“I’m willing to consider opening a murder file. The highlighted letters in the suicide note can’t be just coincidence.”
“That’s what I think too,” said Commissario Clelia Vinci. “Inspector Armati sends his regards,” she added. “He couldn’t come with me because he’s questioning a witness.”
“Give him my regards. Naturally, I ask you to keep me informed about any developments in the inquiry.”
“Of course.” Clelia bid him goodbye with a strong handshake and marched out of his office. She quickly ran down the stairs of the Tribunale della Repubblica and left the building. She paused for a moment to admire the vast expanse of Piazza San Marco, the only true piazza in Venice. She glanced up at the gray sky, streaked with clouds. A sustained rumbling announced the first drops of rain, which gradually became heavier. The tourists who crowded the piazza took refuge inside the basilica or under the arched colonnades of the Procuratie, so-called because the building once housed the offices of the Procurators of St. Mark.
Clelia decided to permit herself a coffee in the eighteenthcentury Caffé Florian. She strode in and ordered an espresso. History had unfolded in front of the full-length windows of the most celebrated Venetian coffee shop. It had played host to, among others, Charles Dickens, Lord Byron, Ugo Foscolo, Silvio Pellico, Modigliani, D’Annunzio, Eleonora Duse—and, as Florian’s was the only café of the time that women were allowed to enter, it was said that Casanova used to stalk his romantic prey here. But Clelia held onto an important personal memory linked to the café: in the Oriental Salon, painted by Pascuti, its walls adorned with exotic women dressed in skimpy outfits and pairs of lovers, her husband had proposed to her. His eyes had never once left hers as he had asked her. “You’re stubborn and not very likely to change your point of view if you think you’re right. You’re proud and touchy. And you’ve chosen to take up a career I don’t like, but I love you. Clelia Vinci, will you marry me?” he had said to her without pausing for breath. She had looked at him, her eyes teary with emotion, and had uttered a single word: “Yes.” Clelia fought against the urge to go into the Oriental Salon. She hadn’t set foot in their since she and her husband had split up, even if every now and then she went back to the old Caffé Florian—despite the fact that she would then be in a bad mood for the rest of the day. She drank her bitter, still scalding espresso in one gulp.
A few minutes later she was at the quay where the police motorboat was moored; she waved to the uniformed officer who was waiting for her. The journey toward the Santa Croce district, the oldest part of Venice and home to the Questura, proved to be more difficult than expected because of the Bora, which was still blowing, forming ripples on the surface of the canals. Clelia, despite having been born in the city on the lagoon, had always suffered from seasickness.
Half an hour later, pale and slightly the worse for wear, she joined Inspector Armati in his office. She found him deep in conversation with Rossana Piva, Restivo’s charming personal assistant. The young woman’s eyes were red from crying and she sobbed as she talked.
“He had no reason to do something like this … I think Luciano had a meeting yesterday evening.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Armati.
“He didn’t tell me exactly, but there are five of us at Ad Work and it’s rare for all the work to be finished by six, so we often stay late. But yesterday evening it seemed like Luciano couldn’t wait to be left on his own.”
“The fact that Mr. Restivo wanted to be on his own, couldn’t that suggest he was planning to commit suicide?”
Rossana jumped to her feet. “No!” she cried, clenching her fists. “Luciano would never have done that …”
After she left, Franco looked at Clelia. “What did you think?”
The commissario replied, “Her reaction was a bit over the top.”
“I thought so too. Maybe there was something more than a working relationship between Restivo and his secretary. She’s a very attractive girl, and a colleague of hers just told me she was the last person to be hired, but has risen very quickly in her career.”
“What do you mean?”
“Besides being the boss’s PA, it just so happens she has been personally handling negotiations with some of the most important clients.”
Clelia gazed out of the window. It was raining heavily and the sky looked like a sheet of steel.
“You’re miserable today,” Franco said to her.
“Sometimes I wonder how come you know me so well. Do you know that my ex always said I don’t show my feelings enough?”
“After lunch I’m meeting Restivo’s widow. Do you want to grab a bite with me and then we can go there together?”
“Okay. Laura’s with her father for a few days anyway, and the more time I spend at work the better I’ll feel.”
Neither Clelia nor Franco had armed themselves with an umbrella, so they ran through the rain to the nearby bar. Clelia’s hair was dripping wet. Franco brushed a strand from her face and smiled at her. She shivered, but not because of the cold. They ordered two sandwiches and sat at a table in the corner.
“I called Enrico Lettieri, Restivo’s lawyer, and he seemed pretty shaken up as well,” said Franco.
“Do you think he’ll be able to tell us anything useful?”
“I think so. I found out that Lettieri was a good friend of Restivo, someone he really trusted. He’s out of town at the moment, but he’ll drop by the station on Monday.”
III
The Restivo villa, with its art nouveau design and huge garden, stood in the area near the Lungomare d’Annunzio on the Lido. Mariasole Vincenzi Restivo had been a very beautiful woman: you could tell from the shape of her face and the light that occasionally lit up her eyes, green like precious stones. But time had superimposed on her features a certain harshness. Clelia imagined that she must have suffered greatly in her life. A woman understands these things. The thought contrasted with the ostentatious splendor of the house’s decor.
Restivo’s widow led them into a classically styled sitting room and offered them a seat on a sofa upholstered in golden velvet, with exquisite inlaid wooden arms.
“Is that an original?” asked Franco, pointing at one of the paintings.
“Yes. It’s a Canaletto, painted in 1730. My father was an art dealer. The other paintings are originals too—they’re part of the family collection. As an only child, I inherited them together with this villa.”
“It’s truly amazing,” Clelia said, looking up at the ceiling frescoed with flowers.
“Sometimes I think it’s too big. Especially for a woman on her own.” There was a note of sadness in her voice.
“I’m sorry for your loss. It must be awful,” Franco mumbled quickly.
During their brief chat, the woman proved to be happy to talk at length about the nineteenth-century copy of the Nike of Samothrace that dominated the hall, of the virtues of her Filipina maid, and of her gardeners’ poor work ethic. On the other hand, she was reluctant to talk about her husband. It appeared that their relationship had cooled after their daughter, Annalisa, had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Marghera.
“Signora Restivo, I’m sure it’s difficult for you to talk about this, especially now. But can I ask why your daughter’s in the hospital?”
For a long while Mariasole simply gazed around the room. Clelia thought that perhaps she hadn’t heard the question. She was about to repeat it when the woman cleared her throat. She caught Clelia’s eye, peered straight at her, and replied: “The only thing wrong with my daughter is that she was born a girl.”
Inspector Armati leaned forward. “Why do you say that?”
“Because girls are good at falling in love with the wrong man. Now excuse me, but I’m rather tired and I’d like to rest.”
As they left, the two police officers noticed a silver station wagon parked under a canopy in the villa’s courtyard. Clelia guessed that it belonged to Mariasole, given that she was currently alone
in the house. She wondered what made so many women choose such huge cars.
It was dusk when Commissario Vinci and Inspector Armati left the villa. The sky above the Lido was stained with orange streaks that faded toward the horizon. The rain had finally stopped, but the weather forecast said that high tides would be back again soon.
“When I see sunsets like this, I feel nothing’s impossible. Perhaps two people—like you and me—could even fall in love again …” said Franco, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Clelia didn’t respond. At the commissariato, Armati had a reputation as a bit of a charmer. Six years ago he had lost his wife in a horrific car accident, and since then he had not been seriously involved with anyone. At first he had fallen into a deep depression, but then he had begun going out more often with women he described as “friends.” People all have their own ways of dealing with their pain, thought Clelia. But Franco was different with her. When he talked to her, his voice became gentler. He was attentive in a way that went beyond the relationship between an inspector and his superior officer. He couldn’t help worrying if she was looking anxious. Franco Armati would never have admitted it—not even to himself—but what he felt toward Clelia was very close to love. Clelia was definitely not indifferent to the charms of her colleague, but the only man in her life, Giovanni, had always tried to change her. He had never accepted her work, and he had ended up using their daughter Laura to blackmail her. How many times had Clelia been made to feel that she wasn’t a good mother, that she left her daughter on her own too often, or that she brought her most difficult cases home with her? Love—for Clelia Vinci—was a complication and, at this particular moment in her life, there wasn’t room for another complication. So she didn’t respond.
Once she got home, Clelia heated up a cup of milk and forced herself to eat a few biscuits. She felt on edge and she couldn’t help imagining Laura with Giovanni’s new family. Who knew if during the weekend Laura would think about her at all.
Clelia read the pathologist’s autopsy report: there was no trace of gunpowder on Restivo’s index finger, so it was impossible for him to have pulled the trigger of the gun. Someone had made him write a fake suicide note.
IV
“Hi, Annalisa. This is Commissario Vinci and Inspector Armati. They’re here to ask you some questions. Is that okay?” the psychologist asked the girl sitting opposite her.
Annalisa had her mother’s green eyes, but her stare was vacant. The blankness was that of a child who had grown up too quickly. Blond hair framed her pinched face; her thin lips turned down at the corners and were edged with fine frown lines. She simply nodded, and continued playing with the ring she wore on the ring finger of her left hand.
“Can you tell us about your father, Annalisa?” Clelia began.
“My father is a very bad man.”
The commissario glanced at Armati in surprise. Then she asked: “Why is he a bad man?”
“He thinks he can make me forget what he did, with all these pills. The pills keep me quiet, but I’ll never forget.” She stressed the word never as if it were a promise, or a curse.
The psychologist pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and said: “Annalisa, please. Your father loved you. And he’s no longer with us. I explained it all to you yesterday, do you remember?”
“He’s dead.” Annalisa burst out laughing. “He won’t be able to hurt anyone anymore.” Then she became serious again and turned her head toward Franco. “Roberto had blue eyes, just like yours. He gave me this engagement ring after we’d been together for just a month,” she said, stroking the ring that sparkled on her finger. “Are you engaged, inspector?”
Franco swallowed loudly. “Err … no,” he replied, embarrassed.
“My father killed Roberto. Because he couldn’t stand another man touching his baby girl.”
“Annalisa, your father didn’t kill anyone. You shouldn’t talk about him like that.” The psychologist’s disapproval was visible in her face.
“They asked me to talk about my father, and that’s what I’m doing. Do you know what my Roberto always used to say?” She paused for a moment, then pressed her lips together in a faint smile and said: “Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies. It’s something Nietzsche said. My father’s convictions killed Roberto and imprisoned me here. And now more people will die …” She bit her bottom lip and sought Clelia’s eyes. “Look for the truth, commissario. Don’t be fooled by appearances.”
The psychologist frowned at Annalisa. “You’re getting upset. You can talk to them when you have more control of yourself.” Then, turning to the two police officers, she said: “I’m sorry, but my patient is in no condition to continue with this questioning at the moment. Let’s go back to my office.”
Clelia saw that there was no point in challenging the woman; it was an ultimatum, not an invitation.
Doctor Sofia Ghelfi had been looking after Annalisa Restivo for a couple of years; her care had begun when the girl returned alone from a trip to Tunisia—her fiancé, Roberto Milan, had been arrested in Monastir and had then disappeared without a trace. Once they were in her office, the psychologist let out a long sigh. She looked down at the floor, then toward Clelia. “It seems that Roberto was found in possession of drugs at the airport, while Annalisa, thanks to the intervention of the family’s lawyer, Lettieri, was brought back home without a criminal record. Since then, Annalisa has blamed her father for the loss of her one great love.”
“Love. It’s always love that’s to blame,” Armati muttered.
The psychologist pretended not to have heard. She continued: “Annalisa developed an acute depressive syndrome with a persecution complex, and shortly after her return she was admitted here, where I follow her progress personally. Recently she seemed to have regained an equilibrium, but in the last few days that has vanished.”
“In your opinion, what’s caused this relapse?”
“Annalisa had a visitor, about a week ago. We don’t allow patients to receive phone calls from outside, but the visitor, disobeying our rules, handed her a cell phone. By the time I arrived, Annalisa was in tears and kept shouting Roberto’s name.”
Clelia’s face lit up with a flash of intuition. “I’ll need to know the name of the visitor.”
“I’ll check the records right now.” Sofia reviewed a folder and moments later announced: “Francesco Bonifazi.”
V
Francesco Bonifazi lived in a small apartment on the edge of Mestre with two other architecture students. He was surprised to find two police officers at the door. He glared at them, full of hostility. “Do you have a warrant?”
“Of course not,” Armati replied, annoyed. “We’re here unofficially. But, if you prefer, I can call the judge and have you summoned to appear in court for questioning. I can promise you that will be a lot less pleasant.”
The boy, dreadlocks hanging down to his shoulders and a stud in his nose, seemed to think about it for a few seconds, then said: “Come in. I was just making coffee.”
They entered a kitchenette in which chaos reigned. Unwashed plates were piled up in the sink. On every surface there was a jumble of cans, glasses, and cutlery.
“Let’s get straight to the point. Luciano Restivo was killed on Thursday night. I’ve heard that you visited his daughter Annalisa at the hospital a few days before.”
“So what? Can’t a person visit an old friend?”
Clelia moved toward Francesco. “Don’t take us for idiots. You don’t have the time and neither do we. That was the first time in two years you’ve visited Annalisa. I know you let her take a phone call that upset her. You’re in touch with her exfiancé—isn’t that true?” Although Annalisa maintained that Roberto was dead—and that her father was to blame—Clelia had sensed that this wasn’t the case.
Francesco put the coffee pot on the stove. “I’ve always thought there’s no point in talking to the cops. You decide for yourselves what the truth is, and most of the time it’
s the innocent who are the losers.”
“Like Roberto Milan?”
“Exactly. Roberto and Annalisa were crazy about each other, but her dad couldn’t accept that a boy with his background, who loved having a good time, could get engaged to his daughter. Tunisia was supposed to be their first holiday, an unforgettable trip.” He stopped talking for a moment, then peered directly at Clelia and said: “And in a way, it was. Roberto was framed. Someone hid the drugs in his jacket pocket. The airport police were waiting for him. He was banged up and Annalisa was brought back to Italy by Restivo’s bulldog, his lawyer. I think his name is Lettieri.”
“You’re making some very serious accusations.”
“The truth is difficult to hear. And to think that for a second I thought I saw the glimmer of justice in your eyes, commissario.”
Clelia Vinci reflected on the fact that in just a couple of days two different people had pointedly asked her to search out the truth. She looked across at her colleague. She had to play her cards right. “We know Roberto Milan came back to Italy.” She didn’t have any proof, but she decided to follow her instincts. Annalisa’s ex-fiancé had a perfect motive for killing Restivo: revenge. She added: “If you know where he is, you have to tell me. We can help him, before he makes any more mistakes.”
“So you’re accusing him of murder? Don’t you think he’s already paid enough? And for a crime he didn’t even commit.”
At that moment the sound of running caught their attention. They heard the click of the front door opening and then it slammed shut.
“Clelia, quick! It’s Roberto Milan!” shouted Franco, rushing out into the hall. Without waiting for his colleague, he dived down the steps, holding on tightly to the banister. From the stairwell he managed to glimpse the figure of a boy with long hair and a long beard, wearing an army-green parka. “Stop!” he shouted.
The boy took no notice and ran out of the block of apartments. Franco, ignoring the fact that he was already out of breath, kept running without a pause, until he caught up with him. He flattened the boy against the wall of an old building and, holding him still with one arm against his throat, searched him. He was clean.
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