THE DOGS of ROME

by Conor Fitzgerald

  Blume did not touch the piece of paper.

  “I am steering well clear of this, Alec. Dead policeman. Dead dog lover. I don’t have it on my conscience, and I don’t want it on my mind either. I’m handing it over to you. Do you want that address or not?”

  “You just gave it to me. I can remember an address.”

  “Take the piece of paper; it’s more symbolic that way.”

  “Fine.” Blume snatched the piece of paper, put it in his breast pocket. “I don’t think Alleva had anything to do with Clemente’s murder. But we are going to get him for what he had done to Ferrucci.”

  “Poor kid,” said Innocenzi, touching the crucifix on his neck. “You’re doing a fine job, Alec. Unlike your superiors. Even the man’s faithless wife seems to accept that it was Alleva. That’s what her so-called friend in the questura is telling her.”

  Blume said, “That’s the line they’re taking.”

  “Yes. The guy in the questura, the person the widow is taking advice from?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s the same guy your former partner D’Amico works for. I forget his name. I can look it up if you want.” Innocenzi paused to measure the effect of his words. “I can see that was not much news to you.”

  “More of your face-reading. I don’t need the name of D’Amico’s boss,” said Blume.

  “Yeah. He’s a total irrelevance. What’s he to us? But now this Di Tivoli. What do we make of him? He appears on our television screens and opens twenty-five cans of worms on air. I hate to judge another man—but what can be expected from a queer such as Di Tivoli?”

  “Is that all you got on him? That he’s gay?”

  “It is an utter abomination, and a detestable act,” said Innocenzi.

  “Doesn’t bear thinking about,” said Blume. “But is that all?”

  “Transvestites, transsexuals, ladyboys. Also, when it comes to age of consent, he skates on thin ice. Barely legal.”

  “But legal?” said Blume.

  “What are you, his lawyer?”

  Blume said, “Di Tivoli has always followed Sveva Romagnolo around like a lost dog. It sounds to me like he swings both ways.”

  “Merciful Jesus.” Innocenzi raised his hands to his ears. “That makes it even worse.”

  “How about this theory?” said Blume: “You had Clemente killed for what . . . outraging your daughter or getting in the way of dog meets. That’s what Di Tivoli is implying.”

  “I’ve been talking to people who were upset on my behalf at that scandalous documentary. Di Tivoli is not going to make up any more stories like that.”

  “Did you know Manuela had been with Clemente to Di Tivoli’s house in the country?”

  Innocenzi closed his eyes and nodded slowly, like a stoic receiving his death sentence. “I knew that. She is so vulnerable it breaks my heart. And your eyes are filled with sympathy, too. You are a good man, Alec. I am happy to be able to do you this little favor with the address.”

  “I don’t want to be beholden to you.”

  “Wonderful! That’s the spirit,” said Innocenzi. “This is the sort of relationship that we should have. I like a neat distinction of roles. I gave you the address because I want nothing to do with all this. You check the place out, you’ll find no connections leading back to me.”

  Blume said, “Tell me about Alleva and how he worked with you.”

  “Alleva’s trick was to come up with new ways for doing stuff that wasn’t so important. Not so big as to make people jealous. He didn’t trespass on other people’s turf. He avoided building up his own group, though maybe he could have done better in his choice of personnel.”

  “You’re using the past tense,” said Blume.

  “Alleva cannot operate anymore now. That must be clear. He has gone from the scene. Pity. He was not a saint. Few of us are. But he had some integrity.”

  “What’s wrong with his personnel?” Blume asked.

  “He never found good men. That guy, Massoni, he kept around? He was always going to get Alleva into something stupid. I’m only surprised it took so long.”

  “How long have they been together?”

  “Ten years. Maybe more. They go back some. Before the dogs, Alleva used to sell slimming pills on TeleCapri, then he moved into selling those anticancer pills invented by that doctor from up north. The one who died from a tumor?”

  “I remember that,” said Blume.

  “The dog thing—it wasn’t really anything to do with me. Personally, I don’t mind dogs. We were all happy to allow him to organize it, then reap rewards for his efforts, share out his proceeds, wink at some of his tricks, because he was not always up front with us. You know how it is, a man who deals in honey licks his fingers. But after Clemente got himself killed the other day, I had a serious chat with Alleva. I looked deep into his face. He said he had nothing to do with Clemente’s murder, and I believed him. But he doesn’t always keep control of Massoni, so he couldn’t be sure.”

  “You didn’t talk to Massoni himself?” asked Blume.

  “No. I was planning to have a chat, when, bang, all of a sudden Massoni starts a shoot-up with the police and the two of them disappear. It’d make you wonder.”

  “So, you want me to find Massoni, because maybe he killed Clemente. Won’t he be in Argentina, too?”

  “I don’t think Alleva would have allowed Massoni to come with him. Alec, my friend . . .”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I consider you a friend nonetheless. Alec, perhaps Massoni killed Clemente, but perhaps he did not. You see, Massoni knew who Manuela was, and, let’s be fair to the man, I don’t think even he could have been so criminally negligent. Can you imagine, murdering my daughter’s partner, illicit or not? It almost scares me to think of the consequences. But let’s say Massoni thought of getting someone else to do it. Well then. I would not have considered him the subcontracting type, but you never can tell.”

  “Why not find him yourself?”

  “Conflict of interest. I can’t get remotely caught up in this now that a policeman has been killed. I would appreciate Massoni being kept alive, though. Your moral integrity offers me better guarantees in that respect than Paoloni. And perhaps you’ll share any ideas you might have about the person who did this to my daughter’s . . . I don’t know what to call him.”

  “Her lover,” said Blume.

  “Please,” said Innocenzi. “This is my daughter we’re talking about. Anyhow, your cooperation would be really appreciated.”

  “Don’t count on it,” said Blume.

  “Manuela says you are to be treated as a friend now, so I forgive your attitude. Unfortunately, when talking to her friends, Manuela confesses all sorts of things she should keep to herself. She’s very open. Did she perhaps tell you about losing her dog when she was a kid?”

  When Blume nodded, he continued, “She always tells people that story. Poor child. She tell you about losing her mother, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “See?” said Innocenzi opening his arms wide as if making his point to a silent circle of onlookers. “That was a bad time in our lives. There were uncharitable people at the time. Losing my wife wasn’t enough for them. They wanted to crucify me, pin the murder on me, too.”

  “People?”

  “An investigating magistrate in partic ular. A bitter devil of an old man, nearing retirement. Never did anything with his useless little life, wanted some fleeting fame before going to meet his Maker. I heard afterwards he had succumbed to a heart attack after a road accident.” Innocenzi smiled, revealing two long canines, “Luckily, the assistant prosecutor of Foggia was an intelligent young man, bright future in front of him, knew how to run an investigation, knew what made a real case and, more importantly, what didn’t. Thanks to his intervention, the investigation finally moved off in the right direction.”

  Blume said, “The perp was never caught. The investigation hardly went in the right direction.”
/>   “It was the right path. But the right path does not always lead to the result you wish for,” said Innocenzi. “No one was charged for her murder. That happens sometimes.”

  “Happens a lot,” said Blume.

  “Yeah. Must be frustrating for you,” said Innocenzi. “That young magistrate, he’s older now, of course. I hear he operates here in Rome. Maybe you’ve even worked with him? He’s called Filippo Principe.”

  35

  WHEN INNOCENZI PRONOUNCED Principe’s name, Blume felt as if some invisible noxious gas had seeped into him.

  “Principe? Maybe it was another . . .” He stopped.

  Innocenzi circled his finger over the green felt of the poker table. “Do you know what kompromat means?”

  Blume was thinking of how Principe had assigned him to the road rage case, and did not answer.

  “Kompromat,” repeated Innocenzi.

  “Sounds like a type of cash card or a place to wash your clothes or something,” said Blume. “Maybe it’s a Russian word?”

  “It is Russian. How did you guess?”

  “I’m good at languages.”

  “You are very gifted. The Russians are making inroads. Lots of Russians. Albanians, too, of course. Can you imagine that? Back in my Fronte Gioventù days, I used to think Russians were naturally Communists. Turns out I was wrong. The Russians are very hierarchical, organized.”

  Blume began to refocus. “So are you.”

  “Not as much as people think. The 1970s and 1980s. Those years were a step back. Politics got in the way, and groups started organizing them into cells like they were terrorists. Started acting like terrorists, too. Manifestos, political programs and—” He waved his hand in exasperation. “There was no central authority, no one to turn to, no respect, no way of settling disputes. A disaster. Then things started improving, we went back to the old ways, threw out the politicians, dropped the ideologies. Just in time, too. A few years later the Russians arrived.”

  “So now you’re organized?”

  “Things are much better than they were, Alec. Everyone appreciates this. More hierarchical, as it should be. There is a separation of roles. Politicians and ideologues are now kept at arm’s length.”

  “I feel comforted.”

  “You should. It’s why we can talk like this. Kompromat.”

  “I still don’t know what it means.”

  Innocenzi said, “Suppose I confess a secret to you that allows you to destroy me, what would you do?”

  “Destroy you.”

  “Don’t try to be funny.”

  “Who says I was joking?”

  “I say you were. That’s how I’m going to take it.”

  “Fine. So what should I do instead?”

  “If I know you can destroy me, I’ll destroy you,” said Innocenzi. “You think it’s good to gain knowledge, but once you have it, you realize you were far better off without it. But there is no going back. So what do you do now? What you do is you hedge the risk. You tell me a secret that would allow me to destroy you. That way, I have less reason to fear what you might do. Intense fear leads to intense violence. If you spread the risk, you lower the violence.”

  Blume said, “People have lots of secrets.”

  “The more of their secrets I know, the less worried I am about what they are going to do, and the less inclined I am to treat them as enemies. Seeing as we live in decadent times, I get plenty of material. Even on people who think they’ve nothing to hide. People like Paoloni or Di Tivoli, say. The Russians have a word for that, too: poshlost.”

  “Do you know much Russian?”

  “I have Russian friends now. How times change,” said Innocenzi.

  “Sometimes, just to remind the politicos and administrators and reporters and police and magistrates and all the others that I’m watching, I let slip a little something. A story appears in a scandal magazine about a certain politician in the company of a whore, the hidden interests of an anticorruption campaigner in property development. You remember Di Pietro and that gift Mercedes, made him stop going after Berlusconi? That’s kompromat at work.”

  “And do people have things on you?”

  “Sure they do. Even you do.”

  “How?” asked Blume.

  “You know I am vulnerable through my daughter.”

  “Most fathers are.”

  “You know my daughter is a gossipy, vain aging woman who had an illicit affair with a politician’s husband.”

  Blume said, “That’s not much.”

  “It is still something. Gives you some leverage, some kompromat power. Maybe you should balance things out, tell me something about yourself.”

  “You’ll have to find that out for yourself.”

  “Alec, maybe I know things already. But the situation is this. You were taken off the case, but you went to interrogate my daughter in her house. I give you the address of the culprits. I invite you here, treat you well. The way I see it, it’s time you reciprocated.”

  Blume crossed his arms.

  Innocenzi said, “It’s not corruption. I want you to reciprocate by doing what you were going to do anyhow.”

  “Which is?”

  “Continue working the case. Put it back on track.”

  “To get the heat off you? You have the situation pretty much under control. Anyhow, I am not totally convinced you’re not behind it.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Innocenzi.

  “I don’t get it. You want me to stop talking to your daughter, fine. As far as I can see, you’ve got plenty of ways of making me stop, anyhow.”

  “Sure, I have, Alec. But I want you to act of your own free will in the matter. My daughter, who has a strong sense of retributive justice, had grown very fond of that dog campaigner, Clemente. I didn’t approve of it, but, hey, peace and love, no?”

  Blume waited.

  “So when he got himself killed, she was very upset, came to me, asked what had happened, who was responsible, whether I might not be able to do something. We asked around. I personally spoke with Alleva, like I told you. The man had no idea what I was even talking about. He had nothing to do with it. I called in some favors, checked out the thinking of the authorities— nothing, except for reports that you and your friend Paoloni had reached the same conclusion as me, which was that it was random and could not be solved through the normal channels. Oh—Paoloni tipped Alleva off, you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not convincing you, I can see that. Sometimes I can’t convince my own daughter. Manuela. She doesn’t believe me. She half thinks I had something to do with it.”

  “Like she still has doubts about how her mother died,” said Blume.

  Although Innocenzi did not change position, the comfortable posture he had been using was suddenly gone. The creases in his face seemed to smooth as he stared at Blume. He had blue-green eyes, like his daughter.

  He held his gaze on Blume just long enough for Blume to understand that he stood no chance of staring him down.

  “I don’t understand that, Alec. Now why would you say a thing like that? My dead wife. I don’t know. It has to be a cultural thing, you being an American. You can’t have thought it through before you spoke. Wow, what a thing!”

  “All right, it was . . . irrelevant,” said Blume.

  “And you’re not even apologizing. Amazing. What is relevant is for you to catch whoever killed Clemente.”

  Blume felt his finger move and his brow furrow before he had a chance to stop himself, and Innocenzi caught the gestures.

  “I see you’re surprised, I think I know why, too.”

  “No. You’re over-interpreting,” said Blume.

  “No. I am not. You are surprised I don’t already know who you are looking for. I know you have a theory of some sort that no one else does, but try as I might, I can’t get Paoloni or anyone else to give me the name of your suspect. It’s your thing, he says. Nothing to do with him. See? Paoloni is faithful as well as faithless. We h
umans are a mass of contradictions. Now, I’ll tell you what would be really fantastic, is for you to go and get this person who killed my daughter’s dog protector.”

  36

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 5:30 P.M.

  INNOCENZI ACCOMPANIED BLUME back to the Land Cruiser, said something to the two men inside, then touched his elbow, shook his hand.

  “My men say you go around unarmed,” said Innocenzi. “Is that wise?”

  “Sometimes I carry, sometimes not.”

  “I think you should have a weapon. Especially with that arm. You’re very vulnerable, Alec.”

  “I’ll be OK.”

  “Oh yeah? Ma ’ndo vai se la banana nun ce l’hai?” said Innocenzi.

  His former abductors drove him back to where his car was parked outside Manuela’s apartment building. From there he drove back to the office.

  Sitting alone at his desk, Blume looked at the address Innocenzi had given him. He felt aggrieved at not being able to trust even Principe. He sat down at his desk and made the first of several phone calls.

  Ten minutes later, the door to his office smashed open, banged against the wall and ricocheted halfway closed again. The threads of wire in the rippled glass stopped the pane from shattering.

  “Sorry, it was a bit stiff,” said Paoloni. “I signed back on duty like you asked. What do you want from me?”

  “This is simple enough,” said Blume. “You’re going after the two who killed Ferrucci. Only this time, I don’t want you to go there in secret with a death squad. Oh—and this time, I don’t think Innocenzi will be filming you, either. He’s got more footage than he knows what to do with. He even gave me a copy, though I haven’t seen it yet. I’m not sure I want to.”

  Paoloni hit the side of the door with the heel of his hand.

  “Yes, caught on film, Beppe. When I told you to come back in, I didn’t know about this yet,” said Blume. “All I knew was you were not being straight with me. OK, I can take that because I have learned over the years to trust you only so much. I thought you would help me keep tabs on Pernazzo, then when I realized you weren’t, I found I wasn’t so shocked after all. But I didn’t take you for a murderer.”