Lojacono and Alex had been at the police station for half an hour now and, since Guida still hadn’t managed to get the boiler calibrated to an acceptable temperature, they were close to missing the arctic weather outside the building.
“What with all these shifts in temperature, we’re sure to get sick,” said the lieutenant. “I already feel like I have a fever. Where are the others, though?”
Ottavia, who had brought a light blouse from home in her bag, replied: “Aragona and Romano are out looking into that matter with the young girl. Pisanelli said that he had an informal appointment; he’s been going out to lunch for the past few days now. The commissario is at police headquarters again, poor thing: they summoned him to agree on a communications plan. Do you two have any news?”
Alex reported on the conversation with Foti, the young woman’s boyfriend. When she was done, she commented: “I certainly had the impression that he wasn’t telling the whole truth. For instance, he was very vague about his fight with the Varricchio girl. In any case, I definitely thought I detected a moment’s hesitation. What about you, Lojacono?”
“Yes, maybe so. He certainly seemed upset to me. Maybe we should get back in touch with him once he’s had a chance to calm down a little.”
A sly expression appeared on Ottavia’s face.
“If you like, I can think of a possible reason for the argument. And I don’t have to get up from this desk to do it.”
The two cops exchanged a glance of astonishment.
“You care to be a little more explicit?” asked Alex.
Ottavia Calabrese pointed at her computer.
“You have no idea the things you can find with this thing. I took advantage of a few moments of quiet this morning to surf their profiles and skim the network of young people in general. Did you know that for the past few months, Grazia Varricchio has been working for a modeling agency, doing runway presentations and photo shoots?”
Lojacono shook his head.
“No. What kind of agency are we talking about?”
“It’s called Charles Elegance. It’s located in the Centro Direzionale Office Park, Block T, Building 3. The owner is one Carlo Cava. From what I’ve been able to figure out by studying the website, it’s pretty closely tied up with the fashion industry: wedding gowns, the collections of local designers, as well as swimsuits and intimatewear.”
Alex was stunned.
“Just how did you come up with this piece of information?”
“Easy: the agency posted a photo album on the website with a sort of backstage coverage of a photo shoot, and the models were identified, though only by their initials. All I had to do was put the two letters in the search engine and waste a little time searching here and there. Look.”
She turned her screen around so it faced them, displaying a series of shots in which several attractive young women were shown posing in swimsuits. Alex and Lojacono recognized Grazia instantly; she was by far the prettiest one, and she shone with a luminous glow.
“I think it’s worth doing a little more digging,” Ottavia went on. “What kind of runway presentations she did, how many, what sort of relationship she had with the agency, and so on. Here are the phone number and address, written on this piece of paper.”
Lojacono put it in his pocket.
“The boss is right, you’re a war machine. We still don’t know anything about the father, right?”
Ottavia raised a finger.
“One thing at a time. Weren’t you interested in finding out what the argument between Grazia and her boyfriend was all about? The young man, if you ask me, knew something about the photographs and the runway presentations, and he wasn’t crazy about it. I found a status on this topic. You both know what a status is, don’t you?”
Alex nodded and Lojacono shook his head. Calabrese decided to offer a brief explanation.
“A status can be, for instance, a thought, a consideration, or a state of mind that someone shares on their social media profile. Which is to say: here’s what I’m thinking, and I want to tell you all about it.”
Lojacono was baffled.
“Oh, yeah? And who gives a damn?”
Alex and Ottavia laughed.
“Well, it turns out that lots of people do, and in fact they’re very interested, far more than you might imagine. Our friend Nick Trash, for instance, has quite a considerable following; I even noticed that certain songs of his, available as online videos, have been viewed many thousands of times, and the comments, especially those with female names, are pretty enthusiastic. It’s not to my taste, but some like it, clearly.”
Alex zoomed in on the topic.
“What about the status you mentioned?”
Ottavia typed for a few seconds.
“Here, read for yourself. He wrote it last Friday, two days before the murder.”
A photograph appeared on the screen of Foti’s face—and especially hair—and underneath it, the words: “Certain women think that all they need to do is show off their ass in a photograph to increase their self-worth. But an ass is just an ass, and it’s never worth as much as a clean face.”
Lojacono grimaced.
“Deep thoughts. Is that Confucius or Karl Marx?”
Ottavia laughed.
“Okay, I’ll admit I wouldn’t have it engraved on my front door, but still, if you ask me, the chance that this is a reference to Grazia strikes me as pretty solid.”
Alex thought it over: “I don’t think a guy would post something like that on the internet before murdering his girlfriend.”
“Not if we’re talking about premeditated homicide,” Lojacono broke in. “But if it were in the heat of the moment . . . ”
Ottavia shrugged.
“It’s up to you two to check it out. As for the father, no news. I talked to my friend the lance corporal. It seems that no one in Roccapriora is talking about anything else. The town is crawling with journalists and every fool in town is spouting opinions into their microphones, dredging up memories, impressions, and half-baked conjectures. Once again, he talked to the friend, the field hand. He’s certain that the man tried to get in touch with Cosimo Varricchio, but he’s every bit as certain that he was unsuccessful. We circulated the name and photographs to the railroad police and highway patrol. We’ll see what comes of it.”
Palma came in; he was frantically peeling off his overcoat and jacket.
“Mamma mia, Guida is trying to kill us all with the heat in here. If you ask me, the police chief ordered him to do it, that way he won’t have to worry about what to do with the precinct. Any news?”
Once he’d heard the report he remained silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
“Okay, then, we’re starting to have at least a scrap of a lead. Run on over to this modeling agency. It’s a good thing that Ottavia figured it out before the press could. You have no idea: they’re crucifying us, police headquarters is subjected to a constant barrage. Before long, the spokeswoman was telling me, we’re not going to have any alternative, we’ll have to issue a statement. We need to toss them a bone.”
Lojacono nodded.
“In the meantime, we told Foti not to leave his home. Five minutes to grab a bite to eat, if nothing else to bolster our defenses against the cold, and we’ll get back out on the street, boss. But what matters most is to find the father of the two victims, if you’re looking for some real substance to placate the press. We have too little information about the young man.”