Morning
MONSIGNOR LATO HAD BEEN told to expect the phone call. He had a warm voice and spoke Italian with a Roman accent.
“I read about your misfortune, Captain Balistreri. I hope you’re fully healed.”
“Thank you. I’m fine. I’m sorry to bother you, and to make you talk about something painful that happened a long time ago.”
There was a brief pause at the other end of the line. Then he said, “Yes, I read in the papers that the men who shot you worked for Mr. Marius Hagi.”
“They did,” confirmed Balistreri. “But I assume you’ve also read that it’s been proved that Hagi had nothing to do not only with that night’s events, but also all his employees’ illegal activities.”
“Yes, and I’m not surprised.” He heard a touch of sarcasm in Monsignor Lato’s voice.
“You’ve known Hagi for almost thirty years,” Balistreri said.
“Since 1978. That’s when I saw him with Alina for the first time.”
“Alina was your niece?”
“The only child of my sister, who died the year before that in an airplane accident with her husband. I took Alina with me to Krakow and helped her continue her schooling. That’s when she began working with orphans. Alina was sixteen, but she was as mature as any adult. Unfortunately, she could also be very single-minded about things.”
“Do you mean about Marius Hagi?”
The monsignor’s voice grew bitter. “Alina had a very strict Catholic upbringing and a genuine vocation to help others. And she got it into her head that young Marius was a victim she’d saved from perdition.”
“Did you try to convince her otherwise?”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t understand the risk he posed right away. At first, they were just friends. Alina involved Marius in her work, and he really did seem like a lost soul. Then I was transferred to Rome after the election of Pope John Paul II. Alina and Marius came to tell me they were getting married. He wasn’t the talkative type, but he was smart—maybe too smart. I could see in his eyes that the violence he had suffered had left its mark. But I couldn’t stop the marriage. So I insisted they come to Rome with me. I wanted to keep an eye on the situation. Contrary to what I expected, Hagi accepted this idea enthusiastically. I even performed the marriage.”
“And in Rome . . .”
“In Rome everything went well at first. Through Cardinal Alessandrini, I found a job for Alina at the San Valente orphanage. She adored the work, even though it paid very little. The orphanage had barely any funding at the time. After a short time, Marius started his own businesses—travel agencies, bars, restaurants. It was quite an achievement for a Romanian immigrant with no education, especially one who was so young. Whatever Marius touched turned to gold. They bought a house near the Colosseum. They had hundreds of friends.”
“Alina was happy?”
“Yes, and very proud of Marius. And the orphanage was a focal point for everyone. It lasted almost three years. Then, I don’t know exactly when, things changed. I used to see Alina and Marius every Sunday for the Angelus in St. Peter’s Square. One Sunday she arrived by herself, and from then on Marius never came with her again. At first, Alina said he was busy with work, and after that she didn’t say anything. I saw she was beginning to look unhappy and rundown. I tried to speak to her about what was going on, but I could see she didn’t want to share her feelings. This went on for months; I didn’t see Marius again until Christmas 1982, when there was a huge party in the parish. Marius came with dozens of presents for the children. I remember looking at Alina, hoping to see the old pride she’d once felt for Marius, but I saw only pain on her face. I cornered him and asked him if everything was all right.”
“And what did he say?”
“He told me that both he and Alina had taken vows on the day they were married in church and they would never break them. I got the feeling Alina was his prisoner. I also got the feeling that she was suffering deeply.”
“After Alina’s death you lodged a complaint against Marius Hagi.”
Monsignor Lato sighed. “It wasn’t a real complaint, more of a statement. The circumstances of the accident were never in doubt—there were many witnesses. But it was clear Alina was running away. She died trying to escape from Marius Hagi.”
“Did you have proof?”
“Indirectly. Alina was friends with several of the young women who worked at the orphanage with her. She was very close to one in particular. At Alina’s funeral, this young woman was really upset. I took her out for coffee after the service, and she told me that a few days earlier she had walked in on Alina in the orphanage bathroom and found her applying ointment to her badly bruised arms. She asked her who had done that to her and Alina refused to tell her.”
“But this friend thought it was Hagi?”
“Who else? If it had been anyone else Alina would have told her.”
“The statement was withdrawn soon after.”
Now Monsignor Lato’s voice was full of bitterness. “I couldn’t ask the young woman to testify. Who knows what could have happened to her? Besides, Alina was dead.”
“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you, Monsignor, and that is the name of the young woman in question, your niece’s friend.”
“I don’t think I ever knew her name, but even if I did I wouldn’t remember it. This all happened such a long time ago.”
“You have to help me, Monsignor. This tiny thread from the past is important. I have to know what took place between Alina and her husband.”
“In order to do what, Captain Balistreri?”
Just like Alessandrini. The final judgment is reserved for God.
“My business is earthly justice, Monsignor, not divine. If you don’t know her name, at least describe her. Then I can ask someone who was around at the time. I’ll track her down one way or another.”
Monsignor Lato gave a bitter little laugh. “I can do better than that. One day Alina and her friend asked me to take a photo of them.”
Balistreri held his breath.
“I have a copy on my nightstand. I imagine that would be more helpful than a description.”
“Monsignor, I don’t know how to thank you. Do you happen to know what a scanner is?”
“Even the divine use technology, Captain. I’ll scan the photo and e-mail it to you in a few minutes.”
He spent those few minutes thinking about Linda Nardi.
You directed me toward Alina Hagi. What comes next?
He had the reply in minutes. A beep announced Monsignor Lato’s e-mail. The photo was sharp. Two smiling girls were looking at the lens: Alina Hagi and Samantha Rossi.
. . . .
They met in Pasquali’s office at mid-morning. As a child, Pasquali had learned—from his father and his Christian Democrat friends—to put off, to water down, and to soften things. He did so with a smile on his lips and rage in his heart, and with the consummate skill of an actor.
He adjusted his glasses and studied the photo Balistreri was showing him. “Yes, a remarkable resemblance,” he said.
He added nothing further and waited to hear what Balistreri had to say. The head of the special team was holding out a photo that had appeared in the papers the year before at the time of Samantha’s murder. It was of her mother, Anna, rigid with grief, as she walked behind her daughter’s casket.
Pasquali said, “That could be Samantha’s mother as a young woman, but it would be a remarkable coincidence.”
“You find it a remarkable coincidence? Back in 1982 the wife of Marius Hagi, a man involved in two murders in 2005, was friends with the mother of one of the two victims, Samantha Rossi, and you think that’s a coincidence?”
Pasquali assumed his most patient manner. “Keep in mind that Hagi hasn’t officially been implicated in a murder. There’s nothing linking him to the murder of Samantha Rossi.”
“Unless he’s the Invisible Man,” Balistreri said, hoping to provoke a reaction.
Pasquali would not allow himself to be troubled, even by this. “The Invisible Man, as you call him, is so invisible that he’s only been described by guilty parties attempting to shed themselves of part of the burden.”
If I told you about the voice that announced Colajacono’s death, would you say I was delirious?
“All right, but I’m going to speak to Samantha Rossi’s parents.”
“Fine,” Pasquali said.
“And I want to question the three Roma who are in jail for Samantha Rossi’s murder.”
Pasquali pursed his lips. “The public prosecutor’s office will want to know why.”
“Because of the link with Nadia. It’s a new lead.”
“Link?” Pasquali didn’t want to take the R and the E into consideration. “There is no link.”
“There’s another thing,” Balistreri said.
Pasquali stiffened. He had a sixth sense for serious problems. Balistreri told him about the motocross bike at Bella Blu and the one in Adrian’s possession.
Pasquali listened in silence. “So?” he asked coldly when Balistreri had finished.
“So, it could be the same bike.”
“Or they could be two of the hundreds of motocross bikes circulating in Rome.”
“I don’t often see motocross bikes in the center of Rome or riding down the Via Veneto where the nightclubs are.”
“But you do sometimes see one, Balistreri. And as a good cop you know that’s enough.”
As usual, the change to his surname was a clear message: that was enough. But it wasn’t.
“Colajacono was at Bella Blu on December 23, the night Nadia went there and the night Camarà died.”
Long moments of silence passed in which the things unsaid weighed as heavily as those said openly.
“I have something to say to you,” Pasquali said at last.
Balistreri waited expectantly. He had a feeling he knew what it was going to be.
“I know you’ve gotten very close with Linda Nardi in recent months. I suppose you saw the little article that was published January 5.”
Balistreri looked implacably at the paper Pasquali pushed toward him: IF A POLICEMAN DIES.
“Yes, I read it months later.”
There was no need to tell him everything.
“And what did you think of it?”
“A remarkable coincidence,” Balistreri suggested maliciously.
From the look Pasquali directed toward the stone angel on the balcony, Balistreri realized that his patience was wearing thin.
“If you read this piece in the light of what happened, doesn’t it seem more like a warning than a theory?” Pasquali asked, shifting his gaze to Balistreri.
“If it was a warning it went completely unheeded.”
“Who do you think was being warned?” Pasquali asked, staring directly at him.
Balistreri was aware of the danger, but he was no longer disposed to be cautious. It was as if his brush with death on the hill, Coppola’s death, and Giovanna Sordi’s suicide were dragging him back to his true nature, the one that the weight of remorse and time had crushed.
“Let’s say, as a hypothesis, that the article was meant for whoever ordered the ambush on Colajacono and Tatò, except that it came outside the time limit,” Balistreri replied.
Pasquali looked like a corpse. “Ambush? But if all the reconstructions say that Colajacono and Tatò decided to go to Vasile’s farmhouse to find more proof and by chance bumped into the four Romanians that were there to make them disappear?”
“What if Colajacono and Tatò were two accomplices who had become inconvenient? They could have been lured there by one of their informants who wanted the four Romanians to kill them,” Balistreri countered.
Pasquali gave him an icy look. “Did you dictate the article to Nardi?”
Balistreri feared what might happen to Linda if Pasquali thought it had been her idea.
“I suggested the idea for the article, yes.”
Not a muscle moved in Pasquali’s face. He was waiting for an explanation.
“I didn’t explain the reasons behind my suspicions. She agreed to publish it in exchange for a future exclusive.”
Pasquali picked up the telephone and spoke to Antonella. “Could you make me a cup of herbal tea, the one for an acid stomach, please?”
“I suppose you’d prefer something stronger,” he said to Balistreri, pointing to the bar.
“When I was recovering I stopped drinking before dinnertime. If Antonella could bring me some tea, I’d appreciate it.”
Pasquali called Antonella and asked her for another cup of tea.
It was as if Balistreri’s confession had calmed their souls. Showing the weaknesses of their respective stomachs created a reciprocal act of trust, no matter how minimal. Two policemen who suffered from heartburn and fear.
“Colajacono was involved because he was useful, and then he became a scapegoat. But Coppola’s unexpected appearance on the hill, and then mine, turned him into a hero,” Balistreri explained.
“I can accept the first part,” Pasquali conceded. “Someone got Colajacono involved because of someone. This someone wanted to be certain someone on his side would be inside the police station to greet Ramona if she went to report Nadia missing.”
“Pasquali, here’s what’s really bothering me: the day I stopped by the station and confronted Colajacono, he was totally calm, even when I accused him of having taken Marchese and Cutugno’s shift so he could delay Ramona’s report. No reaction—he was imperturbable. But then I said something to him.”
The two cups of steaming liquid arrived. Pasquali gestured to him to stop. “Let me have a sip of this herbal tea to settle my stomach before you tell me what you said to him. In fact, wait a second while I drink it, and I’ll tell you myself.”
He sipped at the herbal tea, then took off his glasses and massaged his temples. “You told him about Vasile’s wrist.”
You’re a damned bastard, but you’ve got a great brain.
“When I told Colajacono about Vasile’s sprained wrist, he shook with fear. He suddenly realized they were framing him. He had no alibi for the hour between six and seven, the hour in which they kidnapped Nadia, probably because someone had sent him somewhere else. He had only Tatò, who they suggested to him as company for the night precisely because he couldn’t give a credible alibi. And he certainly didn’t know that Nadia would end up dead. He must have thought it was another politician being blackmailed, just like the deputy mayor, De Rossi, had been blackmailed.”
“You think they ambushed him on purpose?” Pasquali was shocked.
“Yes. First they told him Nadia was going to perform a little service for a politician. Then they told him that shepherd got drunk and killed her. They gave him enough information to track down Vasile, so he’d look good in the end. He was happy. But suddenly he realized that it hadn’t been the shepherd. He knew very well who it was, but he also knew that he risked being framed himself. He’d already been forced to be seen with Ramona at the Cristal to blackmail Augusto De Rossi. Now we also know that they’d deliberately called him to the Bella Blu on December 23 when Nadia was there. You can imagine how Colajacono must have felt. They’d pulled the rug out from under him.”
Pasquali frowned. “And you surmise that he turned on those who were giving the orders and they decided to silence him. Linda Nardi’s article was supposed to help avert this situation, but there wasn’t enough time. But you easily could have avoided telling Colajacono about Vasile’s wrist.”
Three policemen, including Coppola, are dead because I wanted to punish Colajacono for stripping Linda.
“They’d told Colajacono that all he had to do was stop the police from searching for Nadia for those two or three days when she would be used to blackmail a politician. I discovered his game and he called somebody. They arranged to meet him at the farmhouse to calm him and Tatò down. But he got there before the appointed time to look for evidence that would put the blame on someone else.”
“Meaning what?” Pasquali looked pale, and his pallor worried Balistreri.
“Forensics found no tracks on the dirt road to Vasile’s farmhouse except for those of the Giulia GT and the cars driven by Colajacono and Piccolo.”
“So I read. Another reason for ruling out the Invisible Man. How would he have gotten away from there? Did he fly?”
“He could have walked down the hill, though it was dark and cold. But there was also the hill to climb to get to the Giulia GT. I agree it’s too complicated.”
“Therefore no Invisible Man—a mere invention of Vasile.”
“So, if we count out Vasile because of his sprained wrist, who killed Nadia?”
“The other shepherd, his accomplice in the burglaries,” Pasquali replied quickly.
“Could be, but then Colajacono wouldn’t have been scared. Things went wrong and he knew it. He and Tatò went looking for the tire tracks from the motocross bike, but they were lying in wait to kill them.”
Pasquali paused to reflect. “Forensics would have found the bike’s tracks,” he murmured, confused.
“Not if the bike went off the road. A motocross bike is handy that way.”
“So your theory would be that the Invisible Man went up the hill on the morning of December 24 on the motocross bike, took the Giulia GT and left the bike, then came back around seven in the evening. with Nadia in the Giulia, killed her, and then departed on the bike.”
Balistreri said nothing. There was an anomaly in that reconstruction, but this wasn’t the moment to mention it.
Pasquali wanted a conclusion. “Where does all this lead?”
You know very well where it leads. To that wonderful example of integration, enlightened entrepreneur and benefactor of the destitute Mr. Marius Hagi.
Balistreri waited silently. It wasn’t up to him to make the connection. If someone was resistant to logic, it mean he had a different agenda.
Pasquali was a man of great experience and great intelligence. He knew when the game was up and it was necessary to bow out without incurring catastrophic losses.
“I’ll find a way to persuade the public prosecutor to let you speak to the three Roma who attacked Samantha Rossi. You go ahead and talk to her parents and find out whether there’s a link with Alina Hagi. But don’t mention the letters R and E to anyone, especially not Linda Nardi.”
“I’ll keep my distance from her.” As he said it, he became aware that he had no choice but to keep that promise.
. . . .
He was glad Samantha Rossi’s parents had moved away. His visit to San Valente had already reopened uncomfortable memories. Going back to see the house where Samantha was born and grew up wasn’t top of his life’s wish list.
They received him in the early summer evening, after working hours. It was a modern house: new, white, and clinical, like a hospital for anaesthetizing grief.
Anna Rossi was a good-looking woman in her forties. Samantha resembled her mother in her features, while she’d taken her height and bearing from her father. They welcomed Balistreri with cold politeness; after all, he believed the Roma boys to be innocent and had made the great blunder.
Balistreri knew he had to keep the visit as short as possible. His presence would only deepen their grief.
“I’m not here about your daughter, at least not directly,” he said.
While they were looking at him bewildered, he placed the photo sent him by Monsignor Lato on the table.
Anna Rossi’s sad look was lost in a memory that for a moment softened the bitter twist to her mouth.
“Alina,” she said in a flash.
Her husband looked at her perplexed. “Alina who?”
She gave him an affectionate look. “She was my best friend at the beginning of the 1980s. I’ve spoken about her sometimes—she was the one who died on her moped a year before we met.”
“And you saw Alina Hagi regularly at that time, Mrs. Rossi?” Balistreri asked.
Anna Rossi plunged into her memories.
“She was an extraordinary person. She looked like a fragile little doll with blond hair, but she was a bundle of positive energy. Alina could organize anything and get anyone to pitch in, from the orphans to us volunteers.”
“How did you meet her?”
“I came to San Valente through my boyfriend, who was studying law and helped out with the orphans’ immigration papers in the parish. He introduced me to Cardinal Alessandrini, who introduced me to Father Paul. That was in 1981, and Alina was my instructor in the training course. We became fast friends. She worked full-time there, but I only came when I had free time.”
“Did you know her husband as well?”
“A little. He came to pick her up in the evenings. He was very serious, not very communicative, but he was smart and determined. Then I saw less and less of him. The last time was at Alina’s funeral.” A shadow crossed Anna Rossi’s face.
“At the funeral you spoke to Alina’s uncle, a priest. Do you remember?”
“Yes. I was shattered, and he consoled me. Then I told him about something that had happened a few days before.”
“When you saw the bruises on Alina’s arms.”
“They were really bad. She said she’d fallen, but I knew it wasn’t true. I asked her whether her husband had done it, and she denied it.”
“Did Alina get along with her husband?”
“At the beginning, but it seemed to me that later the relationship fell apart. I don’t know what happened, but as time went on she just didn’t talk about him.”
“Had you been in touch the night she died?” Balistreri asked.
“Yes, she called me. She asked if she could come and sleep at my place. She’d never done that, and I didn’t ask why. She got into the accident on her way.”
“Was she involved with someone?” Balistreri asked.
Anna Rossi laughed quietly. “Alina Hagi was a saint, Captain Balistreri, a very devout Catholic. She’d have died rather than betray her husband.”
“Have you ever seen or heard from Marius Hagi?”
“No. When Alina died, it was as if I’d lost a sister. And then Samantha, too.”
Her husband put an arm around her shoulders. He tried distracting her. “What’s this about your old boyfriend?”
“Francesco? He was only a boyfriend, and he turned out to be up to no good. It was Alina who helped me see the reality; it was thanks to Alina I found the strength to leave him. We were a really good group of volunteers, you know? We were true believers. Francesco, on the other hand, was using the volunteer service as political leverage for his career, nothing more.”
Impulsively, Anna Rossi got up, crossed the living room, and rummaged around in a drawer. “Here we are,” she said, lifting out a photograph. “This is from 1982.”
She handed a photo to Balistreri. There was the San Valente church in the background. He peered at the smiling group of young men and women. He recognized Father Paul, Valerio, Alina Hagi, and Anna Rossi. Next to Anna Rossi, with an arm around her shoulders, just as her husband’s arm was around her shoulders now, stood a young man neatly dressed in a jacket and tie. He was younger then, but there was no mistaking Francesco Ajello, now an attorney and the manager of the Bella Blu nightclub and ENT shareholder.
Balistreri decided to keep his questions to a minimum.
“How did this boyfriend of yours become involved with the group of volunteers?”
“This boy here introduced him—they were friends.”
Her finger pointed to the skinny figure of Valerio Bona.
Many remarkable coincidences, as Pasquali would have said.
. . . .
It was a Friday evening. Pasquali had probably already left to spend the weekend in his hometown, and there was no need to call him. Balistreri immediately ruled out the idea of contacting Corvu. Ajello’s appearance on the scene put ENT at the center of the case again, and Ajello was ENT. And ENT was trouble. He had already lost Coppola, and Corvu had witnessed Belhrouz’s demise in Dubai.
He knew the struggle between caution and the truth was the struggle between what he had become and what he had been. Now he had to find a way forward that left the living still living and brought justice for the dead.
He had taken Father Paul and Valerio Bona’s cell phone numbers after their meeting. He called Paul first, since he thought he knew where he was.
“Captain Balistreri! We haven’t spoken in years and now you keep calling me. Would you like to meet up?”
Balistreri could hear the voices of children in the background, along with the clattering of plates. They were sitting down to dinner at San Valente.
“Could I come by now?”
“We’re about to eat. I’ll set a place for you.”
Paul greeted him in front of the large illuminated house. Several children were serving the dishes prepared by the cook in the kitchen. They were waiting for him to start. Paul pointed out an empty place between a little Asian boy and a small African girl who must have been between eleven and twelve years old.
They were serving delicious spaghetti with tomato sauce. The two children were joking between themselves and stealing sly glances at Balistreri. After a while, the little Asian boy plucked up the courage to say something.
“My name’s Luk. What’s your name?”
“Michele. I’m a friend of Paul’s. You speak Italian very well.”
“I’ve been here three years, thanks to Paul. He and the cardinal saved me.”
“And where are you from, Luk?”
“Cambodia.”
The girl tugged at Balistreri’s sleeve. She was a beautiful child with enormous eyes. “My name’s Bina. I’m from Rwanda, and I’m older than Luk.”
They spoke to him of their lives in San Valente with no mention of the first part of their lives. Balistreri noticed every so often that Paul was watching him. For half an hour he managed to forget all about rapes, murders, Hagi, Ajello, and ENT. It was as if he’d been transported into another dimension where the miseries of everyday life had been wiped out by the innocence and happiness of these orphans. The chaotic passion of 1982 had been transformed into an efficient organization that dispensed only happiness. He could see why Paul was proud of the place, and deservedly so.
When fruit had been served, Paul signaled to him to move outside. They sat under the usual tree in the flickering light of a lantern. A girl of about thirteen brought over a tray with two cups of espresso. Everything at San Valente had changed; everything had grown, including Father Paul.
“Coffee and a cigarette?” Paul proposed, confirming those changes.
It wasn’t decaf and it was excellent. Balistreri accepted a cigarette from Paul, his sixth of the day, after years of keeping to his limit.
“I went to visit Anna Rossi, Alina Hagi’s friend.”
Paul nodded. “I read about her daughter’s death. Cardinal Alessandrini called to comfort her.”
“Do you remember anything about Anna Rossi’s boyfriend?”
A slight, barely perceptible shadow crossed Father Paul’s face. “Francesco Ajello. He worked with Valerio for the count. He never came here; he worked in the office. He was studying law and helped the orphans get their papers.”
“Did the count introduce him to you?”
“I think so. Valerio knew him—he introduced him to the count, who had a word with Cardinal Alessandrini about him. The same as Elisa Sordi.”
“Did you like him?”
Father Paul lit another cigarette and Balistreri accepted his seventh without giving it a second thought.
“You tend to forget, Captain Balistreri, I’m first and foremost a priest.”
“But you were a young man then, with likes and dislikes, same as anyone else. Don’t you remember?”
Paul shook his head.
“What I said to you about Manfredi was poisoned by anger. I’ve lived to regret those words.”
“Can you tell me anything about Francesco Ajello?”
“I was a confused young man. My opinion wouldn’t be of much help to you.”
Balistreri decided not to press him further. They were forecasting a night and weekend of warm temperatures. There wasn’t a breath of wind in the dark of San Valente’s garden. The children had gone to bed, the lights and the cries extinguished. Around the lamp fluttered a lazy moth.
He left Father Paul and that unbearable peace with the feeling of having entered the darkest of labyrinths.