THE DOGS of ROME

by Conor Fitzgerald

  After some toast and an apple, he felt a bit better. He had always had problems oversleeping. Once he was down, he was out. He had to skip the coordination meeting, but he’d make it up with an investigative breakthrough. But first . . . he fell back asleep.

  10

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 11:15 A.M.

  AT E LEVEN FIFTEEN, showered, gelled, fresh, and reinvigorated, Alec Blume walked out of his apartment block, properly dressed in beige chinos and a soft, dark blue cotton shirt with an ample breast pocket containing his notebook, pen, and phone. He wore heavy Clark casuals and carried a leather briefcase, still supple thanks to his careful application of Leather Balm with Atom Wax once a month. It was a wide and deep bag, large enough for the art books his father used to carry in it. He carried no weapon.

  Blume decided to go straight to visit this Manuela Innocenzi that the secretary had fingered. If she was the person in bed with Clemente before his murder, she might have a lot to tell, and he would drag her in for questioning.

  He plugged his phone into the cigar lighter below the dashboard to recharge, and phoned the office. He expected the youthful, bright voice of Ferrucci to answer. Instead he got Zambotto.

  “Cristian? It that you? What are you doing answering phones?”

  “It was ringing.”

  Blume explained where he was going.

  “Manuela Innocenzi?” said Zambotto. “Some name.”

  “What do you mean some name?” asked Blume, beginning to see the answer as he asked the question.

  “You know, Innocenzi,” said Zambotto.

  “Innocenzi, as in . . . Innocenzi?” said Blume. It had not even entered his thoughts, yet it had been the first thing Zambotto’s anvil-like mind had come up with.

  “No way.”

  “OK. No, then,” said Zambotto.

  Blume felt butterflies in his stomach, a feeling he used to get in school and during his presentations at university. It was the bad-dream feeling of being visibly stupid in front of other people. Innocenzi was the name of the clan that controlled the entire south and southwest of Rome, most of the Agro Romano to Fiumicino and Ostia, with pockets of influence in the Agro Pontino, Foggia, Circeo, Latina, even Campania.

  He pulled over to the side of the road and switched on his hazard lights.

  “No way,” he said.

  Zambotto seemed to have hung up.

  “No,” repeated Blume. “It’s just a coincidence of surnames.”

  Zambotto was still there. “Innocenzi has a daughter. No wife, no brothers or sisters. Just the daughter.”

  “Not one that sleeps with a do-gooder like Clemente. They’d never move in the same circles.”

  “What have circles got to do with people fucking?” said Zambotto.

  “Innocenzi’s a pretty common name,” said Blume.

  Zambotto seemed to be considering the idea. Eventually he said, “I can’t think of anyone I know called Innocenzi except for that bastard. You want, I can ask Ferrucci. He’s good at research. He’ll be here in a minute.”

  Blume hesitated, then pulled out the piece of paper he had copied out in Clemente’s office earlier and read off the address to Zambotto.

  “OK. Tell Paoloni, tell Ferrucci, but let’s keep this close. It’s probably nothing. As for this woman, I’ll go there myself now. You give this address to Ferrucci, check it out together, then call me immediately. It’s probably only a coincidence.”

  “In some ways, it’d be pretty good if it wasn’t,” said Zambotto.

  “How?”

  “It settles the case. Boss’s daughter sleeping with married guy, married guy gets whacked. Not too many problems with motive.”

  “You think that would be a good thing, us having a run-in with Innocenzi?” said Blume.

  Zambotto relapsed into silence.

  “Let me know as quick as you can.”

  The woman in silk pajamas who answered the door twenty minutes later had probably once had strawberry-blonde hair. Time had faded it, and she had retaliated against time by turning it carrot-orange. She glanced at Blume wearily as if he were a well-known and unwelcome acquaintance. She stepped back to allow him in and did not even glance at his badge, from which a younger version of himself gazed intently out.

  He knew immediately he was not going to have to be the one to break any bad news to her. Tears had already washed away all pretence of youth.

  “Manuela Innocenzi?” asked Blume. She had let him into the building without a question as soon as he said police. Neither Zambotto nor anyone from the office had got back to him yet.

  She nodded, loosened her hair, let it fall over her shoulders. She was barefoot. She led him into the living room. Blume glanced around, half hoping to see an unequivocal picture of Benedetto Innocenzi, old boss of the New Magliana Gang. She motioned him to sit down. He looked for a piece of upright furniture and found none. Reluctantly, he slid into the embrace of the fat pink cushions of an armchair.

  “Enya!” she called, and an Irish Setter edged over to her feet as she sat down on a pink sofa opposite.

  He said, “I am Commissioner Blume,” and then paused as he watched the shifting weight of her breasts under her loose top and the wrinkling of the V of visible skin as she bent down and stroked the dog, which she kept sleek.

  “What was your name?”

  “Blume.”

  “I got that. Your first name, I meant.”

  “Alec.”

  “That’s a Scottish name?”

  Blume had no idea.

  “Where are you from?”

  “The police.”

  “Originally.”

  “America.”

  “Really? Do you like dogs, Alec?”

  “Good God, no. But I know you do,” he said. “That’s what I want to talk about.”

  “About dogs? Or about a man who dedicated his life to looking after them?”

  “The other. The man, I mean,” said Blume. “But if you don’t mind, I’d just like to clear up that we’re talking about the same person.”

  “Arturo Clemente,” she said. “He was murdered. Knifed to death. That’s what you’re here to talk to me about, isn’t it?”

  Blume tried to find some purchase on the yielding cushions. “Yes. Where did you hear about his murder?”

  “On the news.”

  “Radio or TV?”

  “Radio.”

  “It hasn’t been made public yet,” said Blume.

  “Yes, it has. You just haven’t been listening to the radio.”

  This was possible, Blume thought. The news would have got out by now.

  “What I want to know is if you have been doing anything at all,” said Manuela.

  “What I want to know,” said Blume, “is how you know about the knife. Was that detail on the radio, too?”

  “For all you know it could have been.”

  She had him again.

  “I don’t think it was.” Blume was now remembering the point of holding morning meetings to coordinate investigations. He needed these details.

  “Maybe it wasn’t, then,” said Manuela. Her indifference to being caught out was total.

  Blume’s mobile rang, and he took the opportunity to struggle off the armchair into a standing position in the center of the room.

  “It’s her. It’s definitely the daughter,” said Zambotto’s voice. “Want someone to come over?” He sounded pleased, like he couldn’t wait to tell all his friends.

  “No. Thanks anyhow,” said Blume and hung up, and turned his attention to the woman. Her face was tracked and furrowed, as if her tears had been made of acid.

  “What were they saying about me?” she said.

  “Nothing. That was something else.”

  “Sure it was.”

  “Police business.”

  “That’s what I am right now. Police business. I have been sitting here all fucking night waiting for you useless bastards to come here and ask me questions.”

  “You could have
phoned,” said Blume.

  “If you hadn’t got as far as finding me, then you weren’t making much progress, so what would be the point? Anyhow, I don’t phone the police.”

  “I’m having a hard time understanding here,” said Blume. “Are you planning to help or not? Let’s begin with some basic information.”

  “I slept with Arturo, about twelve times. No, not about. Exactly twelve times. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

  Blume settled himself on the broad arm of the armchair. A strand of red hair lay curled on the armrest. “I was going to get to that in a more roundabout way. What about his wife?”

  “What about her?”

  “Wasn’t there a risk?”

  Blume casually rolled his forefinger over the fabric and curled the hair between it and his thumb.

  “We did it here, we did it in a friend’s house in Amatrice. Yesterday was the first time in his house. First time and last time.” She looked more angry than upset now.

  “Who was this friend in the country?”

  “A friend of Arturo’s. There’s no obligation to answer your questions, is there?”

  The idea of bringing this woman in for questioning seemed remote now. “Not yet. How did you hear of the murder? And don’t say the radio.”

  Manuela pushed an unruly curl from her forehead, patted her hair into shape. “A friend of my father’s. He phoned.”

  “And what was his source?”

  “Unofficial channels.”

  “From the police or the judiciary?”

  “Next thing you’ll be asking me who my father’s friend is.”

  “No, next thing I’m asking is at what time this friend phoned.”

  “Last night. Late. They phoned up to see if I was OK. It was two o’clock in the morning. I have been awake since, waiting for you. I expected there to be two of you, though.”

  Blume was not surprised that the information had leaked. If the department and forensics teams had leaks, the judiciary was an open faucet. But the news had traveled too fast to this woman. She knew even before the calls among law enforcement agencies had completed their circuit.

  “OK, and now my next question is: Who’s the source?”

  “This is all irrelevant,” said Manuela. “If you’re serious, I’ll talk to you. If not, then I want you to leave.”

  “What do you mean serious?” said Blume, pulling out his sunglasses case.

  “If you are serious about catching the bastards who killed Arturo, I’ll help you. If I can.”

  It was not so much an offer as statement of intent. Blume took out his sunglasses and a soft blue lens cloth. He polished his glasses.

  “Have you ever heard the name Alleva?”

  She did not hesitate. “Yes. It was not him.”

  Blume replaced his glasses, folded the lens cloth over them, placed the strand of red hair carefully on the cloth, and put away the case.

  “No?” said Blume. “I hadn’t even got as far as suspecting him.”

  “It would make sense,” said Manuela. “But I think I might have heard something by now.”

  Blume nodded, trying to look wise. He wanted to know where to fit Alleva in, but could not ask. He promised himself never again to skip an investigation meeting before dealing with a witness. He went for a different line.

  “When did you last see Arturo Clemente?”

  “Friday morning. I left him at around half past ten. We had been together since about a quarter to nine.”

  “Where was this?”

  “At his house. I just said.”

  “Were you in bed together?”

  “Yes. I just said that, too. No wonder you don’t make much progress in your investigations.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “Because he asked me to, said his wife was returning. She was meant to be away all weekend. I want you to check up on that. What was she doing coming back? Look into her. That’s what you should do. She’s an icy bitch.”

  “Did she know about you two?”

  “Maybe. Arturo implied she did. He said he was not going to hide our relationship, but I didn’t believe him. Sleeping in his house was my way of testing him. We had been planning to go to back to Arturo’s friend’s house.”

  “You think you can tell me who this friend was?”

  “He works in TV. He used to be on first-name terms with Craxi, De Michelis, Martelli, all those types. Arturo was doing a documentary with him.”

  “Taddeo Di Tivoli,” said Blume, remembering the name Ferrucci had given him.

  “That’s him. I never trusted him. I think he wanted to exploit the fact that I am, you know, my father’s daughter, get a scoop or something. Anyhow, he has a farm house in Amatrice. He told Arturo to use the place whenever he wanted. Arturo had instructions on how to get there in his wallet. The key was under a laurel bush in the front garden. He wasn’t with us, of course. I wouldn’t have gone if he was. Neither would Arturo.”

  “Nice villa, is it?”

  “It’s OK. A bit musty. Full of reminders of Di Tivoli as a spoiled kid.”

  “How long had you been in a relationship with Arturo Clemente?”

  “Since I met him, basically. That’s six months ago.”

  “And why did you . . . what’s the connection between someone like him—” Blume stopped, thought about Alleva and dog fights, worked out what he was trying to say, then came up with his question: “Are you an animal lover?”

  She caressed the dog with a bare foot. “Ask Enya here.”

  “Is your father?”

  “No.”

  “He doesn’t like animals?”

  “That’s not what I said. He has other worries.”

  “Do you feel different from him?”

  “Of course I do. I am his daughter, not his clone. But I am close to him, too. Remember that.”

  “So you are your father’s daughter?”

  “I am not involved in his business affairs, if that’s what you mean.” She gave him a half smile with the left part of her face. “Whoever phoned you a minute ago can look it up.”

  Blume pulled out a bent pocketbook from his breast pocket and flicked it open. It was completely blank. “You’re talking to me now. Already that’s something your father wouldn’t do.”

  “Don’t start taking notes,” said Manuela. “I’ll get nervous. And you’re wrong. My father talks to plenty of police, always has. He’s very open, too. Also, I have a simple reason for talking to you.”

  Blume put away his useless pocketbook. “What’s that?”

  “I need you to find out who killed Arturo. Forget about Alleva, though. It’s a nonstarter. If it had been him, that would already be known.”

  “How do you know he is even a suspect? Perhaps we haven’t even questioned him.”

  “I know you haven’t,” said Manuela. “You are all moving far too slowly.”

  “Are you telling me that someone has questioned Alleva? Someone like your father?”

  “I am saying nothing in particular,” said Manuela.

  “OK, let’s move away from Alleva.”

  “Yeah. It’s a dead end,” agreed Manuela.

  “Now, without being too explicit about the sort of man I think your father is, let me say I somehow don’t see him supporting animal rights like you. How about that?”

  “That’s fair.”

  Blume said, “He’d despise an animal rights sort of person, wouldn’t he?”

  “Animals are not his first priority.”

  “Maybe he disapproved of a man who went running to the authorities to report illegal dog fights?”

  Manuela gave a short, hard smoker’s laugh. “He didn’t have Arturo killed, especially like that. That is what you’re working your way around to insinuating.”

  “I wasn’t going to insinuate it, I was going to say it straight out. Suppose he felt that Clemente, a married man, was, you know, dishonoring you and, by extension, him?”

  She shook her
head, “We’re not in Sicily here. Even in Sicily they don’t behave like that anymore.”

  “Some of them do, and your father is from a different generation. Maybe he found it embarrassing. Maybe he was worried about your reputation. Fathers can be funny about their daughters.”

  Manuela shrugged. “That’s not the case here. If anyone was embarrassed, it was his politician wife, but not me. I’ve had other men besides him. Arturo was married and had his faults, but I thought . . .”

  Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She blinked and they rolled down her face, catching Blume off guard. He had not heard any wavering or cracking in her voice. He wondered if they were genuine. D’Amico had never believed in anyone’s tears. He used to say it was the one thing Blume had to learn from him. But Blume believed they were always at least a bit true. Sadness was the one thing you could depend on.

  Her voice still steady, Manuela said, “Sorry. It’s such a waste. I was not expecting to break down in front of you.” She flicked the tears off her cheeks with her thumbs. “You asked a moment ago if I was like my father.”

  Blume nodded.

  “Let me tell you about something that happened when I was a child. Then you can judge for yourself,” said Manuela. “I always liked dogs. I got my first one, a border collie, or mostly collie with a bit of something else thrown in, on my ninth birthday. I was fond of it, but never got round to naming it, and my parents never suggested I gave it a name. When I was ten and a half—maybe you’ve checked up on all this already?—my mother was killed.”

  “No,” said Blume. “I haven’t read—I only just found out who you are.”

  “In a house invasion,” she said. “It wasn’t in Rome. They’d gone to Foggia. Why the fuck anyone would willingly go to Foggia is a mystery. Business, I suppose. Anyhow, the house belonged to a great uncle or something of my father’s. Look, none of that matters. She got shot dead during a robbery.”

  “That’s what happened?”

  “It was an anomalous event.”

  “Anomalous. That’s a strange choice of word.”

  “It’s the one my father used at the time. I remember I didn’t know what it meant. Sometimes I still don’t,” said Manuela. “My father never found out who did it.”

  “Did the police?”