Ottavia couldn’t believe she’d become the center of the commissario’s attention.
“I had to threaten him, and remind him of just how much of my homework I let him copy when we were taking the same computer class, but he finally gave me the information. Now then, there’s nothing special on the hard drive, just the usual things: deeds, basically, and legal texts and other things of that sort. So they decrypted the password for his email, and here too, except for some spam, it was all just work-related.”
Aragona decided not to conceal his disappointment: “Because this old mummy still uses homing pigeons or something to send messages to his mistresses. Goddamn it.”
Ottavia shook her finger no: “In fact, right at the very end, something interesting did emerge. Very interesting. Unfortunately, I couldn’t talk him into sending me a copy, because it’ll be submitted to the investigating magistrate once the overall exam is complete, but I did get him to read it to me over the phone.”
She waved a sheet of paper in the air. Palma laughed: “There’s no stopping her, if a woman gets something into her head, she’ll do whatever it takes. Okay, so tell us what you found, don’t keep us on pins and needles!”
Ottavia read from the sheet of paper: “It’s an email sent to the online travel agency IlTuoViaggio.com, one of the most popular ones on the web. Basically, fifteen days ago the notary reserved a trip for two to Micronesia: three stopovers; the last leg via biplane. Departure scheduled in two days.”
They all sat openmouthed. The first to come out of his trance was Aragona. “Where the fuck is that, Micronesia?”
“Oceania,” Pisanelli replied. “More or less on the other side of the world.”
Di Nardo asked: “But don’t you have to provide names, when you make reservations for a trip like that? I don’t know, IDs, passports . . .”
Calabrese nodded: “That’s right, Di Nardo. That’s exactly right: you have to provide IDs. And the notary did just that: he provided IDs, complete with first and last names and dates issued. A very thoroughly documented email; in fact, my friend tells me, he asked whether it might not be useful to scan the IDs.”
Lojacono was expressionless, like a Buddhist monk trying to levitate.
“That means we know what names he made the reservations under, and that the departure was scheduled for four days after the death of his wife. What about the return trip?”
“No return trip,” Ottavia replied. “They were one-way tickets.”
Palma was confused: “Are you saying the notary planned to leave for Micronesia and never come back?”
Romano thought it over: “Not necessarily. Maybe they just wanted to leave the return date open, and decide later when to come back. Sometimes people do that, especially for long trips.”
Aragona was baffled.
“Whatever the case, round-trip or one-way, it strikes me as pretty serious evidence, it substantiates some of our suspicions. The notary plans and arranges a trip overseas, one-way, with his lover, and, as chance would have it, four days before the happy couple is scheduled to fly away, the beloved wife, the sole obstacle to their dream of bliss, dies after having her head bashed in with one of those glass balls with the fake snow inside. All this must mean something.”
Pisanelli scratched his head: “All things considered, our young colleague here isn’t all wrong. After all, as Anna Ruffolo told us, lately our friend the notary had been going around showing off his redheaded girlfriend right and left.”
Ottavia, however, still had a point to make: “Why don’t any of you ask me whether I’m done, before you start leaping to conclusions? Doesn’t it even occur to you that you ought to ask under what names the reservations were made?”
No one said a word; everyone was clearly disoriented. Ottavia went on: “Because the reservations were made for Arturo Festa, the notary; and for his wife, Cecilia De Santis. The victim.”
The news fell into a well of bafflement and silence. Ottavia decided she’d kept them on tenterhooks long enough and added: “But in the email making the reservation, the notary explicitly requests confirmation of the clause in the contract that allows him to change one of the names up to twenty-four hours prior to departure. In case of serious impediment.”
Aragona leapt out of his chair: “There you go, guys! We’ve got him! He made the reservation under his wife’s name to keep from looking guilty, and then he was planning to substitute her name with his lover’s at the very last minute! Death comes under the heading of serious impediments, doesn’t it?”
“There’s something strange about all this,” the commissario said. “If you plan to kill your wife, you can’t seriously think that four days later they’re going to let you fly off to Micronesia in a Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat, hand in hand with your lover.”
As if talking to himself, Lojacono concluded: “Without even taking into account the fact that, if you were going to make those reservations, the last place you’d do it is on the office computer, since it’s the first place the police would go and look, which is in fact exactly what we did.”
Alex Di Nardo wasn’t convinced: “True enough. But it’s also possible that they hadn’t planned to kill her. Perhaps, and this is only a hypothesis, he went to see her to tell her that he was planning to leave her and go to Micronesia, she put up a fight, and he wound up killing her.”
Romano nodded: “With the first thing he could lay hands on, the snow globe. And he was hoping it would shatter into bits, which meant he’d be rid of it, the same way he’d be rid of his wife.”
“Though let’s not entirely rule out,” Pisanelli added, “the theory that a burglar just might have murdered her when the poor notary was planning to make things up to his wife by taking her on a second honeymoon, after breaking up with his lover during one last, red-hot weekend together.”
“Or else,” Ottavia concluded, “he asked if he could change the name so he could pretend he had some other commitment at the very last minute, send his wife off to Micronesia with some girlfriend of hers, and stay here to fuck the redhead undisturbed, and then the signora was murdered during a burglary by someone who was in cahoots with the housekeeper, and who happened to find her at home when he expected her to be out.”
“Jesus,” Aragona exclaimed in amazement, “and you think I’m the one who’s been watching too much TV, eh? Have the lot of you ever thought of becoming screenwriters instead of cops? You’d make buckets of money, you would. Well, so, we’re back to square one, is that right?”
Lojacono threw open his arms: “Not necessarily. What we can say is that the field of hypotheses is narrowing considerably, which is what always happens the more evidence one acquires. For instance, we now know that, with or without his wife, the notary was planning a trip, and that doesn’t seem at all insignificant.”
“So now what are we supposed to do?” asked Aragona. “Festa won’t talk to us, we can’t go see the redhead because she’s not officially connected with the case . . .”
Palma reassured him: “There’s no reason to think we can’t talk to the notary and the young lady. We’re working with Dottoressa Piras. And in the meanwhile you have something else to check out, don’t you, Lojacono?”
The lieutenant nodded.
“That’s right. We need to go find out what the housekeeper has to tell us, Signorina . . .” and here he checked the Xerox of the young woman’s ID, “Mayya Ivanova Nikolaeva. Who had the apartment keys, the keys to the door that wasn’t forced open. Perhaps she has some explaining to do. Come on, Aragona, this time we can even take the car, which should make you happy. Let’s see if we can finally crash head-on into the side of a building.”
XXXIX
Listen, I don’t trust what your lawyer is telling you. If you ask me, we’re making a huge mistake.”
“But if you decide to go to a professional, then you have to trust him. That’s why we say you�
��ve ‘entrusted’ someone with your defense, right?”
“Don’t try to palm that old saw off on me, I know all about entrusting yourself to a professional. I use that line at least four times a day. You do remember the line of work I’m in, don’t you?”
“Of course, of course. But neither you nor I have enough experience in this specific branch of the law, right? We talked about that at some length, if I’m not mistaken.”
“True enough. But it seems to me that the context has changed. Something has happened, hasn’t it?”
“. . .”
“And so, we need to rethink our position. And we need to rethink it in a hurry. When was the last time you talked to this goddamned lawyer of yours?”
“Half an hour ago, trust me, if I don’t call him he calls me, if you ask me he’s planning to make a fortune out of this case.”
“And that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Follow my reasoning here, please: when you’re advising someone on the best path to follow in a given situation, I don’t know, let’s say it’s a merger, or a purchase entailing fractional ownership, or the division of an inheritance, don’t you also keep in mind how you can make the most money off the job?”
“Listen, I . . .”
“Do me a favor and don’t lie to me, please. This is important, tell me the truth.”
“Well . . .”
“Exactly. And I do the same thing. It’s human nature, I think. And what would make this lawyer—what would make any lawyer we decided to entrust our case to—the most money?”
“Wait, listen to me, you aren’t trying to tell me that . . .”
“If you, or I, or the both of us were indicted, that’s what would make a lawyer the most money. If a long, burdensome, tortuous trial began at our expense. Which, in the meanwhile, but only incidentally, would ruin both our lives. And not just our lives, as you know very well.”
“Are you kidding? Do you have any idea what you’re saying? This is one of the most respected lawyers in one of the oldest and most celebrated courts in the country, and . . .”
“. . . and he’s exactly the same as all the others, just much, much more expensive. I wouldn’t blindly trust my own cousin, in this particular situation.”
“Well then? What do you suggest doing? Supposing, just supposing, we decide to go ahead and ignore my lawyer’s advice, what would you propose?”
“Simple: we need to talk to them. We keep our cool and our equilibrium, make sure our versions match up perfectly, and tell them calmly and collectedly the things we need to say. Because no one can believe—or even think—that we had anything to do with what happened.”
“You’re crazy, you know. Completely out of your head. Believe me, the prisons are overflowing with people who went in to talk to the police, all calm and trusting. Just last week, I read about a man who served twenty-two years—twenty-two years, you understand that? And he was innocent, innocent as a baby. Some other guy turned up, facing charges on who knows what, and he confessed to the murder the first guy did the time for, and you know what they did? They released him, with their sincerest apologies. After twenty-two years! His life is ruined! Don’t you get it?”
“You see? You’re starting to lose your cool. Which is exactly what you can’t do. Now, why don’t you just listen to me, for once: which side has the burden of proof?”
“What?”
“Do we have to prove that we’re innocent, or do they have to prove, if it ever goes to trial, that we’re guilty?”
“What does that have to do with anything? What are you trying to say? Of course, they have the burden of proof. But still . . .”
“Exactly. And just who would you focus your investigation on, if you were the prosecuting attorney? On someone who came forward of his own free will, or on someone who told you that he wouldn’t ever talk, not on his life?”
“My God, my God, this is ridiculous. If only it had never happened, if only I’d had a chance to talk to her . . .”
“There, now you’re starting to snivel again. Stop and think, instead. And tell me: what would you do?”
“I . . . it’s only natural, refusing to talk certainly encourages investigations, the lawyer himself admits it. On the other hand, there’s no danger of being caught in a contradiction, which can happen very easily. Or do you think that they’d interview us together, maybe take us out for a pizza? You don’t know them.”
“Are you saying you do? Or that your greedy lawyer does? I’m telling you we need to talk to them, I’m sure of it. I can feel it. Let’s show them that we’re happy to collaborate and you’ll see, it’ll all go fine. After all, the silver is still missing, isn’t it? For all I know they’ll decide to focus on the housekeeper.”
“I’ll think it over. I don’t know, but I promise I’ll think it over.”
“And remember: this isn’t just our problem anymore. We have someone we have to think about. We can’t make mistakes.”
“No. We can’t make mistakes. Not anymore.”
XL
With the part of his mind that wasn’t feverishly praying he wouldn’t plow into a semi at an intersection, Lojacono thought about the city.
To see it like this, from the passenger seat of a compact car without police insignia, charging at breakneck speed down crowded streets and narrow alleys, with Aragona at the wheel, blissfully chatting the whole time as if he were sitting comfortably in the living room of his apartment, was a very odd experience.
Without his noticing it, the lieutenant had begun to change his mind about that very strange city. He’d stopped thinking of it as nothing more than a prison, a domestic exile to which he’d been sentenced because of a damned lying informant, a penalty imposed without trial or cross-examination. He was finally trying to get to know the place a little better, if only so he could work there; a policeman, he knew, has to breathe the air of the city he works in. He has to be able to savor its silences, its hesitations; he has to know the smell of its fear and suspicion, its indifference and arrogance, in order to be able to fight them. Otherwise it’s over before it starts.
Certainly, it was no easy matter to interpret such a complicated place, he thought to himself, as Aragona, busy detailing the plot of a movie he’d just seen, missed plowing into a motor scooter carrying three people by a scant fraction of an inch. Ostentatiously elegant streets, lined with designer shops and luxury automobiles, alternated with steep, narrow alleys that ran uphill, crowded with miserable apartments and kids who could barely be called toddlers playing in the road, on stoops, inhaling exhaust fumes. Enormous piazzas, closed off to traffic and watched over by dozens of traffic cops, gave onto tangled networks of narrow lanes where anything and everything could be bought and sold, the stalls and carts loaded with merchandise blocking the way to cars. Broad boulevards, dotted with banks, up and down which professionals in dark suits moved hurriedly, carrying leather briefcases full to bursting, opened out into dark little piazzas fronted by wonderful deconsecrated churches where, indifferent to the howling winds, bare-chested boys surrounded by swarms of mopeds played endless soccer matches. It was as if the souk of Casablanca or the markets of Marrakesh had been transported into the center of Milan. Lojacono wondered what could be said of a place like this.
“An extraordinary actor, let me tell you. You should have seen him, long hair, dark glasses, all ragged and rumpled: a perfect policemen and yet his colleagues kept him at arm’s length because they thought he was dirty cop. I watched that movie and I was thinking the whole time that in a certain sense, we’re like that too, no?”
Lojacono had understood that today he’d need to give him free rein while he drove, otherwise it would be even worse: Aragona kept looking over at him and slapping him on the shoulder as if they were just chatting at the bar, never slowing for even a second. He wished he could do the driving himself, but he didn’t know where to go: Mayya Niko
laeva, housekeeper to the late Signora De Santis, lived in a small alley off of who knew what street, over by the main train station.
The neighborhood, Lojacono soon realized, was for the most part inhabited by foreigners. Men and women of color exited and entered buildings carrying huge bags full of merchandise, making their way through cars double-, triple-, and quadruple-parked; Indians with crowds of children greeted each other as their paths crossed; the grocery stores carried signs in Italian and many other languages, often written in incomprehensible scripts.
Aragona turned down a tiny street, parking the car so that two wheels rested on the narrow sidewalk, blocking it completely.
“Well, this ought to be the place. I don’t need to tell you that we can’t count on the advantage of surprise, as you can see.”
Nearly all the people who had been crowding the street when they arrived had in fact promptly dispersed, though there was absolutely no insignia identifying the car as belonging to the police.
“They can smell us coming, they can smell us. And immediately the missing visa virus spreads, even if their visa actually is perfectly valid, or their damned country has already joined the European Union and they don’t even need one anymore.”
Muttering under his breath, Aragona checked the street number of the building against the Xerox of the young woman’s passport. Then he nodded, and walked into a dark, dank atrium.
An elderly woman was scrubbing the steps; they asked her where Mayya’s apartment was and, without bothering to look up, the woman said, in a heavy eastern European accent: “Fourth floor, apartment with door.”
They had some difficulty making their way upstairs, because it was getting dark and there were no lights. They could smell a heavy odor of spices and onions, and voices could be heard from a number of apartments, all speaking foreign languages. On the fourth floor there was in fact only one door; the entrance to the other apartment was wide open, and it was deserted.
The Bastards of Pizzofalcone Page 19