome in late November. They liked each other and decided to share the room she was going to rent from her cousin Mircea’s boss. Once they arrived in Italy, Mircea and another cousin, Greg, forced them into prostitution and threatened to beat them if they didn’t comply. Usual ‘place of work’ was Via di Torricola, a long road out into the country between the Appian Way and Via Casilina. On December 24, Ramona went to the usual spot with Nadia about six. She got into a car with a john around six thirty. When she got back, Nadia wasn’t there, and she wasn’t in the room on Via Tiburtina, either, when Ramona went home early on the morning of December 25. They planned to go to Romania together for New Year’s. Ramona says she didn’t file a formal report before, because she thought her friend managed to get away from their pimps. She gave us a photo of the two of them.”

Piccolo handed over the photo. It showed two young women with their arms around each other in St. Peter’s Square. Someone had drawn a heart around them with a red pen. They didn’t look any older than twenty. One was tall and dark, the other small, slim, and blond. Someone had written an R under the brunette and an N under the blonde.

“And so yesterday she decided to report her missing?” Corvu asked.

Piccolo read directly from the statement, “Iordanescu came in today, December 28, 2005, at 5:00 a.m. to make a formal statement because one hour later she was departing for Iasi by bus.”

She looked up at Balistreri indignantly. “It seems no one ever dreamed of stopping her.”

Balistreri showed no sign of annoyance.

Who do you think is going to give a damn about a Romanian prostitute, without a residence permit, who disappears?

Now the car horns were honking outside the window, you could hear them even through the double windows. It was raining hard, and Balistreri was glad.

Rain cushions life, like an antidepressant.

He looked at the time.

“It’s ten past eight,” he said to Piccolo.

“I asked about the change of shift. It’s at nine o’clock.” Piccolo was on her feet.

“Take the dwarf with you, and use the siren. Rome’s a disaster area in the rain.”

. . . .

Inspector Antonio Coppola was a fifty-year-old from Naples known for three things: his short stature, which had earned him the affectionate nickname “the dwarf,” his way with women, and, lastly, his poorly concealed racism, typical of a Southerner who has been discriminated against himself. As a young man, he’d been married and divorced twice. Both women were better looking than he was, and both had kicked him out because he cheated. He said he was compelled to cheat as a way to compensate for the inferiority complex his height gave him. Then, twice-divorced, he married Lucia, who’d been his first love back in high school in Naples. Tall and beautiful, Lucia bore Coppola a son, Ciro, who was now a very tall sixteen-year-old and captain of a basketball team. Nowadays Coppola confined himself to flirting with beautiful women, without going on to taste the fruit.

Nevertheless, Balistreri was resigned to the need to keep him far away from any investigations involving attractive women. He didn’t want to be either the cause or a witness to any romantic crises.

Coppola drove, siren blaring, while Piccolo filled him in on the case. He sped through the chaotic traffic as if he were driving alone on the Monza racetrack.

Eventually they left the city center, and beautiful ancient buildings gave way to the shabby towers of Rome’s eastern outskirts, built during the speculative housing boom of the 1960s.

They arrived at the Torre Spaccata police station at a quarter to nine and approached the officer on duty. Giuseppe Marchese, a twenty-year-old with very short dark hair and watchful eyes, was dressed in civilian clothes. He addressed Coppola, ignoring Piccolo completely.

“What can I do for you?” he asked with a marked Sicilian accent.

“Inspector Coppola.” Coppola flashed his badge. A long pause. The officer became flustered, as many did when they dealt with the special team. Then Coppola pointed to the woman beside him. “I’m here with Deputy Captain Piccolo.”

“I’ll call my superior immediately,” Marchese said, reaching for the phone.

“No,” said Coppola, brusquely stopping him. “It’s you we want to talk to. Is there an office where we can do this discreetly?”

“To tell you the truth,” said Marchese in a feeble attempt to escape, looking at the clock on the wall, “my shift’s over in five minutes.”

“Perfect, so no one will disturb us. Where should we do this?” Coppola persisted. He was a little conflicted. On the one hand, Marchese was a kid who’d left some village in Sicily and been assigned to a police station in one of the worst areas in the city. And on the other hand, he’d let Ramona leave. Anger won out.

Marchese led them to a little room off to one side. The officers for the next shift were already arriving. Some looked at them inquisitively, but Coppola shut the door in their faces. There was a table and two chairs in the room. Coppola offered the larger chair to Piccolo, who took it into a corner and sat down. Coppola leaned heavily on the desk.

“Sit down,” he said to Marchese. The poor kid sat on the edge of the seat.

“Ramona Iordanescu. You took her statement, right?” Coppola said.

Marchese shot to his feet. “Inspector . . .” he tried to say.

Coppola placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed the kid back into his seat. He was visibly uncomfortable. Piccolo had learned to recognize fear instantly. Even for an emotional young man, his reaction seemed too extreme. Of course, he was dealing with the special team and the dwarf’s tough-guy attitude, but no one was accusing him of anything. She got up and stood in front of Marchese with perfect timing, while Coppola moved out of the young policeman’s field of vision.

Piccolo squatted down in front of Marchese so that their eyes were at the same level.

“Giuseppe,” she said calmly, “you’ve done nothing wrong. You’re hardly responsible for the whole station at your rank.” He looked at her as if she were Our Lady of Help of Sciacca and had come to save him. Piccolo gave him time to calm down, then in a low voice addressed him, Sicilian to Sicilian. “I just want to know one thing: Who told you to let her leave for Romania?”

The kid’s eyes shot toward the door; voices could be heard outside. Piccolo glanced at Coppola, who went and stood in front of the door. Someone knocked. Coppola opened the door, left, and shut the door behind himself. The voices on the other side of the door were growing louder. She had a minute, maybe less.

“We’re not back in our small towns in Sicily anymore,” Piccolo said sympathetically. “They’re not kidding around up here in Rome, so just tell me who it was or you’ll be screwed.”

“I’m screwed anyway. The little people always get the shaft,” he grumbled. Then he whispered a name.

. . . .

In the corridor, all hell was breaking loose. Piccolo opened the door. A fifty-year-old deputy captain a good foot taller than Coppola was screaming in his face, “I’m reporting you to the disciplinary board! We’re not in Chicago here. Just who the hell do you think you are?”

Piccolo stepped out and flashed her badge. The man said, “You can’t just come in here and subject one of my men to an interrogation.”

Then he whipped out his own badge in return: Deputy Captain Remo Colajacono. He was tall and fit, his long, thick gray hair combed straight back and held in place with plenty of gel; he had a boxer’s nose and close-set, dangerous-looking black eyes.

“We can talk about it in your office, if you wouldn’t mind, not out here in the middle of the corridor,” Piccolo said politely.

The man turned rudely on his heel and showed her the way to an office in a corner. He took a seat below a crucifix and a photo of the president of Italy. Without inviting her to sit, he pointed to Coppola and said,“The officer has to wait outside.” Coppola stepped out and closed the office door.

“All right, let’s talk about Ramona Iordanescu,” Piccolo began.

“She filed a report yesterday morning,” he said quickly.

Piccolo restrained a smile. Violent men were often quick to react.

“No, the last time. Did you speak to her?”

Colajacono was uncomfortable because Piccolo wasn’t easy to pigeonhole. For him, women fit into one of a small number of categories: mothers, sisters, whores, or murder victims. He was tall, but she was taller. He had quite a high rank, but so did she and on a high-profile special team. To buy time, he lit a cigar.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No,” said Piccolo. She got up as if she were at home and went to open the window.

Colajacono decided to take the approach that would give him the most control. “I spoke to her a few minutes that time. She came in midmorning on December 25. Officer Marchese told me there was a young Romanian girl who wanted to speak to the captain, but I took care of her instead. She told me her friend Nadia was missing. I asked her if her friend had a cell phone, and she said no, they couldn’t afford phones. I asked her if her friend was happy working the streets and she said no, that she wasn’t happy either. She said there’s no such thing as a happy prostitute.”

Piccolo said nothing, but her look became darker.

“I told her to let us know if her friend didn’t show up,” Colajacono finished. He visibly relaxed.

Piccolo raised an eyebrow. “Really? You were that vague?”

Colajacono gave her a piercing look with his cold black eyes. “I don’t remember exactly what was said. We assumed that whore found some Italian sucker to be her sugar daddy and she stopped working the street.”

“Do you think the prostitutes on Via di Torricola are allowed to just stop working?”

“You tell me. You seem to know everything,” Colajacono answered sarcastically. He blew smoke in her face.

You can’t lay a finger on him, Giulia. Not here, not now.

Piccolo got up.

“We’ll start looking for Ramona,” she said. Then, looking him straight in the eye with an angelic expression she murmured, “Let’s hope nothing happens to her in the meantime.”

She found Marchese in the corridor. He’d finished his shift. The two of them and Coppola walked out together. Despite it being almost half past nine, the traffic was still very heavy. They crossed the street at the crosswalk on the corner. Cars and mopeds brushed dangerously close to them. The bar across the street was crowded, mostly with office workers stopping for breakfast before starting their days at their desks. There were also some immigrants dressed for manual labor.

“Fucking Romanians, already drunk on beer at this time of day,” Coppola said, not bothering to hide his contempt.

Marchese was more relaxed now that they had left the police station. He and Coppola stayed in the bar, but Piccolo went to the car and sat with the heat on. It was still raining hard and the street was blocked with cars moving at a crawl to get over some rut filled with ten inches of water. Get rid of the potholes and the Roma gypsy camps. That’s what the opposition was urging the mayor to do. Potholes and Roma gypsies.

You could fill the potholes with Roma bodies. Many would agree with that. She called Balistreri and told him everything.

“All right, Piccolo. Bring Marchese here and I’ll deal with Colajacono.”

Piccolo smiled. Balistreri wanted to keep her out of trouble.

. . . .

“Corvu, I’m meeting Linda Nardi after lunch. Top secret.”

Corvu was shocked. Linda Nardi was a journalist, and Balistreri usually avoided journalists like the plague. Moreover, she wrote for a paper that often criticized the police. Balistreri didn’t even read it anymore. Five months earlier, during the heat of the Samantha Rossi case, Linda Nardi had been particularly persistent in pointing out the many missteps made by the special team. She’d never joined in calling for Balistreri’s head, though.

Balistreri lit his third cigarette of the day and thought about Linda Nardi. How old could she be? She had to be about thirty-five, even though there were days and moments when she looked ten years younger, and others when she looked ten years older. A good-looking woman, no matter her age. The face of a serious child, eyes that went from intensity to detachment in a moment. A woman as polite and open as she was firm in her opinions and uncompromising in making them known. Balistreri knew that they considered her indispensable at the newspaper for the interest her articles aroused in their readers, but also dangerous in the past for the trouble the same articles had caused within political circles, the extremist fringe of the Church, and with officials from several foreign countries.

Rumor had it that many men—including police and journalists—had tried without success to get her into bed. She was courteous, even kind, but she didn’t respond to that kind of attention, sometimes with a bluntness that humiliated her would-be suitors.

One of them had been Balistreri’s predecessor in homicide, Colicchia, a real Don Giovanni. Having a beautiful woman aound who wouldn’t have sex with him disturbed his sense of equilibrium, partly because of his innate presumption and partly because he thought all women were easy. So Colicchia had sent Linda Nardi a bouquet of red roses and a card inviting her to dinner wherever she chose. She had politely declined, but when Colicchia had continued to persist, adding a veiled threat about cutting her off from privileged channels of communication, she finally accepted and had chosen Il Convento for their dinner. Colicchia, who was notoriously cheap, nearly had a heart attack: this was a restaurant with only eight tables where the food was heavenly but outrageously expensive, especially for an honest policeman.

But by then his reputation was at stake. He took her there and rattled off the usual selection of crimes he more or less romanticized and with which he usually impressed his prey, only to discover that Linda Nardi was as insatiable at the table as she was chased away from it. She ordered multiple dishes and the most expensive wines, which she barely touched. Then she began to ask Colicchia to tell her his bloodiest tales. In the end, when they were the only customers left, she began to tell him in all seriousness about her research into certain crimes committed in America by women against men. Tales of horrifying mutilation. In the end Colicchia who, like almost all of the rapid response team, suffered from gastritis and had been forced to drink all the wine she’d ordered and barely touched, had to run to the men’s room and throw up, returning to the table as white as a sheet. So ended their night out.

. . . .

As usual, Balistreri decided not to use an official car. It was still raining, Rome was awash.

It was a little after nine thirty, and the city was waking up. Shop owners unlocked their doors. Office workers who were running late—and those who had punched in and then left for breakfast—finished their coffee. Government bureaucrats and messengers were everywhere. A sea of buses, taxis, official cars, and private vehicles with permits surrounded the ministry of the interior as half of Rome’s residents tried to gain access to the historic center to get to work. They were all sounding their horns like crazy, as if the cacophony would help move the traffic jam along.

He walked to the Via Cavour subway station. The train was dirty and empty. As he exited the station, two African immigrants entered, jumped the turnstile, and ran down the stairs. Two transit workers shouted at them, and then one turned to the other and said, “Fucking black bastards . . .”

When Balistreri came out of the station, his BlackBerry buzzed with two messages from Corvu: the first contained information about some Romanians he was planning to track down, and the second was simply a place and a time and a pair of initials: Sant’Agnese in Agone, 3:00 p.m. L.N.

He took a bus the rest of the way. At least the traffic was moving here, unlike in the narrow alleys of the city center. But the stench of refuse was evident, the garbage collectors having been on strike since the day after Christmas. A private company had cleared the city center so the tourists wouldn’t see the eyesore, but in the suburbs, the contents of the trash cans were spilling out onto the pavements and into the middle of the streets.

When he got off the bus, Balistreri saw two homeless people picking up wrappers from all the special Christmas cakes, hoping there might be something left inside. He passed them, noticing the smell of piss and alcohol. One of the two addressed him without ceremony.

“Give us a smoke, boss, will ya?”

Balistreri handed him a cigarette. So much the better—one less for him to smoke.

The billiard hall was located in a building that had seen better days. On the right was the main entrance to the building; on the left was the door to the billiard hall, which sagged half-off its hinges. Behind the bar stood a thin young man with his hair in a ponytail. Two Filipinos were playing the slot machines.

Balistreri ordered a coffee. The bartender poured it immediately and served it with a piece of chocolate. As in every bar in Rome, Out of Order was written on the restroom door—except that here, instead of a piece of cardboard, they had written on the door itself, thus making it permanent. Next to the restroom was another door that remained closed. Above it was written BILLIARDS ROOM.

A young thickset guy came in with a shaved head and three-day stubble, wearing a long black leather coat.

“Do you want a beer, Greg?” the bartender asked. He had an Eastern European accent. Greg nodded. He leaned on the bar and lit a cigarette right under the sign that read NO SMOKING. The Filipinos at the slot machines followed his lead and lit cigarettes of their own. “You can’t smoke in here,” Greg said.

The Filipinos dropped their cigarettes to the floor and stubbed them out with their toes, then started playing again. “Don’t just drop your butts on the floor. What are you, animals?”

The younger of the two Filipinos turned around with an attitude, but the other stopped him. They picked up the cigarette butts and left.

“No slant-eyes allowed in here, Rudi,” Greg told the bartender. He picked up his glass of beer, burped loudly, and headed into the billiards room. He closed the door behind himself.

“Where are you from?” Balistreri asked the bartender.

“Albania, sir,” the bartender answered.

Balistreri flashed his badge, but not his special immigration team ID.

“I’m looking for the Lacatus cousins.”

“There’s only Greg.”

“His cousin’s not here?”

“Mircea left this morning.”

“I was supposed to meet him here,” Balistreri said, feigning surprise. “When did he leave?”

“Actually he was here with Mr. Hagi. A half-hour ago he took the car and left. And Mr. Hagi went to Marius Travel, his travel agency.”

“What kind of car does Mircea drive?”

The kid thought for a moment. “I don’t know, but I paid for the registration, so I have the license plate number.” He reached under the counter and took out a piece of paper.

Balistreri typed the number into his BlackBerry and sent it to Piccolo with an order to stop the car and come to the bar as soon as possible. Then he changed the subject.

“Do you know Ramona and Nadia?”

The kid from Albania looked nervously toward the door to the billiards room.

The first difference between the gophers and the real villains: the former look upset, the latter don’t give a shit.

“I’ll take care of them. I can put them away for a long time. You’ll be far away from here before they have a chance to hurt you.”

The kid snorted. “In this country? They’d be out before I got to the bus stop.”

He’s pretty on the ball.

“If you tell me the truth—everything—I’ll help you.”

“You can’t keep me safe,” Rudi said.

“Hey, asshole, bring me another beer,” Greg boomed from the other side of the door.

Balistreri quietly walked over and locked the door to the billiards room. Then he returned to the bar.

“I want a lawyer,” the young bartender said.

Balistreri shook his head. “You’re not being accused of anything.”

The doorknob began to rattle. Greg was trying to get out.

Balistreri led the bartender outside, turning the sign on the door of the bar to CLOSED on the way. They couldn’t hear Greg’s threats out there, but Balistreri was pretty sure that by then he’d called someone on his cell phone to come let him out. He sent Piccolo a text message, telling her to get there fast and bring backup. Calmly, he turned to the bartender.

“What’s your name?”

“Rudi.” The kid relaxed a little. He took a pack of cigarettes and a slim blue lighter out of his pocket. “You want one?”

“No thanks. I’ve got my own.”

Rudi lit a cigarette, his hands trembling. “Greg and Mircea brought them back here at daybreak.”

“Was Hagi involved?” Balistreri asked.

“No. Mr. Hagi’s different. He pays me and gives me a place to stay. He doesn’t live here, but he comes by every morning.”

“Where do the girls live?”

“They have a room in an apartment on the second floor. Greg and Mircea share one room. I’m in another, and the two of them are in the third. They went out every day at five. Sometimes they’d have a private client and go out later, but Mircea always took them to meet the private clients.”

“Do you know where he took them?”

“No. I asked Ramona once and she said she couldn’t tell me.”

“Do you remember the last time Mircea went out with them?”

“Yes, December 23. He only took Nadia. Ramona went out at 5:00 as usual. He picked up Nadia at eight thirty. Ramona came back early that night. She wasn’t feeling well. It was midnight. The bar was already closed. A little later Mircea came in with Greg, but no Nadia. They stayed down here and played pool. I went upstairs to the apartment and I found Ramona throwing up. So I came back down and made her some tea with lemon, but I didn’t tell Mircea and Greg that she was back. We had a toast at midnight with the hot tea because we wouldn’t be able to on the twenty-fourth.”

At that moment, two young men in leather jackets and jeans pulled up on a motocross bike. They parked the bike and walked toward Balistreri.

“Hey, faggot, what are you doing out here? Blowing old men during working hours?” the taller one said in a strong Eastern European accent. He was beefy and hairy, with tattoos covering his neck and shoulders.

“They’re going to tear you a new one, faggot,” said the second one, a short guy with yellow teeth. “Did you lock Greg inside so you could suck this old dude’s dick?”

Balistreri tried to look humble. “Sorry, sorry. It’s my fault. I asked Rudi—”

The larger of the two said, “Fuck off, Grandpa. Go find someone else to suck your cock.” He spat on the ground.

Two unmarked cars pulled up and parked. Piccolo and four detectives stepped out. Balistreri nodded to them to enter the bar. They did, and the two Romanians went in as well, followed by Rudi and Balistreri, who locked the door behind them.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing?” asked the big guy. Piccolo showed him her badge, and the four plainclothes cops opened their jackets and revealed their guns.

“Hands in the air,” Piccolo ordered. A search found that each was carrying a switchblade. Very good.

Piccolo read them their rights and declared them under arrest. Then she handcuffed all three of them, Rudi first.

Then they pulled Greg out, who was beside himself. He had a plastic bag of coke in his pocket. Seeing he was about to jump on the policeman who was searching him, Piccolo delivered a single blow to the solar plexus that made him fall to his knees, gasping for breath. A perfect blow, because it leaves no marks. While Greg was flaling, they handcuffed him. Balistreri shot Piccolo a warning look.

She’s just like I was. I’ll have to teach her to be a bit more careful.

Piccolo had already called for more cars from the closest police station. They sent the three men in to be booked. Balistreri turned to Rudi, who stayed behind.

“Who’s in Ramona and Nadia’s room now?”

“No one. I’ve got the keys. I do the cleaning.”

Balistreri winked at Piccolo. They were pushing the envelope.

“Maybe the door’s unlocked,” Piccolo suggested with faux innocence. “Is it unlocked, Rudi?”

The young guy was sharp.

“Well, now that I think about it, I believe it is.”

“Piccolo, go up with Rudi and take a look.”

“I’ll call Corvu and have him relay custody orders to the prosecutor,” she suggested.

Balistreri nodded. “All right. Remember that the sanitation workers are on strike.”

Piccolo found Rudi instantly likable. He was polite, helpless, and also, she was surprised to find, very handsome.

When they left the bar to slip into the entrance next door, she kept the handcuffs on and gave him a vicious push.

Just in case one of those shitheads happens to be looking.

They entered using Rudi’s keys. The apartment had three rooms with two single rusty iron-frame beds in each, a kitchen, a bathroom, and no living room. The furnishings were basic, mostly junk. In the first room, which belonged to Mircea and Greg, there was a television and a DVD player. The one in the middle was for Rudi and any occasional guests. The last room at the end belonged to Ramona and Nadia, an illegal extension common throughout Rome: a lumber room knocked into a balcony and finished off with aluminum and plastic sheeting. Two ramshackle beds, an old chest of drawers, no closet. Patches of dampness showed through the walls. The bathroom had no windows, no toilet seat, and only the most basic in the way of sink and shower. There was a smell of cigarette butts and ammonia everywhere.

Rudi was growing agitated.

“Ma’am, thank you for leaving the handcuffs on me.”

“Please don’t call me ‘Ma’am.’”

“Officer?” he asked hesitantly.

“I’m a deputy captain, actually,” Piccolo told him.

Both beds were made, but one was perfectly neat, while the other was rumpled.

“Which one is Nadia’s?”

He pointed to the neat one.

“Mircea told me to change the sheets.”

“When?”

“On December 25 about six in the evening, after Ramona went to work. I was down in the bar. He told me to come up here and clean up.”

“Clean up what?”

Rudi ran a hand through his hair. He was obviously uneasy in that room.

“Um, it was a mess. There was stuff all over the floor. Clothes. Nadia was messy, and some of it was hers. But Ramona was usually neat, and there were her clothes, too. And Nadia had never been that messy. Then I changed the sheets on Nadia’s bed and made Ramona’s bed, too.”

“Have you been in the room since then?” she asked.

Rudi was trembling.

“Can we get out of here?”

“No problem. Let’s go.”

They went down to the bar. The detectives were standing outside. Piccolo entered and went into the billiards room with Rudi. Two billiard tables, a foosball table, two card tables, two more slot machines, a phone on the wall. Three black garbage bags closed with twist-ties had been tossed in a corner. Remember that the sanitation workers are on strike.

“What are those?”

“Mircea told me to throw the bags that smelled onto the curb and keep the others in here until the strike ended. But I’m sure there were only two. Don’t know where that third one came from.”

Piccolo called one of the detectives and had him open the three garbage bags. The first two were full of beer cans and bottles, cigarette butts, newspapers, magazines, and other trash. But the third contained a red raincoat, two T-shirts, two polyester miniskirts, a pair of jeans, a pair of beat-up sneakers, a blue sweater, and several pairs of stockings, as well as bras and panties. The underwear fell into two categories: half the kind of showy stuff appropriate for a prostitute and the rest cheap cotton things for a normal teenager.

Rudi burst into silent sobs. Piccolo placed a hand on his shoulder.

Rudi pointed to a bunch of gossip magazines in Romanian that had spilled from one of the bags.

“Those are Nadia’s too,” he said.

Piccolo bent down, picked up a magazine and started to leaf through it. A card fell out and fluttered to the floor. She picked it up. It was a ticket. Rome—Iasi. Stazione Tiburtina. December 29, 2005. 6:00 a.m. Seat 12.

She stepped outside thinking about that empty seat on the coach back home.

. . . .

It had stopped raining, the sun had come out, and the pavements were gleaming. Traffic was flowing now, too. There was less traffic and so Balistreri took a taxi back to the station.

He looked out the window at the outskirts of Rome: pedestrians, potholes filled with rainwater, garbage everywhere. The taxi driver was unloading on the mayor.

“Look at those potholes. I have to change my tires every two months. You think they had potholes under Mussolini? No way. Politicians don’t give a crap. They’re only in it for themselves. We’re the ones who have to drive around San Basilio, Tor Bella Monaca, Tor de’ Cenci, and Quartuccio at night. I’d like to see that Communist prick of a mayor live in one of our neighborhoods with the blacks and the Romanians.”

As they approached the center of the city, the refuse grew less and the street life began to change. They passed the Coliseum and the Roman Forum, bursting again with happy tourists.

He arrived back in the office in time for lunch and asked Margherita, the new switchboard operator, if she wouldn’t mind picking up lunch for him from the café downstairs. Five minutes later she came back with a bottle of beer and a slice of pizza bianca split in half and made into a sandwich generously stuffed with prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella.

“Margherita, you’re a mind-reader. You brought me just what I needed.”

The woman blushed and left the room.

That’s all that’s left to you, Balistreri. Double entendres.

As Balistreri ate his sandwich, he read Piccolo’s e-mail about what she’d discovered. Just then Corvu came in, a satisfied smile on his serious face.

“What is it, Corvu?” Balistreri didn’t invite him to sit. Corvu liked to move around as he talked.

Corvu glanced at the notepad in his hand. “Something new on Ajello, the lawyer who’s manager of the nightclub where the Senegalese man was killed. The Bella Blu belongs to a company called ENT, and we’ve got something new from the revenue agency.”

“Hold on a minute. Tell me about Marchese first. Where is he?”

Corvu looked unhappy with the interruption.

“He’s in my office, but you told me not to question him.”

“Officially,” Balistreri said, “but I can’t believe you just sat there and stared at each other without speaking.”

“We talked about our native islands.”

Balistreri went quiet and Corvu continued, a little uneasily. “He said the Sardinian sea seems more beautiful in appearance because it’s more transparent, but the really beautiful sea is Sicily’s, which has more soul—”

“He didn’t mention Ramona?” Balistreri asked impatiently.

“I’m getting there.” Corvu searched for the right words. “Marchese said it’s the same with women. Sardinian women seem easier, but, ultimately, Sicilian women—”

“Just tell me what you talked about. What did he say about Ramona?”

At that moment, Piccolo entered before Corvu could reply. “We brought them all in, Captain, including Mircea.”

“Tell Mastroianni and Coppola to get ready. We’ll need four of you, since there are four Romanians.”

“Five,” Corvu corrected him. “Marius Hagi is coming in this afternoon with his lawyer.”

“I’ll question Marius Hagi when you’re done with those four.”

“There’s also the Albanian kid.”

Piccolo said, “We have to protect Rudi. I brought him in. Right now he’s locked in my office.”

“Let’s leave him alone for now,” Balistreri said. He swigged from the beer bottle, but it was empty. “Corvu was just about to tell me what he got out of Marchese.”

“I’m sorry, sir. As I was saying, Marchese said that Ramona was different from Sicilian women, who . . . who are . . .” he stammered again, looking desperately at Piccolo, his face burning.

Before Balistreri went completely ballistic, Piccolo finished what Corvu was trying to say: “Saints on the outside and sluts on the inside! Sicilian men are so full of shit.” Then she remembered her boss’s origins and looked out of the window.

Balistreri broke the silence, pretending he hadn’t heard the last part.

“So according to him, Ramona Iordanescu is a saint.”

“Yes, a saint,” Corvu said. “She had the courage to go back a second time for her friend after Colajacono told her that if he ever saw her again he’d bend her over his desk, fuck her up the ass, and then throw her in prison.”

Balistreri saw the muscles in Piccolo’s face grow tense.

Trouble ahead. Have to keep her under control.

Afternoon

Balistreri was happy to go on foot to Piazza Navona even though it was full of people, as it always was toward New Year’s.

He walked past the stalls, the street performers, the artists drawing caricatures, and the people collecting for charities as he headed toward the church of Sant’Agnese in Agone. Linda Nardi was already there. She had extraordinary eyes, wore no makeup, and dressed like a fifty-year-old. Balistreri had noticed a vertical line that sometimes appeared in the middle of her brow and ran to the bridge of her nose. One day, during an interview, he had stared at her breasts. They were well shaped, not huge but promising, so he certainly wouldn’t have embarrassed her. And yet that furrow had appeared straight away. This frown was as inexplicable as the woman herself, who was far too detached in a way that was so different from all the other women he’d known. In a world where the gentler sex could obtain a great deal by seduction, she could have put her good looks to use in so many ways. But Linda Nardi wasn’t trying to seduce anyone.

“Ms. Nardi, thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

“No problem. I’m a little surprised, though. You’re not in the habit of seeking out journalists.”

“No, not really,” he agreed.

“We’d better go inside before somebody sees us.”

The silence in the church was in direct contrast to the noise in the piazza. There were many tourists wandering silently through the aisles, and several Italian families with children pulling at their parents to make them leave. Mass was about to start.

Linda pointed to the pews in a quiet corner. She looked about calmly, as if they were actually there to attend Mass.

“Do you know the story of Saint Agnes, Captain Balistreri?”

“Why don’t you tell it to me?” He wasn’t particularly interested, but he hadn’t quite worked up to asking her for what he wanted.

“The Roman prefect’s son had a thing for this Christian girl, Agnes, but the feeling wasn’t mutual, and the pain of rejection made him sick. So what do you think the prefect did?”

Balistreri joked, “Fell in love with her himself?”

Nardi shook her head. “To get back at Agnes, who had taken a vow of chastity, the prefect ordered her to be cloistered with the vestal virgins of Rome’s patron pagan deity.”

“But she wouldn’t go?”

“Exactly. Agnes refused and the prefect locked her up in a brothel. Am I boring you, Captain Balistreri?”

He didn’t like the story, and the way she was telling it seemed to indicate that she thought he was on the side of the prefect.

“Agnes refused to go to bed with clients?” he asked, knowing that wasn’t the story.

“Women can refuse to do almost anything, but they can’t defend themselves against men’s physical violence. Agnes was lucky. Everyone knew the reason she was there, and for a long time no client dared touch her. Then a man said to be blinded by an angel fell in love with her. Agnes tried to intercede with the Lord to restore his sight and was accused of witchcraft,” Linda continued.

“That was her big mistake, don’t you think? A vain attempt to challenge authority, an act of pride. Did she want to cure a blind man who loved her or show off the power of her God to the people?”

Linda looked at him for a long time in silence, but without hostility. She seemed to be trying to get to know him better through his reactions to the story. Then she went on.

“Perhaps Agnes didn’t want to heal the blind man as much as to bring to light the weakness of the powerful and the strength of the persecuted. Anyway, she was stripped naked and killed. They slit her throat and bled her out, like slaughtering a lamb.”

Nardi told the story with little inflection, but her eyes were dark and serious.

“I’m investigating the possible disappearance of a young Romanian prostitute,” Balistreri announced without ceremony.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Is this the same captain who once said that when it comes to illegal immigrants there’s no difference between criminal and victim?”

The words escaped my lips during a heated press conference after dozens of stupid questions from you journalists.

“That’s not exactly true. Or maybe I said it, but you’re taking it out of context and making it sound xenophobic.”

“Your boss, Pasquali, certainly wouldn’t approve of the head of the special team wasting his time like this,” she cut in.

“That’s why I need you to do something for me. But I can’t offer you anything in return.”

She considered that for a moment.

“I won’t do anything illegal.”

“I’ll be committing a small infraction. You won’t run any risk at all.”

“And you trust me?” She sounded sincerely surprised.

“I have to trust you. But I’m telling you upfront that this doesn’t mean I’m going to give you information about the investigation.”

“I didn’t ask for any. I wanted to speak to you about something. But not here. If you’re free, we can do it one evening over dinner.”

From Linda Nardi’s lips it was different from how any other woman would have said it. There was no shade or play of meaning. A working dinner. He remembered poor Colicchia.

She read his thoughts, knowing that he and Colicchia had been great friends.

“It’ll be on me.”

Balistreri looked straight at her.

“I’m still not giving you any information.”

“You already said that, Captain. I heard you loud and clear. Are you going to tell me what you want me to do?”

So he told her. She listened in silence until he’d finished speaking. Then she shook her head as if to say no, but at the same time she said, “Okay, I’m in.”

. . . .

Officer Marcello Scordo was a young man in his thirties from Calabria whose movie-star looks had earned him the nickname “Mastroianni,” after the famous actor. He was closely attached to a woman from his native region and faithful to her—despite the fact that many beautiful female colleagues had come on to him, sometimes quite openly—so in many ways the nickname was ironic.

“Giorgi and Adrian have regular residency permits and are employed by the travel agency Marius Travel,” Mastroianni reported. “They say Marius Hagi is an excellent boss—kind and honest.”

“I get it. He’s next in line to be pope,” Coppola said sarcastically.

“Giorgi and Adrian don’t know anything about the girls. On December 24, they left the travel agency with Hagi, Mircea, and Greg. They took the subway straight to Casilino 900 and got there at six. They were together the whole time, and by ten o’clock they were in St. Peter’s Square. They weren’t the ones who picked up Nadia.”

Coppola shook his head. “I’m sure those bastards hang out in St. Peter’s Square all the time, praying and meditating.”

Balistreri turned to Corvu. “What have you got on Mircea and Greg?”

“Greg and Mircea Lacatus are from Galati’s poorest suburbs in Moldova, near the Black Sea, where Marius Hagi is from originally. He brought them here at the end of 2002. They’ve got clean records in Italy, but we’re checking in Romania. They’re on the books as employees of Marius Travel.”

“What do they say about the girls?”

“According to them, Nadia and Ramona were prostitutes by choice. They wanted to whore themselves out in order to make money as quickly as possible and get back to Romania. Mircea and Greg found them a place to stay for free at Hagi’s. In short, these two were regular guardian angels.”

Balistreri turned to Piccolo. “Rudi told us that on the evening of December 23, Nadia didn’t go to work on Via di Torricola because she went out with Mircea.”

Piccolo nodded. “Mircea says he took her to a restaurant and nothing more. After dinner they argued, because she didn’t want to have sex, so he left her where she was and went back home with Greg, who was in the area. Rudi confirms that they were both there at midnight and didn’t go out again.”

“Corvu, get a printout of the records from the phone company,” Balistreri ordered. “Find something that will let us hold them for forty-eight hours. As for Rudi—”

Piccolo raised her hand. “Rudi needs to be somewhere safe before they get out.”

Balistreri smiled. “All right, you can see to that. Mastroianni, go to Via di Torricola. The prostitutes should be there soon. Pass yourself off as a client.”

Corvu said, “Captain, Mastroianni’s hardly a credible client. Maybe we should send someone else.” He pointed to Coppola.

Coppola was pissed. “Listen, Corvu, if anyone needs to pay for it, it’s you.”

Balistreri calmly cut off the argument. Over the years he’d learned the art of mediation.

“Okay, Mastroianni’s not a great choice. You go, Coppola, because I need Corvu elsewhere,” he said. “Corvu, can you reach out to your Romanian contacts and ask them to speak informally with Ramona in Iasi tomorrow morning? I think there’s still time to get on the last flight to Bucharest.”

While the others were exiting, Corvu was diligently taking notes. Then he looked at Balistreri. “Mastroianni’s going to question Ramona, right?”

Balistreri stood up. “Yes. Do you have anything on the killing of the Bella Blu bouncer?”

In his hand Corvu held two printouts. Balistreri stared at them in disgust.

“Listen, Corvu, we’ll do it this way. Just fill me in on the conclusions to your analysis. If I have any doubts, then we’ll look at the sheets of paper.”

Corvu got to his feet. “Do you mind if I move around?”

Balistreri imagined Corvu out to dinner with a girl, with a stack of papers in front of him full of figures, diagrams, and formulas. She asks him a question whose answer isn’t on the sheets of paper. He gets up and starts walking around.

“Corvu, just sit down.”

Corvu perched on the edge of a chair and glanced sideways at his notes.

“Well, the Bella Blu’s part of a chain of nightclubs, betting parlors, and arcades that belong to a company called ENT. Ajello’s been the main shareholder since the end of 2004, when he took over ten percent of the stock from the heirs of a previous shareholder and director, a certain Sandro Corona, who died in an accident at the end of October 2004. The remaining ninety percent of the company, since it was constituted in the middle of 2002, is in the hands of a trust.”

“Which means we need a judge and a valid motive to find out who’s behind it,” Balistreri said.

“Ajello has an immaculate record, but ENT makes a huge profit, five million euros, half a million of which go to Ajello.”

“And we have nothing on ENT?” Balistreri asked.

Corvu consulted his notes. “Yes, proceedings on a charge from the finance police in September 2004. They found electronic games in one of the arcades that weren’t properly registered and taxed. But ENT was run by Corona back then, not Ajello.”

“All right, Corvu, we’ll get back to this later. Hagi should be here by now.”

Balistreri had known Hagi’s lawyer, Massimo Morandi, for more than thirty years. They had met in 1971, when they were students at Rome’s Sapienza University and active on opposite political fronts. Morandi, an acknowledged leader of the far left, was giving a speech, and a group of right-wing students led by Balistreri stood out in the hall with bats and crowbars and created a disturbance. Morandi and Balistreri ended up sharing a jail cell, where they passed the night exchanging insults. These days, Morandi was a left-wing senator who made millions in fees defending CEOs accused of false accounting. Less frequently, he also defended immigrants, but only those like Marius Hagi who had the means to pay his exorbitant fees.

When Balistreri and Piccolo entered the room for the informal questioning they had no idea whether to expect a kind of senior underworld boss or someone like Greg. Hagi was neither. He was extremely thin, almost ascetic, with short black hair, hollow cheeks scored with deep furrows, and black eyes set below thick eyebrows and with dark bags underneath. He was dressed in an almost nondescript fashion, and was resting against the chair with his bony hands placed loosely and calmly on the table. He didn’t seem worried, as if the matter was nothing to do with him. He had a weary air, a sharp cough, and the rough voice of longtime smoker.

Morandi said, “So, Captain Balistreri, what’s the charge against my client?”

“Nothing, officially. We’re asking for his help,” Piccolo answered.

“I assure you he knows nothing,” Morandi said. He didn’t even look at Piccolo.

“He knows nothing about his three employees who were armed, one of whom was in possession of cocaine?” Piccolo said.

“The cocaine was not in Mr. Hagi’s possession and he knew nothing about it. And the two men with the knives weren’t even in the bar.”

“We’d still appreciate your client’s cooperation in this matter,” Piccolo said evenly.

“Be more specific.”

“We have some questions. How does a legitimate businessman come to have two prostitutes as houseguests? How does he come to employ people who go around armed with knives and with cocaine in their pockets?” Piccolo asked.

Morandi didn’t even look at her. He gave a little laugh and addressed Balistreri. “Do you really think I’d let my client reply to questions of this kind without any corresponding charge? I want to know now, right now, what this is about. You’re the special immigration team, not a local precinct.”

“You’re absolutely right, sir,” Balistreri replied. “One of the two young Romanian women living in Mr. Hagi’s apartment on Via Tiburtina disappeared on December 24, and the second young woman reported the fact only yesterday, December 28, and as soon as she did she took off for Romania. We have reason to be concerned about the missing woman and the possible involvement of your employees.”

Hagi turned deep black burning eyes on him. He spoke in the hoarse voice of a smoker.

“Do you suppose all Italians are honest? There are many prejudices against Romanians, although the majority are normal, inoffensive people. Among those I help, giving them a home or work or a gift, there are extremely honest people and also some young men who are difficult. It would be easy to wash one’s hands of them, but then what help would it be if I abandoned precisely those who needed help the most?”

“So, you know about their illegal activities,” Piccolo said. Hagi didn’t look at her either.

“If by illegal activities you are referring to the fact that Nadia and Ramona sell their bodies on the street, yes, I do know, as do the Italian police, who see them on the street every night. Except that I don’t earn a single euro from it, whereas I cannot say the same for your police.”

Morandi shifted uneasily.

“They’re all employed by your travel agency, aren’t they?” Piccolo asked.

“Yes. And they work hard, at least twelve hours a day. I often send Greg and Mircea to Poland and Romania to check out new hotels and restaurants. Giorgi and Adrian look after the office in Rome.”

“And they need to be armed with knives to do that?” Piccolo asked.

Hagi smirked. “They live in the Casilino 900 camp. If you lived there, you’d need more than just muscle for protection, too.”

“Are you telling us they’re good guys?” asked Balistreri. Hagi had another coughing fit and followed it with a weak smile.

“Are Greg and Mircea good guys? No. Honestly, they’re terrible people. But their parents helped me escape from Ceausescu’s Romania when I was young. In 2002, they told me that Greg and Mircea had moved on from dealing contraband goods to dealing drugs. They asked me to take them to Italy and find work for them. I did. I couldn’t deny the people who saved my life. I set down clear rules for Greg and Mircea. I told them they were going to work hard, and they couldn’t have weapons or get involved in crime.”

“Aside from a little cocaine and prostitution,” Piccolo said. Balistreri shot her a warning glance.

“If they push so much as one gram of cocaine I’ll send them back. They know that. They probably had it for personal use. Plenty of Italians do the same thing, including the police and politicians.”

Balistreri caught a trace of deep embarrassment on Morandi’s face.

Balistreri said, “What about Ramona Iordanescu and Nadia? First, do you know Nadia’s last name?”

“No. She was a guest and paid no rent, therefore I wasn’t obliged to report her presence.”

You’re almost as good as a lawyer yourself, Marius Hagi. This country’s brought you up well.

“The girls were there almost a month and you never saw them?”

“I don’t live there, and we had completely different schedules.”

“But you knew that Nadia was missing and Ramona was about to leave?”

“Greg told me Nadia might be missing on the evening of December 25. Mircea told me today that Ramona left.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Of what?” Hagi seemed genuinely surprised by the question.

“Nadia has been missing for five days. What do you think happened to her?” Piccolo asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“All right,” Piccolo said, pressing forward, “let’s go back to December 24. We’re interested in what happened from six o’clock onward.”

Morandi raised a hand for them to pause and whispered something in his client’s ear. Hagi shook his head calmly and replied.

“At six o’clock I left Marius Travel with the other four. We took the subway to Via Togliatti. From there, they went to Casilino 900 and I walked to my house to pick up presents for the children. I put the presents in my car and drove to Casilino 900. We celebrated Christmas there with sparkling wine and panettone, and the children opened their presents. At half past nine I went home. The others went to St. Peter’s Square.”

“Why didn’t you go to St. Peter’s with them?” Balistreri asked.

“I was tired. My health isn’t what it used to be. I go to bed early these days.” After a long pause, he added, “And because if God existed, I’d be more likely to find him in Casilino 900 than in St. Peter’s Square.”

. . . .

Pasquali’s secretary, Antonella, was a Mediterranean beauty of forty. She and Balistreri had slept together a few years earlier, but it had never been anything more than physical. He had subsequently lost interest and the sex had grown less frequent until it disappeared altogether. However, in its place a friendship was born in which Antonella was able to lavish her maternal instinct on this man who had so little enthusiasm for life.

She ushered Balistreri into the small meeting room, which was decked out like a room in a stylish apartment with an ultra suede sofa and armchairs, a marble coffee table, and a nineteenth-century bar cabinet in one corner. Out on the balcony stood a sculpture of an angel surrounded by allegorical figures representing the fine arts. Pasquali called it his guardian angel.

“Pasquali’s with the chief of police. They’ll be here soon. Would you like coffee?”

Balistreri knew he couldn’t smoke and that coffee would make him want a cigarette, so he declined.

On the one hand, the chief of police means problems, but on the other there are advantages.

A telephone and a few magazines sat on the coffee table. Balistreri glanced at the cover of a magazine with a photo of Casilino 900 and the headline “Europe’s Gift to Italy.”

The scent of expensive aftershave announced Pasquali’s arrival. He ushered in the chief of police. Pasquali’s dark-gray designer suit was impeccable. His gray hair was perfectly styled, and he wore a pair of glasses with sleek titanium frames. In comparison, the chief of police looked like a country bumpkin, and Balistreri a homeless man plucked from the street and rinsed off with a hose.

Pasquali’s greeting to Balistreri was cold and formal, but the chief of police shook his hand and smiled. Floris belonged to those leftists Balistreri had fought when he feared them. Nowadays, when he found them as inoffensive and confused as a ninety-year-old in the middle of traffic, he looked at people like Floris with more objectivity. Floris was no genius, but he was a good man.

Over the years he had had to learn to live with people who were incapable as well as those like Pasquali, who were capable of anything.

The inevitable compromises, as my papa used to say. The ones that make a child into a man.

Pasquali offered the chief a seat in one of the two large armchairs, while he took the other. Balistreri grabbed the sofa.

Pasquali turned to Balistreri. “So, the chief of police is present at this meeting for two reasons: one urgent, the other more basic.”

“Urgent things first,” Floris said.

Although it was obvious that the balance of power tilted toward Pasquali, there were appearances to keep up: rank, age, hospitality. All things in which Pasquali was a master. He spoke affably.

“The chief of police has received a telephone call from the commissioner’s deputy prefect.” Pasquali paused. Balistreri sensed that he was searching for any sign of guilt, fear, or embarrassment on his face. Pasquali really was a master of the pause, the meaningful silence, and the unexpected question. He was a very talented actor.

“It seems that one of your deputies, together with a colleague . . .” Floris’s voice trailed off as he searched for the right words.

“Created a disturbance in a police station,” Pasquali finished for him.

Balistreri raised an eyebrow and frowned, as if he were trying to remember something. He turned directly to the chief of police.

“Did the prefect really use the word disturbance?”

“No, no,” Floris said. “They’re alleging intimidation of Deputy Captain Colajacono and seizure of an officer inside the station.”

“Did they use the word seizure?” asked Balistreri with an even more bewildered air.

“The word choice really isn’t important,” Pasquali said. “We’re here to ask you some questions and receive an explanation. And when I say ‘we,’ I mean the two of us plus the prefect.” His voice was soft and calm. He was a man who didn’t need to raise his voice for his orders to be obeyed.

Balistreri stood up. He knew his attitude would irritate not only Pasquali but also the good nature of the chief. It was essential, however, that some time should elapse. He went to the bar cabinet and chose an unopened bottle of Delamain cognac and twisted the cap. He turned to the two men. “Excuse me, but I need a drink.”

Balistreri sat down with his glass of 1971 cognac. He needed another forty minutes. He spent thirty of them relating the story of Nadia and Ramona.

“And where are Marchese and the Albanian now?” the chief asked.

What a good man you are.

“No need to worry,” Balistreri reassured him. “They’re both safe in our offices.”

“Was the officer arrested?” Pasquali asked.

“Of course not. He’s with us of his own free will.”

“But you did question him?” Pasquali asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“He chatted a little with Corvu, one of my deputies. They talked about Sardinian women versus Sicilian women.”

He turned to Pasquali with a submissive air. “I was planning to tell you. I’m certainly not hiding anything. I want to proceed with the arrest of Deputy Captain Colajacono.”

Pasquali was truly a cold-blooded animal. Balistreri watched as he paused to reflect, weighing the pros and cons—the political implications, of course, not anything to do with the investigation. He was being forced to think on his feet and answer in front of the chief of police.

“First the chief of police and I will have a word with the prefect. In the meantime, you will refrain from taking action of any kind.”

There was no hint of menace in his voice, but without question it was an order. With two sentences, he had re-established who was in command.

The telephone on the table rang. Pasquali answered and said, “Antonella, during meetings like this I don’t want—”

He was suddenly quiet. “Put her through to my office,” he said. Something serious. Not only was he interrupting a meeting with the chief of police, but he didn’t want to be overheard.

Balistreri decided it was time to visit the angel. He would allow himself his fourth cigarette of the day, and he knew that Floris always kept a half-smoked cigar in his pocket. He nodded and indicated the door to the balcony with a tilt of his head. They stepped outside.

Up on the fourth floor, the sound of the traffic was a little muted. The well-lit streets were full of shoppers. It was cold but no longer raining. The balcony was dirty; the rain had turned the dust on the railing to muck.

“Your relationship with Pasquali seems a little strained,” Floris said apropos of nothing.

“I’m working to improve it,” Balistreri said obediently. His fate depended on the chief of police. Pasquali didn’t have the authority to demote him.

Floris took a puff on his Tuscan cigar. “It’s a shame. Until the Samantha Rossi case came along, the two of you saw eye to eye.” Floris was one of the few people familiar with the details of the case.

“But ever since you’ve had my back. Why is that?”

The chief mulled that over. “First of all, I happen to think you’re one of our best men. And second.” Floris paused.

Balistreri drew an R in the wet grime on the balcony railing. “It seems easy enough, but you have to know how to write,” he said.

“Exactly. And we’ve arrested three illiterates.”

. . . .

Pasquali reappeared in the room. He started tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, which for someone like him was a sign of deep agitation.

“We have a problem,” he said to both of them. “That was Linda Nardi, the journalist. My secretary told her that I wasn’t available to speak to her and she told her to give me a message, immediately.”

“What message?” Floris asked.

Pasquali’s eyes met Balistreri’s. “Her message was ‘the Torre Spaccata police station.’”

The chief of police looked startled. Pasquali kept his eyes on Balistreri.

Yes, you know I’m capable of it. But you can’t do a damn thing. Not now.

Balistreri looked interested and at the same time concerned. He had to be very careful not to overdo either his indifference or his concern.

If the chief of police had the slightest inkling of what Pasquali suspected, he was in trouble.

“What did you say to her?” Floris asked Pasquali.

Pasquali grimaced. “She told me that an informant told her there was a fight of some kind in the Torre Spaccata police station this morning.”

Pasquali paused, clearly waiting for Balistreri to speak. But Floris spoke first. “That’s hard to believe. Who would be talking to her?”

Balistreri said, “There were a lot of officers in the station, and plenty of civilians. Any one of them could have called her. Unfortunately, Colajacono made a real scene. Piccolo escorted him to a private room, but he was a little out of control.”

“Fucking moron,” Pasquali mumbled. Balistreri had never heard him swear before.

Pasquali continued, “Nardi sent one of her reporters to the station, and a policeman told her that the fight occurred between members of the special team and Deputy Captain Colajacono over a report made by a friend of the missing Romanian woman.”

“What does she want?” Floris asked. He looked as if he were already picturing the headline to a damaging front-page article: POLICE RIFT OVER RECENT DISAPPEARANCE. That was the best-case scenario.

And so they might have got away with it. But Linda Nardi wasn’t the kind of person to stop there. Unlike her colleagues, she wasn’t after any scoop, but something far more dangerous: the truth. He would have to warn the mayor and ask him to call the newspaper’s managing director, or better still the owner.

Now, with a touch of sadism, Pasquali landed the chief of police with what Linda Nardi had said on the telephone. “She’s filing a request to get access to the missing persons report. She wants to see the original, no copies.”

Balistreri had difficulty holding back a smile. The bit about the original was Linda Nardi’s touch.

“We can’t do that,” Floris said.

“If we refuse, she’ll just print an article in the paper tomorrow saying that we refused her request,” Pasquali said.

Floris poured himself a generous shot of Delamain. He sank into an armchair and relit his cigar without asking Pasquali’s permission. Balistreri could read his thoughts. The article comes out, the entire press demands an explanation. We refuse on the grounds that an investigation is underway. But we can’t be sure whether the person who spoke to Nardi told her that Colajacono sent Ramona packing the first time and discouraged her from coming back. If that got out, it would spell trouble for everyone, starting with the chief of police.

Pasquali had already arrived at the same conclusion. “I told her I wasn’t aware of any fight, but an investigation is underway about the way the report was filed, so I can’t give it to her tonight but she can have it tomorrow.”

“And she was okay with that?” Floris asked.

“She did ask me a question before she agreed. She wanted to know whether we were using this time to question Colajacono and the officer who filed the report.” Pasquali looked at Balistreri. “Naturally, I said yes.”

I know you’ll make me pay dearly for this. But this evening we’re doing it my way. And you can take it as you like, along with that guardian angel on your balcony.

Evening

Before he went out, he allowed himself a few moments’ reflection. Panting a little with the effort, he climbed the last flight of stairs that led to the roof of the old building. He had the key to the unused terrace where washtubs once stood and the washing was hung out to dry. The building was at the top of a slope, and on the roof it appeared as if you were on a tenth floor. It was dark and the noise of the traffic was only a distant hum. To his right he could see the floodlit Quirinale with the Italian flag fluttering on it. In front of him stood the white marble of the Victor Emmanuel Monument and Mussolini’s balcony on Piazza Venezia; to his left were the Colosseum and the Roman Forum.

This was the center of the new political power that had replaced the traditional parties after the Tangentopoli corruption and bribery scandal in the 1990s. New only in a manner of speaking, of course. The only new things were the issues: a country that was too well nourished and therefore lazy, too old and therefore weary. A country that needed young immigrants but was scared of them and had no system for integrating them or economic model to follow. In addition, St. Peter’s majestic cupola reminded the city and the whole world that behind those walls was an immense power enclosed in less than half a square mile.

I thought I could change the world, at least a little. But the world wasn’t in the least bit interested, and instead it changed me.

He’d witnessed the decline of the West parallel to the decline of his own body and spirit. The mistakes he made as a reckless and thoughtless youth had gradually turned into sins. In the cloud of remorse, his dreams had finally dissipated.

Slowly, inexorably, he had become what he had thought it was impossible for him to become: a bureaucratic old civil servant like his former boss, Teodori.

If I were offered the chance to be a child and start over again, I’d refuse. The effort would be unbearable.

. . . .

When he came down he found Corvu and Piccolo waiting outside his office. They had been worried about him for some time.

“Marchese says Colajacono offered to swap shifts with him and Cotugno on the night of December 24 as a favor, even though he was tired,” Piccolo said.

“So who was on duty between nine on the night of December 24 to the morning of December 25?” Balistreri asked.

“Colajacono and his right-hand man, Officer Tatò,” Piccolo said.

Corvu was impatient. “It’s half past eight, sir. We have to get going if we want to catch Colajacono at the police station.”

“You can see to Colajacono on your own, Corvu. His boss has already been informed by the chief of police.”

I don’t want Piccolo getting into any trouble.

“And What if he won’t refuses to cooperate?” asked Corvu the rule-follower asked, ever attentive to the rules.

“Either he comes voluntarily or you arrest him for twenty-four hours. No interrogation tonight, nothing until tomorrow morning. Just make sure he has no contact with the outside world. He’ll be very comfortable here in our guest room.”

He turned to Piccolo. “You talk to this Tatò, Piccolo, but outside the police station. And one last thing.”

“I won’t lay a finger on him, Captain, not to worry,” Piccolo said, holding her hands behind her back. He suspected she was crossing her fingers.

“Captain, today’s Thursday,” Corvu reminded him as he left.

Thursday. Dinner with Alberto. Poker.

He grabbed his cell phone to postpone.

His brother answered on the first ring. “Michele, I can’t talk. I’ve got to keep any eye on the guanciale. I’m making a carbonara that will blow your mind.”

. . . .

Colajacono showed no surprise at seeing Corvu. His massive form filled the whole threshold to his office door. Smoothing his hair, he said, “Can I help you?”

Corvu introduced himself. He was tiny compared to beefy Colajacono. A twig next to an oak.

“I’d like to invite you respectfully to come to the special team offices for an informal meeting, not for questioning, and we’ll put you up for the night.”

“A night in the historic center in your fine establishment? That sounds nice, but I’ve got plans.”

Corvu’s steely Sardinian soul came to the fore.

“If you don’t come tonight, I’ll have to come back with a warrant tomorrow, and then everyone will know about it.”

Colajacono spat. The gob landed a few inches from Corvu’s feet.

“Okay, I’ll come and sleep over. Is the room service any good in your hotel?” he asked in a nasty tone.

They went out along the corridor where several policemen were standing. Colajacono turned to them with a smile, his small eyes gleaming with irony.

“Boys, I’m just taking a stroll down to the offices of the smart police down in the city center. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

. . . .

EUR, south of Rome toward the coast, was a suburban area built in the Fascist era to house the 1942 Universal Exhibition in Rome, but then World War II intervened and the exhibition was cancelled. Work was completed after the war.

In the evening the district is almost deserted. The bars and restaurants that work frenetically until early afternoon for its thousands of workers are already closed by dinnertime. On the whole, the atmosphere is almost weightless, in contrast to the hubbub, chaos, and heat of the historic city center.

The villa where Balistreri’s brother lived with his German wife and two teenage sons stood at the end of a narrow street. There was always a patrol car parked on the street, because an important politician lived there. For Balistreri that car’s constant presence, even when the politician had no official engagements, was a sign of what Italy had become.

Alberto opened the door wearing a chef’s apron. He was Michele’s older brother, but he’d taken better care of himself. More exercise, no smoking, little drinking, a happy marriage, two fine sons, a career as a well-paid executive: the ideal outcome after he’d earned a bachelor’s and a master’s in engineering in the United States. His was a life full of plans and positive thoughts.

They embraced, then went into the kitchen. The house was hot. A halogen lamp lit the living room and the background music was the old Pink Floyd album Meddle. Along with Leonard Cohen and Fabrizio De André, it was one of his favorites.

“You’ve lost more weight, Michele.”

Balistreri was aware that his clothes were now too big for him, but he didn’t want his brother to worry. He’d done enough of that for a lifetime.

“I know, it’s weird. I skip a meal now and then, but I do eat. Anyway, I’ll make up for it tonight. What are you making besides the carbonara?”

Alberto pointed to his nose. It was his chef’s obsession: you could tell good things by their aroma.

Balistreri sniffed. “Lamb,” he said. “And I think I smell strudel.”

Alberto nodded. “But we’ll wait for Angelo and Graziano for dessert.” He popped the cork from a bottle of Frascati. “The strudel’s too hot to eat now. In an hour or so it will be perfect. Would you grab the red wine? That goes with the lamb.”

Balistreri saw the empty bottle of Brunello di Montalcino that had been opened two hours earlier and decanted into a wooden Piedmont-style carafe. His brother really did love him: in order to serve him his favorite wine, Alberto was breaking one of his cardinal rules. The lamb was a Roman specialty, and Alberto was a fervid believer in pairing food with wine from the same region.

The table was laid for two. Balistreri wandered around the room. So many photos, a peaceful life framed in silver. Alberto, his lovely wife, two boys with open, eager faces. In the only wooden frame was a black and white shot taken on the shore in Tripoli. Alberto and Michele as children dressed in short pants and knee socks. Beside them stood their mother, Italia, and their father, Salvatore Balistreri, a captain of industry.

She was looking at the sky, he at the ground. Honor and strength. An obviously unequal duel.

Alberto interrupted his thoughts.

“Okay, Michele, it’s ready. Angelo and Graziano will be here soon.”

The carbonara was delicious. Crisp guanciale, perfectly cooked spaghetti, just enough egg to coat the strands. The chilled Frascati was the perfect accompaniment.

“I wanted to ask your opinion about the slot-machine market,” Michele said.

“For investigative reasons?” Alberto was never happier than when he felt he was helping with a case.

The oven timer went off. “I’ll go and get the lamb and we’ll talk about it,” he said. He disappeared into the kitchen with the empty white wine glasses.

When Alberto had returned and settled back into his seat, he said, “After an investigation into illegal video-poker games in 2004, the government decided to regulate things before the situation got any worse. Also, the national debt was growing so quickly that collecting that kind of money was going to come in handy.”

“What kind of money are we talking about?”

“Fifteen billion euros a year from the legal ones,” Alberto said.

“Billion with a B?”

“Billion with a B. About three quarters of the money goes back to the players in winnings. Let’s say that the system keeps almost four billion euros and hands one and a half billion over to the government. Up until 2004, that one and a half billion stayed in circulation. Think what kind of fortunes were amassed from unregulated video-poker. And there are still two and a half billion floating around each year. That’s not even counting the illegal games.”

“Meaning what?”

“The games that still aren’t plugged into the system so that taxes are collected. No one can seem to do anything about them. Even if the financial police find out about them, they can only levy administrative fines.”

Balistreri made a face and sweetened his taste buds with the last piece of lamb and a sip of Brunello.

At exactly ten thirty the intercom buzzed. It was Corvu, who had been home to spruce himself up. Out of consideration to Alberto he was wearing a suit, whereas during the day he went around in jeans and a sweater. His hair was still wet from showering, but he would never have arrived late. He had brought along a bottle of homemade alcoholic cordial made from Sardinian bilberries. They put it in the fridge and Corvu sat down at the table with them.

“Have you eaten, Graziano?” Alberto asked him. He always addressed Corvu by his first name, which Balistreri couldn’t bring himself to do, even when they were off-duty.

“I have, but that lamb smells amazing, Alberto,” Corvu said. He gratefully accepted a plate. Then he turned to Balistreri. “Everything’s in order. Colajacono’s staying the night in our offices.”

Their Thursday evening poker sessions had been going on for three years. Corvu had replaced Colicchia, Balistreri’s predecessor, when he retired and moved away from Rome.

“Alberto was just explaining how bar owners make money off of their slot machines,” Balistreri said to Corvu.

“What role does ENT play in the value chain?” Corvu asked. He must have picked up the technical term in one of his evening classes in economics.

“What the hell is a ‘value chain’?” Balistreri asked.

The intercom buzzed again, and Balistreri went to open the door for Angelo. With growing irritation he heard Alberto explain the famous chain to Corvu and Corvu reply, “Oh yes, I see. That explains it all.”

. . . .

Piccolo took advantage of the wait to call home. Rudi answered after just one ring.

“Deputy Piccolo’s residence.”

“Rudi, I told you to answer the phone only after three rings and then a hang-up. And not like Jeeves the butler. I don’t want anyone to know you’re there.”

“I’m sorry. You have a beautiful apartment. I’m very grateful for your hospitality.”

“No problem, Rudi. The fridge is full, so help yourself.”

“No, I’ll cook something and wait till you come home. I’m really good in the kitchen.”

She saw Tatò coming out of the police station and ended the call. Tatò was a fat forty-year-old with thinning hair and rheumy eyes. She followed his car for a mile or two. The Capannelle racetrack was lit up, and the parking lot was crowded. Tatò parked on the sidewalk, and Piccolo was forced to do the same.

The stands at the track were almost full. She trailed him, trying not to get too close. Tatò sat at a table with three other middle-aged guys, clearly gambling men like himself. She saw him take out a wad of hundred-euro bills and speak animatedly. They were deciding where to place their bets.

She caught the words “. . . the jockey swears he’ll go slow . . .” and Tatò saying “If he fucks up, he knows I’ll arrest him, no problem.”

Glasses of whiskey arrived while one of the men went off to the tote windows. Piccolo sat down nonchalantly in the vacated seat,

“That seat’s taken,” one of the men said.

Piccolo ignored him. “I need to speak to you,” she said to Tatò.

There was no need to show her badge. He’d gotten a good look at her that morning in the police station.

He glanced around. He didn’t want a scene. “I’m off duty, Deputy.”

“So I see. Unless you moonlight here.”

Tatò turned to the other two men. “I’ll see you guys later.”

They got up without a word, but the look they gave Piccolo clearly expressed what they would have liked to do to her.

Why don’t you try it? You’d be in for a nice surprise.

“Can I get you anything to drink, Deputy?” Tatò had decided to take the path of politeness.

“No, thanks. I am on duty.”

“What can I do for you?”

Piccolo got down to business. “Let’s talk about the evening of December 24, when you and Colajacono were in the station in place of Marchese and Cutugno. Why did you offer to take over their shifts?”

“We felt sorry for them. They’d worked nine to nine every night during the holidays. They asked if they could at least spend Christmas Eve with their families.”

“Cutugno and Marchese said it was Colajacono’s idea.”

Tatò looked slightly uncomfortable. “Well, maybe it was. I don’t know who came up with the idea. I just know they were thrilled to have the night off.”

“And Colajacono suggested that you and he take their shift?”

Tatò thought for a moment. “He suggested it to me on the morning of December 24. Colajacono’s like that. He believes people at the top should set an example. Besides, neither of us is married.”

“And neither of you went to midnight mass, I presume?”

“I went to Mass at six in the local parish church—it’s next to the police station.”

“And after Mass?”

“Colajacono was waiting for me outside the church. It was almost seven. We drove around the precinct. It was all quiet. Everyone was going home for Christmas Eve dinner. We stopped to eat something in the little restaurant across from the station; it was the only one open. We were back in the office just before nine.”

That was a lot of things to check. Mass and the meal in the restaurant were easy, the drive around more difficult. The patience of Corvu would be required.

The roar of the crowd announced the start of the race. The group at a gallop was at the other end of the oval. Piccolo saw that Tatò was following the race with trepidation, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The horses were approaching their part of the stands, and the crowd was on its feet. Tatò watched intently. In the home stretch, number six went ahead and won by a head. Tatò cheered.

Piccolo said, “Let’s get back to December 24, after Mass. Did you drive past Casilino 900?”

Now that Tatò’s horse had won, he was more relaxed. “There was no need. Everything was quiet. They were setting up for a party themselves. Even the gypsies celebrate Christmas, you know. They use all the money they steal from Italians.”

Piccolo clenched her fists but remembered Balistreri’s advice. “So, you have no idea where Colajacono was between six and seven while you were at Mass?”

Tatò nodded thoughtfully. People were moving toward the windows to place their bets.

“From nine o’clock onward you didn’t leave the police station?” Piccolo asked.

“That’s right, we didn’t leave until the morning after.”

“Neither of you went out?”

“No, neither one of us.”

“How can you be so certain? You were together the whole twelve hours?”

Tatò let out a guffaw. “Well, not exactly. I don’t know about you, but when I go to the john I don’t like company.”

Concentrate on the objective here. Don’t let yourself be distracted by anger. Do as the boss told you.

She counted to ten, then started calmly again. “Apart from calls of nature, you were always together. Therefore you would be ready to swear that Colajacono was with you from seven o’clock until nine, and in the twelve hours from nine that night until nine the following morning he never left the station.”

“Absolutely,” Tatò said. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to place a bet.”

. . . .

Balistreri opened the door. There stood his best friend of more than twenty years. His only friend, really. Alberto was his brother, and Corvu was a colleague.

Angelo Dioguardi hardly looked any older, but he’d become a lot stronger over the years. Breaking off his engagement with Paola and resigning from his job with her uncle the cardinal in 1982 had changed him. Paradoxically, while Balistreri felt that his own life had been in decline since then, that was when things had started looking up for Angelo.

They had never stopped their endless nights of conversation about things great and small, but their roles in life had become reversed. Now it was Angelo who, not often but every once in a while, went after women in search of the ideal he never found, while on the same front Balistreri had retreated: endless repetition, the sense of guilt, and the lack of stimulating women had all played a part. And while Balistreri had become ever more involved in the mechanisms of networking and in the bureaucracy he had so hated, Angelo Dioguardi had become one of the ten best professional poker players in the world. He continued to donate a large portion of his winnings to charity, but he now oversaw their use directly.

While Alberto and Corvu were talking about balances and the damn value chain, the two friends went into the living room. Angelo lit his thirtieth cigarette of the day and poured himself a double whiskey; Balistreri lit his fifth and refilled his water glass. Whiskey upset his stomach.

“I have a question for you, Angelo. I’d like some information about illegal gambling. You must have seen some early in your career.”

Angelo frowned. “Have they transferred you to the vice squad?”

“Don’t be a prick. I just need some information.”

“Michele, times have changed. Today there are high-stakes tournaments in private clubs, but it’s all legal. They pay taxes and everything.”

“What are ‘high stakes’?”

“Depends on the jackpot. I think it’s quite high in the midlevel tournaments. What exactly do you want to know?”

“I’m investigating a company that runs a nightclub and poker tables, slot machines, and betting parlors. It’s controlled by some trust abroad.”

Angelo thought for a moment. “I suppose you could use that kind of business for money-laundering. But for large amounts of money, you’d need something bigger.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve ever been involved in anything like that. My poker winnings are more than enough for me.”

“I know, you’re a saint. I’m certainly not accusing you of anything. But if you were going to do something like that, how would you arrange it?”

“Serious money-laundering uses property, not in Italy, but in places where you can buy a skyscraper for cash in a week—the Caribbean, Dubai, Macao.”

“And where does the money come from?”

“Criminal operations: drugs, arms dealing, prostitution. It’s not just Italian criminals, of course. Even our criminals are falling behind the Russians and the Chinese. The Russians will fly in with a suitcase full of cash and buy a couple of apartment buildings during the course of a weekend.”

“But even the Italians . . .”

“Sure. But Italian criminals tend to invest at least some of their money in Italy. Real estate, retail chains, hotels, the service industry, nightclubs. They want to create jobs here. That way they can sway votes, which means they can influence politicians.”

“Are you talking about kickbacks?” Balistreri asked.

Angelo smiled. “Kickbacks no longer exist since the Tangentopoli trials, right? Look, anyone with his hand in the public purse is more careful these days. They prefer to sweeten a deal with a nice penthouse purchased in cash for the guy’s children, or they’ll renovate a country house. Someone small-time might get a hooker.”

“Where does our slot machine and nightclub company fit in?”

“Right in the middle, most likely. It invests the illegal money that’s been laundered abroad in Italy.”

Angelo lit another cigarette. Balistreri watched him with envy. “How many do you smoke?”

Angelo shook his head. “That depends on my mood. One or two packs a day. Please don’t lecture me. Not you, of all people.”

“I’ve cleaned up my act, you know that. What about women?”

Angelo smiled. “It’s a time of freedom, of transition. Anyway, it’s not my fault I sleep around so much. I’d like to stay with the same women, but they all get bored with me eventually.”

“It’s your fixation with love. Why can’t you be satisfied with a simple healthy fuck?”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I’m the opposite—I’m sick of feeling guilty because of women’s illusions. The price to pay is too high.”

Angelo thought for a moment, looking perplexed by the affirmation and sorry for his friend.

“Michele, you’re confusing value with price.”

“Comparing, not confusing.”

“I wanted to say that some things are priceless.”

He said it with the humility of an uneducated boy from the working-class slums in the face of an educated middle-class friend. For Balistreri that “I wanted to say,” which Angelo sometimes used, almost to excuse himself when he wasn’t in agreement, was the starting point for their great friendship and kept it alive.

Alberto called them to order. The card table was ready. Things went as they nearly always went. Angelo won, almost without wanting to. In all this time, they still hadn’t understood when he was bluffing and when he had a good hand. In the end he won, and the winnings went to a nonprofit that ran homeless shelters.

As Angelo drove Balistreri home, Balistreri felt drained from the interminable day.

“I really need one,” he said, pointing to the pack of cigarettes.

“Then I’ll keep you company,” Angelo said, lighting his fortieth of the day.

They ended up talking until four in the morning.