Maione immersed himself in the city, as if preparing for the impending night, experiencing a pleasant sensation of warmth as he did so.
That year, the winter had decided to play hide-and-seek. The distinctive atmosphere of the days between Christmas and New Year’s Day, with the shops always open, offering every sort of foodstuffs and delicacies, and an endless assortment of fireworks ready to go out into the world and live for only an hour or two, lacked only one thing: the cold. The brisk, chilly air that pushes you to stay inside and bedeck your dining room table. There was a distinct lack of raised coat collars and umbrellas; the carefully mended overcoats and blankets wrapped around the shoulders of women waiting outside the shops.
An almost springlike temperature, Raffaele thought as he hastened his step toward Pellegrini hospital. A slight warmth that left people baffled, wandering around with their overcoats draped over their arms, peeking up at the sky to figure out if there was even the faintest threat of rain. If for no other reason than to justify it being December.
The policeman nodded a brusque greeting to the man at the front desk, who was working to persuade a drunk that he’d survive even though he’d vomited, and headed down the hallway in the direction of the morgue. But Modo wasn’t there. An attendant told Maione he’d find Modo in the clinic; he was caring for a patient in serious condition.
In front of the clinic door, the brigadier found Sister Luisa, the petite, greatly feared nun who assisted the doctor in his work. Maione and the nun had seen each other frequently, and Maione had developed the belief that, if it came down to it, that short, stout capa di pezza, or raghead, inflexible and energetic, would have been far more effective than two experienced police officers.
He greeted her in a confidential tone: “Buonasera, Sister Lui’. Do you know where our mutual friend is?”
The woman turned around, and as she did so, he was petrified: he’d never seen her in such a woebegone state. Her eyes were bloodshot, her lips were quivering; an anguished grimace crossed her face.
Maione was worried.
“Mamma mia, Sister, what’s happened? Some catastrophe?”
The nun nodded, conquering her anguish.
“I hadn’t noticed, Brigadie’. She seemed so . . . normal. I didn’t notice the way she was bent over, her wounds . . . I just left her there, may the Good Lord forgive me. I told her to wait, I started giving instructions to a nurse, and I wasted at least ten minutes before calling the doctor. How could I possibly have been such an idiot?”
Maione stared at her, perplexed.
“Sister, either you calm down or I won’t be able to understand a thing. Who was it that appeared normal? And what was it you hadn’t noticed?”
Instead of answering him, the nun knocked softly on the clinic door, opened it, and entered the room. Maione followed her and immediately recognized Bruno Modo, with his back turned, bent over a gurney with two nurses beside him; he was busy medicating someone.
Sister Luisa murmured: “Dotto’, it’s Brigadier Maione. He wanted to see you. I thought that . . .”
Without turning around and without taking his hands off the roll of gauze he was winding, the doctor hissed: “Of course. The brigadier wears a uniform, so if he asks, he gets an answer, while a woman who’s badly hurt can just wait all day long.”
The nun bowed her head in humiliation. Maione felt the need to weigh in in her defense.
“Dotto’, now you’re being unfair. You know how devoted Sister Luisa is to those in need. Show some patience, it’s not like you to humiliate her in this manner.”
Modo straightened up, though he still kept his back turned to the policeman. He said nothing for a moment, then said to the nurses: “That’ll do. You can leave, thanks, and if I need anything I’ll call you. You, too, Sister Lui’. And please forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
The nun’s voice came out in a whisper.
“No, dotto’. I’m afraid you were right. Excuse me.”
Once they were alone, Modo gestured for the brigadier to step closer, moving aside so that Maione could now see the person on the gurney.
Laid out on a white sheet was a woman’s ravaged body. Her skin was covered with bruises and her right arm was bound up with a splint. Bloodstains were spreading through the gauze bandages that mercifully wrapped her. Her face was swollen and unrecognizable: from her lips, parted to reveal bleeding gums and shattered teeth, there came a terrifying, rhythmic groan. Even though Maione was hardened to the sight of the results of human violence, he felt a stab of pity pierce his heart.
He clamped his jaw to stifle his fury.
“Who did this . . . this thing?”
Modo shook his head; his white hair tumbled messily over his forehead. There was no trace in his gaze of the good-natured irony that normally resided there. He had the face of an old man.
“She’s a friend of mine, her name is Lina. I don’t even know her last name, as I’ve just realized. Whenever we met, I was so busy talking about myself, my life, my useless thoughts, that I never bothered to ask.”
His eyes filled with tears. Maione coughed in embarrassment and the doctor regained his composure.
“I don’t know if she’ll make it, Brigadie’. She’s strong by nature, otherwise she’d already be dead, but right now I’m not capable of evaluating the potential lesions to the internal organs. I’ve sedated her. She was suffering terribly, so I haven’t had a chance to ask her what happened and who it was. She shouldn’t even have been out on the street. She’s one of Mamma Clara’s girls, from La Torretta.”
Maione nodded. He knew the house, a fairly refined establishment.
“And you have no idea of whether someone had it in for her, or was living off her back . . .”
Modo stared at the poor woman’s devastated face.
“No, not Lina. She never let anyone exploit her. She’s intelligent, and strong . . . And beautiful. Take my word for it. I . . .”
He ran his hand over his eyes; Maione thought he might be giving in to tears again, but instead Modo went on talking in a more determined tone.
“Brigadie’, I’ve never asked you for anything. I don’t much believe in the law, as you know. Even though you and Ricciardi did help me when I found myself in serious trouble, putting your own liberty and jobs at risk by doing so. I’ll never forget that, I can assure you.”
The policeman protested: “Dotto’, you shouldn’t even say that, you . . .”
Modo interrupted him, grabbing his arm.
“Listen to me, Raffaele, you have to help me track down whoever perpetrated this brutality. Without any official reports or warrants, without involving police headquarters or even Ricciardi; he’s working on Marra’s murder, and I don’t want to distract him from his work. What’s more, he knows very little about the circles Lina moves in. In contrast, you are a man of the world, and you’re a friend of mine. I’m begging you, consider this a personal favor that I’m asking.”
Maione scrutinized the doctor with a sidelong glance and a half smile.
“Are you trying to insinuate that I have practical experience of the brothels of La Torretta? You should understand that the fact that I know Mamma Clara and a few of her girls is strictly on account of my own professional duties, eh? Not theirs.”
Modo too put on an expression that seemed to contain a hint of irony.
“I’ve never doubted the fact, Brigadie’. Never doubted the fact.”
The policeman scratched his ear.
“Okay, all right. After all, it’s probably better to go on working, rather than going home and looking after those devils. Later you can tell me all about Lina, and then I’ll run by and see Mamma Clara; and tomorrow, if it’s useful, I’ll ask Bambinella for some information. For now, though, bear with me and tell me what you found out while examining the actress. That’s why I came here in the first place.”
The doctor took a breath.
“It’s all confirmed, Brigadie’. It’s all just as it appeared. The bullet penetrated the left hemithoracic region and took a nice fast trip through Fedora’s lovely body: intercostal muscle, aortic arch, trachea, and esophagus; then it found a comfortable little perch between the between the third and fourth dorsal vertebrae. It’s at your disposal, somewhat the worse for wear, but intact. The report is in an envelope down at the front desk. As I had ventured, the fatal wound was in the aorta; hence the blood from her mouth and nose. I’m afraid she suffered: nearly a minute went by from gunshot to death.”
Maione turned his gaze to the woman fast asleep on the gurney.
“Certainly less than this poor thing is suffering. I really want to identify the cowardly bastard who reduced her to this state.”
Modo nodded, grimly.
“So do I, Brigadie’. So do I.”