The music came from the last movement of Ludwig van Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and it was being played by Rocco’s Nokia, lying on the glass coffee table. First Rocco opened one eye, then the other. He was sprawled on the sofa, it was dark out, it had stopped raining, and his mouth was gummy and dry. He reached out his arm and grabbed the electronic device: “Who’s busting my balls at this time of night?”
“Dottore, it’s Caterina Rispoli. We have him here.”
Rocco dragged himself up to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes: “Who do you have where? What time is it?”
“It’s three in the morning. And we have Gregorio Chevax out front of his warehouse. It might be a good idea for you to swing on by, sir.”
“He fell for it?”
“Like a fat chicken,” she said, using a common Italian phrase.
“Would you explain something to me, Caterina? Would you tell me why people say someone falls for it like a fat chicken? Where is it these fat chickens fall from?”
“I don’t know, it’s just a figure of speech.”
“Well, it’s bullshit.” He snapped shut his cell phone and got to his feet. He uncricked his neck and took a deep breath. “Well, let’s go talk to this dumb cluck. Or maybe I should say, let’s go talk to this triggerfish.”
The road was black and there wasn’t a star in the sky. At the end of the straightaway, behind the crowns of the trees that concealed the curve, a glow of light broke the darkness, a milky white halo of illumination. It might have been a house on fire.
Instead it was the headlights of the police vehicle meeting the headlights of a Fiat panel van. The two vehicles parked outside the front gate of the bathroom supply warehouse seemed to be having a standoff, or a stare-down. Rocco stopped his car and got out. The air was chilly. It was possible to make out the black shadows of the mountains that loomed over the valley. A light breeze tossed the branches of the fir trees. The dirty slushy snow had withstood that day’s rain and was piled high alongside the roadway.
Gregorio Chevax was leaning against the hood of the Fiat Ducato. Italo stood about a yard away from him, watching him and smoking a cigarette. Caterina was sitting in the car with the door open, one foot on the asphalt and the other inside the car. Rocco joined the group with a broad smile on his face. Caterina leaped out of the car. “Gregorio!” cried the deputy police chief, throwing both arms wide. “We meet again so soon!”
The man stood there without speaking. “Well, what happened?”
“Come take a look for yourself, Dottore,” said Italo, leaving Caterina to keep an eye on the reformed fence.
They walked around the panel van. The rear doors swung open. Italo switched on his flashlight. Inside were a couple of plastic-wrapped sinks, two sealed cartons, and an open aluminum toolkit. Inside the toolkit, though, were plastic bags instead of screwdrivers or drills.
“You want to see some?” asked Italo, picking up one of the bags. He opened it. Rocco peered inside and by flashlight there appeared rings, bracelets, and necklaces.
“It’s full of this junk,” said Italo, picking up another bag and holding it up, open, in front of Rocco’s face.
“Excellent.”
“Lot of stuff, eh?”
“There’s only one thing in particular that interests me. Let’s see if I can find it.” Rocco grabbed the flashlight out of Italo’s hands and started rummaging through the little valise. He tossed aside coins, cuff links, and watches. Italo followed every single movement. “What are we going to do, Rocco?”
“What do you mean?” the deputy police chief replied, his face poking into a bag.
“I mean does all this go to headquarters?”
Rocco smiled. “Now, let me explain something, Italo: This is all stolen merchandise. That means it’s been reported to the police. In thieves’ argot you know what items like this are called? They say they’re bent. That is, their value is limited to the gold or precious stones you can get by dismantling them. Because a piece of jewelry like this can’t be sold as it is.” He pulled out a beautiful brooch shaped like a peacock and studded with blue and green stones. “Look at this one, for instance: It’s an antique. It ought to be worth, say, ten thousand euros, according to bill of sale et cetera et cetera. But if you break it up, you’d get little or nothing. No, Italo, this stuff goes straight to police headquarters.”
Italo looked crestfallen. He was hoping to put a little something aside, repay himself for that Saturday night spent roughing it. “Too bad. I was counting on it,” he said to Rocco.
“Now open up the boxes too. If you ask me, there’s plenty more. For instance, look at those vertical ones. You’d have to guess those are paintings.”
ROCCO WENT BACK TO WHERE CATERINA WAS STANDING guard over Gregorio. He was carrying the peacock-shaped brooch. “Well, well, well, Gregorio Chevax . . . I bet you feel like a bit of an asshole now, don’t you?”
The man had lost all the arrogance and pride of just a few hours before. “Caterina, tell me just what happened.”
“Certainly. Chevax drove this delivery van out of his bathroom supplies warehouse at one forty-five A.M. And this is where we pulled him over. He immediately showed signs of extreme nervousness.”
Rocco gazed at the man with a broad smile, but Chevax stared stonily into the distance, somewhere among the trees. Caterina went on. “At that point my colleague and I became suspicious and asked if we could take a look inside the van. And we found what you just saw, sir.”
Caterina had finished her story. Schiavone wasn’t talking. He was staring at Gregorio Chevax and waiting for him to say something. But now the man not only resembled a fish; he also produced the same limited amount of sound. The light breeze whistled through the pine needles. Rocco lit a cigarette. “If you’d been a little more polite, Gregorio, we wouldn’t be here now, at three in the morning, freezing our balls off in the cold and wasting our time interrogating you.”
Finally he raised his eyes. “I want to talk to my lawyer.”
“Did you call him?”
“Yes, but he didn’t pick up,” Caterina broke in.
“What a shitty lawyer, eh? All right, let’s turn this night around. You see if you can get in touch with your lawyer, and while you go on calling him, my officers are going to take you in.” Then he turned to Caterina. “Get a couple of squad cars up here. Let’s take the delivery van in and impound it. And tell Deruta to draw up a list of the objects recovered, with plenty of pictures. One picture per item, that’s important.”
“All right, Dottore.”
“Chevax, what’s starting for you today is going to be an ordeal in comparison with which Our Lord’s tribulations on Mount Calvary will seem like a Sunday jaunt.” He held up the peacock brooch. “I even told you, no? All I wanted was this, and I would have let you go back to your fucked-up pursuits. But you wouldn’t lend me a hand . . . you had to prove that your dick was longer.”
“When my lawyer gets his hands on this story, maybe you’re going to be the one experiencing the ordeal.”
Rocco smiled. “My friend, my life has already been an ordeal for the past six years, at least. You know what we say in Rome? Lei mi fa una pippa, Chevax. You’re nothing but a jack-off to me. You and your lawyer. Shall I summarize the situation for you? You were caught red-handed with stolen goods in a legal police search, you have a rap sheet with prior convictions for theft and receiving stolen goods, and the only thing your lawyer can plead is mental infirmity. But I don’t think he can pull that off. You see, you don’t exactly have mental problems. What you have are problems with your IQ and I don’t think those are considered valid grounds for clemency under criminal law.”
Gregorio’s face had turned whiter than the headlights.
“Can we come to a deal of some sort?” he asked in a low voice.
“What did you have in mind?”
“You’re interested in that brooch. What if I tell you who brought it to me and we just drop the whole thing?”
“Well, if you’d given me that information three hours ago I would have been delighted. But it’s too late now. Put yourself in my shoes. How on earth can I cover all this up?” He pointed to the delivery van where Italo was unloading box after box. “And then there’s something you don’t know. I already knew who brought you that brooch. I just needed to be one hundred percent certain of it.” He buttoned up his overcoat. “Fucking freezing out, isn’t it?”
Pulling up his collar, he went back to his car.
“SCHIAVONE! FIRST OFF: I DON’T LIKE BEING WOKEN up at six in the morning. Moreover, when it’s six in the morning on a Sunday, let’s just say that my annoyance and irritation are elevated by a power of three. And second of all, I don’t like being called at home.” Judge Baldi spoke on his phone with the groggy voice of a man yanked out of a deep sleep.
“I know, Dottore, but there are two inaccuracies in what you just said to me.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“First of all, it’s not six in the morning, it’s seven thirty. Second, I’m not calling you at home, I’m calling you on your cell phone. And I have no idea whether or not your cell phone is necessarily at your home.”
“Normally, at seven thirty on a Sunday morning, it is.”
“I just assumed you were already poring over documents, Dottore. There’s nothing I can do about it. I just have this picture of you.”
“Schiavone, you just can’t bring yourself to be fully serious even for a moment, can you?”
“I’m completely serious, sir. And the reason I’m calling you is that I firmly believe in rules and institutions.”
“Go fuck yourself, but first tell me what you want.”
“Two arrest warrants. One for Gregorio Chevax and another for Hilmi Bastiany.”
“You want to tell me on what charges?”
“Sure. Chevax for receiving stolen goods. Hilmi for sale of narcotics, assault and battery on an officer of the law, and burglary.”
“And you call me at seven thirty on Sunday morning for nonsense like this?”
“Does it help if I tell you that Hilmi Bastiany committed the burglary in the apartment of Esther Baudo, our victim on Via Brocherel?”
Rocco heard Baldi cluck his tongue. “Fine. I’ll make myself a cup of coffee . . . Are you going to send someone or come yourself?”
“I’ll send someone.”
“Do me a favor. Don’t send me that fat officer or the one from Abruzzo.”
“Don’t worry. The fat guy’s not on duty, and the other one is at the Umberto Parini.”
“What happened to him?”
“Hilmi sent him to the hospital, Dottore.”
“Let me get this straight, Schiavone. When did he do that?”
“I had sent my two intrepid officers out on a stakeout. There was a brawl. We even have it on video. The security camera in a pharmacy. In fact, I’ll make a copy of it and send it to you for your information.”
“I know them. They’re those surveillance videos in black-and-white, all speeded up. You’d need the forensic squad to even figure out what’s happening.”
“Believe me, Dottor Baldi, watch this video and you’ll thank me.”
“Why?”
“Just trust me.”
“How long is it?”
“Three minutes. When you were a kid did you watch the Saturday afternoon comedy roundup, Oggi le comiche?”
“Certainly, like all the other kids, Saturday at midday, as soon as we got home from school. Why?”
“In comparison with this thing, Buster Keaton was strictly an amateur.”
“Schiavone, I want that video here at my home with all deliberate speed!”
HE’D SENT SCIPIONI AND ITALO TO GO PICK UP HILMI and keep him in a room where he couldn’t talk to anyone else, especially not his buddy Fabio Righetti, with whom he’d dealt drugs and assaulted the two police officers. Chevax’s lawyer was out of town and wouldn’t be back in Aosta until the next day. At eleven o’clock, Rocco had gotten into his car, set the GPS to the address in Ciriè, and taken the highway to Turin.
As soon as he drove into the Piedmont region the sky turned blue and the sun, tepid and pale, did its best to warm up the countryside. He lost himself in a reverie, staring at the low, dark vineyards bunched up at the foot of the mountains, and the bristling Savoy outpost forts, grim and threatening and squat, set among outcroppings of rock.
Skinny black carrion crows flew in lazy circles over the stubbly fields in search of food. Now and then one would venture to the middle of the deserted roadway if there was roadkill to pick over. Rocco hated those birds. Even in Rome they’d shouldered aside the other bird species. They’d devour the eggs and ravage the nests of sparrows, robins, and goldfinches, and their population was booming. They were becoming the masters of the skies over Italy, and by now the only winged creatures that could stand up to them in Rome were the seagulls and the big green parrots that had colonized the major city parks. Now those were authentic birds of prey: they came from Brazil and when it came to ravenous appetites they could certainly hold their own with any common Italian carrion crow. Whenever he was in Villa Borghese or Villa Ada and saw those parrots flying overhead in formation like so many German Stukas, green and red, with their unpleasant cawing cries, he’d think of the first idiot who had opened a cage and let the alpha parrot out, the pioneer of what had now become an enormous deadly and aggressive colony that was systematically slaughtering Rome’s sparrows and other small native species. That said, when it came to looks, the parrots certainly stood head and shoulders above those mangy awkward carrion crows. Rocco waited apprehensively for the day that some idiot in Rome decided to let an anaconda go free. The alpha anaconda. Then things would certainly get interesting. If nothing else, there would be a sharp drop in the Eternal City’s eternal rat population, which were now rivaling Great Danes in sheer size. Roman cats would flee immediately at the sight of a rat. Now he’d like to see those swaggering rodent bullies faced with an anaconda from the Amazon delta, thirty or so feet long, capable of swallowing a southern Italian water buffalo in minutes. This would be just one more collateral effect of globalization, and a positive one in Rocco Schiavone’s opinion. Certainly, it would be a little complicated to deal with giant snakes draped over the branches of the plane trees along the banks of the Tiber, but there at least the enemy would be visible, less treacherous, handsome, and even poetic in a way. Moreover, those snakes don’t carry the infectious diseases that rats do. Perhaps there’d even be a boom in the production of handbags and shoes. Who could say.
Immersed in that fanciful bestiary, Rocco pulled into the town of Ciriè and parked his car in front of the bar on Via Rossetti.
De Silvestri was already there, seated at a table all the way in the back with two glasses filled to the brim with some orange liquid and a small bowl of peanuts in front of him. He had his eyes glued to the front door and the minute he saw Deputy Police Chief Schiavone walk in, he took three long strides and met his old superior officer, embracing him like a long-lost brother. As he wrapped his arms around Officer De Silvestri’s shoulders, Rocco realized that after working side by side with him for all those years, this was the first time he’d ever seen him in civilian garb. They broke out of the clinch. De Silvestri’s eyes were glistening.
“You’re looking well.”
“You too, De Silvestri; you’re in fighting trim.”
“Come this way, sir. I ventured to order a couple of Aperols . . .”
“Alfre’, why the ‘sir’? Can’t we just be on a first-name basis?”
“I can’t bring myself to do it, sir. After all these years, I just can’t do it.”
The two men sat down and clinked glasses. Rocco downed half his glass at a single gulp. “Ahhh, I needed that . . . have you seen this lousy weather?”
“We’re up north, what did you expect?”
“How’s my replacement?”
“He’s a good guy. He’s young and he doesn’t know Rome. He’ll have the time he needs to get accustomed. Just think, he’s only been there seven months and he already curses in Roman dialect: mortacci vostri and ’sticazzi! No question, he still needs to work on his accent, but he’s coming along fine.”
They both laughed.
“How is my favorite protégé, Elena Dobbrilla?”
“She’s getting married next month. If you ask me, she’ll have lots and lots of kids and quit the police department.”
“You think?”
“Her husband is an architect. That guy makes more than enough money for the two of them.”
“To Elena!” They clinked glasses again.
It was only then that De Silvestri’s expression changed. “I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s something that’s not right, down in Rome.”
Rocco shifted slightly in his chair and moved several inches closer to De Silvestri, so the officer could speak a little more quietly. “What’s this about, Alfredo?”
Rocco’s old colleague spoke a name, “Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo,” and Schiavone’s face became a mask of creases and hatred. “What’s he done?”
“Same old thing. He raped two girls. One outside Vivona high school, the other one in the eucalyptus grove, near the Fonte San Paolo.”
Rocco’s hand gripped the little wooden table until his knuckles whitened.
“Deputy Police Chief Busdon says that we have no proof it was him. But that’s not true. I’d never have taken this step if I wasn’t one hundred percent positive, Dottor Schiavone.”
“Just how can you be so sure?”
“The high school student from the Liceo Vivona got a good look at his face. And when I showed her an array of photographs, she immediately picked out the son of the undersecretary for foreign affairs. Plus this guy walked with a limp and wore a pair of glasses with one dark lens. Dottor Schiavone, it’s him.”
Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo had raped seven girls, and one of them even killed herself, until the day his path crossed Rocco Schiavone’s. Schiavone had beaten him practically to death. And because of that ruthless and feral act of vengeance, the deputy police chief had been sentenced to a grim penalty: immediate transfer. In fact, considering how powerful the rapist’s father was, he’d gotten off easy, amazingly easy. More than once, as he was waiting to learn the verdict of the internal investigation, he’d imagined the sound of a cell door slamming in a high-security prison. Instead, he’d just been sent to work in Aosta. All things considered, he’d been lucky.
“What can I do, De Silvestri?”
“I don’t know. We need to give your replacement, Busdon, a bit of a push, but most of all we need to stop that bastard. If you’d only seen the state he left that poor girl’s face in.”
Rocco stood up from the table. He took a quick stroll around the café, watched by De Silvestri and the proprietor, who glanced at him blankly and then went back to reading his copy of Tutto Sport. Then the policeman sat down again. “I’ll have to come to Rome. Would you write down the names of the two girls who were raped for me?”
“Certainly, hard to forget them. The one from the garden is Marta De Cesaris—he’d already raped her once, you ought to remember.”
“Of course I remember. And now he’s raped her again. What, did he think he hadn’t finished the job? What about the other one? The one who identified him?”
The old policeman looked down at the table. “Her name is Paola De Silvestri.”
“De Silvestri? Like you?”
“She’s my niece.”
AS ROCCO DROVE, HE FELT AN INTENSE THIRST FOR blood. He felt angry, frustrated, and helpless. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears like a bass drum.
Thump thump thump.
A muffled and continuous bass drum that not even the volume of the stereo was enough to drown out. Outside the windshield and beyond the strip of asphalt, he glimpsed in the reflections off the windshield the face of Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo, as he recalled it on the last day he’d seen him at the DA’s office. Those protruding teeth, the thin untidy stands of hair on the sides of his cranium, the stupid, lifeless bovine eyes, the cadaverous white hands, and the freckles sprayed across his face like a helpless spurt of diarrhea. He hadn’t even had time to go home and rest up from the injuries the deputy police chief had inflicted on him, and the psychopath was already back at work.
He had to get back to Rome. He had to stop that mental defective, the son of the powerful undersecretary; Rocco remembered one of the few meetings he’d had with the father, when he’d recommended pharmaceuticals for his son and, if that treatment failed, proceeding directly to chemical castration. But the almighty Francesco Borghetti Ansaldo had obviously ignored his advice. He had defended his son and insisted on the innocence of that slow-witted thirty-year-old who spent his days at his PlayStation and his nights between the thighs of screaming helpless minors. He picked up his cell phone, switched it on, punched in the PIN, and inserted his earpiece. He dialed Seba’s phone number—one of his longtime friends, someone he knew he could always count on.
“Seba, it’s Rocco.”
“I know, you old swine, my eyes are still good enough to read the display on my phone. What’s new?”
“Are you in Rome right now?”
“I’m sitting on the can in my apartment right now. Do you want me to tell you exactly what I’m doing?”
“That’s not necessary, thanks. So tell me, what about Furio and Brizio? Are they there too?”
“You’re asking if they’re in my bathroom with me?”
“You idiot, I’m asking if they’re in Rome.”
“I think so. Now, are you going to tell me what’s up? You have some nice little project to offer me?”
“There’s a sour note in Rome,” he said. Seba said nothing. He remained silent and listened. “And it’s irritating, it’s a sound we have to silence.”
“Is it something that’s looking to hurt you?”
“No. But it concerns me, however indirectly.”
“I see. You coming down?”
“I think so. I don’t know when, but I’ll be coming.”
“We’ll be waiting for you. All I need is a couple of hours’ advance notice.”
“Grazie, Seba.”
“Don’t mention it, brother. What’s new up in Aosta?”
“It’s raining.”
“Same thing in Rome, if that’s of any help.”
“It’s no help at all.”
“Just one last thing, before I let you go. I want to be clear on one thing. Are we going to need the little girls?”
Seba was talking about firearms.
“Yes. Without license plates, if you can do that,” Rocco replied.
“Got it. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Me either. Give my best to the others. And a kiss to Adele.”
“We’re not together anymore,” said Seba.
“Ah, no? Since when?”
“Since that slut started going to bed with Robi Gusberti.”
“Er Cravatta? The shylock?”
“That’s right. Crazy shit, don’t you think, eh?”
“Crazy shit. But how old is the guy?”
“Er Cravatta? Seventy.”
“You let a seventy-year-old man take your woman away from you?”
“According to Brizio, Adele saw him as a father figure.”
“But Adele never even knew her father.”
“Exactly, no? Brizio also says that its called transference. That is, she’s projecting the father figure she never had on Er Cravatta and so she’s fallen in love with him.”
“Since when has Brizio become a psychologist?”
“Got me. These are all things that Stella’s been telling him, and she’s always reading magazines like Focus.”
“You believe this thing about the father figure?”
“Rocco, all I know is that I caught them in bed together in my apartment, in the same bed my mother used to sleep in, God rest her soul!”
“You can see that Adele was interested in a threesome.”
“How a threesome?”
“What I’m saying is that she was trying to arrange a transference with both the father figure and the mother figure!”
“Oh go fuck yourself, Rocco.”
“And you take care of yourself, Seba. See you soon. And you just wait, Adele will come back to you soon.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because they used to call Robi Gusberti ‘Pic Indolor,’ the no-hurt needle. And believe me, it wasn’t because he gave kids painless injections.”
Seba burst out laughing. “It’s true. Pic Indolor . . .”
“So you’ll see, she’ll come back to you and she’ll beg your forgiveness.”
“And I won’t forgive her.”
“You will forgive her, and I’ll tell you why. Without Adele you’re nothing but a grouchy old grizzly bear, and you know you’ll wind up in deep trouble. In fact, from now on why don’t you try to be less of an asshole. Aside from all the bullshit about Brizio and the transferences, the truth is that Adele is making you pay; she’s letting you know what life would be like without her. You must have pissed her off again, as usual, and she’s settling accounts with you. A woman who seriously means to break up with a man doesn’t start things up with Er Cravatta of all people, much less in your own apartment, where she could be certain you’d walk in on them. If Adele seriously wanted to break up with you, she’d do it with someone handsome and smart who looks half his actual age.”
“Someone like you?”
“Exactly, someone like me.”
The two friends laughed together.
“Are you sure that’s how it is, Rocco?”
“I’m sure that’s how it is. In fact, if you want, we can put two hundred euros on it. Two hundred euros says in three days, you’ll be telling Adele hello from me. Are we on?”
“Two hundred euros? You’ve got a bet! If I lose, I’d be more than happy to pay!”
“And I’ll be happy to take it. Have a good day.”
As soon as he hung up, the alerts for six voice messages rang out like a burst of machine-gun fire.
“What the fuck . . . ?”
All six voice messages were from the same number. The main switchboard at police headquarters.
“What the fuck just happened?” he said aloud, and then his cell phone rang. Another call, from headquarters.
“Who is this? What’s wrong?”
“Rocco, this is Italo.”
“And?”
“Hilmi . . . he’s disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“He hasn’t been seen since he left home yesterday.”
“I’m there. I’m coming. Let’s meet at the apartment, at Irina’s place.”
THIS TIME THE WOMAN HAD COMPANY: AHMED, Hilmi’s father, the fruit vendor. Ahmed kept twisting at his mustache and his reddened, anxious eyes darted around the room, as if in search of something he’d lost.
“Let me get this straight. Hilmi went out yesterday and never came home?” asked Rocco.
“That’s not exactly right,” Ahmed replied. “He came home, but we weren’t here when he did.”
“How do you know that?”
“He took some of his things and then left again.”
“He took backpack and clothing,” added Irina. “And his wooden box. Not there now. That’s gone too.”
“His wooden box?”
“Yes. I think he kept his money in it,” said his father.
“Did Hilmi have identification papers of any kind?”
“Certainly. Passport, why?”
“And is it here?”
Ahmed looked at Irina. Suddenly he rushed to the little piece of furniture by the front door. He pulled opened the top drawer. He pulled out his passport, and then Irina’s. But there was no sign of Hilmi’s. He went on rummaging through the door, muttering something under his breath in Arabic, then with both hands still in the drawer, he looked disconsolately at the policemen. “It’s not here. This is where we keep them.”
Rocco looked at Italo. “What do you think?”
“Me? I think it’s simple. A train to Switzerland, and from there a nice fast airplane. Where to? Who can say?”
Rocco nodded. “We need to put out an international alert. What a pain in the ass!”
“But what has he done? Why would he run away?” asked Ahmed, stepping closer to the deputy police chief.
“Burglary, and assault on a police officer.”
“Burglary? Where did he steal?” asked Irina.
“At the Baudos’, Signora. The morning of the murder.”
Irina and Ahmed exchanged a glance. The father put both hands up to his face and burst into tears. “No . . . no . . . Hilmi no . . .” Irina wrapped her arms around him. The fruit vendor let his head drop onto the woman’s breast, like an overwrought child. And he sobbed brokenhearted, wailing so loud that he drowned out the noise from the street, car horns and all. Irina rocked him soothingly, her eyes wet. She looked at the two policemen. There were dozens of questions in her eyes, but she didn’t ask even one. The two officers of the law couldn’t have given a straight yes-or-no answer to any of her questions, and Irina knew it.
“. . . at his mother’s . . .” Ahmed murmured, once his tears were no longer shaking his body.
“At his mother’s?” Rocco asked. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m saying that he went back to his mother’s house. In Egypt. In Alexandria.”
“How many years could he get?” asked Irina, displaying a surprisingly pragmatic point of view.
“I don’t know. At least a couple, for burglary, and assault and battery.”
“But there’s murder, no?” asked Irina. Ahmed was staring Rocco right in the eyes.
“That I don’t know. It’s why we wanted to take him in for questioning.”
“My son a killer? My son a killer . . .” Ahmed broke away from Irina’s embrace and slowly, head down, without another word, trudged into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.
“What can be done?” Irina asked at that point.
“Put out an international alert and warrant for his arrest, an all-points bulletin for airports and train stations. That’ll bring Interpol in on this, Signora. And that’s outside my jurisdiction.”
“And if they find him?”
“And if they find him, as we say in Rome, so’ cazzi amari—it’s bitter dicks all around.”
HE’D WASTED AN HOUR ON THE PHONE, FIRST FRUITLESSLY trying to track down the chief of police, who was up on the slopes at Courmayeur skiing, and then talking to Judge Baldi. Baldi, as was to be expected, had turned over Hilmi’s case to a colleague. Only an earthquake could get the man out of his apartment on a Sunday.
He needed to meet with Patrizio Baudo, but he wasn’t at his mother’s house in Charvensod. His mother had suggested Rocco try at Sant’Orso, the late Gothic church, one of Aosta’s main tourist attractions.
It was the first time Rocco Schiavone had ever set foot in the place. He stopped, lost in a reverie as he gazed at the lovely church nave. It was intensely cold in there, and his breath tinged the air. He heard a creaking sound and at last he glimpsed Patrizio Baudo. The man was on his knees, eyes shut, forehead resting on his begloved hands, which were clasped in prayer. Rocco sat down five pews behind him, determined to wait and not to ruin that intimate, transcendent moment. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, admiring the forest of columns that were intertwined high above. Then he looked at the triple-arched Baroque chancel screen that separated the nave and the choir. But it was clear that the stone partition had been added in some more recent period. It had nothing in common with the late Gothic style of the rest of the church.
While he was engaged in those idle thoughts, he heard a rustle behind his back. He turned around. A priest had appeared. The priest smiled at him. Rocco smiled back. The prelate sat down next to him.
“You’re the deputy police chief, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Do you know me?”
“From the newspapers.” He had a goatee, and his hair was close cut. His eyes were clear and untroubled. “You’re here to talk to Patrizio, aren’t you?” He jutted his chin toward the man absorbed in prayer five pews away.
“Yes, but I didn’t want to bother him. I’m actually only looking for a piece of information.”
“Perhaps I can give it to you.”
“No. You can’t,” said Rocco. And he gave the priest a level stare.
“We’re going to hold Esther’s funeral service here. Are you in charge of the investigation?”
“You could say that.”
“Is there any news?”
“No. There isn’t.”
The priest gave him a half smile. “You’re a vault.”
“Considering that it’s the priest who’ll hold the funeral service saying it, I’m not sure I should take that as a compliment.”
Just then Patrizio Baudo stood up. He crossed himself and stepped out of the pew. As soon as he saw Rocco talking to the priest, he scowled. He slowly walked over to them.
“Buongiorno, Signor Baudo,” said Rocco without getting to his feet. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Buongiorno, Commissario.”
“It’s deputy police chief, actually. They eliminated the title of commissario a few years ago, Patrizio,” said the priest. Patrizio nodded.
“That’s true. Ah, by the way, Patrizio, best wishes for yesterday. It was your name day, wasn’t it? St. Patrick’s Day? San Patrizio?”
“Yes . . . grazie, Dottore.”
“I just wanted to show you something.” Rocco pulled out a photograph of the peacock-shaped brooch. “Do you recognize it?”
Patrizio’s eyes opened wide. “Of course I do. That’s my mother’s brooch, and I gave it to Esther.” He handed it over to the priest, who was clearly dying of curiosity.
“Where did you find it?”
“A fence had it!”
“Find out who brought it to him right away!” Patrizio Baudo shouted, and his voice echoed off the vaults overhead.
“We already know who it was,” Rocco replied in an exaggeratedly low voice, hoping to restore peace and quiet to the house of the Lord.
“Then that’s who murdered Esther. That’s got to be the one!” Patrizio was having difficulty controlling himself.
The priest looked at him. “Calm down, Patrizio!”
“What do you mean, calm down? You caught him. Who is it? Who is it? I want to know.”
“Please, calm down, Signor Baudo. I was only interested in the brooch.”
“I can’t believe it. This is the evidence that nails him. I demand to know who it is.”
“We’ll tell you, Signor Baudo, don’t worry about that. Right now we’re in the midst of the investigation, and I’m sorry but that’s strictly confidential information.”
“My wife’s murder is strictly confidential information too, but everyone in town is talking about it.”
“Now that’s enough, Patrizio!” the priest broke in. “I’m sure that Dottor Schiavone is doing his best to catch the murderer.”
At the sound of the pastoral voice, Patrizio seemed to calm down a little. His breathing was labored and he kept looking down at his hands, encased in brown leather gloves. “I’m sorry, Dottor Schiavone. I’m sorry . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Rocco. “It’s over. I’m in the middle of an investigation, Signor Baudo, and it’s an investigation that involves you. Please, now, stop insisting and stay out of it. If you have no objections, I’ll get back to my job.”
“I haven’t been able to sleep since Friday. And if I do get to sleep, I always have the same dream.” Patrizio sat down in the pew. “Two men break into my home, two burglars, my wife sees them, they kill her, and then they string her up like a side of beef. From the lamp hook.” He put both hands over his eyes. “Is that what happened?”
“I really can’t say, Signor Baudo. But it strikes me as a reasonable reconstruction.”
“If you’ve caught the thief, then this story is over,” the priest put in.
“Not exactly. There’s one little problem. But those are internal matters. I really have to go,” Rocco said brusquely. “There are some grueling days ahead of me. Thanks for your help, Signor Baudo. And thank you too, Padre . . .”
THE WIND WAS NO LONGER BLOWING IN THE VALLEY and the temperature had risen slightly. He had the impression that it was warmer outside than inside the cathedral.
He left the church and looked around at the lovely piazza, with its bell tower and a linden tree that was said to be more than five hundred years old. That tree must have seen things. Five hundred years. A human being would certainly lose his mind if he lived even half that long, Rocco mused, his hands in the pockets of his loden overcoat, as he strolled through the ancient streets of Aosta.
THE VISITING ROOM AT THE HOUSE OF DETENTION OF Brissogne had four damp patches, one in each corner. Looking at each other across a table, Rocco Schiavone and Fabio Righetti sat in the light cast by the one small, high window, in absolute silence. The kid was pale and his Mohawk had started to wilt. He sat there, wordlessly watching the deputy police chief, and every so often staring at the floor. Someone in the distance opened a gate. Rocco seemed to be writing notes on a sheet of paper with a pen. Actually, though, he was just scribbling a series of psychotic doodles. The pen shot along, designing spirals, letters, and names without any logical sequence. And the Bic ballpoint on the paper was the only sound in the room. Then Rocco jotted a single sharp period—full stop—and raised his eyes to look into Fabio’s. The young man had been observing him. He was about to chomp down on his gum when a light glinted in his eyes. He raised one hand to his mouth and spat out the gum; then he stuck it to the bottom of the table.
“You keeping that for later?” asked Rocco.
The boy nodded.
At last the door swung open and Riccardo Biserni, Righetti’s lawyer, came in. Suit and tie, about thirty-five, a ruddy, healthy face, intelligent blue eyes. He immediately smiled at the deputy police chief. “Sorry I’m late, Rocco, but in-laws will be in-laws . . .”
They shook hands. “Don’t think twice, Ricca’, don’t worry. On the other hand, you’re the one who wanted to get married.”
“Me? You crazy? She bear-trapped me.”
“That’s the first time anyone ever caught a lawyer in a trap, instead of the other way around.”
“Well, if you want to know the truth, it didn’t hurt a bit. Now then . . .” The lawyer sat down next to his client. “How are you doing, Fabio? Everything okay?” he asked as he pulled a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. “These are things I’ll need you to sign.” Fabio nodded. Rocco yawned and stretched and sat back down.
“How are they treating you? All right?”
“Fine. I have a cell all to myself, and I never have to deal with the others.”
Riccardo glanced at the deputy police chief. “Is that your doing?”
Rocco nodded. “I didn’t think he needed to familiarize with certain people.”
“In that case, I usually record my conversations, but I can skip it this time. After all, it’s a friendly conversation, isn’t it?” the lawyer said. Rocco nodded.
“We caught Hilmi Bastiany, Fabio,” he said suddenly, scrutinizing Righetti’s face. “Your accomplice.”
The boy lowered his gaze.
“And he had a few things to tell us. Tell me when I go astray here, eh? The two of you sold off some jewelry to get the money to give your dealer so you could peddle drugs in the gardens outside the train station. Sound about right?”
Fabio looked over at his lawyer, who slowly nodded his head yes. “We got the coke without having to pay, at least not yet. If we did well, they were going to give us more.”
Rocco didn’t ask who’d given them the coke. Right now, he had a very different target. He needed to go on bluffing. So he went all in and played his ace in the hole. “What time did you enter the Baudo apartment?”
Fabio snickered. “The Baudo apartment?” he asked back.
“Hilmi told me you were there at seven thirty. Can you confirm that?”
“I’ve never been in the Baudos’ apartment. I don’t even know where it is.”
“I’ll tell you where it is. It’s the place you burgled and stole gold and jewelry that you fenced to Gregorio Chevax to get the money for the drugs you sold.”
“I already told you. We got the coke without paying a cent. We didn’t need money.”
“Then why did you burglarize the Baudos’ apartment?”
“I’ve never burglarized anyone’s apartment.”
He could still try out the final full-on assault. “Listen, asshole . . .”
“Rocco . . .” Riccardo intervened with an avuncular tone.
“Listen, asshole,” Rocco insisted, “you and Hilmi went into the Baudos’ apartment, you took the gold, the lady walked in on you, and you killed her. You strangled her! Then you staged the hanging.”
“Rocco, what the fuck are you talking about?” the lawyer snapped. “Are you accusing Fabio of murder?”
“I’m not, Hilmi is. He told me that it was Fabio’s idea to stage the hanging.”
“I never killed anyone! What are you talking about?”
“Rocco, if you’re planning to charge my client with anything of the sort, I’m afraid I’m going to have to interrupt this informal conversation and elevate it to a different level.”
“Riccardo, I’m just trying to help Fabio out here, because Hilmi is trying to sell him down the river.”
“Don’t force me to go to the judge. If I have to leave this room . . .”
“Hilmi took a picture of your client inside the apartment, Riccardo. While he was rummaging through an armoire. You realize what that means? I’m just trying to save him from a homicide charge, for Christ’s sake!”
“It was nine thirty!” Fabio Righetti shouted, freezing his lawyer and Rocco too, in mid-dispute.
“Fabio, if you want to remain silent, go ahead; you and I should have a talk first.”
“No, I don’t have anything to hide. It was nine thirty. Not seven thirty.”
Rocco leaned back in his chair. “So you’re saying Hilmi is lying?”
“Of course he’s lying,” said Fabio. “We were supposed to go in right after seven because Signor Baudo left on his bicycle. Only that fucking moped of Hilmi’s had a flat tire and we were running late.”
“Did you get a new tire?”
“Yes. At the tire repair shop in front of police headquarters. He can tell you about it; his name is Fabrizio.”
“Nice, Fabio. So go on.”
The lawyer was breathing heavily. He was like a panther ready to pounce, but the situation was already tangled beyond repair. Rocco thought he could practically see the lawyer’s brain chugging away, trying to put things back together. “It was past nine by the time we got to the Baudo place. I know because I got a text message on my phone.”
“When did you make copies of the keys to the Baudo apartment?”
Fabio looked up. “Three days ago. It was Hilmi who stole them from Irina.”
“Tell me how it went.”
“We went straight to the bedroom. I knew they kept the gold there.” Riccardo Biserni listened in silence. He was taking notes, but there’d be no getting this cat back into the bag.
“How did you know that?”
“One time Irina told Hilmi’s father that Signor Baudo kept a box in the bedroom and she had told him he should get a safe because leaving valuables around like that was dangerous.”
“And in fact it was. Go on.”
“We found the jewel box with all the gold. We were just leaving when we heard the key turn in the lock.”
“Was it Irina?”
Fabio Righetti nodded. “Hilmi and I didn’t know where to hide. We beat it all the way to the back of the apartment, the room with the door closed.”
Rocco looked at the boy: “And what was in there?”
“How’m I supposed to know? It was dark, and I made sure I didn’t turn on the light, or else Irina would have seen me.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I heard Irina calling out to the signora. And I knew that the signora wasn’t at home, for sure she was out doing her shopping. That’s what she always does in the morning. Then I heard Irina running away, and I thought to myself: shit, she must have noticed something, or she saw us. How could she, though? Irina tripped on the carpet. I heard a noise; it was her screaming and slamming the front door behind her. I waited a little while and then we both snuck out of the apartment.”
“How did you manage to leave the building?”
“We just went out the front door. There wasn’t anybody around. We ran for it and hid behind a car. Irina had stopped a man in the middle of the street.”
Rocco stood up from his chair. “Good work, Fabio. You were perfect.”
“I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never even seen the signora in my life, Commissario Schiavone.”
“Deputy Police Chief Schiavone,” Rocco corrected him. “Did you know what was in that dark room?”
“No . . .”
“Esther Baudo’s corpse was in that room, my friend.” Rocco and the lawyer looked at each other.
“Why did Hilmi tell those lies?” asked Fabio.
“Listen to me, Fabio, I already told you this the first time we met. If you want to be a gangster, you have to be born one. And you’re no gangster. I just wanted to hear what happened in that apartment, and now I’m going to compare stories and see if you told me the truth. If you did, then all you’ll be looking at is a drug dealing charge . . . oh, and burglary . . . and you’ve got your lawyer right here, and he knows how these things work better than I do. But I’ll do what I can to blame the initiative for the burglary on Hilmi, that it was his idea to pull this inside job and at the very worst, you were an accomplice. You’ll do a couple of months behind bars, and then you’ll be out on the street.”
“Commissario, that’s the truth.”
“Call me commissario one more time and I’ll make sure you get life without parole.”
“Yes, Deputy Police Chief,” Fabio promptly corrected himself.
“But if it turns out you lied and you do have something to do with this murder, then things change.” And he looked at the lawyer. “Well, Fabio, we’ve had a really nice talk. Your cell phone, please?”
“Why?”
“It’s important. You told me you received a text message at nine o’clock Friday morning. That’s a little piece of evidence in your favor, you know that?”
“It’s down in the storeroom,” said Riccardo.
“Let me tell you again, sir: I told the truth. You can ask the guy at the tire repair shop.”
“You can count on it. Thanks, Riccardo,” he said as he walked toward the door. The lawyer caught up with him. Under his breath, he said: “You didn’t catch Hilmi at all, tell me the truth.”
“If you already know it, why are you bothering asking me?” He opened the door and left the meeting room.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU GO INTO THE SHOP YESTERDAY?”
“You saw me?”
“I was in the bar across the street.”
Standing on the landing, uncertain whether to go into the apartment or continue to stand there talking, Nora and Rocco looked at each other with tired eyes.
“You put me through a truly miserable birthday, you know that?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“And now you come to see me. Why?”
“To ask you to forgive me.”
“Rocco Schiavone asking for forgiveness.”
“You don’t think much of me.”
“Why should I?”
“Are you going to let me in or shall we stay on the landing?”
“Neither one,” Nora replied, and sweetly shut the door in the deputy police chief’s face. He stood there, gazing at the knots in the wood. Then he took a deep breath, did an about-face, and left Nora’s apartment building.
Outdoors the temperature had plunged along with the setting sun and an icy hand clutched the policeman’s chest. “So fucking cold . . .” he muttered bitterly between clenched teeth while buttoning his loden overcoat. Before he could take even two steps down the sidewalk the first solitary snowflake fluttered lightly before his eyes. The streetlamps were already on and in the yellowish light hundreds of flakes flew, like moths, slow and majestic. A flake landed on Rocco’s cheek. He rubbed it dry. He raised his eyes to the steel-gray sky and saw them land on him by the dozen. They emerged from the darkness and took shape a few yards above him. He imagined himself as a spaceship traveling at the speed of light and all those dots hurtling toward him as so many stars and galaxies through which he was moving, into the mysterious depths of the cosmos. The lights were on in Nora’s windows. And in the luminous rectangle of the living room window he saw Nora, standing there watching him as he played at letting the snow tickle him. Their eyes met once again. Then a movement in the adjoining window, the one in the bedroom, caught the deputy police chief’s attention. A shadow behind the curtains. It had gone by quickly but not fast enough for there to be any doubt about its nature: it was a man. Rocco bit his lip and immediately tried to assign a name and a face to that shadowy guest. He raised his right hand as if to say hello to Nora, then he raised the left hand next to it and mimed the act of opening the window. At first, Nora didn’t understand. Rocco repeated the gesture. The woman complied, opening the window and sticking her head out ever so slightly, one hand on her chest to protect herself from the chill. Rocco smiled up at her. “If you ask me, it’s the interior decorator Pietro Bucci-something-or-other. Right?”
Nora made a face. “What did you say?”
“I said, if you ask me, it’s the interior decorator Pietro Bucci-something-or-other.”
“His name is Pietro Bucci Rivolta.”
“Is that him?”
“Is who him?”
“Whoever it is that’s over in the bedroom.”
Nora said nothing. She shut the window and pulled the curtains, vanishing from Rocco’s sight. Not even ten seconds later, she turned off the lights.
Okay, fair enough, thought Rocco: you don’t answer rhetorical questions.
Now there were plenty of snowflakes, and they no longer looked like stars he was passing as he explored the cosmos, but just what they were: icy snowflakes that were getting inside the collar of his overcoat, and were bound to turn the road into a dangerous sheet of ice.
It was time to go home.
“WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT, THERE IS A GOD AFTER all, no?” Marina tells me.
“What are you talking about?” I ask her.
“The guy that rapes little girls.” She’s making an herbal tea, I guess, because she’s clattering around in the kitchen.
“Excuse me very much, but what does God and His existence have to do with that son of a bitch?”
“Nothing to do with him. It has to do with you.” She comes into the living room and goes over to the table. In one hand she has a mug. Sure enough, an herbal tea.
“I don’t understand you, Marì.”
“I’m saying, there’s a God because in the end they punished you. If you think about it, they punished you for the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, that is, beat that guy up.”
She’s right.
“Sort of like Al Capone, no? They finally put him in jail for tax evasion, and not for littering Chicago with corpses. If you make the necessary adjustments, that’s more or less what happened to you, Rocco.”
“I didn’t litter the city with corpses.”
“No? Think back.”
I don’t want to think back. I don’t want to think about any of it. “All right,” I say to her, “there’s a God. But why are you so glad that I’m exiled up here?”
She laughs prettily and pulls out her notebook. She reads the word of the day. “Diluculum. It’s a Latin word. You know what it means?”
“No.”
“It’s the first light, the light of the new day.”
“Daybreak?”
“Yes. Nice, eh?”
“The word itself, not so much. It’s funny-sounding.”
“But the first light is pretty. It brings hope, because sooner or later it’s bound to come.” And she disappears again. It’s what she always does. After all, I already know what she’s saying to me. It’s always the same thing, even if she uses complicated phrases, words that she finds in the dictionary but that always talk about the same problem. As if I didn’t know it. I just don’t have the strength. I probably don’t have the will, either. It takes tremendous strength. And a person doesn’t necessarily have that strength. A person might not be able to muster it. I’m there, with both shoes. But you just take a look at my shoes on the radiator. Look at the pitiful shape they’re in. And it’s not even the end of March yet. I wonder if springtime will ever come here. The day after tomorrow is the twentieth, and springtime arrives at midnight. But around here no one seems to have noticed. But I have. The day after tomorrow is Marina’s birthday. And she was born right at midnight. Another minute and it would have been the twenty-first. But to me Marina and springtime have always been the same thing.