The Bastards of Pizzofalcone

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  XXXIV

  What were you thinking? What was in your mind when you did it?

  Lojacono was sitting in the little anteroom of the forensic squad’s laboratory, his head resting on his hands, which were on the table, fingers intertwined. His almond-shaped eyes had narrowed to slits, and there was no discernible expression on his Asian features. As if he were sleeping. But he wasn’t: he was looking.

  He was looking at the glass sphere, its top smeared with a dark stain. The only object on the spotless laminate countertop, white against the white floor, between white walls, illuminated by the white light from the ceiling fixture. The white ceiling.

  A faint reflection gleamed off the curved surface of the glass.

  Aragona, the only dark patch in the room, except for Lojacono himself, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortably. He would have liked to know what was going through his colleague’s mind.

  What was going through Lojacono’s mind? Death.

  He was trying to receive a message from that innocent object, a piece of kitsch that had ended the life of a woman he’d never met. He was trying to intuit why that glass sphere, created to—best case scenario—make children smile, had ultimately become the instrument of an act as irrevocable as murder.

  Don’t you know that murder is a serious matter, Glass Ball? Lojacono mused. Murder is a very serious matter, that touches lots of people. You see this place, Glass Ball? People rushing to and fro, in white lab coats, serious and efficient; instruments, test tubes, microscopes. And parked outside are armored cars, and there are phones ringing, uniforms, handguns, tears, and laughter. All propelled by the murder.

  Murder ought to have the right, since it’s such a serious matter, to be executed via gunshot or, at the very least, via sharp blade. Murder deserves to be repaid with a complicated piece of machinery, such as an electric chair, or a sophisticated device such as the ones used to administer lethal injections. Murder calls out for historical tools of execution: the garrote, or the guillotine, or the gallows. Murder is a serious matter, not a joke.

  From inside the globe, a woman’s smiling face stared back at him. Inside the sphere was a sort of dancer, from the Caribbean or Hawaii, with a flower wreath, her probably bare chest covered by a tiny guitar and, underneath, a skirt made of long green leaves.

  A ukulele. It came to him in a flash, the name for that little guitar. Ukulele. Marilyn Monroe played one in Some Like It Hot, that movie with Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis; he’d probably seen it ten times. She was so beautiful, Marilyn Monroe was.

  De Santis, on the other hand, wasn’t beautiful. That is, even aside from the fact that she was now dead.

  Aragona coughed softly. Lojacono didn’t blink.

  She wasn’t beatiful, okay. So what? Did she deserve to die in such an absurd way for the crime of not being beautiful? Clubbed in the back of head with a glass ball?

  Glass ball, glass ball. Not one of those crystal balls that fortune-tellers use to see into the future. There’s no future inside this glass ball. Maybe just a little of the recent past.

  Lojacono thought to himself that the globe must have traveled several yards before doing its dirty work to the back of De Santis’s head. Because the corpse was sprawled out at the end of the wall that led to the door that gave onto the interior of the apartment, and that part of the room was closest to the globes depicting Europe, globes containing the Eiffel Tower and the Cologne cathedral, London’s Tower Bridge, and the Little Mermaid of Copenhagen; this little hula dancer with a ukulele smiling at him from under the glass, therefore, should have been located in another part of the room, next to the golden sands and palm trees of the tropics, the cliffs of Acapulco and the stone heads of Easter Island. What were you doing there, little dancer? Why were you under the armchair, maybe five yards away from your proper place on the shelf?

  Because the gloved hand took you and brought you down onto the back of your doting mistress’s head?

  Lojacono lifted his head to free his own hand and picked up the object. The director of the forensic squad had told him that they’d need to hold onto it, but that since they were done with their examinations, he was free to touch it.

  The lieutenant shook the base, hefting its weight. It was a ball of medium size, heavy because of the liquid inside and thanks to the block of wood that formed its base. He turned it upside down and then turned it back right side up.

  Inside the globe, there was now a tiny blizzard. Snowflakes—entirely out of keeping with the climate of the place depicted and with the little dancer’s garb—whirled, covering everything in a glittering flicker. Aragona coughed again.

  Slowly the flakes settled to the bottom and, indifferent to the cold, the dancer once again stared at Lojacono, blithely unaware of the dark stain of organic origin smearing the top of her spherical abode.

  What were you thinking? Lojacono wondered again. You, with your gloved hand, with the silver from the front hall and living room in that plastic bag, what did you have in mind? Why take such an innocent object and hurl it or smash it against that woman’s head? Why kill her in this way? If she’d screamed, if she’d called for help, maybe you’d have suffocated or strangled her. If she’d been closer to you, instead of four or five yards away, you’d have killed her with your hands, instead of using the first object you came across.

  If that’s the way it went, of course. Because maybe things went very differently. Maybe you’d had an argument, and maybe Signora Cecilia De Santis, Festa by marriage, hadn’t been as malleable as you expected.

  And so, in a burst of fury, you killed her, perhaps while she was heading back to her bedroom, thinking the discussion was at an end. Calmly turning her back on you, never dreaming you might react like that, never dreaming she was in danger.

  Never dreaming that you’d kill her—much less with one of her beloved glass balls.

  The dancer smiled at him. He stared at her for another minute, in silence.

  Then he stood up and left the room, followed by a perplexed Aragona.

  XXXV

  The warrant had been faxed in midmorning, and Di Nardo and Romano had left immediately.

  This time, threatening black clouds had forced them to take the car. Alex was at the wheel and she hadn’t removed her sunglasses, even though there was no sun.

  As they tried to make their way through the tangled traffic, Romano had tried repeatedly to get through to Giorgia; when for the umpteenth time he reached a recorded voice informing him that the phone was turned off or out of range, the man swore under his breath and hurled the phone into the back-seat.

  “If you break your own phone,” Alex commented, without taking her eyes off the road, “I can guarantee no one will ever answer you.”

  “And that might be better,” Francesco replied, gravely. “That way we can just stop worrying about it once and for all.”

  Di Nardo drove in silence for a while, then said: “You know I’m really curious to look this mysterious tenant in the face. And to know why she’s locked herself up in that apartment.”

  “If you ask me, we’re chasing our tails. If a woman chooses not to go out and wants to spend her time sitting indoors, she has every right, doesn’t she? We shouldn’t be at the beck and call of some delirious old gossip who, by the way, never leaves her apartment either. Tomorrow morning our mystery woman could call us up and report that the old paraplegic is a recluse: and there we’d be, running back and forth across the vicolo, from one place to the other, asking them both why they never go out.”

  Di Nardo burst out laughing, and her infectious laughter soon had her partner Romano chuckling too: the image of the two of them, barraged by criminal complaints, scampering from one apartment to the other, was surreal.

  “Just as well we came out for a little fresh air since there isn’t that much to do in the office”

  The man grimaced in di
sgust: “Sure, I get it. We’re the new Bastards of Pizzofalcone, aren’t we? Other policemen have inherited the right to turn their noses up at us; and because we’re still police officers, criminals do too; ordinary civilians do the same, a little bit by right of inheritance and a little because we’re still police officers. We turn our own noses up because each of us feels that we’ve been sent here—with the other rejects—unjustly.”

  Alex shot him a glance. “You think? Personally, I hated the place where I was before more. Here at least no one looks down on you when you make a dumb mistake.”

  Before Romano had a chance to reply, they’d reached their destination. They left the car in a no parking zone, their police insignia in plain view on the dashboard, and headed for the street entrance. A peal of thunder rumbled past overhead, causing a few pedestrians to turn a worried gaze up to the sky. Before stepping through the large door, which stood ajar, the warrant officer shot a glance at the balcony to see if Donna Amalia was there. She was.

  “If you ask me, she has the housekeeper bring her a bedpan, so she doesn’t have to give up her vantage point. I’d put her in jail, is what I’d do. God, I hate people who can’t mind their own business.”

  They climbed up to the fifth floor. The real estate agency was closed. They went over to the other door. Romano rang the bell.

  In the silence of the landing, they heard whispering on the other side of the door, then the sound of the peephole being opened. And the same woman’s voice as before: “Who is it?”

  “This is Di Nardo and Romano, from the police, signora. Open up, please. We have a warrant.”

  There was a brief silence, after which they heard a complicated bolt being twisted open.

  The door opened just a crack, revealing an eye and the fingers of one hand.

  “Could you show me your documents, please?”

  Romano extended his ID and the faxed copy of the warrant. The hand took them and the door shut again. Di Nardo puffed out her cheeks, Romano threw his arms wide. The door opened up again.

  “Please. Come in.”

  They walked into a sort of drawing room. The place looked comfortable, the furniture was new, it had recently been painted, and there were pictures hanging on the walls. Tidy, spotless. Still, Alex felt ill at ease, though at first she couldn’t put her finger on why. Then, she understood. It was fake. Everything looked like what you’d expect to see in an interior decorating magazine. It could have been a showroom in a furniture store.

  She thought all this in a second; then she looked at the woman who had opened the door.

  She was little more than a girl. And she was stunningly beautiful.

  Her face betrayed her age. Her skin was luminous and free of flaws, her cheeks just slightly plump; she had large hazel eyes, and a tense, almost fearful expression. But her body, sheathed in a pair of jeans and a white blouse, captured Alex’s unalloyed admiration. She was glad she hadn’t removed her sunglasses. The girl was tall, even though she wore flats, her breasts were ample and firm, her belly was taut and her legs were long; she tilted her head to one side with unconsidered grace, her lips were full and sensual, she had a tiny beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. She could easily have been an actress or a model.

  The policewoman noticed that Romano too had been stunned at the sight. His mouth hung open, his gaze was vacant; understandable. Though certainly her partner wasn’t imagining that Alex was thinking how she’d be able to make much better use of that wonderful body than he ever could.

  At last, Romano snapped to.

  “Buongiorno. Do you . . . ma’am, do you live here? With who . . . we’ve come to check some things out, so . . .”

  The girl turned to Alex, clearly confused. The policewoman intervened: “Buongiorno, signorina. Could you identify yourself, please?”

  Before the girl had a chance to speak, there was a discreet little cough behind them; the two policemen turned with a start and realized that a man had walked into the room.

  “I apologize, I must have startled you. Buongiorno, officers. I’m Germano Brasco, an architect and the leaseholder of this apartment. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Nunzia, did you ask the officers if they wanted a cup of coffee?”

  Romano looked him up and down. The name had rung a bell, though he couldn’t remember any specifics. The gentleman looked about sixty, well dressed, tall, with a luxuriant head of white hair and a well-groomed mustache, also white. With an equally well-manicured hand he pointed toward the corner of the living room furnished with a sofa and two leather armchairs.

  “Shall I bring espresso for you all, would you like that?” The girl’s voice was thick with the accent of the local dialect. “I can bring it on a tray, with the sugar separate, will that be all right?”

  Even though the questions were directed toward the two guests, they were spoken with the girl’s large eyes fixed on the architect’s face; he nodded agreeably. The girl vanished toward the interior of the apartment.

  “You’ll have to forgive her, Nunzia is so young. She still isn’t entirely comfortable playing the role of mistress of the house. Please, make yourselves comfortable: what can we do for you?”

  Romano had remained standing, showing no strong inclination to get to know the man; but Alex understood that the longer they stayed, the more information they’d be likely to come away with: she felt certain that there was something strange about that mismatched couple, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.

  So she sat down, implicitly accepting the invitation and obliging Romano to follow suit.

  The man, too, sat down. He was wearing a light gray suit, a matching striped tie, and a light blue shirt. On his lapel, he wore a pin indicating membership in an exclusive municipal association. He wore a pair of glasses with gold frames; they glittered in the sunlight pouring in from the balcony, where the curtains were wide open. As Romano sat down, he glanced outside and met the angry glare of Donna Amalia, keeping watch from her usual vantage point. He was tempted to wave hello.

  “Now then, officers: what fair winds have blown you to our door? What crime have we committed?”

  He was making a show of great self-confidence, wanted to appear friendly. Romano felt his hand start to itch: he jammed it in his pocket.

  “We’re just here checking out a report, architect. We received a complaint, probably based on an erroneous interpretation of entrances into and exits from this apartment, and decided to look into it. That’s all.”

  “Too bad. This city, as usual, remains true to its nature. No respect for a person’s privacy. I understand.”

  Alex broke in: “On the other hand, you should know how many crimes, large and small, come to light as a result of this failure to respect other people’s privacy, architect. Now, just how long have you lived here?”

  The man burst into a hearty laugh: “No, no, officer. I don’t live here. I’m the leaseholder, I pay the rent, but I live in Posillipo. For heaven’s sake, who could stand to live in the midst of all this chaos?”

  Romano squinted to ward off the irritating glare that was reflecting off the man’s gold glasses frames, and asked: “But if you live in Posillipo, pardon me, why would you rent an apartment in this neighborhood?”

  Brasco assumed an air of innocence: “Well, you see, I like to have lots of different places at my disposal, where I can spend my spare time. Sometimes I just need a change of scene. I’m in charge of major urban renewal projects, my architecture firm works all over the world, we take part in international design competitions. Every so often I like to go into seclusion: it inspires me, helps me to come up with new ideas. Oh, here’s our coffee! Nunzia is so good at making coffee. How many sugars?”

  The girl had brought in a tray with demitasse cups and saucers, and, after carefully setting down the various objects on the side table, had remained standing, a forced smile on her face.

  Tha
t smile gave Di Nardo the creeps. It looked like a mask. She asked her: “What about you, signorina, aren’t you going to sit down?”

  Nunzia turned to look at the architect, as if asking his permission. The man nodded, and the girl took a seat. Alex had the impression she was watching a well-trained pet.

  The warrant officer went on: “So you come here only occasionally. How occasionally?”

  Brasco’s voice grew thick: “Hard to say. Occasionally, like you say. But let me ask you again: is there something wrong? Something I ought to know about?”

  Suddenly Alex butted in: “What about you, Signorina? Do you work with the architect?”

  The question was met with silence. Nunzia’s eyes were those of an animal caught in a trap. Brasco answered for her: “No, no. Nunzia is a friend of mine; actually, the daughter of friends of mine,” the architect hastened to correct himself, as if to cover up some mistake. “She’s a young woman, at her age, kids want a little freedom; I don’t mind if she stays here whenever she likes. That’s all.”

  Alex turned again to Nunzia: “So you stay here, signorina. And what is it that you do? Do you work, do you study?”

  Romano, who had jotted something down in a notebook, asked: “And by the way, what’s your name and where do you live?”

  Once again, Brasco replied: “Her name is Annunziata Esposito, and her address is Vico Secondo all’Olivella, 22. She’s a . . . she’s thinking of enrolling in school to get her high school diploma. I think she finished middle school.”

  Di Nardo gave him a cold stare. “Does the young woman have trouble speaking? Some serious problem pronouncing words? Dyslexia? Does she stutter? We’d prefer she answer the questions herself, thanks.”

  The words, harsh in themselves, were buttressed by her dry tone. Romano looked up from the notebook and turned toward her. Brasco blinked repeatedly.

  “No, no, of course not. It’s just that she’s very shy. Nunzia, answer the lady. Don’t make me do all the talking.”