“I don’t have time,” said Blume.
“He said that if you said that I was to tell you to make time. Sorry, sir. He’s not usually that arrogant. I asked him what he meant by that, and he said I was to mention your arrangement with Colonel Farinelli.”
Blume looked for signs of warning, knowledge, irony, or contempt in Panebianco’s calm eyes, but got nothing back.
“When does he want this meeting?”
“Now. He’d like you to go over to the division in Trastevere. I’d be happy to convey any harsh replies you’d like to make.”
“No. Thanks, Inspector. I’ll deal with it.”
As he drove past the Ministry of Justice, Blume pulled out his phone and called Beppe Paoloni, now a better friend than he had ever been when they were on the force together. A friendship born from confuted expectations was how Blume described it once. Paoloni’s version was that Blume was not as much of a prick as he had thought. When, two years earlier, Blume found out that Paoloni was on the point of assassinating a cop-killer, he had told him to quit the force and Paoloni had complied at once. Blume never reported the incident, which was why, Paoloni explained, he was not a total prick. As for Blume, he was pleasantly surprised at Paoloni’s immediate contrition and acquiescence instead, which was not what he had been expecting.
The friendship strengthened when it turned out that quitting was the best and most profitable thing Paoloni ever did. After a very brief stint as a bank guard, he was making a fortune as a private security consultant. As part of the compact they had struck at the time of his resignation, Blume had offloaded a large, unmanageable dog on his friend, and then occasionally popped around to see how the two of them were getting along. Paoloni liked to pretend it was Blume’s dog and he would be taking it back some day, and Blume liked to pretend that Paoloni had grown immensely fond of the animal.
“Yes?” Paoloni’s voice was wary. He never looked at the caller display.
“It’s me, Alec.”
“Alec!”
“Am I disturbing something?”
“No. I’m taking your dog for a walk.”
“He’s not my dog. I gave him to you,” said Blume.
“Hey, dog, say hello to your real father.” Paoloni must have really put the phone to the animal’s mouth or else was doing a good impression of the fast breathy sounds of a big black Cane Corso.
When Blume was sure it was Paoloni on the phone again, he said: “You still haven’t given it a name?”
“No. If I did, it wouldn’t be a nice name. The beast eats more in two days than I do in a week,” said Paoloni. “Most of my grocery bill is dog food.”
“He probably smokes less than you, Beppe, so it all balances out. What are you doing now?”
“I’m standing outside a sportswear store waiting for your dog to shit on the doorstep. We’ve been doing this every afternoon for a month now, ever since the owner refused to take back a Lacoste polo that I bought and was too small. Ahaaaa. There we go.”
“Beppe, I could do with a bit of your expert opinion on how to deal with a few things…” Blume listened to the sounds of Beppe praising and patting his dog. “You there?”
“Of course I’m here.”
“Did you hear about the killing of the Indian storekeeper?”
Paoloni’s voice became grave. “I heard about that. They drove a jeep over two kids. Are you looking for leads?”
“We know who it was,” said Blume. “I was thinking maybe if I gave you the names, you might help us find them.”
“Sure. Give me the names.”
“Have you got a pen?”
“A pen? Sure.”
“Something to write on?”
“I’ll use the dog. Give me the names, Alec.”
“Leporelli…”
“And Scariglia,” finished Paoloni. “What do I need a pen for? What’s the deal?”
“They hand themselves in. They have until tomorrow midday. In good time for the TV news.”
“OK,” said Paoloni. “And why do they do that?”
“The magistrate is Gestri. Remember him? Intense guy. He’s closed down a Cineplex in Ostia already, and at least five beach clubs won’t be opening for a week. He’s going to disrupt Camorra activities until they are delivered up. Simple deal. I think it’s in their interest to turn themselves in while they are still breathing. They shouldn’t be too hard to locate in the circumstances, and I was hoping you might act as broker.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“That sense of inner peace you get when you do the right thing.”
“I always feel that. What else?”
“You get to tell the Ostia crew the good news that the heat is off, their Cineplex and clubs can open again. You get to say you arranged it. Grateful gangsters: what else could you wish for?”
“You are sure Gestri will call off the police?”
“Of course he will. He can’t tie up all that manpower for more than a day or two anyhow, you know that.”
“OK,” said Paoloni. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ve another favor to ask, maybe two. But I’ll tell you about them when we meet.”
“Your dog simply can’t wait to see you,” said Paoloni.
The Carabiniere Art Forgery and Heritage Division was located on Via Anicia, next to a Franciscan church. Blume walked up to the high perimeter wall and past a sentry box, flashing his police ID at the three men inside. He was briefly challenged by a young Appuntato manning the door, who stood aside and let him in as soon as he had seen the card. Now a Brigadiere Capo behind a desk stopped him.
Just then a tall, elegant, and strangely white-faced young man appeared on the far side of the turnstiles. “It’s OK,” he told the Brigadiere at the desk. “Commissioner Blume?”
“You still have to sign in,” said the Brigadiere.
Blume signed the logbook and waited for his visitor’s badge.
“I need identification, please.”
Blume flicked his ID card on the desk.
The Carabiniere carefully wrote down the time, opened a drawer, took out a visitor’s badge, and very reluctantly gave it to Blume.
Blume went over to the stile, which refused to turn.
“Sorry about this,” said the young Lieutenant Colonel. “You need to swipe the visitor’s card.”
Blume was through. The young man held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I am Nicu Faedda. Let me show you to my office.”
Blume was fascinated by how a man with such white skin could have a Sardinian accent. He felt he was in the presence of a comic or an actor reciting the part of a Sard. There was a Candid Camera feel to the experience, and it put him on his guard.
“Stairs or elevator? It’s the second floor.”
“Stairs,” said Blume.
Faedda took the first flight of ten steps in three bounds, and stopped on the landing. “Did you know that UNESCO says seventy percent of world art heritage is in Italy?”
“Yes. No. Whatever.” Blume reached the landing. “Are you really a Sard?”
“Because I’m tall, is that it?”
“And white,” said Blume.
“I have sallow skin. I tan deeply in the summer.”
“Do you shrink, too?” asked Blume.
Faedda shook his head and smiled. “These misconceptions we have. I thought all Americans were fat and politically correct, yet here you are.” He gained the top of the stairs and opened the first door in the corridor, holding it for Blume. “Did you know that an art theft takes place in Italy on average every two hours, and that fifty-eight percent of what is stolen is never recovered?” he said as Blume walked in.
Faedda sat on a comfortable office chair behind his desk, empty apart from metal knickknacks and plaques with medals, bearing the insignia, symbols of the Carabinieri, feathers, rifles, the burning grenade… The Carabinieri certainly love their symbols, thought Blume. The police were satisfied with a themed calendar showing pictures of squad cars and the occasion
al Italian flag.
“OK then, did you know that our recovery rate has improved by forty-five percent over the past fifteen years?”
Blume sat down. “Are you seeking election?”
“No, no,” said Faedda. “I am just telling you that things have improved a lot.”
“And you are telling me this because…” Blume thought about it. “Because in the past fifteen years methods have improved?”
“There is another reason,” said Faedda.
“Because there has been staff turnover in this department and tall dynamic Sards like you have taken over from old-school people like Colonel Farinelli,” said Blume.
“Sometimes law enforcement agencies will defend a colleague simply because he is, or was, a colleague, not because he is worth defending,” said Faedda. “The Colonel has long exploited that, but his time is almost up. So I would appreciate it if you could tell me, in total confidence, officer to officer: Did the Colonel offer to cut you in on a deal to sell the paintings found in the home and gallery of the art forger Henry Treacy?”
“What makes you think he is even thinking of doing such a thing? And if he is, why would he offer a piece of the action to me?” said Blume.
“Good. Well, that sounds like a no to me,” said Faedda.
“A ‘no’ sounds like an ‘n’ followed by an ‘o,’ ” said Blume. “That was a question about how you reached such a conclusion.”
“You were there. You saw the paintings. It makes sense. As for the Colonel’s planning to steal the paintings, I’m basing that idea on his past form.”
Blume looked into the unwrinkled and trusting face of the Lieutenant Colonel and said, “You are accusing your commanding officer and me of graft and theft.”
“Him, yes. You, no. On the contrary, I think you agreed to participate in an attempt to corner the Colonel. I want to be part of whatever it is you are planning or, if I can put it better, I want to be able to help.”
“What makes you so sure? What makes you so sure I wasn’t planning something with the Colonel, and that I will leave this office, warn him, and together we will completely fuck you over?”
Faedda frowned slightly. “I asked.”
“You asked what?”
“I asked Panebianco about you. What sort of person you were. He said there was no chance you would be corrupted like that.”
“Panebianco said that?”
“Sure.”
“And that was enough for you?”
“Yes.”
Perhaps, Blume thought, the kid was a recent Christian convert or something. All that faith.
Faedda said, “Well, I ran some background checks, too. And I have a friend who… we checked your finances, going back ten years. And I spoke to a few magistrates and reviewed past cases. I am not sure what makes you tick, Commissioner, but it isn’t money. So I thought I would take a risk. Was I right to do so?”
“I… I have no idea.”
“Well, I feel confident,” said Faedda. “I hate dishonesty. We Carabinieri are not like that. The force deserves better leaders. The Polizia are lucky…”
Blume held up a finger to halt Faedda’s flow. When he was sure no more flattery was forthcoming, he said, “Do you have any idea how much more powerful Farinelli is than you? Forget about his rank, which is higher than yours anyhow. He can do what he wants, and as for those paintings, I doubt the Colonel put all of them in storage. Maybe none of them are there.”
“I hope that is not the case, because it would mean that some men here were accomplices to a fraudulent operation, which… Well, these things happen,” said Faedda, opening his palms in a gesture of devout acceptance. “The Colonel is famous for his secrecy. He’s the sort who used to pull the strings of the people who worked behind the scenes. He operates, or used to, two, three levels down. But he’s losing power. His contacts are fading. His former controllers are dying of old age, and some of the men he controlled have moved beyond him, found new masters, got elected to office.”
Faedda squinted his left eye in an attempt to make it look like the thought was just coming to him at that moment. “In this case, he’s being uncharacteristically straightforward. The Colonel bribes you, maybe plans to pay, maybe plans to expose you as the bad guy, the extortionist, maybe both. Pretty simple.”
“I’m a simple kind of guy,” said Blume. “I don’t recall confirming to you that the Colonel offered to cut me in on a deal.”
“But he did, right?”
Blume was not sure what to make of the young man’s mixture of candidness and presumption. “Let’s say for argument’s sake that he did,” he said.
“Like I said, Panebianco vouchsafed for you. That will do for me. But I was wondering, do you have something else the Colonel wants?”
Blume shrugged. “Obviously I do.”
“What?”
“I have no idea.”
“That’s fine. I accept that response,” said Faedda. “But if you really have no idea, let me suggest money. Or something that is worth a lot of money.”
“What about something that gives him power, leverage, or exonerates him. Or something that he wants hidden?”
“Those are all very plausible reasons,” said Faedda. “And it could be any one of them, or all of them. But I still think it’s money.”
Blume, thinking of an interesting section of the memoirs he had read the night before, said, “If it wasn’t money to start with, it soon will be.”
Chapter 24
Before returning to his office, Blume passed by his apartment, showered, changed, and picked up the three notebooks. The idea of their remaining unguarded in there made him uneasy. The damned things were becoming a burden to him. There was a safe in the office, but he was not the only one with keys to it. His best bet was to give them to Paoloni to look after.
The phone on the desk was ringing as he entered his office. The Questore or, rather, his smarmy secretary again. It seemed to Blume the Questore had no one else to talk to apart from him. And he always phoned Blume in his office, as if to check he was there.
“I’ve been having complaints about you,” he announced when they were connected. “A magistrate, Buoncompagno, claims that you have been making unauthorized interventions in his investigation into the art forger. I thought I told you to leave that alone.”
Blume gestured to the gods of the ceiling with the phone, then brought it back to his ear. “Buoncompagno has been told to say that, sir,” said Blume. “It’s just a minor jurisdictional dispute with a Carabiniere. Meanwhile, I have been working with Magistrate Antonello Gestri on a double murder.”
“You mean the hit-and-run on the Indians?”
“The vehicle was the murder weapon.”
“Don’t change the subject,” said the Questore. “I told you to leave the Treacy case alone.”
Blume slid the notebooks into his drawer. “I just had to make sure there was no connection with the muggings, which you said are our priority right now,” he said.
“Are you saying there is a connection between Treacy and the muggings?”
“Oh, just that Treacy was a foreigner like the rest of them.”
“It seems rather flimsy,” said the Questore. “Have you any proof?”
“No,” said Blume. “Which is why I need to follow it up.”
“Don’t follow it too far-unless you think it might help us stop the muggings, will it?”
“You never know, sir,” said Blume.
“No, I never do know with you,” said the Questore and, finally, hung up.
Panebianco stuck his head around the door. “A Mr. Nightingale, accompanied by Avvocato Feltri, is downstairs. They want to see you.”
“Have them sent up.”
“Right.” Panebianco remained where he was.
“What?” asked Blume in irritation.
“How did your meeting with Faedda go?”
“I don’t see…” began Blume, but then he remembered Faedda explaining how Panebianco had vou
chsafed for him, and he softened his tone. “It went well, thank you. Enlightening.”
“Good. I am pleased. I’ll have the two men below sent up.”
Five minutes later, Nightingale’s lawyer, a sleek man whose black hair was so shiny it looked wet, slipped into the seat in front of him. Nightingale, dressed in a rumpled linen suit and looking tired, hot, and lordly, sat down next to his lawyer, who turned to him and, speaking mainly for Blume’s benefit, said, “Remember, you are free to stand up and leave the interview at any point. You do not have to answer any questions that you do not want to, and no matter what you say, it cannot be used in evidence against you. A witness may not self-incriminate.”
The lawyer then turned to face Blume. “Since some of his voluntary statements will now become inadmissible as evidence, you will not want to ask him too much to do with whatever you are investigating. We are happy to cooperate inasmuch as we are assured that you have not been appointed to investigate the case, and I have it on good authority that scientific evidence will point overwhelmingly to accidental causes, a fact that you acknowledge in this statement that I have prepared and I’d like you to sign.”
Blume ignored the proffered document, picked up his desk phone, and called in Caterina from her desk. A few seconds later, she came in, crossed the room without looking at him, and took a plastic chair to his left, near the wall. She had gone back into sulk mode, evidently.
“Please explain in what capacity this Inspector is present,” said the lawyer.
“I need to keep an eye on her,” said Blume.
“No, we have no time for humor, Commissioner. This is a serious imposition on my client’s goodwill and time.”
“Inspector Mattiola,” said Blume. “Why do you think I invited you in here?”
“So I could see Nightingale for myself.”
“If the policewoman is here to satisfy an idle curiosity…” began the lawyer.
But Caterina, who was indeed looking very closely at Nightingale, continued, “And to tell Mr. Nightingale in person that we know he is Emma Solazzi’s father.”
In the silence that followed the whirr of a laser printer in the room outside became audible, and the four of them sat still until it, too, stopped. Now they seemed to be listening to broken strands of conversations deeper in the office. A sudden burst of noise from a passing motorino below presented itself as a possible topic of discussion.
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