The man’s English wasn’t good; he just about got by with it. He slathered his tortured linguistic constructions and neologisms with a thick Eastern European accent that made it especially difficult to understand him. This evening, the difficulty was compounded by poor cell-phone coverage.
“You cannot hear?” he said.
The fellow on the other end of the line sounded exasperated. “You’re cutting in and out.”
“I should be moving?”
“Where are you?”
“I can move.”
“I can hear you now. Where are you?”
“Only one bar but I can move.”
“Just talk to me. Where are you?”
“In rental car on a street. You can’t hear?”
“What town?”
“Town called Vibo Valentia.”
“Wait. Let me check a map.”
The Eastern European was a large, powerfully built man, with long blond hair and a wispy, yellow moustache. He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window a little.
“Okay, Vibo Valentia. I see it. Did you find him?”
“Not sure. I think maybe.”
“You either found him or you didn’t. Which is it?”
“Maybe found him. Not see him yet, but I think he inside flat I looking at.”
“Sorry, Gunar, I lost you for a second. Did you say you looked inside the flat?”
“No. Am in car.”
“Then why do you think he’s there?”
“Not sure. Maybe he there. Yesterday I go to where he from. Village called Cessaniti. His mama live there. I wait till she shopping and I break in. No sign him. Last night, guy in bar says he know him but he no see him for years. I give him hundred euros and he tell me he has old girlfriend in Vibo Valentia. I find where she live. From car I look up in window now. Guy is there who look like him but not sure. I need go inside, I think.”
“All right. Find out and let me know.”
“Sure, sure, no problem. I let you know. You want I take care of it, if it him?”
At that, the man on the phone completely lost his cool. “That’s why I sent you there! Was I not clear?”
“Sure, sure. I take care.”
*
“This is the last thing we needed,” Lumaga told his sub-lieutenant at the door to the apartment building. He had parked his car on the sidewalk and had ducked under the crime-scene tape stretched across the narrow street. Knots of neighbors milled around, watching him with suspicion. Not everyone in this area loved the Carabinieri.
“It’s a pain in you know where,” Odorico said.
“You know the last time we had something like this in Vibo Valentia?” he asked. He knew she didn’t know the answer as she was from Naples, so he answered it himself. “Three years and that was a domestic situation. A wife killed her drunk husband with a kitchen knife.”
“What happened to her?”
“The judge took pity. The husband was a violent bastard. He spared her jail. This one’s not domestic, I take it.”
“Not unless one of them was able to shoot themselves twice in the head then make the gun disappear.”
“So, we’ve got a murderer on the loose.”
On the landing outside the flat, they put on booties and gloves. Inside, they kept out of the way of the forensic people and squeezed into the bedroom.
Lumaga was a tough guy with a strong stomach, but this was bad. One victim, a man who looked to be in his thirties was on the floor. The second victim, a woman of a similar age lay on the bed, her eyes open wide. Blood and brain matter were everywhere—on the floor, the bed, the walls, even the ceiling.
“She’s like the Mona Lisa,” Lumaga said.
“How do you mean?” Odorico asked.
“Wherever I stand, she seems to be looking at me.”
The medico legale, a crusty old doctor who wore her gray hair piled into a messy bun was photographing the woman.
“Anything here beyond the obvious, Lidia?” Lumaga asked.
“Each with a double-tap to the brain,” she said with a smoker’s rasp. “Small caliber, I’d say, maybe a twenty-two or twenty-five. They didn’t find the casings so the killer used a revolver or picked them up. I’ll buy you dinner if he left fingerprints. Very professional, all around.”
“A classic hit,” Lumaga said.
“One or both of them were probably into some seriously bad business,” Odorico said.
“Not my department,” the doctor said. “There was a small bag of marijuana in the living room, but that doesn’t make them drug barons.”
“Who are they?” Lumaga asked.
Odorico referred to her moleskin notepad. “The woman is Cinzia Rondinelli. This is her apartment. She teaches chemistry at the local secondary school.”
“Maybe she’s the Walter White of the operation,” Lumaga said, sending the medico legale into a coughing fit.
“Who is he?” Odorico asked.
“Breaking Bad?” Lumaga said. “Chemistry teacher? Methamphetamines? You don’t watch television? Lidia knows who I’m talking about.”
“I don’t own a television,” Odorico said. “Shall I continue?”
“Please do.”
“The male victim is Ferruccio Gressani, age thirty-six, a resident of Madrid, Spain with a Spanish driving license. At this point, that’s all the information we have.”
“Was there a mobile phone?”
“Hers, not his.”
“Everyone has a mobile. I wonder if the killer took it.”
“It’s possible,” she said.
“Who found the bodies?”
“A friend of the woman. Cinzia wasn’t answering her phone this morning, so she stopped in. She had a key because she waters her plants when Cinzia’s on holiday. She’s traumatized by what she saw and had to be taken to hospital to be sedated. I haven’t been able to speak to her yet.”
“Lidia, what time were they killed?”
“I’d say about twelve hours ago. Between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. I’ll know better after the autopsies. I’ll be going now, Roberto. You know how to find me.”
Lumaga said, “Indeed I do. Fabiana, what about the neighbors? Did they hear anything?”
“They’ve all been interviewed. There was nothing. No screams, no gunshots. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“He must have used a silencer. Any cameras on the street?”
“No, I’m sorry to say.”
“Okay, let’s find out who Cinzia and Ferruccio are and who might have been angry enough at one or both of them to do this. Talk to her friend in hospital. See if Ferruccio has any local connections. Get the police in Madrid involved. See if either of them has a police record here or abroad. Take the lead on this and try to wrap it up as soon as possible. I need your full attention on the Andreason case.”
*
“It done,” the man said.
“Any complications?”
“There was girl.”
“And?”
“She done.”
“Any other complications?”
“None. Quick job. Easy job.”
“What about his car? Did you find his car?”
“I find. I burn it.”
“His phone?”
“I have phone.”
“Excellent. I need you in Rome now.”
“Where you think I am?”
He was on Piazza di Sant’Onofrio, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the Bambino Gesù Hospital.
“You’re at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Good man. How many helpers do you have?”
“Two guys.”
“They’re in the dark, right?”
“Not worry. They don’t know nothing.”
“I’ll worry until this is finished. You know what to do.”
“I know, I know,” he said dismissively.
His flippancy wasn’t appreciated. “Listen to me. These girls are vitally important. They are more important than you. They are more important than me. They are the two most important people on Earth.”
*
Odorico visited Marta Di Marino in the Emergency Ward of the Jazzolino Hospital in Vibo Valentia where she was being held for observation.
“We gave her a tranquilizer,” the nurse told her. “She’s been sleeping, but she just woke up and we gave her some tea. When you’re done with her, the doctor will decide if she can go home.”
The policewoman parted the curtain and introduced herself.
“I was wondering when the police would come.”
She was about the same age as the victim. Her hand was lightly shaking and Odorico saw where she had spilled some tea on her hospital gown.
“I know you’ve had a big shock, but I need to ask you some questions while everything is still fresh in your mind.”
“Yes, yes. Please.”
“Why did you go to Cinzia’s apartment this morning?”
“We often go out together for a coffee on Saturdays. I rang and texted last night to confirm and when I didn’t get a response, I rang a few more times. This morning, I was worried, so I went over. I don’t live far. It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t want to see anything like that again, as long as I live.”
“I know. It was terrible. It must have been a big shock. Tell me, how did you know Cinzia?”
“We teach at the same school.”
“Chemistry?”
“I teach mathematics.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Maybe thirteen years. We started at the school the same year.”
“Has she ever been in trouble with the police?”
“Cinzia? My God, no, she’s a good girl.” She teared up and reached for a tissue. “She was a good girl.”
“No drugs? No Walter White?” Odorico had consulted Google to atone for her ignorance of pop culture.
“I never saw her use drugs. Both of us watched Breaking Bad together and used to laugh about crazy chemistry teachers.”
“Did she have any enemies?”
“Cinzia? Only friends. Everyone loved her. She was like sunshine.”
“Did you also know the male victim, Ferruccio Gressani?”
“I met him a couple of times, years ago when they were together.”
“When was that?”
“They broke up at least ten years ago. I didn’t see him since then.”
“You didn’t know they were back together? That he was with her?”
“I didn’t know he was here, that’s for sure. I’m certain they weren’t back together. She would have told me.”
“But she didn’t tell you he was here.”
She shook her head sadly.
“Where did Ferruccio go after they split up?”
“He went to Spain, I think. He got a job there.”
“Where in Spain? Doing what?”
“I don’t know. She never talked about him.”
“Did she have boyfriends since then?”
“Some relationships, sure, but nothing too serious. This is a small town. The fishermen of Vibo Valentia catch plenty of fish, but on land, there aren’t so many good catches.”
Odorico snorted knowingly. “So, no boyfriend now or recently?”
“Not for at least two years.”
“Where did she meet Ferruccio? Years ago, I mean.”
“At a party, I think. He was a local boy.”
“From Vibo Valentia?”
“No, from Cessaniti.”
“Why did they break up?”
“They broke up because she didn’t love him. A good reason. It wasn’t a big, bad breakup. It just ended. He was sad, but that’s life.”
“When you knew him, was he into any bad shit? Drugs? The mob?”
“I wouldn’t know. He seemed like a nice enough boy.”
“Did he have a job?”
“He was a laboratory technician.”
“Do you know where he worked?”
“Here, I think. This hospital.”
“Do you know why he went to Spain?”
“I don’t know, sorry.”
Odorico’s questions were exhausted and she seemed satisfied. “Okay. I think that’s it, for now. Here’s my card. If you remember anything else that you think could help the investigation, call me.”
The woman took her card and said, “Whoever did this, Ferruccio must have been the target. Cinzia was just there. No one would want to hurt dear, sweet Cinzia.”
Odorico tucked her notebook into her pocket. “You could be right.”
“You’ve seen these things before, I’m sure. Will I ever be able to forget what I saw?”
Odorico reached for the woman’s hand. “I’ll be honest with you. With time, the memory will fade, but it will never completely go away.”
*
It could not have been more convenient. Odorico’s next stop was the personnel office of the hospital where she asked to review the employment records of Ferruccio Gressani. It was a thin file. Gressani had a degree in medical laboratory science and had been hired by the pathology lab at the Jazzolino Hospital fourteen years earlier. He was employed there for four years. He had a good work history with top assessments from his superior. Seven years ago, he gave his notice, telling his boss that he was taking a job in Madrid. That was it—there was nothing illuminating, except for an address in Cessaniti that, when she checked it, was a house in the name of a Manuela Gressani.
Cessaniti was a village of about three thousand residents ten kilometers from Vibo Valentia. Halfway there, it occurred to Odorico that this was going to be more than an interview—it was going to be a next-of-kin notification. The house was small and pretty with red shutters and flower boxes in the windows. A woman in her seventies answered the door, bent over with scoliosis, and she appeared baffled as to why a Carabinieri was calling.
“Are you Manuela Gressani?” Odorico asked.
“Yes, what do you want from me?”
“Is Ferruccio Gressani your son?”
The woman choked on a swallow and nodded.
“May I come in?”
The sitting room was clean and tidy. There was a photograph of Ferruccio on the mantel. Signora Gressani stood in the middle of the room. Because of her curved spine, she couldn’t look the officer in the eye.
“Why don’t you sit?” Odorico said.
She did, saying, “What is it? Is something the matter?”
Odorico took the lowest chair to be at the woman’s eye level.
“When did you last see your son?”
“Not for a few years, but we speak all the time. Why?”
“And when did you last speak with him?”
“He called maybe two weeks ago.”
“Where was he calling from?”
“He lives in Spain. In Madrid.”
“Did you know that he was in Italy, in Calabria?”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“I don’t think so. He would have come to see me.”
“Signora, I’m afraid I have to give you some terrible news. Ferruccio was killed last night in Vibo Valentia.”
The woman said no, a few times, before asking the policewoman to repeat what she said. When it sunk in, she didn’t scream, or even cry. She began to shake uncontrollably.
“Can I get you some water?” Odorico asked.
“Yes, some water.”
Returning from the kitchen, Odorico saw her partially slumped over and thought she might have passed out, but she righted herself and took the glass.
“Are you sure it was my Ferruccio?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Is there someone I can call to be with you? A friend, a relative?”
She ignored the question and asked, “Who would want to hurt him?”
“We don’t know. The investigation has just begun.”
“He was in Vibo Valentia?”
“Yes.”
“Was he staying there?”
“He was with a woman who lives there. Her name is Cinzia Rondinelli.”
“His old girlfriend. What does she say?”
“She was killed too.”
“Oh, my God! Both of them? Who would do such a thing? Ferruccio is a beautiful boy. Such a good son. I didn’t see him, but we talked and he sent me money all the time. He would say, ‘Momma, go buy yourself something nice. Buy yourself a new television, a new radio. Anything you like.’ He bought me jewelry. Do you see this bracelet? He sent me this for my birthday.”
Odorico looked at the bracelet. It didn’t look inexpensive. “It seems he was a good son. Do you know if there was anyone who might have wanted to harm Ferruccio?”
“Of course not.”
“No one from when he was living in Italy?”
“No!”
“Did he say if he had gotten into any trouble in Spain?”
“Nothing like that. He had a good life in Spain.”
“Doing what?”
“He worked in a hospital for the first few years.”
“Which hospital?”
“I wrote it down on a piece of paper. I’m sure I can find it for you.”
“After the hospital—then what?”
“I don’t think he had another job. He won the lottery, you know. He made a lot of money from that. That’s why he always had money for me.”
“So, he retired in his thirties? Is that what he said?”
“When you win the lottery, you retire. Are you sure it was him? I don’t believe it could have been my Ferruccio.”
“Unfortunately, it’s true, Signora. I’m sorry to ask, but it’s my job to ask such questions. Is it possible that Ferruccio was involved with drugs? Selling illegal drugs?”
The woman sputtered and tried to rise, but she didn’t have the strength. “Don’t you dare say something like that again. Ferruccio was never involved with drugs. He was a good boy!”
“I’m sure he was, but I had to ask. When he used to live in Calabria, were any of his friends into drugs? Were any involved with the mob, the ’Ndrangheta?”
“Do you mean Marco?”
“Who is Marco?”
“He was a boy Ferruccio knew from when he was young. Marco Zuliani. His whole family were criminals. I didn’t like him and I told Ferruccio not to be his friend. I was happy when he and his people moved to Canada.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, my God, it was a long time ago. Ferruccio was still living in Italy.”
“So, more than ten years ago.”
“I’d say so.” She began to shake again. “Tell me, how can you be sure it was my son who got killed?”