Pisanelli was perusing files. He was on edge and taciturn like the others. That night word had come in of another suicide: an elderly man who had told his neighbors more than once that he just couldn’t face it anymore. He’d left a farewell message and then swallowed a bottleful of sleeping pills. Palma wondered why his deputy was so obsessed with those deaths; it was clear that the larger motive behind them all had something to do with the economic slowdown and the spread of loneliness, which was by now a social blight. Probably his fixation was a product of his personal history, and the fact that his wife, too, had committed suicide. He made a mental note to invite him to lunch and talk it through once they’d wrapped up the case of the kidnapped boy.
He was thinking that over when he heard a cry from Ottavia’s desk: “That’s what it was! I knew I’d think of it eventually. Boss, I know who took the boy. Believe me, I know.”
It was the first time Ottavia had ever spoken to him using the informal “tu,” and that made an impression on Palma—even more than the news. Pisanelli and Aragona turned to look at their coworker. Francesco Romano came in at that very moment and joined the group; no one noticed his distraught expression.
Ottavia went on: “I couldn’t stop wondering just who the woman Dodo left with could have been. I mean, I was wondering why he would have left with her without a word to anyone. I know, we’ve all wondered that, and we all concluded that he must have known her. But how did he know her? Romano and Aragona asked everyone, and they couldn’t find anyone who was close enough to the child to lead him away like that, but who also even remotely matched the appearance of the woman on the video.”
Palma nodded: “Go on.”
“According to the police reports you gave me for transcription, the boy has a shy, reserved, timid personality. He doesn’t make friends easily; he’d never go off with the first person to happen by. That means that the kidnapper must be a woman whom Dodo knows and trusts, but no longer sees.”
“Well?” said Aragona. “Is she a ghost?”
Ottavia glared at him: “Do you remember the meeting with Dottoressa Piras? When we updated the information we had on all the people involved? Giorgio had uncovered a bunch of information on everyone, and I’d found something online about Peluso by digging into her Facebook page. I’d pointed out that she doesn’t like children, and I’d reached that conclusion after finding out about a minor diplomatic incident caused by a sarcastic comment that she’d posted about a childhood friend who’d become a grandmother.”
“Always delightful, the old witch,” Aragona commented.
“There was an offended reply from the new grandmother, and Peluso had replied with an explanation of how she couldn’t stand children and described with real distaste the period when little Dodo spent more time at his grandfather’s home than his own. Peluso had complained about it so much that old man Borrelli had been forced to hire a couple of nannies and babysitters.”
“And so?” Palma said.
“I mean, it’s obvious, don’t you all see? The only person who could have led Dodo away without making him think there was anything wrong would have been one of his babysitters. And since Eva never hired one, because she left the boy with her father, it could only have been one of the women who worked for the old man.”
“Yes, but which one?” Romano asked. “He had so many.”
“Of course, we’ll have to get confirmation from Borrelli himself, but generally you keep changing nannies and babysitters until you find the one that’s perfect. So, unless someone quit or ran away, the one we’re looking for is the last one hired, who would also be the one freshest in Dodo’s memory: Let’s not forget that the boy spent time with his grandfather until he started school, and now he’s almost ten, which means we’re talking about five years ago. The last one would also be the one he remembered best, the one he’d trust most.”
After Ottavia spoke, silence descended. Then Romano said: “I don’t know. Is it possible that none of the Borrellis thought of it? It seems so obvious . . .”
“It may be obvious,” she replied, “but none of us thought of it either. And after all, what do I know, maybe the woman moved away, or . . .”
Pisanelli broke in: “Or changed her hair color. We’ve always described her as blond based on the testimony of the other little boy, his classmate, what was his name . . .”
Romano spoke up immediately: “Datola, Christian Datola. She was wearing a hoodie but Christian saw a lock of blond hair emerge. He said she was a blonde.”
“That’s right, and so we always thought of her as a blonde, we and the family members. But let’s say the babysitter was a brunette.”
Palma was deep in thought: “Could be, it all adds up. Francesco, call the cavalier’s house and ask if they remember what her name was, if they have any pictures, photocopied IDs, anything. Ottavia, you find out whether there were any hirings or firings at the Borrelli residence. I’m going to let headquarters know about this new lead. Let’s get busy.”
LIII
He isn’t going to call.”
“That’s not necessarily true. He could call any minute . . .”
“He’s not going to call, fuck! Don’t you understand what’s happening? He’s not going to call, and we’re wasting precious seconds, hours of time that in the end are going to screw us.”
“Lena, calm down. If we give up now, no more money, no more fake IDs, no more South America. Nothing.”
“You’re a goddamned lunatic, I chose a lunatic. We’re not talking about money, we’re talking about them throwing us in prison and us never getting out!”
“Stop shouting, please. Don’t shout; I can’t hear myself think when you shout.”
“It doesn’t really matter, it’s not like you’re doing much thinking anyway. And I can’t just leave you here, otherwise you’ll get yourself caught, and then they’ll catch up with me, too.”
“We can’t just leave. We have the kid.”
“There, you see it. Took you long enough.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“We have to get rid of the kid.”
“What do you mean? Leave him here and just run away?”
“You see what an idiot you are? He saw your face, he can describe you in detail; and since you’re big and tall, too, they’d have no trouble finding you. As for me, he even knows my name. It would take them five minutes to track us down.”
“Then what can we do? You can’t alter the facts, after all.”
“There’s a simple solution, and you know perfectly well what it is.”
“. . .”
“We have to do it.”
“You can’t be serious. You’re out of your mind. You can’t really be thinking that.”
“And we have to do it fast.”
“Maybe he’ll call right now.”
“He’s not going to call, and we both know it. It was a dream, a beautiful dream, but dreams are something people like you and me can’t afford. Now we just need to defend ourselves, if we want to survive. The way we’ve always had to.”
“Listen, let’s just run away, plain and simple. Let’s leave right away, now. We’ll catch a ship, then we’ll take another, and another after that, until we’ve shaken them.”
“The only way that can happen is if they never know who we are. We don’t have any choice in the matter.”
“Please, don’t say that . . .”
“We have to kill him.”
LIV
Ask any cop.
It could be chain of associations, a muttered word heard out of context, a picture.
It could be like when you see a face you’ve already seen plenty of times before, you feel sure of it, but the fact that you see it in a different setting makes it impossible for you recognize it.
Or perhaps it’s like a sound, one of those random sounds that worm a
stupid song into your brain, and the song spins around in there all day long and you can’t get rid of it, and you wonder to yourself: How the hell did I get this damn song stuck in my head?
Ask any cop, and he’ll tell you that’s how it works.
Ottavia’s idea had been like an electric shock. Everyone was talking, phoning, running around. Even Guida, who had sensed the energy in the air, kept poking his head through the door into the communal office: one time with a tray of espressos, another time offering to run down to the archives if anyone needed him to check something. He wanted to help out: He felt for the boy in the video in every breath he took as a father.
Old man Borrelli hadn’t hesitated in the least in his response to Romano’s question: “It’s Lena. It can’t be anyone but her. She was with us for more than a year: a good-looking girl with red hair, that’s why she didn’t occur to me. She had this giant head of hair. Dodo was crazy about her.”
“Of course we don’t have any evidence, Cavalier. It’s just a theory, but it’s worth digging into. Do you have any idea where she lives? Or where she works?”
Borrelli burst into a fit of coughing; Romano waited for him to catch his breath.
“No. But I’m sure that Carmela kept her documents, she never throws anything away.”
“Cavalier, if you could . . . you know, it might amount to nothing, but we have to move fast.”
“In five minutes you’ll have everything via fax. Keep me informed.”
Borrelli had underestimated his secretary; three minutes later Guida walked into the room waving a sheet of paper.
The Xerox of the passport wasn’t very clear, but it was possible to make out the face of a scared-looking young woman.
Palma read aloud: “Madlena Miroslava. Born June 12, 1971, in Krivi Vir, Serbia. Currently residing at Corso Novara 13. Come on, guys. I’ll send a car straight to the address, you get busy on the phones with operators, employment officers, everyone you can think of. I want to know where she works and who she lives with. And if she dyed her hair blond.”
LV
You’re sick, I’m telling you. Sick in the head. Do you even realize what you’re saying? You know what happens in prison to people who kill kids? Plus you’re a foreigner and the boy is Italian . . . I don’t even want to think about it.”
“If you start thinking about what’s going to happen to us behind bars, you’re already screwed, it’s as if you were already in prison. You just have to make sure they never catch us.”
“But if they . . .”
“I don’t want to hear another word! Say it one more time and I’m out of here, and you’ll be left all alone with this mess on your hands.”
“And . . . and if . . . God, I can’t even bring myself to say it.”
“Listen to me, Dragan. Listen to me. We have to make sure they never, never find him. Because as long as they can’t find the body, there hasn’t been a murder either, you see? That’s the law. I saw it on TV. They just can’t ever find him.”
“But how can we make sure of that? We . . .”
“We’ll cut him into pieces. And we’ll bury him along the road, at night, in lots of different places.”
“No. No, no, no. No! We’ll take him with us. We’ll take him away with us. If anyone asks, we’ll just say he’s our son.”
“You’re joking. He’s ten years old, not three months. He’ll talk, and then that’ll be it.”
“But how can you talk like that? You loved him. You dressed him, you fed him, you spent a whole year with him. And he loves you, he . . .”
“That’s an advantage, he trusts me. We’ll put him to sleep first, he won’t suffer.”
“But don’t you realize? He’s a child, he has his whole life is ahead of him . . .”
“Listen, asshole: It’s either his life or ours, can’t you see that? We don’t have a choice. When I left home, I left two of my own children behind, and I haven’t heard from them since. Do you think they don’t haunt my dreams? Do you think I don’t wonder about them? If I abandoned them, I can certainly abandon him.”
“That’s not the same thing, fucking hell! You’re talking about killing him! It’s one thing for a stupid kidnapping to go wrong, it’s a whole other thing to murder a little boy and cut him up into pieces!”
“We don’t have any other options. We’re just wasting time. If we stay here they’ll find us, and then it’ll be over. We just need to do it. Right now.”
“No. We can run away and take him with us. We can escape, I have phone numbers, addresses. We can stay in Italy, maybe, until things have died down. And as for him, he’s not going to talk because he’s afraid. I can make sure he won’t talk. I can take care of him.”
“You don’t even know how to take care of yourself, you’re just a big ox. If you’re not man enough to do this thing, I’ll do it for you. And then we’ll go.”
“No, you won’t do it either. We’ll leave the phone here. And he’ll come with us. Alive.”
“I’m not going to let you ruin my life. I won’t let you. Sooner or later, we’d give ourselves away, we’d make some mistake. Or else he’d talk to someone and they’d find us. Don’t you understand? It’s us or him. We have to kill him, cut him up into pieces, and hide until we can figure out a way to get out of the country.”
“You aren’t going to touch him. He’s asleep right now. I’ll wrap him in the blanket, I’ll put him in the car, and we’ll go.”
“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill you, too, if you make me.”
“No. No, you won’t.”
“Try and stop me.”
LVI
Ask any cop.
It pokes you, like a thorn in the ass, like some mistake you can’t seem to pick out in a photograph.
It’s a forgotten chore, something urgent you’ve put off and keep on putting off.
It’s the closet door hanging open, and you notice it from bed, when you’re already under the blankets, and you know you won’t get a wink of sleep until you get up and close it.
Go ahead and ask, ask any cop.
Reports started pouring in quickly: At first they all seemed promising; then it was nothing but dead ends. Guida came and went, shuttling between phone and fax, now with a broad smile under his bald dome, other times with a sad, sad face.
Yes, Madlena Miroslava had lived at Corso Novara, no. 13. No, she didn’t live there anymore, and hadn’t for five years. Yes, the concierge remembered her. No, she hadn’t left a forwarding address. Yes, she must still be living in the city, because she had run into her on the street just a year or so ago. No, she hadn’t told her where she was working now, in part because she, the concierge, liked to mind her own business. Yes, she’d signed up at the local employment office. No, she wasn’t using their services anymore. Yes, she’d given her address. No, it was still the address listed on her passport. Yes, her phone number was listed. No, it appeared to have been out of service for months. Yes, she’d come to Italy ten years ago on one of the minibuses that ferried illegals over the border, the police informant working immigration had told the police team sent out to inquire. No, as far as the informant knew she hadn’t returned home.
It wasn’t that unusual for a foreigner to vanish into thin air: An under-the-table job implied a certain skill at covering one’s tracks, even concealing one’s place of residence. And so they were coming up empty-handed.
Romano’s phone rang.
“Buongiorno, Dottore. This is Carmela Peluso, Cavalier Borrelli’s secretary.”
“Buongiorno, Signora. Go ahead.”
“I heard from the cavalier that you’re trying to track down Lena, the girl who worked here as a babysitter five years ago.”
“That’s right, in fact, thanks so much for the copy of the passport that you faxed us, it really is a piece of luck that you still . . .”
“Six mon
ths ago we received a phone call about her.”
“You what? How . . .”
“It was a request for a reference.”
“Ah, I see. And of course you don’t remember . . .”
“Of course I do remember, perfectly. I have right here both the name and the address of the person who called. The young woman had said that she had worked here and the signora who called wanted us to confirm that. You should know that I make a habit of keeping notes on everything.”
“An excellent habit. Please, tell me what you have. I’m ready to take it down.”
“Lucilla Rossano, Via Giotto 22, in Vomero. The phone number is 081.241272222.”
“I can’t thank you enough, you’ve been. . .”
“It just occurred to me that, after all, the boy doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
“What?”
“Nothing. The cavalier is eager for news. Keep us posted. Have a good day.”
Signora Lucilla Rossano was home, and she picked up on the third ring.
Once she was certain that she wasn’t being audited, and after she’d been informed that she could be charged with obstruction of justice if she refused to cooperate, she willingly confirmed that Signorina Lena from time to time—that is, from time to time on a daily basis—had come to work at her home, earning six euros an hour, all in tips, of course; that Signorina Lena looked after Signora Lucilla Rossano’s two children, because after all she had to go out and earn a living, that asshole ex-husband of hers, who was swimming in money but didn’t pay his taxes and claimed to be penniless, hadn’t been paying her alimony, hadn’t been giving her a fucking red cent, sorry, eh, excuse my French, but when you’ve gotta say it you’ve gotta say it; that for the past week Signorina Lena hadn’t shown up for work because she claimed she was sick, but Signora Lucilla Rossano, who was doing the best she could with her kids and her job, just assumed she’d found a better-paying job but that, since she was probably still on probation, she didn’t have the nerve to tell her yet; and that now she had no idea of how to get by, with the two little demons that the asshole ex-husband had dumped on her, ruining her life.
Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone Page 26