The dogs of Rome cab-1

by Conor Fitzgerald

  On his way up to his office he ran into Paoloni in the corridor.

  “What was said at the meeting?” asked Blume.

  “You mean besides the Holy Ghost lamenting your irresponsible absence? Not much. Zambotto, me, Ferrucci, that’s about it for the real people. Gallone’s directing the doorstepping, for which we have fourteen uniforms for three days. He’s deputized Micheli and Labroca to deal with the crime lab report and autopsy. He’s handling media relations himself. D’Amico looking over our shoulder on behalf of the Ministry. That’s about it. Gallone is keen for us to look into Alleva, and you seem to have a lead with Manuela Innocenzi.”

  “I don’t think it’ll go anywhere,” said Blume. “Neither do you. If Innocenzi was involved, you’d have picked up at least a vibe on the street, wouldn’t you?”

  “Definitely. Same thing for Alleva,” said Paoloni. “It doesn’t feel right. I’d have heard something. I know who Alleva is. He’s got a good thing going.”

  “Gambling, numbers that sort of thing?” asked Blume.

  Paoloni gave him a look. “If he tried he’d have two bullets rattling in his skull in a matter of hours. That’s a monopolized area.”

  Blume held up his hands. “OK, I was just thinking aloud. Alleva organizes dog fights, but doesn’t run a book. Where’s the money in that?”

  “So maybe he’s allowed to run a small book, but he would never be the enforcer. He’s tolerated. He’s a niche player, providing services that the bosses can’t be bothered with or haven’t thought of doing themselves. He has just one heavy, guy called Massoni. They’ve been working together for years. Massoni does all the PR.”

  “PR?”

  “Yeah all the intimidation and stuff, plays the bouncer, opens doors, makes Alleva look important. But that’s it. I don’t think the mammasantis-sima Innocenzi allows Alleva or any other freelancers to have more than one monkey.”

  “Alleva operates in Innocenzi’s territory?”

  “Alleva usually stages his dog fights in the Pontina zone, Selcetta, Trigoria, Ponte Galleria, that sort of place. So yeah, he operates well within their territory.”

  “What’s this Massoni like?”

  “Standard-issue thug. Big. Spends a lot of time with his arms crossed, feet apart. Crew cut, tattoos. Alleva’s the one our Carabinieri cousins raided, the one RAI made that documentary about. Alleva’s small-time, but he’d have no problem dealing with a tree-hugger like Clemente.”

  Blume said, “You have to admit, he looks like a good suspect.”

  “Sure he does. Also, Clemente was really breaking Alleva’s balls over the dog thing,” said Paoloni. “You could almost sympathize with Alleva taking him out like that. But not a whisper on the street about Alleva making a move… Here comes my pre deces sor.”

  Blume turned around to see D’Amico walking down the corridor toward them.

  “Catch you later,” said Paoloni.

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, Alec. The vicequestore wants a word with us. He’s in his office.”

  Blume followed D’Amico down to the far end of the corridor where Gallone had an office that overlooked the piazza below.

  “Where were you this morning, Commissioner?” demanded Gallone.

  Blume sat down without answering. D’Amico sat down slightly closer to Gallone’s desk, extended a white cuff from his gray jacket, and adjusted a titanium cufflink, then leaned over and tapped Blume on the knee. “What point have you reached in your investigations, Alec?”

  It wasn’t that Gallone wanted to speak to the two of them. It was D’Amico and Gallone both wanting to speak to him, doing a poor imitation of the good cop-bad cop routine.

  Blume went over all the actions taken the night before up to where he had visited Clemente’s office and found some papers with Alleva’s name all over them. He stopped and looked at D’Amico’s perfectly shaved cheek to see if there were any signs of blushing. Nothing.

  “As you both know,” said Gallone, “the person found murdered in his home yesterday was a certain Arturo Clemente. He is, or was, a new member of the Green Party, and had just been chosen as a candidate for the Lazio regional elections next year. This is already enough to make it a media event. But we could at least have hoped that the murder of a minor Green Party hopeful would not cause an enormous uproar.”

  Gallone played back his last sentence in his own head, and decided it needed a politic amendment.

  “I deplore the murder regardless. But, and here’s the thing, his wife is… Sveva Romagnolo, an elected member of the Senate of the Republic. It was she who discovered the body of her husband.”

  “I thought the child did,” said Blume. “Isn’t that what you told me, Nando?” he said looking over to D’Amico. “The child found the body?”

  D’Amico nodded. “That’s right. It was the child.”

  “An underage person does not count,” said Gallone. “It was hardly the child that made the call. It is tiresome for me to have to go through all this again. If you had attended this morning’s meeting, you would know all this. I hope your so-called confidential infor mant provided some useful information.”

  “None at all,” said Blume. “But I meant to ask, and sorry if this has all been made perfectly clear in my absence, who did Romagnolo call first?”

  Gallone retreated behind his desk and leaned on the back of his chair.

  “Who did she call first?” Blume repeated. “Us, the Carabinieri, her mother, the ambulance, someone else?”

  “It so happens, I was among the first people to speak to Sveva Romagnolo,” said Gallone. “Or perhaps I was the second person. Understandably, she phoned a top-ranking official in the Ministry who is also her friend. The important thing is she informed the authorities immediately.

  Indeed, she informed the authorities three times. The murder of the spouse of a member of Parliament is terrible news. We are going to be under a lot of pressure, both from the parties allied with the Greens and from the Government parties, which are going to be anxious to be seen not to discriminate. It is better to keep this at as high a level as possible, so it is probably a good thing she phoned a ranking official.” He paused, then added a demotic touch. “At least she did not phone the Carabinieri.”

  “Well, sir,” said Blume, “I think whoever did this was not a professional. That’s my theory so far. For that reason, the technicians are not going to find the killer’s prints on AFIS, and most of the evidence they get will be exclusionary. Same goes for the DNA. I don’t think the autopsy is going to tell us much either. That makes Alleva a less likely suspect.”

  D’Amico pulled his leg over his knee and turned a pointed shoe in Blume’s direction. “Are you saying he did not have a motive, Alec?” he asked.

  “Maybe he did,” said Blume. “But would a professional criminal, even one who is not a killer, have made such a mess as that?” He kept his eyes steady, watching D’Amico’s expression.

  “Eight months ago, the Carabinieri carried out a raid on a dog-fighting ring,” said D’Amico. “And the organizer of the ring was Renato Alleva.”

  “Yes. I know that.”

  Now it was Gallone’s turn. “The victim, Clemente, was campaigning against the dog fights. He had cooperated in the making of a television documentary on it.”

  “And did this Renato Alleva get arrested as a result of the campaign?” asked Blume.

  “Yes,” said Gallone.

  “No,” said D’Amico, then held up a calming hand toward Gallone. “That is to say, not arrested. Just detained. Then released immediately.”

  “Detained, then,” said Gallone. “Point is, Alleva has a long criminal record.”

  Blume turned back to D’Amico. “Nando, tell me about that raid.”

  “It was a sort of reality TV thing. The cameras were running, the Carabinieri swept in, detained forty-seven people, took names, charged Alleva and a few others. They sealed off the fight pit. A crew filmed the place, a warehouse out the Via della Magliana, kil
ometer 15.3, filmed the dogs, interviewed some of the Carabinieri and a few of those detained. That was it.”

  “They interviewed some of the detainees?” asked Blume.

  “Yes, it’s mentioned in the report. It doesn’t specify who, though.”

  “No follow-up?”

  “No.”

  Gallone clapped his doughy hands briskly as if to signal the end of the meeting. “Well, Commissioner Blume, it seems you are ready to follow the most significant investigative vector, which leads directly to Alleva.”

  “Before we grapple with vectors, I’d like to complete basic first steps. Like interviewing the widow.”

  “I have done that,” said Gallone. “There is no need.”

  “Have you written a report that we can read, sir?”

  “I shall be writing a report after this meeting,” said Gallone.

  “Even so, I would like to do an interview myself, sir,” said Blume.

  “Out of the question. This is a case that requires delicacy. I don’t want you trampling all over the woman’s grief. You don’t have the diplomacy. And you don’t have my authorization.”

  “I see. The wife is probably not our main interest, anyhow,” said Blume.

  “I am glad to hear you say that, Commissioner.”

  “And neither is Alleva.”

  “I don’t see how you can reach that conclusion.”

  “You were wondering about my whereabouts this morning, sir? Among other things, I was interviewing a woman called Manuela Innocenzi.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Her father is a certain Benedetto Innocenzi,” said Blume, raising an eyebrow.

  “I don’t understand. What’s her connection?”

  “Genealogical. Father-daughter. Couldn’t be simpler.”

  “That’s not what I meant, damn it. With the case. What’s her connection with the case?”

  “Clemente was having an affair with her.”

  Gallone sat down in his green leather chair, almost disappearing behind the desk. He crossed his arms while Blume spoke of the bed sheets, the secretary in Clemente’s office, his interview of Manuela Innocenzi. D’Amico shook his head slowly from side to side as if in silent admiration.

  When Blume had finished, Gallone brought his fist down on the table, and said, “Just when were you going to break this piece of news about Innocenzi’s daughter to us, Commissioner?”

  “When? I just did,” said Blume.

  “We don’t need this,” said Gallone. He pulled out his cell phone, then stared at it with loathing. Whoever he had to report to was not going to be happy at the new layer of information.

  “It complicates matters,” said Blume, “but I think I might be able to make you feel a bit better about the situation, Questore.”

  “And just how do you propose to do that?” Gallone tried to sound scathing, but his question had a note of hope.

  “By looking directly at the facts,” said Blume. “The victim’s wallet seems to have disappeared, but I don’t think we’re talking about a robbery that got out of hand. Also-you can confirm this, Nando-the killer left prints everywhere.”

  “Looks like that,” D’Amico replied. “It’s too early to say for sure, since we’ve got to get the prints of other people like the wife, friends, and all, but, basically, yes, it seems he even left a perfect 3-D thumbprint on a bar of soap.”

  “Then he went into the bedroom and messed about with clothes, including the wife’s. Dorfmann said the stab wounds showed signs of controlled frenzy. I think we can rule out a professional hit from the very fact it was a knife. We’re looking for a person who’s probably quite young.”

  “Why a young person?” asked Gallone.

  “Older men use guns. The oldest use other people,” said Blume.

  At that moment, the door opened. Blume caught a glimpse of a woman with red hair, in a white blouse, blue jeans.

  “Oops,” was all she said before backing out of the room.

  “Who was that?” said Gallone.

  “I don’t know, sir. Do you want me to call her back in?” said Blume making as if to stand up.

  “No. I just remembered. I had an appointment. You’ve put my whole schedule out for the day, Blume.”

  “Was she part of your schedule? I am terribly sorry.”

  “Get on with your theory.”

  “My hypothesis, sir. The first impression you get when you look at the chronology is that the killer seems to have operated opportunistically. He knew how to get in. He planned, but was careless about his prints and other things. That’s a bit contradictory, but it means he knows his prints are not on file. All that forensic evidence is going to waste unless we catch him. But once we do, he doesn’t stand a chance. Clemente’s wife and Manuela Innocenzi were both out when the killer struck. Maybe it just happened that way. Maybe not. I need to talk to the wife now.”

  “You are not to interview the wife, Commissioner. Not until I say so,” said Gallone.

  Blume ignored him and continued. “It seems clear that the victim opened the door. We also found a box of groceries. I think the killer may have posed as the delivery boy to get in. I think he was creative and used the props he found at the scene. The circumstances suggest that Clemente did not know his killer’s face. But let’s say the groceries were not being delivered. What then?”

  “You tell us,” said Gallone.

  “I don’t know. Was the killer following the delivery boy around, waiting for a chance? That seems unlikely. It seems far more likely that he would have got into the house by some other method. In other words, he must have had some other pretext prepared to get Clemente to open the door. And that means there had to be a prior point of convergence between them. So we need to look into Clemente’s friends and, sir, we need to ask his wife some questions.”

  “I don’t like this insistence on the wife and friends,” said Gallone.

  “We’ve already got a prime suspect, Alleva, and now you tell us that there’s also a connection with Innocenzi, though I still see Alleva as the most likely candidate.”

  D’Amico stood up. “No, sir. Commissioner Blume is right. If we rule out Innocenzi on the grounds that the murder was completely unprofessional and leave him far too exposed to suspicion, then we need to rule out Alleva on the very same grounds.”

  “So you no longer believe in the Alleva hypothesis, Nando?” Blume asked. “In spite of the documentary evidence I found on his office desk? You know what it looked like to me? As if a fastidiously neat person had tried his best to scatter papers about, but could not bear to make too much of a mess.”

  Above D’Amico’s bright white collar the slightest hint of a blush appeared, then almost immediately faded. But he waved a minatory finger at Blume and rolled his eyes in Gallone’s direction. So now D’Amico was playing at being back on his side, his old partner and friend, pretending to cut Gallone out of the loop.

  As for Gallone, he had retreated into himself and was too preoccupied even to acknowledge that they were leaving his office without being dismissed. As D’Amico closed the door behind them, Blume saw him wince, then pick up his silver cell phone again.

  12

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 3:10 P.M.

  Blume went straight across town to the investigating magistrate’s office in Prati.

  “Alec,” said Principe, leaning back and stretching his arms behind his head to reveal underarm sweat stains. “We missed you this morning.”

  “I’m here now.”

  “You arrive when it’s too hot for sane people to think straight.”

  Blume glanced over at a rusting air conditioner hanging from the lower half of the window. “Does that thing not work?”

  Principe shrugged. “I’ve never tried. Air conditioners give you throat infections, colds, and muscle spasms. I hear you want to take this investigation in a different direction. On a collision course with the second most important crime family in Rome.”

  “How do you know that?
”

  Principe waved his hands like a conjurer. “Magistrate magic,” he said.

  “Who phoned ahead?” said Blume. “Was it the Holy Ghost?”

  “Yes, he filled me in on your meeting with Manuela Innocenzi. Now he wants me to block you. Should I?”

  “I don’t see the point. I doubt that the Innocenzi syndicate had anything to do with the murder. This was a half-botched attempt done by an amateur.”

  “Or by a professional imitating an amateur,” said Principe. “The messier the killing, the dumber the assassin seems, the less likely we are to tie it with a professional like Benedetto Innocenzi.”

  “We’ll talk after I’ve interviewed the widow.”

  “Ah. Now that was the other thing he wanted me to prohibit.”

  “Well, you don’t want to block the only two avenues of investigation.”

  “No. You should go ahead, talk to the widow. It seems you’re not convinced by the third avenue-the one leading to Alleva’s door?”

  “I am not ruling anything out,” said Blume. “As for that television documentary Clemente was involved in, we could do with a copy of it from RAI. Maybe also a list of all the people involved in its making. You could maybe send Ferrucci there. Phone ahead, ease his way. It’s not as if it’s confidential material. They broadcast it to the nation a month ago, or to that part of the nation still up at eleven in the evening and watching RAI 2.”

  Principe took out a fountain pen. “Fine. Anything else?”

  “Not for now,” said Blume. “You coming for a coffee?”

  Principe shook his head sadly. “I can’t. Coffee is full of cafestol. My doctor says there’s no point in taking Zocor at night then undoing all the good work during the day.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Blume.

  “You should pay attention to these things,” said Principe. “Stress raises cholesterol. You look stressed.”

  “I’d be more stressed if I couldn’t drink coffee because of… whatever that thing was,” said Blume.

  “Cafestol. I’m allowed to drink filtered coffee, you know, that grayish brew you Americans like. Apparently there’s no cafestol in that. But I can’t bring myself to. I’d rather die.”