Aragona had stopped writing, his pen in midair, uncertain whether he should take this down. Lojacono gestured imperceptibly for him to go on writing.
“She wasn’t beautiful. But she gave me everything I needed, and I don’t mean money or connections, though she certainly had those: she gave me a sense of serenity. With her, I could focus on improving myself, on becoming the best. I know very well the kind of thing that Anna Ruffolo, or whoever it was that said it in her stead, must have told you: that my career is based on Cecilia’s friendships. But that’s not true, or it was only true at the beginning. My career is based on the fact that I’m good at what I do. Very good. And in this profession, you get work only if you’re very good and very discreet.”
Lojacono reflected for a moment: “Do you think you have enemies, Notary Festa? Someone who might . . .”
Festa interrupted him.
“No. I’ve thought it over, you know. I’ve thought it over thoroughly, in part because of this thing with the doors . . . Cecilia would never have opened the door to a stranger. But no one, no one I work with, would have had any reason to do such a thing. People entrust themselves to a notary and I safeguard their interests. I’m not a magistrate, I’m not even a lawyer. I never clash with my clients or with anyone else’s. I can’t use my job to hurt anyone.”
Aragona asked: “You just said: Cecilia would never have opened the door to a stranger. In that case, what is that you think happened? Did someone else have the keys?”
Lojacono thought to himself that his partner couldn’t seem to abandon Mayya’s boyfriend, the Romanian who could so easily have taken the young woman’s keys, as a lead. The notary replied: “Certainly, that’s a possibility. All I know is that Cecilia was in a peaceful state of mind that night. I spoke to her around ten o’clock, and . . . oh, my God . . .”
His voice had dwindled away, and the two policemen both thought he was about to burst into tears; instead, the notary put his face in his hands and managed to compose himself: “I lied to her. It’s what I always did, it had become a habit. I just lied to her. And she pretended to believe me, or maybe she actually did believe me, who can say. She was intelligent, you know; very intelligent. She may have decided to accept the fact that I was lying to her; maybe she knew, or she hoped, that I’d never leave her. And she listened to my lies as if they were the truth.” He turned his weary gaze to Lojacono: “I told her that I was on Capri, that everything was fine. That she was right not to come, and that I was bored out of my mind.”
“And what did the signora say to you?”
“That she was all right, that she’d go to bed soon, that she was already in her dressing gown. That a storm was blowing, and so she’d shut all the windows and blinds; that was something she didn’t normally do, but the wind frightened her. That the concierge had repaired one of the shutters, I don’t remember which. Lord forgive me, I was in a hurry and I didn’t want to chitchat; if I’d known . . . if I’d only been able to imagine . . . but I wanted to break off the conversation, in part because the person who was with me . . . Iolanda . . . didn’t like it when I spent much time doing anything that took me away from her. Anyway, she was about to go to bed; if she’d been expecting someone she certainly would have told me so.”
“And so?” asked Aragona.
“And so, it was either someone she knew so well that she was willing to open the door to them in a dressing gown, something that she would never have done for just anybody, or else it was someone who had a set of keys and opened the door himself, and she happened upon him. One of the two, I’m sure of it.”
Lojacono broke in: “Notary Festa, I’m sorry to have to ask you this question, but it’s necessary. What is the nature of your relationship with Signorina Russo? Do you two have any . . . plans, any thoughts for the future? And if so, was your wife aware of them, in your opinion?”
Lojacono’s question was met with silence. The notary gazed at his fingertips, pensively chewing on his lower lip. He was quiet for so long that the lieutenant began to doubt that Festa ever actually intended to answer. But then he said: “Many times, in the past, I’ve had . . . I’ve had affairs, I guess you’d say. Including with some of Cecilia’s girlfriends, which I’m not proud of. I just can’t seem to control myself. But this time things are different. Iolanda . . . is a very unusual woman, she refuses to be hidden, she wants to have it all. And once this became clear to me, it was already too late. And anyway, things between us . . . Lieutenant, our relationship can longer be undone, I can’t leave her. I’d have told Cecilia eventually. Iolanda kept pushing me, and I was about to settle things.”
“And you were never apart, in those two days? The young lady never left you alone?”
Festa blinked rapidly, as if an absurd theory had suddenly formed in his mind for the very first time.
“Who, Iolanda? But . . . but what on earth are you thinking, no! No! We were together the whole time, we didn’t even go out to eat, we brought everything we would need with us.”
Lojacono and Aragona exchanged a glance. The situation was clear, and they knew that it was based on words that couldn’t be corroborated. And that the notary therefore remained the prime suspect, together with Signorina Iolanda Russo: the only ones who had any reason to want to ensure that Signora Cecilia De Santis, married name Festa, would leave the notary in question a free and very wealthy man.
Following that train of thought, Lojacono asked: “Notary Festa, your financial situation . . . the signora, in other words . . .”
“I expected that question. Everything was in her name. For tax purposes, everything we owned was in my wife’s name.”
This only confirmed what Lojacono had already guessed.
There remained one more thing to clear up; but he needed to proceed cautiously, because he still hadn’t received the official report from the IT office and he didn’t want to risk putting the notary on the defensive.
“We’ve heard mention of a trip that you were planning to take with your wife. A trip to a distant destination, about which you inquired from an online travel agency. What can you tell me about that?”
The notary’s expression grew baffled: “My wife had asked me, some time ago, if we could take a trip. Maybe to reestablish some kind of equilibrium between us. But I had told her that right now, with a couple of major work issues to be settled, I couldn’t think of going anywhere. I might have made some inquiries, but I don’t remember ever even considering actually leaving.”
It was clear to Aragona and Lojacono that they wouldn’t get any more information from the notary about that matter. Once they had the official report, if it seemed worthwhile, they’d dig deeper.
They asked the notary for details on his mistress, including the young lady’s address and phone number so they could make an appointment to speak to her. And they asked the notary also to aid them in obtaining all the information necessary for pursuing their investigation.
“Why, of course, anything at all,” Festa replied, without hesitation. “Do you think I haven’t figured it out by now? You’re my only hope.”
XLIX
Alex Di Nardo was concealed in a corner, hidden behind an entranceway.
In spite of the wind, whose fury had in any case subsided, the collar of her coat turned up and wearing a pair of dark sunglasses—which made her look something like a secret agent or private eye in a B movie, the kind her colleague Aragona was surely obsessed with—she stood there patiently, waiting, her eyes turned upward.
Thus decked out, she was keeping an eye on that grim old woman who sat sentinel at her window, missing nothing that moved along the stretch of street she could see from her vantage point.
Certainly, she could have just thrown caution to the winds and walked in, ignoring Guardascione perched up there in her armchair tatting away, one eye on her work, finishing one last doily that, as far as she know, might very well be destined fo
r the toilet seat—if, that is, there wasn’t one there already; she was probably tormenting her caregiver as well, calling her “slut” and observing her as well, with that unfriendly eye.
But, for some unknown reason, Alex didn’t want to give the old woman the satisfaction of having identified a crime in progress, and knowing that she’d seen more clearly than most; it would have struck her as tantamount to rewarding behavior that, in some way, she saw as sleazy. And then, ever since she’d first seen Nunzia Esposito’s eyes, those desperate eyes, the eyes of a terrified animal, eyes that clashed so sharply with her plastic smile, and since she’d sensed on her skin how filthy the architect was, how miserably petty the mother of this alleged prisoner was, she’d developed a very clear idea of who the good guys and the bad guys in this case really were.
As she was looking up and wondering, for the umpteenth time, when the damned old hag would be forced to give in to any conceivable physical need, her mind wandered to Francesco Romano. She’d heard from a colleague in the Posillipo precinct that he was someone who couldn’t control his rage; and that was why the commissario had gotten rid of him the moment he had the chance. And yet, in the situation she’d just witnessed, she hardly felt she could blame him. She herself had felt a certain itch in her trigger finger: but that was nothing new. Certainly, she thought, snickering inwardly, the two of them made a fine pair, though better suited to a movie like Lethal Weapon than to the streets of a city like this one.
Still, she was grateful to him for having understood her request to go talk to the girl alone. To try to understand something more, to fully grasp the situation. She felt certain that the girl was being held in that apartment against her will. If Alex managed to discover the nature of that captivity, if she received the slightest appeal for help, she would free her. She’d find a way.
At last, Guardascione was gone; the event was so long-awaited that in the end it was unexpected, and Alex very nearly missed her brief absence entirely; still, she managed to slip rapidly through the front door of Nunzia’s building. She’d made it past the first obstacle.
She climbed the stairs and knocked at the door. After a few seconds, she heard the girl’s voice: “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Al . . . Officer Di Nardo. But I’m not here on official business. Can I come in?”
There was a long silence. Alex shot an nervous glance at the door of the real estate agency, standing just ajar; she wouldn’t have any way of justifying her visit in the face of the employee’s inevitable curiosity.
From behind the door the girl asked: “Well, what do you want? Did you forget something last time you were here?”
As expected, Nunzia was stalling. She probably couldn’t open the door because she had no key. But Alex had to make sure of it.
“No, I haven’t forgotten anything. I just wanted to talk to you for a moment.”
Another pause. Then the girl’s voice, trembling with uncertainty: “I’d . . . I’d prefer not to let you in, really. Can’t you tell me whatever you want from there?”
Alex felt pity for Nunzia.
“You’re locked in, aren’t you? You’re locked in. You couldn’t let me in even if you wanted to. I know. I know your situation. We’ve been to see your folks, we saw everything. You’re locked in, I know it. And if that’s the case, I can help you, you understand?”
The policewoman heard what she thought was a sigh, or perhaps a sob. When she was quite certain she’d get no reply, she heard the voice again: “Are you alone? The other one, the man, is he with you now, out there?”
Alex answered in haste: “No, no. I’m alone. I told you, this isn’t an official visit. I want to understand. I just want to understand.”
“I just want to understand . . .” — under her breath, as if trying to justify something to herself.
Then, to the policewoman’s immense surprise, she heard the bolt moving and the door swung open.
The place looked different that it had the last time; it was clear that she wasn’t expecting visitors. A gossip and fashion magazine lay open on the sofa, a bag of potato chips sat on the coffee table, with a few crumbs sprinkling the floor, as did a glass half-full of some dark liquid, possibly Coca-Cola; soothing jazz from the Sixties floated out over the apartment from loudspeakers concealed in the drop ceiling.
The girl wore a light dressing gown tied with a sash at the waist. She was barefoot, her hair was ruffled, and she had no makeup on. And she was stunning. She looked exactly as old as she was. Alex was appalled at the resemblance to her mother, and at the same time, the incredible gap that separated the girl from the horrible creature she’d met that morning.
The two women eyed each other up close. Even without shoes, Nunzia was taller than Alex. Now that she was face-to-face with her, the policewoman discovered that she’d been so positive the girl would never open the door that she had no idea what to say.
“Forgive me for coming to see you. I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just that . . . I thought that . . .”
The girl waved a hand in the air.
“That’s his music. I don’t get it, I like Tiziano Ferro. But all he has is this music here, so it’s this or nothing.”
She took a few steps, moving with the melody, and gracefully sat down on the couch, tucking her legs up beneath her and reaching out for a potato chip.
Alex, on the other hand, felt uncomfortable. She felt as if she’d been caught off-balance, and she wondered what she was doing there. The person sitting in front of her was certainly no prisoner.
“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry. I really thought . . .”
Nunzia gave her a serious look.
“I know exactly what you thought. What, did you assume that I wouldn’t know? That’s what I told him, when I called him. And he told me that he’d make sure to be here. You thought I wasn’t allowed out of here. That I was in some sort of prison. Isn’t that right?”
Alex nodded. Nunzia went on: “You know it better than me, signo’. Sometimes things seem to work one way, but instead they work in a different way. But then there are times when they’re exactly what they seem. It’s true, you know: I can’t go out.”
Di Nardo didn’t understand: was the girl pulling her leg? She looked at the door, and said: “But . . . you just opened the door and let me in!”
Instead of answering, Nunzia stood up and peeped out through the curtain.
“There she is. She’s always there, motionless by the window. It’s just me and her, the old woman. We look at each other, she looks at me and I look at her. Sometimes she falls asleep with her mouth wide open, and her dentures fall out. She’s disgusting, inside and out.”
She turned to look at Alex: “He’s out of his mind, you know. One time, a few months ago, he drove past the basso where we live. An enormous car, he was going to take a look at an old building he’d bought in the neighborhood, he says he wants to turn it into a residential hotel, very deluxe. If you ask me, it’s idiotic; who would come to stay in a fine hotel in that shitty part of town?”
She sat back down and ate another potato chip.
“I have to be careful with these, otherwise I’ll wind up worse than my mother; you’ve seen her, haven’t you?”
She giggled, one hand over her mouth. Alex thought to herself that this was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen.
“Anyway, he was lost, he didn’t know his way around. He stops, he leans out the window to ask directions. I was standing outside our downstairs door, waiting for a girlfriend of mine. He says that from the minute he saw me, he lost it. He went completely crazy. After that, he came back every day: once on foot, once by taxi, once he had someone else drive him.”
Alex had sat down in an armchair.
“What about you? What did you think of him?”
“What was I supposed to think about him, men had been doing the same thing to
me for two years already. My brothers too, for that matter. But he was kind: he brought gifts, to me and to my family. Lots and lots of gifts. One time a pair of earrings, another time a bracelet. Then, one day, he asked my father if I could travel with him, for a couple of days, he had to go up north to visit a construction site. And my father said: fine, go ahead.”
Alex listened, entranced. The girl’s tone of voice was nonchalant, as if she were talking about the weather.
“I thought he was going to have a heart attack, he’s old. But he didn’t. Still, the first time he saw me without my clothes, his eyes came that close to bugging right out of his head.”
She giggled again, as if she’d just told a funny joke. Then, as if an odd idea had occurred to her, she stood up, lithe and quick, and pulled open her dressing gown. Underneath, she was naked.
“Now, you’re a woman, you tell me the truth: how do I look to you?”
Di Nardo snapped her mouth shut and gulped. Nunzia’s body was perfect, with firm but full breasts, a flat belly, long thighs, and a triangle of Venus that was just barely visible.
“You’re stunning. Stunning.”
The girl laughed, and refastened her dressing gown with a pirouette.
“I know. He tells me so all the time. That’s why he doesn’t want me to go out. He’s jealous. He doesn’t want anyone else to see me, because then men will start buzzing around here worse than horseflies around shit. He asked me, and I made him a promise. If you ask me, he’s afraid someone will go tell his wife about me. I saw her one time, I went over to where he lives because I was curious: mamma mia! She’s three years younger than he is, but she looks way older.”
The Bastards of Pizzofalcone Page 25