Alessandro Gavi sat at his desk and worked through his inbox. He did not mind paperwork in the least. Long ago he had learned to assign his eyes and writing hand to one tiny corner of his brain, leaving the rest of his mental faculties free to roam. Some of his most difficult cases had been resolved while dealing with the burdens of bureaucracy. As a result, he had gained the reputation of being the only employee within the Ministry of Justice whose paperwork was always up-to-date.
Alessandro was a bailiff, an ufficiale giudiziario. A bailiff, in his humble opinion, was the finest position within the Italian justice system.
As any Italian with a single breath left in his body would say, the only mess in Italy worse than the police were the courts. The judicial system had been cobbled together over centuries, and each branch had developed into a modern-day fiefdom. The police were fragmented like medieval city-states, between the Carabinieri and the Polizia and the Stradale and the Guardia di Finanza and the DIA. There were plots and coups and bureaucratic sniping and corruption.
But in each province, there was only one senior bailiff. Once the judges passed on their instructions, Alessandro could do almost anything. He could call on anyone’s assistance. Even the military.
The majority of his mind remained focused upon his meeting that morning with the two Americans.
Alessandro did not respond to the knock on his door. When a shadow fell upon his computer screen, he looked up. “Do you mind?”
Antonio D’Alba was a defense attorney. Alessandro knew him all too well. Antonio was a fierce combatant in court and used his considerable wiles to extend cases for years. The richer his client, the longer his cases tended to run. He fought court-ordered evictions and asset seizures tooth and nail. He had kept Alessandro in the docket for days on end, tying the bailiff up as long as his clients had funds to skim.
Out of court, Antonio was a charmer. A smiler. A stellar dresser with an eye for the women. The younger the woman, the greater Antonio’s charm. Alessandro knew Antonio’s wife very well. She worked with his own wife at a home where many of Alessandro’s youngest charges wound up. This being Italy, Alessandro had long ago learned to disguise how he felt about philandering colleagues.
Antonio said, “I suppose you’ve heard.”
“How could I not?” Alessandro had no need to ask what Antonio meant. The entire Justice building was abuzz.
“Interesting they would ram the car into the Bar Azzurra.”
“Who did it?”
Antonio tapped the side of his nose, indicating that he knew and the information was secret. “You’re a patron of the place, aren’t you?”
“From time to time.” Alessandro was not much of a drinker. But what professional socializing he did was there. The Bar Azzurra was owned by a former cop with the Guardia di Finanza. He had lost a leg in Catania, where he had been investigating a Justice official who was reportedly on the take. He was notorious for his hatred of corruption. As a result, his bar was a gathering point for straight cops and jurists and ministry officials.
When Alessandro had arrived at the office that morning, the bar owner had been downstairs, toasting the fates that had delivered nine thugs through his front window.
The lawyer asked, “Did you hear how they were found?”
Alessandro started to respond that of course he had heard, how could he not, when no one in the entire building spoke of anything else. Then he realized Antonio was not even listening to himself. “Is that why you stopped by?”
“Uh, no, actually . . . Alessandro, I have a question.”
Alessandro put his computer in sleep mode and shut his file. “Of course. Take a seat.”
“What? Oh. I . . . Thank you.”
Alessandro did not offer the lawyer a chair out of courtesy. He wanted to draw Antonio closer. So he could smell the man.
“Look, I, uh, that is, I have a client. He—well, that is, his lawyers—have asked me for help with a matter.”
“You’re not his attorney?”
“I represent a small part of their interests, yes. But the client is very big. Sorry, I can’t name them. You understand.”
Alessandro waved it away, a matter of no consequence. “Of course.”
“My client is searching for seven scientists. They come from America, but they originate from all over. One is Italian.”
“Names?”
“Sorry, no names.”
Antonio was lying. What was more, he knew that Alessandro knew. It was a typical Italian bugia, a lie told because the true message could not be spoken. The message was, I can’t tell you and you were wrong to ask, but I need your help, so I can’t risk offending you by saying that.
Antonio continued, “The scientists stole something of enormous importance to my client.”
Alessandro asked, “Why would you be speaking with a simple magistrate in Como about this matter?”
“The American attorneys think they may be hiding here.”
“In Como?”
“Somewhere in the vicinity. Perhaps.”
“Forgive me. But I am still not clear what that has to do with me.”
“The scientists need a large space for their experiments.”
Alessandro nodded. “They could not go through normal channels to rent such a space. So you wonder if there has been any movement—”
“One of your confiscated villas, perhaps, or a warehouse.”
“I will see.”
“Any help you can give. Any at all.”
“Of course.” Alessandro rose and shook the attorney’s hand and waited for the door to click shut. He turned on his computer and reopened his file, finished the report, and sent it off. He called in his two deputies and assigned them new duties. He lunched with a judge. They laughed over the antics of the Bar Azzurra’s owner, who had shared his few unbroken bottles with the prosecutor after signing the official complaint.
Alessandro then returned to his desk and checked his watch. Three hours had passed since Antonio D’Alba had left his office. Long enough for there to be no logical connection between Antonio’s request and his next action.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory.
“Evidence.”
Alessandro knew the officer who spoke. His name was Pietro, and he was extremely bent. “This is Bailiff Gavi. I need—wait, let me check. Yes, here it is. I need to speak with Officer Luca Bresco.”
“He’s out.”
“Have him call me the instant—”
“Wait. He’s just walked in.”
A pause, then, “This is Bresco.”
“This is Gavi. There may be a problem with some evidence you signed in.”
“Again? I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“My sincere apologies.”
“What, I forgot to sign my name in the right spot on your six dozen forms?”
“No, no, nothing like that. But we do need to speak.”
“Today?”
“Please. It is rather urgent, you see.”
“Oh, all right. But only if you’re here in twenty minutes.” The phone was hammered down.
Alessandro rose from his desk and reached for his coat. The conversation had been for listeners. What he had requested was time alone with Luca Bresco, the one officer in the Evidence chambers whom he trusted completely.
It was time to discover what precisely lay behind the Americans and their request.