Morning
“THAT’S INCREDIBLE,” CORVU SAID.
“Isn’t it?” Balistreri agreed, lighting his first cigarette of the day and opening the window on the cold morning of the first work day of the new year. “Well, it seems incredible, but I don’t believe in coincidences. Rudi had completely forgotten about the lighter, because it wasn’t really worth anything. Nadia gave it to him on December 24. He thought she’d found it lying around and given it to him as a present in exchange for the favors he did for her.”
“But we can’t rule out a coincidence,” Corvu said. “Nadia could have gotten the lighter from a client who went to the Bella Blu.”
“That wouldn’t explain the frenzied way Mircea and Greg were looking for it, and someone was still searching for it in the Via Tiburtina apartment when they were surprised by Piccolo and Rudi.”
“Captain Balistreri’s right. Nadia must have picked it up at the Bella Blu herself,” Piccolo said. “Except those freebies are only handed out in the private lounges, not the club itself. They’re attached to the Cuban cigars reserved for important customers. Therefore, Nadia was in Bella Blu’s private lounge on the night of December 23.”
“It could have happened before December 23,” Corvu said.
But Piccolo had all the answers. “In that case, Mircea and Greg would have gone looking for it earlier. No, Nadia comes out of the restaurant alone around eleven thirty, and then later she’s in the Bella Blu’s private lounge, where she pockets the lighter, which she then gives to Rudi.”
“Maybe Mircea was waiting for her outside the restaurant and they went to the Bella Blu together,” Corvu suggested.
“No,” Piccolo said. “Rudi told me that the night Mircea came back with Greg just after Ramona, who was feeling ill. That was around midnight. That means he left the restaurant and went straight home.”
“So someone else picked up Nadia,” Corvu said.
“They were sitting at the table for two and a half hours. Mircea kept on ordering drinks. That’s a bit odd for an uncontrollable guy who’s in a hurry to get into bed with somebody,” Piccolo said. “Then he hits her because, he says, Nadia won’t have sex with him. He gets pissed off and leaves. Does that seem credible?”
“So you think Mircea wanted the waiter to remember he was there and then left? Why would he want to kill time like that?”
Balistreri had let his two deputies continue back and forth while a dark cloud was gathering in his mind. “In order to deliver the girl to someone else,” he said.
The two of them looked at him in surprise. They’d all but forgotten about him in the heat of the discussion.
“In order to deliver her to someone who took her to Bella Blu,” concluded Corvu logically. “But how did they knew about the disappearance of a lighter? It’s almost impossible.”
“It’s perfectly possible,” explained Piccolo. “I went to Bella Blu early this morning and talked to the cleaning woman. The private lounge runs like a hotel minibar and has to be refilled. She checks it every morning and makes a list of what needs to be replaced. And she clearly remembers that on the morning of December 24, a cigar and its lighter were gone. It’s written down on the stock sheet.”
“Who gets the stock sheet?” Balistreri asked.
“Pierre the bartender restocks the lounges. But anyone can get a look at the sheet.”
Silence. Each of the three was considering the consequences of this line of reasoning and coming to the same inevitable conclusion.
Someone had noticed the stock sheet. Someone who knew that the private lounge had been occupied the night before and knew Nadia might have taken the lighter. So Mircea and Greg were told to look for something, but not exactly what, because they couldn’t be allowed to know the whole story. And they couldn’t know about the Bella Blu.
Piccolo finally spoke. “Someone who didn’t want to run the risk of any link being found between Nadia and the Bella Blu.”
Corvu added, “Someone who knew that Nadia was already dead.”
Balistreri’s thoughts wandered darkly further back and further forward in time. Something had begun a great distance away and was slowly, but inexorably, coming closer.
. . . .
Linda Nardi was about to do something that her editor would not have encouraged and that Balistreri wouldn’t have approved.
She crossed the sunny center of the city on foot around noon. She came to the Trevi Fountain, which was packed with tourists. Graffiti covered the surrounding walls, and there were political posters pasted up all over. A small truck parked next to the fountain displayed a smiling face and the words Augusto De Rossi for Deputy Mayor next to an image of Casilino 900 and the words Only integration can stop the violence.
At the restaurant, she took a good look around. Nadia had left the place before midnight on December 23. According to what Balistreri had told her, the waiter had said she’d wrapped herself up in a raincoat that was too big for her and then waited outside for a bit. Did she not know where to go? It was possible, but the large sign of the Piazzale Flaminio subway station was visible a few yards to the right. Instead, after a while she’d gone toward Piazza del Popolo, where there were taxis, but no subway stop. Could she have taken a taxi?
Nardi stepped inside. An elderly waiter came up to her and she showed him her press card. “Are you Tommaso?”
She noticed the waiter’s gaze falling on her breasts and tried to suppress her annoyance.
“The police have already been here,” he said.
“I need you to try to remember something,” she said, handing him a fifty-euro note. He quickly tucked it into a pocket.
“What do you want to know?”
“I want you to tell me exactly what the girl did after the Romanian guy left.”
“How should I know? There were other people around. I was covering all the tables.”
“Can you remember for her sake?” Nardi asked gently.
“After that piece of shit had left, I thought she’d leave, too, but instead she went into the ladies’ room. When I saw her again she’d already gotten her raincoat from the coatroom and put it on.”
“Did she have a purse?”
“No, a small knapsack.”
“You don’t remember anything else?”
Tommaso looked at her with a half-smile. “You know, I think she’d changed. Her clothes, I mean. In the bathroom.”
“She changed her clothes? How could you tell if she was wearing the raincoat over them?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I just had that impression.”
“Do you remember what she was wearing when she came in?”
“Torn jeans.”
“All right. And on top?”
Tommaso thought for a moment, and then his face lit up. “That’s why I said she’d changed. When she came in she was wearing a big baggy turtleneck sweater.”
“And when she left?”
“Well, there was no turtleneck poking up out of the raincoat, and no jeans showing at the bottom. Also, before she went out she put on a pair of gloves, which seemed odd to me because it wasn’t cold that night.”
She’d changed into a low-cut shirt and a miniskirt to go to a nightclub. She was dressed for somebody’s pleasure.
Linda Nardi felt both better and angry when she left the restaurant. She looked toward Piazza del Popolo. That was where Nadia had gone that night. She’d gone to meet whoever was waiting for her.
Going out to meet her fate.
. . . .
Margherita appeared stood at in the doorway slightly out of breath. “Excuse me, but I have to take the afternoon off. May I?”
Balistreri could see she was nervous. “No problem, but would you slip downstairs and get us two coffees first, please? Make mine a decaf.”
“No coffee for me,” Corvu said. “I’ll have a grapefruit juice.”
Balistreri gave him a disgusted look. “Grapefruit juice? Before lunch? You’ll burn a hole in your stomach.”
“I’ve given up coffee,” he said firmly.
“All right, Margherita, a coffee and a disgusting grapefruit juice. Can you send Coppola and Mastroianni in and ask them what they want from downstairs as well?”
Coppola and Mastroianni listened closely to the latest.
“We should talk to Ramona again,” Mastroianni said.
“And Ornella Corona,” Coppola said.
“Mastroianni, arrange to get the Iordanescu girl back to Rome—we’ll pay her airfare. I’ll take care of Ornella Corona.”
“I don’t see why I can’t,” Coppola objected.
“Because you have to talk to the American tourist—Fred Cabot.”
Coppola didn’t like the idea of another conversation with the American and the linguistic humiliation that went with it.
“Cabot’s back in America by now,” he objected again.
“We’ve got his number. Call him up.”
Cursing silently, Coppola nodded.
“And there’s another thing I want to know from Carmen, the victim’s girlfriend. What kind of urinary infection did he have?”
They all looked at him in amazement.
“Captain, there’s no way I’m asking personal questions like that!”
“Very well, you can go and question those shepherds in prison,” Balistreri suggested.
Coppola said, “All right, I’ll get in touch with Cabot and go and talk to Carmen.”
“Good. Corvu and Piccolo will question the two shepherds, along with the public prosecutor.”
Corvu raised a hand. “We have authorization from the judge to get the names of ENT’s shareholders from the trust administrator now that there’s a direct link to the crime.”
Afternoon
Corvu was in a very good mood. It worried Balistreri to see him so happy and confident, as if his deputy’s reliability depended on insecurity. Falling in love might make him take his job less seriously.
They were early for the appointment, which was for two o’clock, so they mingled with the people swarming toward St. Peter’s Square, bought two slices of pizza, and made their way toward the great dome, which stood out against a sky that was finally blue after so much rain. Young Roma women with their children were chasing after the tourists. The citizens of Rome recognized them instantly and steered clear.
The main office of the ENT trust was on the third floor. There was a nameplate on the door, and a pale secretary led them into an imposing office.
A gentleman of a certain age, who introduced himself as Davide Trevi, was waiting for them. On his business card he was identified as CHIEF ADMINISTRATOR. The card provided a telephone number and an e-mail address, but no cell phone number.
“Naturally, gentlemen, we are willing to cooperate. If you’d like to explain what you need, within a few days I’m sure we can provide it.”
Corvu shook his head. “We need something very simple—just one thing. But we need it now.”
“As you can imagine, we have our protocol to follow.”
“Mr. Trevi,” Corvu said, “one of the nightclubs run by ENT is linked to a murder, possibly two murders. We need to know the names of the shareholders.”
“I understand, but you are aware that we have the right to see any official request before supplying the documents requested. With all due speed, of course.”
Balistreri stood up and went to collect his raincoat from the hallstand.
This shit is accustomed to all kinds of problems and to resisting them, procrastinating. We won’t get anything in the normal way.
“You say that you need some time, Mr. Trevi. Very well, please take it. However, these two murders could be linked to a previous one and the sequence could well be followed by another.”
Alarmed, Corvu shot him a glance of strong disapproval.
“Captain Balistreri means to say that we can’t exclude the risk of a recurrence.”
“I mean to say,” Balistreri said, interrupting Corvu sharply and staring into Trevi’s eyes, “that if by any chance there is another victim and we ascertain any link whatsoever with ENT, then we will rigorously check how you used the intervening time.”
Like Pasquali, Trevi was used to weighing the pros and cons. Unlocking a drawer, he took out a gray file with ENT written on the spine and drew out a sheet of the trust’s white letterhead.
“This is our authorization to act as agent,” he explained. “There’s only one shareholder who’s entrusted us with ninety percent of the ENT shares. The authorization is tacitly renewed every year in the absence of a written order rescinding it.”
“And who is this shareholder?” Corvu asked.
Trevi allowed himself a little smile. “ENT Middle East, a company registered in the Dubai Free Zone, United Arab Emirates.”
Balistreri and Corvu looked at each other, stunned. “But there must be a name on the authorization,” Corvu insisted.
“The ENT Middle East administrator is Nabil Belhrouz, a Lebanese man. Here is his contact information in the Emirates.”
“His address is a post office box,” Corvu protested.
“That’s how they do it over there, but there is the name of the company’s sponsor, Free Zone Media City. We have the address for that.”
“And how often are you in touch with Mr. Belhrouz?”
“I’ve never seen him or spoken to him,” Trevi said. Then, seeing their faces, he added, “That’s actually very common. Trusts are employed by people who don’t want to be known. No client comes here to us. Mr. Belhrouz’s signature was obtained by an Italian notary who has a counterpart in Dubai.”
They made a photocopy and left his office. As they passed by the secretary’s desk, Balistreri saw the light for Trevi’s external phone go on.
. . . .
Linda Nardi was walking in the cold air of the early afternoon, lost in her thoughts. The lives of these women meant nothing to anyone. She knew this scenario very well. The politicians never gave a damn about any Italian deaths, let alone a Romanian prostitute. And the police cared even less.
And Balistreri, an ex-Fascist now working for justice? Can I trust him?
Graffiti was beginning to appear on the walls saying ROMANIAN MURDERERS, ROMA GO HOME, LET’S BURN THE TRAVELERS’ CAMPS. No distinction between the Roma and the Romanians. Rather, the fact that the victim was Romanian and the presumed murderer a Roma gypsy only served to link them in people’s opinion. And the political party posters had already leaped into the argument, milder in tone but the same in substance. The opposition laid all the blame on the city council and promised they would dismantle the camps as soon as they were in power. The mayor’s party underlined what had already been done and what would soon be done. Faces and names of senators, MPs, city assessors—all had something to promise. The electoral implication of these circumstances was a juicy bone for some, a bitter pill for others. No doubt there were those among the politicians who were hoping cynically for another Samantha Rossi.
At the newspaper offices, Linda learned there would be an important city council meeting the following day. For the first time, a majority was prepared to vote to move the camps outside of Rome immediately. If the mayor and the council wanted to avoid an electoral massacre, they had no choice but to go along with it.
She was now about to do something that both her editor and Balistreri would not only have disapproved of, but forcefully deplored. She was prepared, having brought along something to use as a weapon, but it was still a dangerous business. This was a part of her she knew well, ever since she was a girl asking her mother questions she couldn’t answer.
Linda demands the truth, even when it could do a great deal of harm.
The Marius Travel office was closed for lunch. Behind the glass door she could see two young men, who had to be Mircea and Greg, eating sandwiches and drinking beer. Two ordinary employees. No one would have thought they were exploitative pimps or perhaps worse.
When she knocked on the door, the taller of the two glanced at her, sizing her up. She smiled winningly.
Mircea opened the door, then locked it behind himself after he’d let her in. They looked at her with condescension.
“Actually, we’re closed,” Greg said, “but for you we’ll make an exception.”
Linda flashed her press card. “I’d like to speak to Mircea.”
They stiffened a little, but then Mircea snickered and signaled to her to take a seat in front of the desk at the back of the room. Linda was aware they couldn’t be seen from outside, but there was nothing else she could do. Mircea sat opposite her and Greg at her side, blocking any escape route. She saw the key was no longer in the lock.
“What is it?”
“I’d like to ask about your dinner with Nadia on December 23,” Linda said calmly. She was not afraid.
“What will I get if I talk?” Mircea asked, staring at her breasts.
“If you provide useful information, I’ll give you a present.”
“What kind of present? Money?”
After a huge effort, she managed to give that smile again.
“All right then,” said Mircea. “It’s very simple. Me and Nadia went there on the Metro, about nine. We ate, argued, I left there and called Greg, who was nearby in an arcade. We took the Metro and were at the Bar Biliardo by midnight. You can ask the Albanian bartender and the other girl, Ramona, who were there.”
“What were you arguing about?”
He looked at her in a provocative manner. “Nadia had said she was tired and that I’d promised her a night off. So she didn’t want to have sex. And I don’t waste my time with women who don’t want to have sex.”
“Why did you take her out to dinner then?” Her tone was polite, understanding, as if she were speaking to a child who had confessed to eating chocolate in secret. She knew Mircea was only voicing what most men thought.
“If I’d known I wouldn’t have wasted my time and my money.”
“So if you hadn’t known she wasn’t willing to have sex with you, you would have skipped dinner and taken her straight to Piazza del Popolo at eleven thirty.” She said it softly; she knew she was courting danger.
Mircea hesitated and glanced at Greg. His chair squeaked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mircea said at last.
“Are you familiar with a nightclub called Bella Blu?”
Mircea’s face relaxed and he looked relieved. “Never heard of it,” he said.
“Okay, tell me about Cristal. You know that club, right?”
“Yes,” Mircea replied. “Greg and I go there once in a while.”
“Some beautiful pieces of ass there, like you,” Greg said with a wink.
“You took Ramona there,” Linda said to Mircea. She could feel the danger clearly as she got close to the crucial area, but she had to press on. She tried not to look at the door and confined herself to taking out her cell phone with its send message ready and pressing it as she transferred it from her bag to her pocket.
“Maybe. I don’t remember.” Mircea gave her a threatening look; Greg was so close to her that he was almost on top of her.
“You had to introduce her to a policeman, Colajacono, and he had to introduce her to someone else,” Linda said.
Greg was on his feet. He walked over to the glass door and drew the blinds.
“Does Marius Hagi know about Cristal and Bella Blu?” she asked, looking Mircea straight in the eye.
Mircea grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. “Fuck you, bitch.”
She stared back at him. “Let go of me,” she said flatly, and he did.
Quickly, she reached into her bag and aimed a can of pepper spray at Mircea. She pressed the button, and sprayed it in his eyes. As Mircea staggered back screaming, someone began knocking energetically on the glass door.
“Who the fuck’s knocking like that? Fucking . . .” swore Greg, pulling back the blind.
He instantly recognized the mountain of muscle with the pistol in her hand and jumped back a step. He still remembered the blow she had landed on his solar plexus. He pulled out the key, quietly opened the door, and let Linda Nardi go over to Giulia Piccolo’s side.
. . . .
While they were walking back to the office after the visit to the trust administrator, Corvu called Media City in the Arab Emirates on his cell phone. He got Belhrouz’s number and asked to be put through to him. Not only did Belhrouz answer his phone, but he spoke surprisingly good Italian and said that it would be no problem to meet them in Dubai the following day.
Soon after, Corvu’s cell phone rang. He lowered his voice as he answered. “Yes, of course, but I can’t take you to the amusement park tonight. I’ll see you later.”
“Was that your niece?” Balistreri asked sarcastically. Corvu blushed and said nothing.
Balistreri stopped in front of a shop window to tie his shoelace. “You’ve got a good memory for faces, right, Corvu?”
“Of course. I never forget a name or a face.”
“Then take a look.”
Corvu looked in the direction indicated by Balistreri and was appalled to find himself staring into a window display of sexy lingerie. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Check out the reflection,” Balistreri said, turning to the other shoe. “Across the street, next to the lamppost.”
Corvu stiffened. “The guy with the newspaper?”
“Yes.”
“He was outside the pizza place when we bought two slices.”
Balistreri nodded and set off at a brisk pace.
“Coppola had a feeling he was being followed when he visited Ornella Corona,” Corvu recalled. Plus there was that gray sedan Balistreri seen outside Bella Blu, but he didn’t mention that.
And I saw a gray saloon outside Bella Blu. And other little things . . .
“All right, let’s leave it there,” he said. “You head back to the office.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I’ll see you there later. I have to go see Pasquali and explain why we’re going to Dubai. But first I have to make the acquaintance of an attractive woman.”
. . . .
Bottom, one-hundred-percent. A woman who’d let you do anything you wanted while she filed her nails and then, when you’re finished, she’d start to polish them.
One glance at Ornella Corona was enough to confirm for Balistreri that Coppola was infallible reader of people.
Her dark black hair, smooth and shiny, was gathered in a ponytail that fell to her hips. Her distant and bored eyes regarded him without curiosity. The watch with the eye and eyelashes winked from her slender wrist.
“Are you sure you’re the famous Michele Balistreri? You don’t look like a supercop.” She wasn’t the least bit sarcastic.
“Shall I show you my badge?”
“I believe you. You just don’t look like a hard-boiled detective, or a character out of one of those British mystery novels.”
“You were expecting someone with a pipe and mustache?”
Instead you get someone who looks like a retired punch-drunk boxer.
Ornella Corona smiled and Balistreri could easily imagine how many men she had knocked out with a smile like that. It wasn’t a real smile, more like “I’ll let you play with me awhile if you like, but when I get bored, you’ll be dismissed.”
She moved like a former model when she brought him something to drink and when she bent down to sit on the large sofa, folding her long legs sheathed in leggings beneath her. She wore no bra under the baggy cotton shirt.
“You can smoke if you like, Captain Balistreri.”
“Do you smoke?”
“That’s one bad habit I don’t have, but I don’t mind the bad habits of others.”
All right. Let’s play. Just for a while.
He could smell nail polish in the air, and the fingernails on the middle finger, index finger, and thumb of her left hand were painted dark purple. “I interrupted your manicure,” he said.
Ornella Corona didn’t even look at her hands. She said, “Every couple of weeks I change the color, but I only paint some of my nails.”
“I see that,” he said, indicating her left hand with his chin.
“I’m left-handed,” she said, holding up her hand, “so I use these three fingers for creative things. Holding a paintbrush or a pen.”
Balistreri tore his gaze away. He wondered what he would have done at one time with a woman like Ornella Corona and her three purple fingernails. Various hypothetical activities came to mind, none of which attracted him at that moment.
I’ve become a sinner in thought and omission. How sick . . .
She was going on in the same tone. “That man of yours who came to pay a visit, the little one.”
“Detective Coppola.”
“Yes. He asked an awful lot of irreverent questions.”
Damned maniac . . .
“My apologies for him. Sometimes when he sees a beautiful woman, Detective Coppola sometimes—acts less than professional.”
She laughed. “Silly me. I meant to say ‘irrelevant.’ I get all mixed up sometimes.”
Balistreri said, “I have a question for you that I’m pretty sure he didn’t ask.”
“Is it relevant or irreverent?”
“Relevant. We now have reason to believe that it was no accident that the crime took place at Bella Blu. And therefore any questions regarding Bella Blu are relevant.”
“But I haven’t been there in ages,” she protested, suddenly serious.
“Not since you sold your ENT shares to Mr. Ajello?”
“Even before that, even when my husband was still alive. I can’t stand that place.”
Ornella Corona stood up. She walked gracefully to the bar cart and poured a glass of grapefruit juice with her back to him. The leggings fit her toned backside like a glove.
You have to turn around. I want to see your face, not your behind, when I put the question to you.
She sat down again, and she leaned forward toward Balistreri. The baggy shirt sank lower, and he was offered a clear view of the sight that must have tortured Sandro Corona and plenty of other men.
“Did you already know Ajello before your husband died?”
“Yes,” she replied immediately. Then, after a short pause, she added, “That is, I knew Fabio Ajello, the lawyer’s son. We took spinning classes together at the Sport Center.”
Balistreri nodded. “You met Fabio Ajello through his father, I imagine.”
“No, the opposite. It was Fabio who introduced me to his father when he came to lunch at the Sport Center.”
“How old is Fabio?” Balistreri asked. Immediately he regretted the question. He’d given her the reaction she wanted.
Now she’s laughing at me. An old fool who’s thinking the unthinkable. And she’s amusing herself by having me think it.
“Nineteen, or so. He finished high school a year late and is still trying to decide which university course he should take. He’s not a minor—I’m sure of that,” she finished, giving him with the most innocent look in the world.
He had one more chance.
“How long have you been going to the Sport Center?”
“Five years.”
“And Fabio Ajello?”
A slight hesitation. To lie or not to lie. She decided not to. The gym would have log books, of course.
“He’s a member of the water polo team. I think he’s been on the team since he was a little kid.”
“How did you get to know a little kid when you were a young married woman?”
“I knew his mother, Mrs. Ajello, and I met Fabio through her. Then Fabio grew up and gave me swimming lessons. Then one day he introduced me to his father.”
“The father who some years later acquired your husband’s ENT shares.”
She remained silent. That was her way. Evasiveness instead of a lie—only a few privileged people can allow themselves to do this in a relationship where the powers are unequal. Balistreri imagined the good soul of Sandro Corona in this woman’s grip and felt sorry for him.
“Ajello’s been in the business a long time. Was he the one who got your husband involved with ENT in the first place?”
He cursed himself straight away. His best card, the only ace left in the pack, played far too soon. And all because of male solidarity with a dead man he’d never met.
Morally done in by this siren. Perhaps physically as well.
Ornella Corona was no longer smiling. She was considering her options. She could have told him to get lost, but she was too clever to fall into that trap. One was obvious. She could say “It’s none of your business, Captain Balistreri. What’s all this got to do with Camarà?”
Naturally she was too clever to make a mistake like that. So she chose her usual tactic, evasiveness. Finally she said, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
She wasn’t confirming she’d known Ajello before 2002, nor that she had introduced her husband to him. She hadn’t confirmed it was Ajello who had introduced Sandro Corona to ENT. Nor had she confirmed it was Ajello who had suggested the life insurance policy that had allowed her to buy the very nice apartment where they were sitting.
Her answer neither denied nor confirmed anything. He could now ask more detailed questions, go deeper, dig further, back her into a corner. She knew this, so she was cannily showing him her breasts. And he was looking at them, though he was thinking of Linda Nardi and the vertical crease that etched her forehead each time he let his gaze wander in that direction.
She got up unsteadily. “My head’s spinning, Captain. I’m going to lie down in my bedroom. You can come in and talk to me there if you like.”
He followed her. He had a good idea of what the room would look like. A large circular bed, an enormous mirror in front of it. Back in the day he would have handcuffed her in front of the mirror, taken her leggings down to her knees, and thrashed her with his belt until he drew blood. Which was what she wanted.
He stopped on the threshold.
“I’ll let you rest, Mrs. Corona. Please don’t bother to see me out.”
Ornella Corona was only a fork in a road that started from very far away. And only when he was outside once again and saw the posters with the face of the deputy mayor, Augusto De Rossi, preaching the words Only integration can stop the violence did he feel certain of it. The man with the newspaper who was leaning against a traffic light and calmly smoking a cigarette was watching him.
. . . .
“They’re all in there questioning the shepherd. The public prosecutor is in there and so is his lawyer,” Margherita said.
A flower sat in half a glass of water on her desk.
“All right. And Mastroianni made the travel arrangements for Ramona?”
“He’s come to an agreement with the Romanian police and Iordanescu. She’s flying back to Italy and should arrive the day after tomorrow.”
“Any news from Coppola?”
“Detective Coppola’s also in there for the questioning. He hasn’t managed to track down the American tourist.”
“And what about Carmen, Camarà’s girlfriend? Has he found her?”
“He already sent you a report by e-mail.”
When he was alone, he lit a cigarette and opened Coppola’s e-mail. Subject: Camarà’s urinary tract infection. After several requests, I received a copy of the file from the doctor who treated him. Symptoms: itching, burning, swelling, urgent and frequent micturition. Diagnosis: acute prostate inflammation. Therapy: systemic and local antibiotics. P.S. A friend of mine who specializes in men’s health says urinary tract infections are common among men who practice unprotected anal intercourse. Black people’s poor hygiene makes them more susceptible.
Presumably, the racist comment came from Coppola, not the specialist. But Balistreri was starting to connect the dots. Camarà’s infection and his subsequent increased urge to urinate and Nadia’s small theft had upset the murderer’s plans.
He called in Corvu and Piccolo. “Let Coppola and Mastroianni finish questioning Vasile.”
He read them Coppola’s e-mail.
“I don’t see what that has to do with it, sir. We already have the lighter to link Nadia to Bella Blu,” Corvu said.
“Exactly, but the lighter doesn’t link Nadia to Camarà. Why was he killed?”
As usual, Piccolo was faster. “Because he saw Nadia that night.”
“I don’t think so,” Corvu said. “Nadia entered the private lounge directly from the back alley.”
Balistreri said, “True, but Nadia saw Camarà when he went to pay an urgent visit to the bathroom, just as Nadia was coming in from the back alley. The doors are all along that same hallway. Unfortunately for Camarà, Nadia wasn’t alone. Someone else saw him.”
“But why? It doesn’t hold up,” Corvu protested. “You don’t commit a murder for something like that,” Corvu protested.
Giulia Piccolo got it. She said, “Unless the bastard knew he was going to murder Nadia the following day.”
Keep your cool now, girl. With prejudices and a hot head you only make grave errors.
There was another point that needed immediate clarification. The most dangerous connection. All three went into the interrogation room. After greeting the public prosecutor and the appointed defense lawyer, Balistreri noted the plaster cast on the wrist Colajacono had crushed. He asked the prosecutor for permission to ask a question and turned to Vasile.
“When they brought the Giulia GT back to you, was it any different apart from the broken headlight?” he asked.
“No,” murmured the shepherd.
“Did it smell any different?”
“Smelled of cigarettes more than usual. I smoke, but not very much.”
“Were there any cigarette butts?”
Vasile shook his head.
“I figured,” Balistreri said, “because smoke doesn’t yield DNA results, but cigarette butts do.”
Corvu swore in Sardinian. Balistreri said to the public prosecutor and the lawyer, “Please excuse the interruption.”
His deputies followed him back to his office.
“I can’t believe I overlooked that,” Corvu said.
Balistreri could believe it all too well. Natalya was affecting Corvu’s concentration. He felt sorry for Corvu, but he had to tell them. “One of the three Roma said the Invisible Man was smoking while they were raping Samantha Rossi.”
Corvu and Piccolo looked shocked.
“You don’t think it’s the same killer, do you?” Corvu asked.
The three folders were still on his desk: Samantha Rossi, Nadia X, Marius Hagi.
We’re only at the start of the game. These are only the first three cards on the table. The decisive ones are yet to be revealed.
Evening
Balistreri decided not to bother Pasquali. He was afraid that a wrong move might lead to cancellation of the Dubai trip. So he didn’t tell him that he suspected he was being followed, and he didn’t mention the links between the murders of Samantha Rossi and Nadia. The Bella Blu lighter, however, was enough to justify the short visit.
Antonella greeted him with a decaf and made a slight fuss over him, as a sister would over her unruly brother.
“You look tired, Michele. You should get some rest,” she said.
She ushered him into the less well-appointed meeting room. That meant Floris wasn’t coming. Pasquali, even more impeccably dressed than usual, rushed in a minute later. His hair was fresh from the barber and he wore a new made-to-order suit. He shot a slightly disapproving glance at the sleeve of Balistreri’s jacket. If he knew that breaking into the cellars of an apartment building under investigation had caused the tear his disapproval would have been more evident.
“I know you and Corvu are leaving tonight for Dubai,” he began. Of course, all requests of this nature passed across his desk, even if Balistreri had his own independent budget.
Balistreri explained the link between Nadia, Bella Blu, and ENT, including the outcome of the visit to the trust administrator. He had to give credit where credit was due: Pasquali was an excellent listener and asked pertinent questions.
“Where does ENT fit in with Nadia and Camarà?” he asked.
“Camarà was killed there—at the time that was all we knew. But Nadia was in the private lounge the night before they kidnapped her. We can’t exclude the possibility that she might have been with one of the ENT shareholders. If we don’t investigate we may miss an important lead.”
“Isn’t there a less costly method for finding out the names of the shareholders?”
“It would appear not. Corona’s dead. Ajello says he’s never met them and his only contact is with Trevi, who deals only with the Lebanese lawyer, Belhrouz. Mrs. Corona once spoke with one of them on the telephone, but she didn’t know who it was.”
Pasquali stared at him. “Do you really think there’s a link between the murders of Nadia and Camarà?”
It’s no use, he’s too sharp.
Balistreri knew how slippery the ground was, but under those inquisitive eyes he had to answer truthfully. Pasquali would catch on to any possible lies immediately.
“Perhaps Camarà unwittingly saw the person who was planning to kill Nadia.”
Pasquali fiddled with his glasses while he weighed his reply. “And after a few hours, this person dressed up as a motorcyclist, faked an argument, and then killed him.”
“Not exactly,” Balistreri said.
“I don’t follow,” Pasquali said.
“Let’s say that this character, let’s even call him the murderer, already intended to kill Nadia out of some sadistic sexual compulsion. But at that moment he hadn’t killed anyone yet. Does it seem logical to you for him to improvise something so complicated in order to protect himself against a crime he hadn’t committed yet? And what crime? Killing a Romanian prostitute? He could have just killed a different one three days later.”
You’re an idiot, Balistreri. Pasquali’s managed to get you to reveal your innermost thoughts. And now you can see something in his eyes you don’t understand.
He immediately backtracked. “Naturally, there are more plausible explanations. This character wanted to kill Nadia specifically, her alone. Perhaps he was a stalker.”
Pasquali peered at him from behind his glasses.
Okay, we both know this is bullshit. I’m asking for a truce. Let me have it and let me check things out in Dubai. Pretend you believe me and let’s postpone the Samantha Rossi problem.
Pasquali stole a glance at his expensive Piaget. That meant the truce was granted.
“One last thing,” he said, stopping Balistreri before he could leave. “Linda Nardi.”
Since Balistreri was a boy he had learned how to sniff out real danger, so he said nothing.
Pasquali wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring at the computer screen. “A very intelligent woman. Dangerous for us and for you. Be very careful, Balistreri, and keep as far away from her as you can.”
. . . .
Angelo offered to take him to the airport for the night flight to Dubai. He was both cheerful and thoughtful at the same time.
“Michele, you’re not upset that I’m seeing Margherita, are you?”
“Not at all, Angelo. I’ve already fucked her up, down, and sideways. Your turn.”
Angelo’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Then he burst out laughing and playfully punched Balistreri.
“Lying bastard. Margherita wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth.”
“If I’d wanted to, she’d have let me. But I’m no longer interested in cradle-snatching.”
“No, I’d say Linda Nardi is just about your age.”
Balistreri was taken aback. “How the hell do you know about Linda Nardi?”
“Graziano told me. It slipped out—don’t be mad at him.”
“I’ll kick that guy so hard he’ll land back in Sardinia with his goats. Corvu’s in love, and he’s lost his mind. The usual story.”
“He thinks of you as a father figure. He wants you to be happy. We all do. And he says Linda Nardi is just your type.”
Balistreri interrupted him with a threatening gesture. “You can stop all this bullshit. The Nardi woman’s an arrogant and presumptuous shit—lesbian or frigid, I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I wouldn’t touch her, not even—”
Dioguardi burst out laughing.
“What the fuck are you laughing at, Angelo?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never heard you talk like that about a beautiful woman before. This must be serious.”