A Known Evil

by Aidan Conway

  She seemed now to have clicked into corporate presentation mode and was hand-gesturing to an unseen audience a few feet in front of her.

  “We keep it strictly focused on Rome, narrow the parameters. He’s here, somewhere. And what’s more, unlike most of the punters, I’ll be a real woman who’s looking for real and not just selling. I think, gentlemen, you might just find the circle could narrow surprisingly quickly.”

  “So you are the bait in this trap?” said Rossi realizing the full import of what she was proposing.

  “Who else?” she said, stubbing out her cigarette and folding both her arms now across her chest.

  “And you don’t think this is all just a massive shot in the dark?” said Rossi. “You really think you can find him? One in a million? I mean, why should he break his cover anyway? And for what?”

  “Isn’t it what police work is all about? You do vehicle checks, road blocks, organize reconstructions to get people to jog their memories. And criminals get sucked back into their routines, slip up, and give themselves away. It’s hard graft, sure enough. It’s a numbers game. This is exactly the same thing but in a virtual sphere. And if the perfect opportunity were to present itself, it could be too good for him to refuse. And I can recognize him, regardless of whether he’s using whatever pseudonym or proxy server – either from the ring or the tattoo. What do you think, Inspector?” she said turning to Carrara, leaning over then to extract another cigarette from the packet before running her fingers through her long, dark hair.

  “If the perfect opportunity were to present itself, what do you think a man would do?”

  Carrara looked just a little too long at Marini’s erotic posturing for Rossi’s liking. He was letting her get under his skin and Rossi could see it now plain as day. And she wanted him to see. Rossi got up, stretched, and rubbed the back of his neck. Far too long in the same position. Far too long without any healing hands. He made as if to take the floor and began to pace the apartment as he spoke.

  “So, imagine we do nail him via some Internet video chat link or whatever. He’s a suspect, that’s all. How do you propose we bring him in?”

  “Simple,” said Marini. “We set up a meet.”

  “Just like that?”

  “It’s what people do. People like that I mean. They meet, Inspector, in their vehicles. You saw it with your own eyes. They check each other out. They put aside any moral qualms, take precautions if they’ve got their heads screwed on, then they fuck. And then they go home. End of story. Until next time. Until it becomes an addiction. And I can tell you, Inspector, for many it very quickly does.”

  Rossi raised an eyebrow. Carrara was now giving nods of approval. Had she won him over so easily? With the plan or with the delivery?

  “Except in this case he won’t be going anywhere. We put the cuffs on him. We can trump up any charge we like and then we get to work on the evidence. I’ll have identified him already anyway, you can get some forensic – you do have some traces, fibres or whatever?”

  “We have something,” said Carrara, “but we don’t know for sure if it’s his.”

  “So you get some of his. Work your way back in this story and fill in the gaps. I know it’s not going by the book, but you don’t need me to tell you that, do you?”

  “And you’re going to give me a lesson in ethics now, are you?” said Rossi.

  “You know what I meant. It’s a dirty job, that’s all, but it has to be done. Don’t tell me you never played dirty, Inspector. Don’t tell me you always stick to the rules.”

  “Well,” said Rossi, “seeing as you are in the process of re-writing the book, tell me how I can explain away bumping into the suspected murderer while making routine enquiries? They’ll have me picking the lottery numbers next with my luck.”

  “In a lay-by, on a country road, probably,” interjected Carrara. “That’s where these things go on, I believe,” he added, glancing towards Marini who was perched now, catlike, on an arm of the sofa, legs crossed, the svelte curve of her gluteus maximus a work of art in its own right.

  Rossi clapped his hands in an Alleluia gesture.

  “So it’s all worked out. I am so glad. I didn’t think police work could be so easy, really,” he laughed.

  It was Marini’s turn to bristle now at the inspector’s sardonic turn of phrase.

  “Well, do we do it or not?”

  Rossi didn’t like it. She was getting way too cocksure. Whose case was this? Who did she think she was with her fancy pants secret service plans? It was as if you could do everything today via a computer link, as if a murderer would just drop into your hands, like buying a book or a CD.

  “No,” he said, raising his voice. “No, we don’t. We stick to the clubs. We stick to the car parks, the strip joints. We do road checks at the same times of day as when the murders happened. We try to jog memories. We build it up patiently and meticulously. And it all takes time and your proposal is a waste of precious time, and impossible, if you ask me. We’ll be out there,” he added, jabbing a finger towards the exterior, “on the streets not posing behind a screen!”

  Marini seemed less taken aback than satisfied to have got a rise out of Rossi, while a look of some incredulity had spread over Carrara’s face. He must have been warming to the idea, as he was warming to Marini’s charms. She was getting in the way, deliberately, for whatever ego-fuelled reasons she had, but his instinct was telling him “no” on this one, above all because it was slipping out of his control. Still, he was going to wrench it back.

  “So, are there any other bright ideas you’ve been holding on to, Inspector?”

  “Well,” said Rossi, “now that you mention it, what I was thinking was that we can’t even begin to do this without more manpower and the only way I can see us getting that is if we, that is I, can convince Maroni our cryptic clues are worth following up on. He’s not exactly an intuitive person and he may well laugh me out of court, if he’s in the mood for laughs, but it’s the only way I can see it being viable.”

  Carrara let a sigh escape at the thought of the slogging kind of police work Rossi was now proposing.

  “I mean we’re most likely being tailed,” Rossi went on, not entirely convincing himself, oblivious to the silent Carrara’s musing speculations, but asserting what he felt was his authority regardless. “Tailed, trailed and just about shadowed everywhere we go anyway. So, if they think we’re swallowing some way out acrostic line of enquiry – I don’t have to say I think it’s Bonaventura – he may just go along with it. It gives us the leeway we need and if we do have to call out the cavalry, it’s more likely in that scenario that it will come. And it will probably keep our mayor happy, too, if the police are ‘seen to be policing’, given the problems he’s been having. Don’t you think? It’s damage limitation, at least.”

  “Well, it looks like he’s dragging his feet on this snow business too,” said Carrara slumped now and drawing some weak solace from scrolling on his phone.

  “Snow? Ah, yes,” replied Rossi, “well, we’ve all seen what happens in Rome when it rains – chaos – so imagine if we got a white-out!”

  “A 50–50 chance apparently, of ‘significant coverage’ towards the end of the week, whatever that means.”

  “Have we got any snow chains at the Questura? Little job for you there, Gigi. Don’t want to be caught with our trousers down, do we?”

  “Can’t you just call someone about that?” said Carrara. There followed an uncharacteristic pause.

  “No, Gigi, I want you to do it,” said Rossi, again modulating his tone accordingly. “Can’t I trust you to do it?”

  Rossi’s patience had cracked. Silence settled on the flat. The initial enthusiasm, albeit shared more by Carrara and Marini, had all but evaporated and they seemed like members of a lost expedition approaching defeat, or actors playing out an ill-rehearsed three-hander. And simmering below the surface each couldn’t help but harbour and nurture their own opinion as to who was now il terzo incomodo
, the gooseberry, who had made the cosy set-up into an awkward crowd.

  Fifty-Six

  They were still there. They’d been there for hours now. There must have been detailed business to discuss. Just three of them, from what he could gather, so hardly a social gathering; one with a shapely silhouette but otherwise only their vague forms visible through the pale curtains. He would wait. Of late, his movements had been so surreptitious and clandestine that he felt he shared more DNA with the shadows he sheltered in than with any human being. And what a curious feeling it was. No. It was better to be sure. He’d come this far, and he’d decided which was to be his next port of call. He would wait until the lights were out and he was sure the others had left before making any move. But he could arouse suspicions in his present location. Too many apartment blocks. Too many eyes and ears.

  He picked up his heavy holdall and, keeping his eye on the fourth floor window, he moved away. Then he turned left along Via Latina towards the great opening of the Caffarella Valley Park. In the distance he could make out the silhouettes of the pines and cypresses lining the Appian Way. The only sound apart from some distant, sporadic traffic noise was the constant chortle of a water fountain, the local nasone or big nose.

  He took up a seated position on the wall from where he could see straight down the road to Rossi’s building. In Rome, in winter, there was precious little nocturnal activity, especially so in these family oriented suburbs. It was work, home, dinner, TV, bed. If anyone did pass they would take him for one of the park’s down-and-outs, even though the current cold meant only the toughest could be found circulating these days. Recently, however, inactivity had morphed into a virtual curfew, for reasons known to all. So, as soon as someone left a building, he would hear it. The lock clicking would be like a branch snapping in a forest and would be his signal to make a move. It was unlikely the girl would be alone, if she had any sense. That would leave only Rossi. Then he would check the coast was clear before making himself known again.

  Fifty-Seven

  Rossi needed to be in control, but he felt his grip was slipping on this one. Marini had left if not in a huff then certainly under a cloud. They had agreed to disagree but he had made it clear that he was in charge. Meanwhile, he had sketched out his own plan for targeting red-light zones, strip joints and sex clubs – legal and not – calculating what leverage might be available in terms of promises and favours owed, blind eyes to be turned, and frighteners to be applied. Zero tolerance on this one. They couldn’t afford it to become an open secret. A tight modus operandi would be key to the success of the plan – that and their accumulated knowledge of the vice scene.

  “That scumbag Marciano could have come in useful, couldn’t he?” Rossi reflected as he held the door for Carrara. “He knew the vice world inside out. We could have pressured him for info. What was he doing getting himself carved up like that?”

  Carrara shrugged.

  “Got in too deep, I suppose. Occupational hazard in his line of work. We could get on to his family,” he suggested.

  “Why not,” said Rossi, musing now as was his wont at the late and sometimes fecund hour. “Put it on your list. Not our case but there might be more than meets the eye there too,” he said, forcing a smile for the first time in a while. “And while you’re at it, have a sniff round the Muslim community. There’s a mosque down there by the kebab place. That lad in the bin bag. And the pig’s head. Who do you think that message was for? Too many killings at the same time, don’t you think? They don’t look connected but it has to arouse some suspicion, even if it does mean throwing the net much wider than we’d planned.”

  Carrara, glanced at his watch. “Anything else, sir?”

  “No,” said Rossi. “Get back to your family while you can,” he added, feeling a sudden wave of tiredness and taken aback by the perceived lack of goodwill in his colleague’s irony. “Unless there’s something you should be sharing with me.”

  “I think you know how I feel about it.”

  “You think I’m barking up the wrong tree?”

  “Something like that. Maybe. Look, I’m tired. We’re both tired. Let’s talk tomorrow. I’d better get some sleep.”

  “OK,” said Rossi, giving him the benefit of the doubt. “I’ll just sit here and think out a few things, then hit the sack. Will you be all right on your own?”

  “I’ll run all the way,” Carrara answered with a half-hearted laugh. Rossi gave his protégée a warm squeeze on the shoulder.

  “Look, Gigi,” he said, “I’m just not wholly convinced, about her. I have a hunch, that’s all.”

  “It’s OK,” Carrara replied, softening and turning towards Rossi. “But I just don’t feel we’re getting anywhere. A new approach, some new blood could be what we need and I think she’s giving us a shot in the arm. She knows her stuff. She’s good.”

  “And is she good at anything else?” said Rossi looking Carrara straight in the eye.

  “Do you think I’d be that stupid?”

  “You don’t think it’s obvious then? C’mon, Gigi! Is it payment on delivery or is it coming in instalments?”

  “You don’t need to worry, Mick. Everything is under control.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It is.”

  “Well you trust me on this one and give me some time.”

  “Do you think we’ve got time?” he said nodding towards the window and the city beyond. “He’s out there. Somewhere.”

  The drinks cabinet was running low across all departments. It seemed no time since he’d restocked and though he tended to be selective in his recollections, it hadn’t been long either since the time before that. Settle for a beer. Lesser evil. But he’d have to draw a line somewhere. Sometime. Tomorrow. He filled a glass. Always a glass.

  He went out onto the balcony. The wind was cutting but it felt good on his skin and for a few moments he savoured its sting. To his right he saw the lights flickering in the Castelli Hills. What he wouldn’t give to be walking in the wide open air now. Away from everything – the apartment, the open prison of this balcony, the confinement of the case. He had an overpowering urge to be out. Out. He had, after all, been sitting around the whole day and now feeling his energy levels topped up again he wanted to move. Somewhere. Anywhere. He grabbed his coat and keys and tucked his Beretta into his belt.

  *

  Not a soul. Not a sound. The city was on lockdown now every night. He turned right away from the old city and walked with steady, quick strides along Via Latina towards the hills in the distance, holding them in his gaze as an unlikely but possible, theoretical, eventual destination. Far away between him and the small, sleeping hill towns, the lights of a jumbo slowly lifted and swerved away from Ciampino, its signature a ragged far-off rumble. He wanted to be on it. The only other sound was the familiar steady trickle and gurgle of the fountain. He had passed it and was leaving it behind when from the shadows there was a scraping of shoes and a metallic clunk, as if of an iron bar or a hammer, as a figure emerged, stopped and called out.

  “Michael!”

  Rossi wheeled around, his wiry frame and limbs tensing in preparation for fight or flight. In a split second, his hand had reached for his Beretta.

  “Michael,” the all too familiar voice repeated. “It’s me.”

  Fifty-Eight

  The two men stood facing each other at a distance of only some six or seven yards. Rossi’s hand was on his weapon, but he had not drawn it. Did he know who this man was? He was wearing a baseball cap with the peak pulled tight over his eyes and what looked like a football shirt under a rugged padded canvas jacket. He had heavy work shoes and on the ground beside him sagged a large holdall, like a sleeping, beige mongrel. It was half empty but contained for sure some weighty object or tools, weapons, a hammer even.

  But instead of reaching for the bag, he raised a hand and indicated a point in the distance across the parkland and fields where the neat silhouettes of the treetops on the Appian Way could b
e seen against the pale moonlit sky.

  “Domine, quo vadis is just about … there, but I thought I’d meet you here.”

  Then something clicked in Rossi. That level of refined wit could be the work of only one man he knew but how could it be? Iannelli? The two men approached each other, released by the tacit understanding that there was nothing now to fear. The stranger removed his cap and gave his face a cursory wipe. It was him all right.

  “But how on God’s earth?” said Rossi before reaching out and grabbing him by both shoulders. For a minute he just stared then threw his arms around his friend. “And in reference to your little joke,” he then began again, “despite appearances to the contrary, I am not Peter fleeing the city.”

  Rossi felt a sudden landslide of emotion sweep through him. He had been on the verge of giving up hope, what with Carrara’s wavering and his own doubts about Marini and Yana, but now this.

  “And I’m not intending to be crucified for a second time,” Iannelli countered, “as it were. You will forgive me the blasphemy this once, won’t you? After all, I have been through the mill.” He looked down at himself and his unlikely apparel. “But it’s not actually all as bad as it seems.”

  “Given the circumstances, you look fine,” said Rossi.

  “And you will remember that story is apocryphal, as have been reports of my death.”

  “Greatly exaggerated then.”

  “But not without some justification.”

  Rossi was still trying to square the Iannelli he knew with the clown-like figure before him.

  “My disguise,” said Iannelli, indicating again the heavy proletarian garb hanging on his light, scholarly frame.

  “You had me fooled,” laughed Rossi.

  “Well, I couldn’t take any risks. Can’t wait to get out of it though.”

  Rossi was now piecing together the scenario which must have really unfolded both in Sicily and after and wondering why an incognito Iannelli was now standing before him, a Christ-like figure as good as risen from the dead. He put his head in his hands as if to confirm for himself that he was not dreaming. He rubbed his face up and down. There was a God; there was some justice in the world. Iannelli had cheated death, somehow.