Morning
THE SEARCH FOR A light-colored Alfa Romeo Giulia GT 1300 with a broken headlight began immediately, but the night of December 30 nothing turned up.
Corvu slept in Balistreri’s office at his insistence. He hoped Natalya would stay over with him. Then Balistreri went home to get some sleep.
When Balistreri came back at seven, he found his deputy asleep on the worn sofa. Naturally, he was alone.
He went down to the cafeteria and ordered a cappuccino-to-go in a glass and bought a still-warm doughnut. He went back up and put the hot cappuccino under the nose of Corvu, who woke instantly and dragged himself up in embarrassment.
“Sir, I’m sorry, I couldn’t manage it.” Balistreri put the cappuccino and doughnut down for him.
“Mastroianni e-mailed from Romania,” Corvu said, biting into the doughnut. “In 2002, before Hagi brought Mircea and Greg to Italy, they were acquitted of a charge of double homicide on the grounds of insufficient evidence and thanks to the best defense lawyer in Romania. Anyway, Mastroianni’s on his way home now.”
He continued, “I’ve gone through all the vehicle databases. Fortunately, there are only a few of those cars still in circulation, only fifty-two in Rome. Twelve of them are registered to immigrants. Apparently they’re into fast cars.”
“Do you have the names and addresses?”
“Yes. Of course the records might not be up-to-date. They could have been sold off without the registrations changing, and some of them may not be registered at all. With cars that old, there are no guarantees.”
“All right, run them down by phone. But divide up the twelve cars that belong to immigrants between yourself and Piccolo and Coppola and Mastroianni. Work in pairs, not alone. And take care of it today.”
Once he was alone, Balistreri turned on the radio and lit his first cigarette of the day. He took another pill to stave off acid reflux so he could drink at the New Year’s Eve party that night at Angelo Dioguardi’s apartment.
The mail with the press cuttings came in, and contained Linda Nardi’s article. A front-page headline: SAMANTHA ROSSI: IS THE CASE CLOSED? Below the headline was the girl’s photograph, the one every Italian had known for months. A gleaming smile in front of a sailboat.
Reluctantly, he forced himself to read the article. No hint at all about the carved initial or the fourth man. The main point was all in the question that concluded the piece.
Are we looking at the chaotic fury of someone who lost control or the premeditated barbarity of someone in full control of himself?
The question caught him off guard—which happened only rarely, yet always with this woman.
Fury or premeditation? Linda Nardi’s question brought back a particular unease, something whose roots were sunk in well-hidden depths.
Piccolo came in punctually at seven thirty. Balistreri could sense a new disquiet in her that left him feeling anything but easy. He was hoping she would have calmed down with regard to the previous night, but that wasn’t the case. On top of her anger there was a determination that was too personal, and experience had taught him that in you could a lot of damage in that frame of mind.
“How’s Rudi?” he asked her.
She smiled weakly. “He’s sleeping on my couch.”
He struggled to find the right words. “Piccolo, I don’t want to intrude, but are you involved with Rudi?”
“We’re not having sex, not that it’s any of your business, and he had an HIV test last week that came back negative,” she said flatly.
Balistreri’s phone rang. Relieved, he answered. “Alberto, are you up already? You’re not working today, are you?”
“No, but I’m going on vacation with my family, remember? We leave for the Maldives after lunch. I wanted to wish you a happy new year.”
“That’s right, the big diving trip.”
“Have you read the papers?” Alberto asked. His brother was worried about him.
“I read them. I spoke to Linda Nardi yesterday. I had a feeling she’d write something like that.”
“Really she’s saying you’re right to have doubts.”
“But I don’t. I did before we found the three Roma, but once we did I realized I was wrong.”
They both knew he didn’t believe what he was saying.
“Why are you on antidepressants then? Because you’re positive you didn’t get justice for Samantha Rossi.”
“You’re the religious one, Alberto. You should understand regret and self-flagellation.”
It was a gratuitous, wicked comment dictated by frustration. But his brother pretended to take no notice.
“No antidepressant can treat regret, Michele. You repent, make a confession if you believe, and then atone for your sins if you can.”
“I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work.”
“Mike, not even the truth can close certain wounds. Not on this earth.”
. . . .
At lunchtime, Balistreri called Angelo Dioguardi on his cell phone. They were planning to usher in the new year from his small penthouse on the Janiculum Hill. From up there they’d have a sweeping view of Rome and the midnight fireworks.
“Are we going to play poker after we pop the cork on the champagne?”
“No poker game. Your brother’s away, and Corvu says he’s not available.”
“I bet he’s spending the evening with a woman,” Balistreri said, pleased to hear it.
“I hope so, for his sake. There will be plenty of women at my place tonight, too.”
“I’m a little old to be getting it on at midnight,” Balistreri said.
“Some old-fashioned recreational sex would be good for you.”
“I think you’re the one who needs some old-fashioned recreational sex, no strings attached for once in your life. Might help you to see women a little more realistically.”
“You know, you were more fun when you were a cynical womanizer. A cynic who doesn’t get any action is just sad.”
They bantered for a few more minutes, then said good-bye.
Balistreri called Coppola. “Any news?”
“Actually, there is some interesting news.”
“Did you find out what kind of underwear she wears?”
“No, but I did find out why the investigation took so long. There was a life insurance policy on Sandro Corona.”
“Let me guess—his attractive wife was the beneficiary.”
“Exactly. She got three million euros thanks to that policy.”
“Thanks to an unknown truck driver, you mean.”
“Maybe she was involved in her husband’s death somehow.”
“Where are you now, Coppola?”
“Out with Piccolo. We’ve got eight names on our list. Mastroianni just landed at Fiumicino, and he and Corvu are going to handle the others.”
“Okay, get busy. And keep an eye on Piccolo to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Afternoon
The office was quieter than usual. The year was dragging slowly to a close. Balistreri settled down to the inevitable wait. He was in pain because he couldn’t smoke. He looked at the drawn blinds outside which the rain was pelting down and thought of the stalemate he was in: no brainwave from which to launch a fresh initiative, only the hope that the dragnet would come up with a bigger fish.
The hours passed slowly. Margherita popped in a few times to ask if he wanted a sandwich, a beer, or a coffee.
He politely declined. His mind was full of memories he was trying to resist. They were bouncing off the walls of his brain.
Summer 1967. Summer 1970. Summer 1982. Summer 2005.
Every so often he heard a phone ring somewhere and a voice answer it. Then even those sounds stopped. Everyone was leaving. At six o’clock Margherita stopped by to offer her best wishes. He watched her as she left and wondered who would be taking her out that evening.
Certainly not you, Balistreri, but perhaps someone her own age.
That reminded him of Ramona’s story, relayed to him by Mastroianni, of the client who couldn’t get it up. The bastard with the broken headlight had gotten lucky—he’d gained extra time. Anyway, Nadia had gotten into the car with him without making a scene because she knew him. She was waiting for him.
The room was far too hot. Balistreri opened a window to let in some fresh air. The sound of fireworks mingled with the sound of thunder. In the distance, beyond the Colosseum, a bolt of lightning split the sky. Finally, the year was coming to an end.
Evening
Stores were locking up and everyone was rushing home to get ready for the big night. But Piccolo and Coppola were soaked to the skin, cold, and bone-tired. Piccolo felt like she was getting a fever. Occasionally, she shook with chills. The red taillights of cars reflected off the wet pavement. They sat in their car and studied their crumpled, wet list.
“Finished,” Coppola said. “And we haven’t accomplished a fucking thing, pardon my French.” Coppola didn’t like to swear in front of women, but the many hours he and Piccolo had spent questioning people mystified by their interest in old cars, while all around them the New Year fireworks were starting to go off, had frayed his nerves. He wanted to get home to Lucia and Ciro and help them prepare a celebratory dinner. Instead, they’d wasted time questioning eight people in the rain.
“All right, Coppola, let’s go home. We’ve seen seven vehicles, headlights intact, although lights might have been replaced. All the owners have solid alibis for the evening of December 24. Then there’s the Egyptian guy who sold his car to an Eastern European whose name he doesn’t know without changing the registration. But the headlights were working.”
“A complete waste of time. Let’s go home. And you should take an aspirin and get into bed,” he said.
“I’ll drop you at yours, then go on with the car from the pool.”
When they got to his apartment, Coppola invited her in. “The wife’ll make you a steaming hot mug of milk—you look feverish.”
She shook her head. “There’s something I have to do, but thanks anyway. Give my best to Lucia and Ciro.”
Coppola looked at her suspiciously. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry, I’m going home. Happy New Year.”
At half past eight she pulled up outside the Torre Spaccata police station. There was hardly anyone still there—everyone was at home getting dressed up for the evening. Piccolo let her phone ring the agreed number of times, then hung up and called again straight away.
“Hello?” said Rudi.
“What are you up to?”
“I’m cooking. You said you didn’t want to go out tonight, so I thought I’d make us dinner here.”
“Did you go to the grocery store? I told you not to go out.”
“Just to the supermarket downstairs. And I put on one of your hats and pulled it over my eyes.”
Piccolo felt her own forehead. It was burning.
“Listen, Rudi, don’t go out again, but eat without me. I’ll be back late.”
“No, I’ll wait for you. I bought some sparkling wine, too. With my own money,” he clarified.
She could picture him standing over the stove, stirring and tasting. She wanted to be in the warm kitchen, in the company of this good-looking man. A man who was gay, she reminded herself.
“All right, but I might be pretty late. Promise me you won’t go out.”
“Not until next year,” he said.
Piccolo grinned. “If you do, I’ll arrest you.”
“I’ve got to get back to the lentils,” he said.
Her head and her throat were both sore. She fished around in her pockets and found a hard candy. Then she settled back to keep an eye on the entrance to the police station. She wanted to turn on the heat in the car, but she didn’t want to run the motor. The exhaust would be visible in the cold air, and she didn’t want to be seen.
Colajacono and Tatò, both out of uniform, came out. They got into a car, and Tatò took the wheel.
She followed them at a distance. They went down a long boulevard with high rises, then turned off to an unlit area. The roads became ever more desolate until they came to one with no houses or street lamps, open countryside to the right. The road went up and down following the curves of the hills. Piccolo switched off her headlights and followed Tatò’s tail lights at a distance of a hundred and fifty feet. Every so often on the right, dirt roads wound steeply up the hill. The countryside beyond the city stood out under the lights of fireworks and flashes of lightning, although a couple of kilometers away on the left the illuminated outlines of the outlying high-rises were visible.
At a certain point the red lights slowed down then shifted over to the right and went out. It was a rest area at the top of a slope, totally deserted in the freezing rain.
Piccolo stopped immediately. She couldn’t stay there in the middle of the road. Thirty or so feet back she’d seen a metaled road on the left, so she reversed to it and put herself out of sight. A flash of lightning lit up Tatò’s car parked in the rest area.
Will I see them if they get out in this dark and this rain? Keep calm—they can’t see you.
Piccolo felt for the pistol in its holster. In the silence she could hear only the constant beating of the rain and the intermittent noise of the fireworks. She was stretched out almost flat so as not to be seen. Feeling herself begin to shiver, she was tempted to switch on the heater, but resisted. She zipped up her jacket and tried to breathe through her nose. Every so often she cleaned the condensation off the window with her sleeve. The lightning allowed her to keep an eye on the other car. Two glowing red butts told her that Tatò and Colajacono were having a cigarette in the car. The time passed—ten o’clock, eleven—and she was growing steadily colder.
They’re waiting for someone or something. But who or what? Should I tell Balistreri I’m following two policemen without any reason after what I got myself into last night? First we’ll see what happens, and then I’ll tell him.
She decided to call Rudi again, but there was no signal. She saw the glow of a cigarette as someone got out of the car, and a flash of lightning illuminated Colajacono’s grotesque figure taking a piss in the rain with the cigarette in his mouth.
Her headache was worse, her throat burning. What she needed was to lie down, warm and peaceful, and have some of Rudi’s lentils. In the distance, she saw a motorbike headlight coming toward her.
The headlight turned down a dirt road. Then another flash of lightning lit up the scene. It wasn’t a motorcycle at all. It was a Giulia GT, struggling up the hill with only one headlight. Tatò’s car turned and began to follow it at a distance.
. . . .
Half an hour before 2005 ended, Angelo Dioguardi’s penthouse was overflowing, with about two dozen people squeezed into seven hundred square feet. A cold north wind was blowing. Balistreri and his host stood on the glassed-in terrace.
“Graziano called. He wants to play poker after all. He’ll join us around two with a friend, so there’ll be four of us.”
“That’s too bad. I guess he’s not getting Natalya into bed tonight after all.”
“Graziano takes his time.”
“That’s your bad influence, Angelo. The ideal woman is an immature delusion.”
It was one of those cutting remarks that Balistreri had made on many occasions, but this time Angelo took issue.
“At least I have my delusion, Michele. You don’t even have that much.”
Balistreri looked at him in surprise. It wasn’t in Angelo’s character to criticize. In fact what he read in Dioguardi’s eyes wasn’t an accusation, it was his sorrow for a friend who, while still alive, was already dead on the inside.
. . . .
You make certain decisions in a moment and they stay with you for the rest of your life. Piccolo was twelve years old on the beach at Palermo when she dived into the waves to save a little boy. She was fifteen when she flattened the best-looking guy in the school with a karate blow for copping an uninvited feel. She was seventeen when she first went to bed with a girl. Now she’d brought a male homosexual home and, with the onset of a fever, was about to face corrupt policemen and potential killers.
She drew her gun from its holster and placed it on the seat beside her. She started the car and turned to follow Tatò’s car, which she could only manage to see when the brake lights came on. There was no way they could see her. The important thing was not to lose them.
They turned where the Giulia GT had turned. The dirt road, all mud and puddles, wound around the dark hillside. Piccolo’s car slipped and went off the road, but she managed to get back on track.
Every so often she touched her gun for reassurance. She was breathing heavily because of her temperature and the tension. They passed several curves, then a crossroads. Now the potholes were enormous. She dropped back farther so they wouldn’t hear her car. The whole time she kept her eyes trained on the lights in the pitch black. Then all of a sudden the car ahead of her stopped abruptly. She braked and switched off the engine. The tail lights she’d been following completely disappeared and the darkness became total. There was only the wind whistling in the night and the distant sound of fireworks. It was biting cold and the dampness chilled her to the bone, but at least it was no longer raining. She looked at her watch, the only weak light in all that surrounding blackness: five minutes to midnight.
A flashlight came on and moved away from Tatò’s vehicle. Piccolo got out of her car. It would have been better to turn it around so that it was facing down the hill in case she needed to make a quick getaway, but there was no time. She grabbed her gun and began to follow the light of the flashlight. She slipped and fell into the mud, banging her knee.
She got to her feet and pressed on. She was dog-tired. Her legs felt like lead and her head was on fire, but she was determined not to lose them. One last bit of hill, and she arrived. The Giulia GT was parked on a patch of grass near an abandoned farmhouse. She could see the flickering light of an oil lamp inside, and she could hear male voices. She couldn’t make out what language they were speaking, but they were probably foreigners.
The flashlight had been switched off. Piccolo had no idea where Colajacono and Tatò were. Gripping her gun, she hid behind the last tree next to the clearing where the farmhouse stood. She covered her nose and mouth with her jacket to hide her breath as it condensed in the freezing air. Fireworks went off in rapid succession. She huddled behind the tree.
Her head was throbbing, her legs weak. She had to make a decision; she couldn’t stay here forever. She held her gun with both hands and ran behind the farmhouse. As she paused for breath, a hand was pressed over her mouth and an arm came around her from behind. Instinctively, she jerked her free hand back. She heard the cartilage of a nasal septum breaking and a curse in Roman dialect. She pointed her gun at Tatò, who was on his knees and groaning with a hand cupped over his nose.
The farmhouse door opened and two men stepped out carrying the oil lamp. One was armed with a knife and the other with a club. Piccolo moved behind Tatò and pointed her gun at them.
“Drop your weapons,” she ordered.
“Who the fuck are you, bitch?” the one with the club shouted in a heavy Eastern European accent.
“Police,” Piccolo shouted. She tried to keep her eyes on them and also look around for Colajacono.
The two men nodded at each other, then started to walk toward Piccolo.
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” she warned.
Fifty feet away. They hesitated a moment, then resumed walking forward. Once they got within fifteen feet of her, it was all over. She had only a few seconds to decide.
She fired a single shot in the air. She couldn’t spare any more than that. The two men hesitated again.
“On the ground, now!” Colajacono shouted. The two men jumped at the noise.
They turned to face Colajacono, who stood with his legs apart and a gun held in both hands, his arms tensed. They looked at each other and began to run toward the path. Piccolo heard a shot and saw the Roma with the club fall over, holding his leg. The other one stopped.
In that moment Piccolo realized the not-too-distant sounds she heard weren’t fireworks, but the blades of a helicopter that was hovering over them. A spotlight illuminated the scene from above, while a voice from a loudspeaker warned the escaping man to stop and put his hands up. Sirens squealed and tires screeched as police cars raced up the hills. Their headlights lit up the road.
Colajacono turned to Tatò. “You’ll have to get your nose fixed thanks to this stupid bitch.”
Piccolo saw the slap coming. Under normal circumstances she’d have parried it with one arm while striking with the other. But the fever, the tension, and the cold had made her sluggish. The blow sent her reeling into the mud.