Palma nodded. “Yes, that’s right, along with Corporal Aragona. Shall I ask him to come in, too?”
Piras raised one hand in warning: “Oh, good lord, no. If necessary, Lojacono can brief him. Well, where are we?”
Palma gestured to Lojacono, who began to explain: “At a dead end, I’m afraid. We’ve talked to everyone, the housekeeper, the doorman, the employees at the notary’s firm, even a close personal friend of the victim, on an informal basis, thanks to the good offices of our colleague Pisanelli. Aside from the hypothesis of a burglary gone wrong, which can’t be ruled out despite the discovery of the loot, the theory that it might all hinge on something to do with her husband’s behavior, with the fact that he cheated on her constantly, still strikes me as the most plausible. But, given the fact that we can’t talk to him or to the young lady . . .”
Piras nodded. “Right. All this lines up with the impression I’d developed. Well, half an hour ago I received a phone call. It was from the notary’s lawyer, an old criminal specialist with quite a reputation here in town, one of the most persnickety, troublemaking, hypocritical sons of bitches I’ve ever had the misfortune to deal with.”
Palma sighed; rich people always have the best defense lawyers. But Piras had a bomb and she was there to detonate it: “In short: the notary is willing to be questioned.”
Lojacono and Palma couldn’t believe their ears. What could this mean? Laura continued, pleased with the effect her news had had on the two men.
“He unspooled a long tale of woe, and told me how he’d tried to talk his client out of it; how he’d implored him right up until the very end, for the usual reasons: the possible misunderstandings that might arise, our well-known ability to put the worst spin on things, etc. But it seems that the notary wouldn’t budge: he says that he has nothing to hide, that he’s innocent, that he has nothing to fear, and so on. That’s not all: on a completely confidential basis, with the proviso that it doesn’t constitute an admission of any kind, it seems that the guy also discussed it with his girlfriend, and she also thinks they should talk.”
Lojacono was surprised: “What do you think this means, Laura? Why this sudden reversal?”
Palma replied: “It might mean that they really don’t have anything to hide, but that they can’t prove it. So they’re hoping that, if they help us in our investigation, we can somehow prove their innocence for them.”
Piras smirked: “Or else, maybe, in the past few days they’ve managed to arrange things so that in fact they can prove the two of them had nothing to do with it. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”
Lojacono put his hands in his pockets.
“Well, still, at least we can talk to them. And we can finally lay eyes on this notorious redhead, the one our friend the notary even dared to take to the yacht club, making himself the talk of the town for a few days.”
Before Piras had time to reply, Ottavia stuck her head in the door: “Commissario, Di Nardo and Romano are on their way to check out that one thing. Do you want me to tell them anything?”
“No, thanks, Ottavia. Just tell them to let me know as soon as they have something.”
The magistrate caught the glance that the two of them exchanged. The woman was pretty and clearly infatuated with the commissario, and the attraction seemed to run both ways. Fun, and better that way. She wondered why she felt relieved and decided not to answer her own question. Instead, she went on: “The lawyer asked that his client not be forced to come into police headquarters or to the district attorney’s office, to avoid giving the press, which is on his trail, an opportunity to embellish. And, with great sadness, he informed me that the notary doesn’t want him, the lawyer, to accompany him; and I believe it, I can’t even imagine how much the guy charges to be present for a police interrogation.”
“Well then, Dottoressa,” Palma asked, “would you prefer to question him here in the station house? Or do you want to go call on him at home?”
“No, that’s exactly why I came here directly. I believe that the best thing, at this point, is for Lojacono and Aragona to go to the notary’s office, and alone. My presence would seem too official and our friend might very well go back on the defensive. Instead, if he’s in his own office, with the same two men who came to see him the first time, he might feel safer and decide to open up. And after all, there’s still this other matter.”
Lojacono and Palma exchanged a quizzical glance. Piras sighed: “You know very well that the future of this precinct is still up in the air. If there are results to be achieved, better for them to be the work of the staff of Pizzofalcone. If I’m there, it’s not the same thing.”
Palma answered her gratefully: “Dottoressa, that’s very, very kind of you. I only hope that . . .”
Laura waved her hand dismissively: “Let’s forget about that, and in any case I have the utmost faith in Lojacono, we’ve already discussed the matter; I’m sure that he’ll pursue this case with the necessary expertise. No, if anything, try to keep Aragona from making a mess, as he seems all too inclined to do.”
Lojacono walked Laura to her car, in the courtyard. As they went past, Guida snapped to attention, shooting the lieutenant a frightened glance. Piras stifled a laugh.
“I have to admit, the place has changed pretty drastically since I was last here. Are you liking it?”
Lojacono shrugged: “You know, work is work. All things considered, everyone seems pretty sharp, and they all want to do their best. But it hasn’t even been a week yet.”
“Same old Lojacono, optimism itself. You could at least show a little gratitude, no? But the important thing is, let’s hope we can manage to keep the place open. That’s still not a given, at this point.”
It occurred to the lieutenant that the way she emphasized her consonants and the dimple in her chin were causing him to think thoughts that were hardly in keeping with the respect due to a prosecuting magistrate.
“We’ll do our best, I promise you that. As always.”
She looked up at him, her eyes dark and piercing.
“As always. And try to remember to live a little, every now and then.”
She climbed into the car and waved for the driver to go. Leaving Lojacono to wonder what the hell that was supposed to mean.
XLVI
It was certainly no simple matter, to get to Vico Secondo all’Olivella, 22.
It lay at the center of a maze of narrow lanes, all identical, one perpendicular to the next, uphill and downhill; and the walk was made all the more challenging thanks to the Innocenti scaffoldings and buttresses that had proliferated in an attempt to shore up precarious buildings, though no one ever seemed to be working on them, and to the shops selling seafood and fruit and vegetables presumptuously invading the already narrow roadway, and to the chairs set out in the street to discourage cars from parking. And to the endless parade of motor scooters zipping past, expelling clouds of exhaust in the faces of children scampering from one basso to the next, the stray dogs sleeping in the middle of the street, and the delivery vans loading and unloading, indifferent to the growing lines of honking cars behind them.
It was like a constantly flowing eruption of molten chaos, like a huge cauldron where a dark foul-smelling liquid was bubbling incessantly away. Alex wondered how anyone could live in that place.
And she also wondered what the hell had come over Romano, who was even more taciturn, even grumpier than usual. Sitting next to him, she could detect a dull roar, like the sound of distant thunder, warning of a storm about to burst.
They were making their way down the street, checking the very infrequent numbers impressed into the walls of the ancient apartment buildings. It was ludicrous to think of getting there by car. Every so often, like a shaft of light cutting across the darkness, through ramshackle street doors hanging open, they could glimpse magnificent gardens and tall plants swaying in the wind.
>
When they finally came to what ought to have been number 22, they found themselves before a delivery van blocking the entrance to a crumbling basso apartment at ground level. Two men were loading the van with household belongings, boxes, and badly dinged-up furniture. A fat, middle-aged woman, her hair gathered up atop her head and fastened with a large plastic clip, was watching the work and issuing instructions in dialect in a hoarse voice.
They walked over and attracted her attention. “Excuse me, signo’,” Romano asked, “is this number 22?”
The woman turned around, glaring: “That depends. Who are you looking for?”
There could be no doubt that the woman had understood at a glance exactly who she was dealing with. At those latitudes, Alex thought, people recognized cops from a distance, they could sniff them out. Though it was equally probable that a team of street kids had taken off at a dead run the minute they entered the neighborhood, shouting to all who cared to listen: look out, here come the cops.
Romano, however, was in no mood for idle chitchat: “Signo’, it doesn’t matter who we’re looking for; either this is number 22 or it isn’t. And if you ask me, this is number 22, and you are Signora Esposito.”
Alex appreciated her partner’s straight talk, and as she took a closer look she realized that it was possible to discern, in the woman’s porcine features, buried under the literal weight of poor nutrition and early aging, a certain resemblance to the beautiful girl they’d met in the shuttered apartment.
The woman erupted into coarse laughter. “So what, around here practically everyone’s named Esposito. What would I know about who you’re looking for? Anyway, yes, I’m Assunta Esposito. Who are you?”
The two men had stopped loading the truck and, though they remained at a certain distance, they were following the conversation. Two other individuals, a man and a woman, had appeared at a window across the way.
The air was growing thick with hostility. Though the pocket of her overcoat, Alex placed a hand on the bulge beneath her belt, and the touch immediately restored her confidence.
Romano hadn’t taken his eyes off the woman’s face. A muscle had started to twitch in his jaw, and Alex knew that promised nothing good.
“Your daughter is also named Esposito, first name Annunziata, eighteen years of age, isn’t that right? If so, we need to speak with you and your husband.”
The woman’s eye came to rest on the couple looking out the window.
“Come inside.”
She turned and headed indoors, displaying an enormous, swaying backside to the two policemen. Alex wondered whether the magical creature she’d admired just the day before was genetically destined to turn into this, or whether it was merely a matter of whether one took care of oneself.
Inside the ground-floor basso, there was all the characteristic chaos of moving house. The virago let herself flop down onto a wobbly chair that groaned beneath her weight. Romano and Di Nardo looked around for a place to sit, but found none and remained standing.
“What has my daughter done? Why are you looking for her?”
Di Nardo replied: “Who told you that we’re looking for her? We’re looking for you, actually. My name is Di Nardo, this is my partner Romano, and we’re from the Pizzofalcone precinct.”
The woman snickered as she lit a cigarette.
“You’re out of your jurisdiction, commissa’. We’re in the Montecalvario precinct here.”
Romano nodded.
“My, my, aren’t we well informed about police jurisdictions; well, then, you must have regular interactions with the various precincts, no?”
One of the two men loading things onto the van broke in: “And what is that supposed to mean?”
Di Nardo stepped to one side, so she could keep an eye on both the woman and the two men. The men were young, overgrown boys, and one of them clearly resembled both the woman and the girl.
Without bothering to turn around, Romano asked: “Who are these two gentlemen? Why don’t you introduce us, signo’? Otherwise we’re liable to think they’re a couple of rude oafs.”
The one who had spoken took a step forward, but the woman raised a hand to stop him.
“These are my sons, commissa’. Pietro and Costanzo. Forgive them, they’re cranky because I’m making them work and they aren’t used to it. We’re moving, as you can see.”
“I’m not a commissario and neither is my partner. And where exactly are you moving?”
The woman put on a ridiculously supercilious air: “We’ve rented a slightly superior apartment.”
Romano waved his hand to take in the surroundings.
“Hard to imagine, it’s so delightful right here. And just where would that be?”
“Corso Vittorio Emanuele,” the woman replied. “A building that was recently renovated.”
“And I can just guess who owns the building and the company that renovated it,” Di Nardo commented. “Your two boys, here, do they have jobs?”
The second man, a hulking youth with a grim expression, replied: “Of course we have jobs. We work for the same building contractor that . . .”
The mother broke in brusquely: “Shut your trap, you idiot. Speak when you’re spoken to, didn’t you hear the commissario? Don’t be an oaf.”
Romano assumed a tense expression, which resembled a grimace of disgust: “A new job, and now you’re moving to a new apartment. So many new things. Just what’s going on in your family, signo’? And what about your husband, if I’m not prying, where would he be?”
The woman stared at him, eyes narrowed in the cigarette smoke.
“My husband is at work. He’s an executive assistant. He goes to deposit money in the bank; he takes the wife and children of a very important man around the city, as their driver. He makes good money.”
Romano lowered his voice a little: “In other words, you’re making ends meet. Everyone’s fine, with nice legitimate jobs, all aboveboard, you pay your taxes and everything. An apartment, plenty of money. Prosperity. And all thanks to that poor little girl. All you’ve had to give in exchange is your daughter.”
The young man standing behind Romano muttered: “Omm’ ’e mmerda! You piece of shit,” and lunged at him. Di Nardo started to grab her gun, but Romano, without even turning around, jabbed backwards with his elbow, striking the man square in the solar plexus. He dropped to the floor, writhing and wretching; as the second young man, moving cautiously, stepped forward, Romano half turned and said: “I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”
The man froze, uncertain what to do next. The mother hadn’t moved a muscle. She started speaking softly: “My daughter is doing fine. She’s doing better than she ever has before, my daughter. She lives in a fine, beautiful apartment. She has plenty to eat, nice clothes, a television. Furniture, a kitchen, a fridge full of things to eat, that’s what my daughter has. And who’s ever seen so much food in the fridge? My daughter’s doing fine, better than fine.”
Di Nardo had pulled out her pistol, and she held it with the barrel pointing down toward the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she was watching the two young men: one was coughing and getting to his feet, rubbing his gut; the other one was standing stock-still, frozen to the spot by Romano’s threat. Di Nardo had gotten the distinct impression that her partner had smiled in satisfaction after elbowing the man; she was forced to admit to herself that Romano was climbing the ranks of the very few men she respected.
He spoke to the woman, without looking in her direction: “She’s doing fine, signo’? Locked in an apartment, without ever going out for a breath of fresh air, an eighteen-year-old girl? In the hands of man old enough to be her grandfather? You say she’s doing fine?”
There was a moment of silence. A moped buzzed past, honking its horn in the narrow vicolo and drawing angry curses from a man on foot.
The woman whispered: “Well, why don�
��t you just ask her? You’ll see what my daughter has to say. It’s not as if beauty lasts forever, you know. And after all, all those sluts on TV who shake their asses on command, what do you think they’re doing, don’t you think they date men three times their age? Children are supposed to do their bit to help out their families. Every one of them doing what they can, the best they know how. You can rest assured, my daughter is happy. And now, if you want to tell me what you need, we need to get back to moving.”
Romano took a step forward and pulled his hands out of the pockets of his overcoat. Di Nardo noticed that he was clenching and unclenching his hands as if they’d gone to sleep on him.
“Why, of course, I understand. You need to get back to moving. When are you going to get a chance like this again? In fact, I’d suggest you get as much out of this situation as you can, signo’, because you’re right, it’s not as if beauty lasts forever. And it’s hard times after that. Brutally hard times. No, we don’t need anything from you. You’re the one who needs to watch out. Because I swear to you, on my word of honor, signo’, the minute you cross the line by so much as an inch, I’ll kick your ass so hard it’ll be twice the size it is now.”
He’d spoken in a voice that was little more than a whisper, but every word he’d said had carried. The young man who’d gotten up from the ground had finally caught his breath; now he roared like a wild animal. Slipping his hand into his pocket he yanked out a switchblade and lunged wildly at Romano.
Alex assumed a crouch and held her pistol out at arm’s length, gripping it with both hands; she aimed at the other brother, who had moved to pick a metal bar up off the ground: “Freeze! Don’t you move!”
Romano whipped around with lightning speed and grabbed the first young man’s hand in midair, clenching his wrist with tremendous force. The blade fell to the ground with a clatter. The entire scene had lasted less than a second. With his other hand, the policeman grabbed the young man by the throat and started to squeeze. The mother started to moan softly, like a dog whimpering. The larger of the two young men dropped the metal bar, staring at Alex’s pistol as if it were the lone eye of some animal.
The Bastards of Pizzofalcone Page 23