Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone

by Maurizio de Giovanni

  Marinella had thus become Letizia’s secret ally. Between a ragù and a Neapolitan pastiera—she devoured the dishes that Letizia set before her with a teen’s typical hunger—she’d spend hours chatting with her, the two women excluding Lojacono from the conversation even as they made him its subject, all in his presence and to his vast amusement; he liked watching his daughter enjoying herself. They’d become friends, Marinella and Letizia, and now that the girl had learned how to get around town on her own, she’d even go and see Letizia alone if Lojacono was busy with work.

  And so, when she and her father walked into the restaurant, pushed along by a gentle, early afternoon breeze, everyone was contented and cheerful: Letizia, who had the finest bucatini alla carbonara, which Marinella had requested ahead of time, waiting for them; the girl, who couldn’t wait to tell her, as soon as her father left the table, about the outcome of her exploratory expedition in search of the Whistling College Boy; Lojacono, who was anxious to rid himself for a couple of hours of all thoughts of the kidnapped child.

  The restaurant was brightly lit, and for once there weren’t many customers: At lunchtime the place wasn’t as crowded. Marinella hugged and kissed Letizia, who replied: “There’s my girl. How is everything? Have you decided to get rid of this boring old grizzly bear of a father and come live with me? That way at night we can both get all dolled up and go pick up some men.”

  Lojacono made a face: “Say, have you forgotten that we’re Sicilians? A hundred years of movies, stock phrases, and novels haven’t taught you a thing? If I see her with a man I’ll break her legs in three or four places, that way she’ll be in casts, and in traction, and I can rest assured she won’t be able to leave home for a while.”

  Marinella laughed: “You know, you have no idea what can be done, even when you’re immobilized. A girlfriend of mine from school, in Palermo, told me about one time when she fell off her scooter and broke her leg, and had it in a cast: one night when her parents were out, her boyfriend came to see her and . . .”

  Lojacono opened his mouth in feigned horror and took a swing at her, missing entirely. The three of them laughed, and the policeman thought, in a flash of insight, that he hadn’t felt so light and happy in a long time.

  The waiter brought three enormous bowls of piping hot bucatini, and just as Lojacono was sticking his fork into the pasta, his cell phone, which was resting on the tabletop, rang.

  On the display, Laura Piras’s name was blinking.

  XXXIV

  Hello?”

  “. . .”

  “Hello? Hello, who’s calling?”

  “Borrelli? Edoardo Borrelli?

  “Yes, that’s me. Are you the one who has my grandson?”

  “You no talk. You listen.”

  “No, you listen to me, you son of a bitch. I’m going to kill you, you understand that? I’m going to kill you, and I’m going to watch you die slowly, you goddamn bastard, you . . .”

  Silence.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “You calm down? If you talk again, I hang up and I no phone back no more.”

  “I . . . yes, I understand. How is my grandson?”

  “He fine.”

  “Listen, you bastard, if you so much as dare to touch him . . .”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  “This last phone call. You shut up. Minute you talk, I not call back. You understand?”

  “Yes. My grandson . . .”

  “He fine, I told you. Now you listen to me.”

  “Can I talk to my grandson?”

  “No now. Listen me.”

  “Yes. Yes, all right.”

  “If you want to see your grandson alive again, without any harm being done to him, you have to procure five million euros in cash. In one day’s time, you will receive a further cumin . . . communication that will tell you where to bring the money. The communication will not be by tephel . . . telephone, so there’s no point trying to munit . . . monitor the lines. If something goes wrong, if we see even one policeman go by, even by chance, you’ll never see your grandson again. Understood?”

  “Goddamn son of a bitch, you’re a dead man! You’re a dead man, you understand? You’re a dead man walking, I’ll track you down, I know people that you . . .”

  “One day. Five million. You last time hearing my voice.”

  “I’ll find you, you bastard! I’ll . . .”

  Silence.

  XXXV

  The recording ended with a loud burst of static; profound silence followed in its wake. Everyone was looking at something else as if they wanted to avoid meeting their colleagues’ eyes, as if keeping the horror to themselves might erase the fact of it.

  Piras was the first one to break the spell: “He read the message this time, too. He even stumbled over a few words.”

  Aragona was drumming his fingers on the desktop: “He’s from the East. A piece of shit from Eastern Europe: a Slav, a Russian, who the hell knows. But he’s from the East.”

  Palma loosened his tie; the bright afternoon sunlight beat down, raising the temperature.

  “The fact that he’s reading, though, means there’s someone who’s writing. The situation is more complicated than it seems.”

  “Five million euros,” Ottavia said; she was still staring at the monitor. “That’s quite a sum to put together in cash, and in one day.”

  Alex, who was looking out the window, murmured: “If he asked for it, it means that he knows the old man can get it. And he asked him, not the parents; he knows that Borrelli is the one to talk to.”

  Lojacono agreed, his tone decisive: “Yes. These people know that the old man has immense resources, that much is clear. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t seem to do much to narrow the field. Giorgio said so right away: The whole city knows that Borrelli is a very rich man.”

  “I’ve already ordered everyone’s assets frozen,” Laura retorted. “The banks have locked down personal and corporate checking accounts. Between Dodo’s father and grandfather, we found six or seven companies: They’re a couple of octopuses.”

  Romano, who had until then been sitting in silence, said: “Talking to the old man, I got the idea that even though he’s stuck in a wheelchair, and even if he’s been out of the game for a long time, he still has a few cards up his sleeve. In other words, what he shouted at the kidnapper doesn’t strike me as an empty threat: Borrelli is a tough nut.”

  Palma nodded: “The kidnappers don’t have much time, they need to firm this deal up quickly, otherwise it’s going to get harder and harder just to keep the child hidden. Headquarters is working the city’s outlying areas and they’re reaching out to their network of informants; this has all been kept under the radar to keep from attracting the attention of the local media. They can’t have taken the child far.”

  Aragona snorted: “It’s not like we have much time either. The only reason the newspapers don’t know anything is that it’s in the nuns’ best interest not to let word get out, but sooner or later somebody’s going to wonder what became of that kid.”

  Laura, despite herself, had to admit that Aragona was right: “Yes, that’s true. And I’m sorry to say it, but either we find something concrete, and fast, or else the case will be handed over to the special investigations branch, especially if it this becomes a matter of public knowledge.”

  Rage surged through Romano: “It seems to me that we’re doing everything that needs to be done. I doubt the others have a magic wand.”

  Piras cut him off: “No one’s saying that, Romano. In fact, I’d say that both the two of you and the rest of the squad are rising to the challenge very well. But in cases like this, success can hinge on an hour more or less, and having additional people on the job could prove invaluable.”

  Everyone turned to look at Palma, expecting a vigorous defense of his team’s work. Instead,
the commissario responded in a disconsolate voice: “The first priority, in cases like this, is the safety of the kidnap victim. As the dottoressa said, we’re doing our best and we’ll continue to do so; but we need results, otherwise the trail can go cold. If the special investigative teams can do better, we’re certainly not going to fight any territorial battles when a child’s life is at stake.”

  From the far end of the room, where he was sitting peacefully, Pisanelli’s calm voice rang out: “I’d love to see, boss, just how the special investigations branch is going to lay its hands on certain information. Because sometimes the paths that lead to solid intelligence can be karstic, as the saying goes.”

  “So what the fuck is that supposed to mean, karstic?” Aragona murmured.

  “Subterranean, son. Subterranean. Like an underground river. Let me preface this, Dottoressa, by pointing out that this is confidential information, though it could help us to direct our investigation. Since this is not intelligence concerning a crime, I’m going to avail myself of the right to keep the source anonymous. Agreed?”

  Laura narrowed her eyes and, after a moment’s thought, gave her reply.

  “A slippery slope, Pisanelli. Be careful, and remember that you’re a policeman. But given the situation . . . tell us what you found out.”

  Giorgio shuffled several sheets of paper into order and began: “Not all the people connected to Dodo have money, that much we know. The boy’s father does; he’s a hard-charging industrialist, the kind they have up north, a self-made man. But, apart from supplying scrap metal to a few customers, he isn’t involved in any business in this area. No banking relationships. It makes sense to assume that, since the boy lives with his mother, the kidnappers don’t know that Cerchia is rich. But things change when we come to old Borrelli.”

  Aragona removed his glasses: “Well what do you think of that. Maybe it’ll turn out that the old man is broke.”

  Pisanelli shook his head: “Actually, he’s even wealthier than I had imagined. The point is that he only has as much as he needs on hand, plus the substantial income he draws from his real estate holdings. Temporary accounts; the money’s in transit, in other words. From time to time, he empties his accounts, and my source had a one-word reply when I asked where the money went: out. In short, he sends everything out of the country. It seems to me, Dottoressa, that in Borrelli’s case, freezing his assets, however quickly, can’t have done much good.”

  Piras wasn’t surprised: “We never really count on it. Go ahead.”

  “In that case, maybe, the kidnappers’ demand makes a certain amount of sense after all. In Italy, putting together that big a sum in cash would take a long time; but if you had the money elsewhere, maybe not that far away . . .”

  Romano stirred irritably: “How does that help us? Knowing who’s going to pay the ransom and how doesn’t get us an inch closer to the child; we’re sitting here chatting about financial matters, while at this very moment . . .”

  Pisanelli held up a hand: “Calm down. Calm down and stay cool. Getting angry isn’t going to get us anywhere. This isn’t the only information I obtained on my walk. I was telling you that not everyone in the family has money.”

  “Go on,” Palma said.

  “We know that Scarano, Eva Borrelli’s boyfriend, is an artist. The truth is, he has a degree in architecture, but he paints.”

  Ottavia broke in: “Yes, I found that out online. Ten or so years ago he looked like he was on his way. He had a solo show in Rome, another in Naples, and one in Venice, not at the Biennale. But then he disappeared.”

  “That’s right,” Pisanelli confirmed. “He had some sort of nervous breakdown, and even after he recovered he was never able to get back to the levels he’d been working at before. Eva met him at the home of friends and fell in love with him when she was in the process of breaking up with the child’s father, though the split wasn’t yet official. She saw him again after the separation—though if you ask me they were in touch the whole time—and she let him move in.”

  Aragona snickered. “So he’s living off her.”

  “You could say that, yes. It’s just that Eva lives on what her father gives her—that is, basically the rent from a couple of apartments in both their names that were part of her inheritance from her mother. It’s not like they have a lot of money; and yet Scarano blows through plenty of cash.”

  “Explain,” Lojacono said.

  “He plays cards. And with a bad crowd: a floating game run by professionals, in private homes. In short, Scarano gambles and loses. My source has seen a number of checks made out to dangerous individuals.”

  “And who pays his debts?”

  “Old man Borrelli, and the funny thing is that he does it without letting the daughter know. Maybe he loves her more than he shows, or maybe he’s just trying to prevent a scandal. She takes this Scarano with her everywhere, and everyone in the city’s high-class social circles knows him as Eva Borrelli’s boyfriend.”

  Romano was listening intently “Interesting. Here’s someone who not only has no money, but who might desperately need some.”

  Pisanelli pulled out a new sheet of paper. “What’s particularly interesting is the fact that Scarano recently went to the bank with Peluso, Borrelli’s secretary. The woman delivered a lecture to the director in the presence of poor Manuel, who stood there, head down, like a dog who was used to being beaten: She said that the cavalier, now that he’d covered the last check, was going to stop meeting the family painter’s needs, so to speak, and that from now on he’d have to get by on his own.”

  Piras was quickly jotting down notes on a sheet of paper. “So now we’re starting to develop a profile. Scarano was familiar with the child’s routines and schedules, knew all about Borrelli’s personal resources, had his various phone numbers, and he also needed money. That seems sufficient to start doing a little digging on him, no?”

  Pisanelli turned to another sheet of paper.

  “Slow down, slow down, Dottoressa. There’s a little something else. Scarano’s not the only one to have secretly benefitted, shall we say, from Borrelli’s money.”

  “Who else?

  “Peluso. As far as I’ve been able to determine, the old man trusts her implicitly and, especially now that he can no longer walk, he relies on her to handle all administrative issues. The lady has complete power of attorney in all matters.”

  “So? In and of itself that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “No, that’s true. Only that for the past year or so, Peluso has started draining off a little cash here and there. It’s been done very adroitly, over at the bank they almost overlooked it entirely, especially because the payouts were always mixed in with other transactions: payroll checks, utility bills, taxes, and so on. But to quote the comedian Totò, it’s the sum that makes the total, and at a certain point the overall amount siphoned off became pretty sizable; the director asked the woman for an explanation.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She gave him a glare that would freeze ice . . .”

  “Yes, I can just see her,” Aragona piled on enthusiastically, “the spitting image of Frau Blücher in Young Frankenstein.”

  Piras looked daggers at him.

  “The dottoressa here isn’t kidding around either,” the young officer said in a stage whisper, “when it comes to glares that would freeze ice.”

  “. . . and she told him,” Pisanelli continued, “you know, sir, it’s up to me where we do our banking. Do we understand each other? At that point he raised his hands in the air and walked away.”

  “But shouldn’t he have reported her?” Piras asked. “And wait, where is this money going?”

  “No, Dottoressa, he couldn’t file a criminal complaint because every transaction was executed through a legally issued power of attorney; there was nothing to object to. Peluso signed the orders, and she had ever
y right to do so. The money went to a checking account in a branch office in Salerno, where Peluso is originally from. Substantial sums, on the order of a couple hundred thousand euros a year. After their discussion, though, the transfers stopped, and Borrelli’s companies worked a great deal less with that bank. In other words, the signora found other channels.”

  Pisanelli fell silent; he relaxed in his chair, visibly satisfied.

  Ottavia coughed and took the floor: “I’ve done a little research of my own. Carmela Peluso, born in Serre, province of Salerno, in 1951, has been working for Borrelli since 1973, when she was still just a girl. She’s served in a number of roles, from secretary at one of Borrelli’s companies to the old man’s right-hand woman and special legal representative, that last position for at least the past ten years. She has always shown an absolute devotion to her boss, and she’s acted as a buffer between father and daughter since his wife died, more or less to protect him from a new source of grief. She doesn’t much like children, and when little Dodo, before starting school, used to spend his days at his grandfather’s house, the old man had to hire a number of nannies and babysitters to look after the boy because she wasn’t cut out for it. She’s extremely reserved, but recently she confessed her concerns about the old man’s health: She’s afraid she might be cut out of the will when he dies, since she doesn’t rely much on his daughter’s gratitude; she’s described Eva as a selfish bitch.”

  Everyone turned to look at her in surprise. Palma was the first to find his tongue: “You found that on the Internet, too?”

  Ottavia laughed: “No, of course not. That is, there’s her personal information and a few pictures. But the signora did give in to the temptations of new technology and set up a Facebook profile so she could track down a couple of old girlfriends from her hometown. It isn’t hard to get around privacy restrictions, you know.”