“Your cousin’s idea of breaking into my apartment is not flawless.”
“But it is simple,” said Paoloni. “In they go, they find whatever was planted there. Paintings, but who knows what else, and remove it.”
“If your cousin’s friends know how to break into an apartment, it means they’re housebreakers,” said Blume.
“Your powers of deduction never cease . . .”
“Shut up, Beppe. And your cousin’s connection with them is what, exactly?”
“I don’t know. I think they’re his cousins, or nephews or something. On the other side of the family. Nothing to do with me.”
“Let me think,” said Blume. “I’ll call back.”
He drove past the Ostiense station and into the empty parking lot next to the abandoned airport train terminal. Designed for the World Cup 1990, it opened years too late, then closed shortly afterwards, and was now a good place to park, drink, and pick up a transvestite.
Blume thought about gays and about Inspector Rosario Panebianco’s admirable precision, the way he never smelled too bad, looked good in his uniform, stayed calm. He had very clean clipped fingernails. Blume had noticed that one day. Maybe Caterina would know. Women sensed these things. She’d laugh and say, of course how could you not have seen it. Or else, of course not, how could you ever have thought it. Something obvious to her, not to him.
Blume called Lieutenant Colonel Nicu Faedda at the Art Forgery and Heritage Division. Faedda and Panebianco, good friends. Soccer matches together.
“Commissioner Blume? You’re going to speak to me after all.”
“You were right about the Colonel trying to do something with those paintings,” said Blume. “He’s trying to compromise me with them. Put me on the back foot.”
“How?”
“By putting me in possession of them.” He waited. Faedda’s tone would determine the next step.
“He put you in possession of them. Are you saying you received them against your will?”
It was a reasonable question, and Faedda has asked it without detectable undertones of skepticism. He still seemed disposed to accept Blume’s claims at face value.
“He planted them on me,” said Blume.
He paused again, listening for any sounds of disbelief, but all Faedda said was, “Where?”
“In my apartment.”
“He must be using his old network of professionals,” said Faedda. “Calling in some favors.”
“I appreciate the way you’re accepting my version,” said Blume.
“If I have to challenge you on some points, I will do that later, but I know what sort of a man the Colonel is. So do you have the paintings now?”
“No. I had them removed in a staged burglery.”
This time he heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a sigh. He could hear the forbearance and strain in Faedda’s voice as he said, with admirable understatement, “That’s extremely irregular.”
“I know,” said Blume. “But the important thing now is to make Farinelli want them back immediately. When he comes for them, that would be a good moment to get him.”
“How are you going to make him want them straight back?”
“By telling him there is a Velázquez hidden beneath one of them.”
“A Velázquez?” Faedda permitted himself another sigh. “Is there?”
“There might be,” said Blume.
“You are going to have to explain this to me.”
“Later. It’s to do with something Treacy wrote. Obviously the Velázquez idea can’t come directly from me. But we know someone in your department is reporting to the Colonel. Do you know who?”
“I have a damned good idea.”
“If you disclose some confidential information, how long before it filters back to the Colonel through his informant?”
“Within an hour,” said Faedda without hesitation. “And there’s more than one of them.”
“Good. So you’ve got to let slip the news that I am suddenly desperate to get the paintings back because I realized one of them might hide a priceless Old Master.”
“And how did I get hold of this information—from you?”
“No. Through Panebianco. I confided to Panebianco and then he told you.”
Either Faedda was deeply offended by the suggestion or thinking it over, or both, but the silence that followed was lengthy. Eventually he said, “Catching the Colonel in the act might not be enough.”
“I know,” said Blume. “But it’s a start. Then there are some interesting notebooks that might help you build a deeper case and finally put an end to his superannuated career as puppet master.”
“Even if all this works out,” said Faedda, “and even if I get all I want—which I won’t, but let’s even say I emerge from this covered in glory, you’ll still owe me. You realize that?”
“I know,” said Blume. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
Blume hung up and phoned Paoloni again.
“Did your cousin make contact with his housebreaker friends?”
“They’re waiting. Just say the word. They’ll need a few sweeteners, of course.”
“Well, they won’t find anything worth taking in my house. Their sweeteners can be that I will be a big fan of theirs the next time they get arrested.”
“Plus 800 euros.”
“They want 800 euros to rob my house?”
“I’ll cover it,” said Paoloni. “I know how hard it is on police pay.”
“Fuck the pay, it’s the principle,” said Blume.
“Are we doing this or not?”
Blume drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then said, “Why won’t you tell me I’m making a mistake?”
“Because I don’t think you are.”
“I’m pretty sure this is going to be a bad move.”
“But it’s the move we’re making?”
“I suppose so,” said Blume.
“Great! It’ll take them up to an hour from now, but probably less,” said Paoloni. “Meet you afterwards?”
Blume’s phone started beeping, indicating another incoming call. First he asked, “What about Captain Sudoku or whatever his name is?”
“He’s still there solving number puzzles, waiting for you. No reason for him to see anything else. Be obvious about coming home or he might miss you.”
“OK, I need to hang up.” Blume looked at his phone to see which button he was supposed to press. He couldn’t read a thing. He moved it a bit farther away, saw the message “accept call.” He pressed the corresponding button and brought the phone back to his ear. Silence.
He shook the phone a bit, but it seemed to have no effect. He tried the other ear, pressed the green button. Cell phones had no dial tone. It was the first time he had noticed that. Whoever it was could call him again.
It rang again, and Blume was asked to hold the line because the Questore wished to speak to him. He imagined what it might be. Grattapaglia had murdered the internal affairs investigator. A mugging victim had died. The Carabinieri or Buoncompagno had issued another complaint. Leporelli and Scariglia were dead in their cell. He was being transferred to Gela, no, better, Locri. Blume glanced at his watch. 3:30 p.m.
As he held the line, the phone beeped and he looked to see who it was. Caterina. She could wait.
Finally, the Questore deigned to take the call he had placed.
“Commissioner! Good to speak to you. I must say that’s a bit of news, isn’t it?”
Blume made a non-committal sort of grunt, which he ended with an aspirated noise that could be interpreted as a weary sigh if that’s what the news demanded.
The Questore seemed to be waiting for a more elaborate response. Blume proceeded warily. “Of course, nothing’s definite, yet.”
This did not seem to be what the Questore wanted to hear. The irritation in his voice was clear when he demanded, “Well, have we or have we not got a confession?”
Was he talking about Leporelli and Sc
ariglia or . . .
“I know the stolen goods have been found, too,” continued the Questore. “It looks like they are all going to be there. At least that’s what your man Rospo told me. He’s a good cop, this Rospo, a name I should be watching?”
Rospo had solved a case? Blume saw no other choice than to make another non-committal grunt.
“It will definitely be a propaganda coup,” said the Questore. “Maybe we should invite the press, get some photos taken of you, Rospo, a few others standing over this hoard of recovered material.”
“Definitely,” said Blume. “Photos. Good idea.” This had to do with the mugger.
The Questore said, “Sometimes you are a very dour man, Commissioner. Very dour. Enjoy your successes more. God knows, they’re rare enough.”
Blume was about to call Caterina back when his phone rang again.
“You won’t guess where I am,” said Grattapaglia, sounding considerably more cheerful than Blume had heard him in months. “Spanish Steps,” he added quickly as if afraid Blume might pluck an inspired guess from the air and ruin the surprise.
“You have a disciplinary meeting in fifteen minutes,” said Blume.
“No longer a problem,” said Grattapaglia. “I’ll make it in time. Aren’t you going to ask me why I am here, or has Caterina already mentioned it?”
“You tell me,” said Blume.
“I have just left the Spanish Embassy to the Holy See where I have had a very useful conversation with José Maria Carvalho, the diplomat from the other morning?”
“Oh,” said Blume. This did not sound promising.
“He’s not just dropping his complaint against me, he says he’ll write a letter of recommendation if I need one. I’ve never seen a man so pleased to get a silver cross back.” He dropped his voice as if in danger of being overheard. “He’s still a little shit, and I was right to give him a thumping. I hate to admit it, but Mattiola’s just saved my ass. She said she thought the guy was probably a member of Horus Deus.”
“Opus Dei?”
“Yeah. What did I say?”
Blume asked Grattapaglia what he was talking about. Grattapaglia explained all he knew about the Corsi father and son, Caterina calling him over and giving him the cross. Blume’s pleasure at things working out was tempered by his annoyance that he had not been there.
“You’re going to be late for your appointment, Sovrintendente.”
“I’m in the car now. Only a bit late, and it’s not going to matter.”
Blume held the phone at arm’s length and scrolled through missed calls. He found Caterina, called her, and listened while she gave him a more coherent version of events.
“I’ll get in as soon as I can,” he said, “I have something to attend to here.”
He swept his eye across the parking lot, his eye attracted by an electric blue latex dress worn by one of a group of five transvestites eyeing his car.
“One thing, Caterina. Panebianco. Is he . . . do you think he’s . . .”
“No. He’s out. He got a call.”
“That’s not what I meant. I was asking if you know, if you thought he might be in any way homosexual.”
“In any way?”
“Or in all ways.”
She laughed. “Are you really having to ask that now? How long have you been working with him?”
“Six years, seven,” said Blume.
“Yes. I would say he most definitely is. What gave you this flash of insight?”
“I know who he plays soccer with.”
“I’ve never heard it called that before.”
“No. They really do play soccer together,” said Blume. “Among other things.”
Blume drove out of the parking lot and back toward his home in San Giovanni.
He double-parked in front of green dumpsters, and opened his door into the traffic flow, earning a few horn blasts from passing motorists. His watcher’s car was fifty feet away. He called Paoloni. If this thing was spiraling out of control, any words he spoke in haste now would be listened to at leisure by a magistrate later.
“I’m outside my apartment. I was thinking of popping in, maybe having a shower. It would mean I’ll be a little late for lunch. Is that OK?”
“Sure,” said Paoloni. “So you’re going in now to have this shower?”
“Yes, right now.”
He chose the stairs rather than the elevator. On the third floor he encountered Mrs. Egidi, the porter, who glared at him with barely suppressed rage. She had just been told by a neighbor that his apartment door looked forced. She turned around and followed him.
“Nobody’s safe,” she said. “Gypsies, Albanians, niggers selling socks on the streets waiting for their chance. We need a night watchman. In Naples there are certain houses that nobody robs and you know why?”
“Yes. That’s why they call it a protection racket. Now if you’ll excuse me . . . ” He reached his own floor and his reclusive next-door neighbor opened his reinforced apartment door and peered out.
“Just so you know,” he said, “I heard nothing. Otherwise I would have called.”
“I’m sure you would,” said Blume. “Thank you. Everything OK with you?”
The neighbor opened his door a little wider. “These things. They make you lose faith, you know.”
“I know,” said Blume sympathetically. He pulled out his keys.
“I don’t think you’re going to need them,” said the neighbor.
“No, you’re right. No lock to put it in.”
“You’re a policeman,” accused the porter. “So I don’t suppose I need to call the police. You’ll do that.” She marched down the stairs, muttering about plumbing disasters, break-ins, and foreigners. Blume heard her exasperated replies to people from the lower apartments. Everyone knew something was up. The porter would not have ventured so far into the building otherwise.
Blume pushed his front door inwards, then gritted his teeth and the bent frame scraped across his floor inside. He edged his way in and contemplated the devastation of his home that he had just authorized.
Was it possible to do this much harm in a quarter of an hour? They had pulled down his books, kicked over his television. Every drawer in the house had been carried into the living room, overturned on the carpet, and then thrown aside. Knives, forks, pens, socks, underpants, candles, tools, tape, string, and hundreds of other items lay in a heap. Most of the drawers looked damaged. His expensive amplifier was gone, but the other components of the stereo were left behind, and his CD collection was scattered everywhere. The wooden table in the dining area was scored, and the glass coffee table in the living room was cracked. His Kenwood coffeemaker had been knocked over, the Pyrex coffeepot lay smashed on the floor along with several plates and china. They had poured cornflakes, pasta, flour, and cocoa over everything.
The sofa cushions were slashed open, chairs overturned. In his bedroom, his clothes lay in a grubby pile, mixed up with dirty laundry. His favorite suitcase was missing. In his bedside table, there had been €120 in cash. The money was gone, but his passport was still there. He checked his wardrobe. Empty. They had pulled out everything. Thorough bastards whoever they were. And this had seemed like a good idea?
Fearfully, he entered the study, the room that contained all his parents’ art books, lecture notes, his father’s old typewriter, a large collection of LPs, and some of the furniture from when they were alive. All was intact. If they had been in here they had touched nothing.
He called up his own office and said there was no need to turn it into an emergency, since the thieves were long gone.
“Just send two patrolmen out here within the next half hour or so,” he said.
He went back to the living room and found that with some effort he was able to push the front door of his apartment closed again. He put an exploded cushion back on the sofa and waited.
Less than ten minutes later someone rang the doorbell seven or eight times, while someone else hammered on the door.
Blume walked over, called to the people outside to push, saying it was a bit stiff.
They pushed and kicked even, and Blume pulled to help. Eventually four Carabinieri were in the room, staring at the chaos, unsure what to do. They were soon followed by the Maresciallo and Investigating Magistrate Buoncompagno. Blume stood beside the door, half blocking the magistrate’s entry. Buoncompagno stood back and showed Blume a piece of paper.
“Commissioner Blume, pursuant to Articles 259, 251, and 352 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, I am ordering a search of your place of domicile with reference to a well-sourced report . . . as the following . . . what the hell happened in here?”
“I appear to have been robbed. I hope the police don’t waste too much time getting here.” To the Carabinieri still in an immobile cluster at the end of his devastated living room, he said, “Help me pull the door open fully. The fat bastard will never fit through that crack.”
They glared at him without moving, but thirty seconds later they were all heaving at his door to make a large enough space for Colonel Farinelli to walk through.
The Colonel stood there surveying the mess, his face awash with sweat from the exertion of getting in and out of the elevator. “Did you Carabinieri do all this while I was on my way up? I told you to respect the apartment. It belongs to a police commissioner.”
He patted his heart, took a few deep breaths, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and dabbed his brow. “Something’s not right.” He looked in alarm at the overturned furniture. “Where can I sit?”
The Maresciallo grabbed an overturned chair with one hand, spun it around, and placed it against the back of the Colonel’s thighs. As the Colonel lowered himself cautiously onto the seat, there was a slight commotion behind and two policemen appeared. The first of them saluted Blume, saying, “Sir, we got a message that . . . ” He stopped as he took in the scene and the presence of the others.
He looked in amazement at the assembled group. “You called the Carabinieri?”
“No, Agente. Don’t worry about that. They have to execute a search warrant. God alone knows what they expect to find. But you two might want to follow them around a bit. I’m giving you an order as your commander and permission as homeowner.”
The Fatal Touch Page 32