“Yes, we do,” began Blume, but Principe held up a calming hand.
“I said we don’t need Pernazzo for the Clemente case, not that we don’t need the Clemente case for Pernazzo.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“The Clemente case is still off-limits for us. In the end they’ll have to convict Pernazzo, but that’s up to them. Maybe they’ll have to recognize his responsibility for the killing of Alleva and Massoni, but we get him for the killing at the pizzeria, and now for trying to kill you. Is that OK by you?”
“I don’t want him getting off for anything.”
Principe lowered his voice, “All the rest will come out during the trial. I guarantee it.”
“Why not now?”
“The wheels of justice turn slowly. The case will take a long time coming to trial. By then, interest will have died down. And a general election held.”
Blume touched a new bruise on the side of his face. “There is nothing political about Pernazzo. He’s psychopathic. We never get dumped on for psychopaths. If anything, it’s the opposite. Everyone suddenly remembers they need the police and the magistrates. Even the politicians have to pretend to appreciate magistrates for a day or two. Society rallies around and remembers it exists. Everyone’s happy.”
“With Pernazzo out there killing people, Clemente becomes a random murder. Before Pernazzo appeared on the scene, it looked like Clemente died for an ethical cause. Your version of events makes it less clear-cut.”
“That’s nice: my version,” said Blume.
Principe relaxed his shoulders and looked directly at Blume. “Alleva’s role as the main bad guy was helped a lot by the fact he, directly or indirectly, got a cop killed.”
“I get that,” said Blume.
“But when you complicated the story with talk of this new person, Pernazzo, it was almost as if you were exonerating Alleva in some way. That’s one reason you were not getting the full support of your colleagues. It is as if Pernazzo was somehow your problem. I know that’s not the case, but there is a psychological element at play here. Especially after the death of Ferrucci. I am not condoning this, and as the magistrate in charge of the investigation into the random killing of Brocca, I shall do everything in my power to bring the perpetrator to justice. What I cannot afford to do is insist on investigating Pernazzo for the Clemente case. That will come out eventually, but it will be the decision of the judge in charge of preliminary inquiries, the chief prosecutor, the court, even the magistrates’ council. But it is a decision for other people to take later.”
“He tried to kill me . . . and my woman.”
“Ah, so she was there, your woman.”
“Fuck it, Filippo, stop playing games. She was there. She saved my life. But she prefers to be left out of this.”
“Fine. Are you so sure she’s ‘your woman’?”
“What that’s supposed to mean?”
“An irrelevance,” said Principe. “Pernazzo. He’s—how can I put this—he’s like a leftover piece from a completed jigsaw puzzle. It would be good if we could just throw out the extra piece. If someone were to get to Pernazzo first, then the full truth would never be known, but I suppose justice could be achieved nonetheless. Also, I’d say your efforts were due some recognition.”
Blume’s mobile rang. He looked at the screen to see who it was, but the ID had been withheld. He answered anyhow.
“Aha! My favorite American policeman,” said Innocenzi’s voice. “I was on this side of town, and I thought I’d pick up a few pastries from De Pedris for after mass.” He dropped his voice, low, confidential. “Better a day-old De Pedris pastry than a fresh one from the rat hole near my house.” He continued, “When I realized where I was in the city, I wondered if by any chance business might have brought you to the court house, which I can see from where I am sitting. By happy coincidence, I catch you there. De Pedris does this fine coffee with chestnut foam—know it? You deserve one after the shock you had this morning. Also, there’s a thing I was wanting to ask you. Just you, mind, and no one else.”
52
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1:45 P.M.
BLUME CHECKED THE time on his phone and walked with his head down, not saluting anyone in the corridor. It was quarter to two already. If Angelo Pernazzo had been in Di Tivoli’s house the night before and taken Di Tivoli’s car . . . When he reached the elevator, he suddenly turned on his heel and marched back the way he had come and straight into Principe’s office without knocking. Principe was on the phone and covered the mouthpiece as Blume entered. Then without even saying anything to whoever it was, he hung up.
“Filippo, listen to me,” said Blume, speaking rapidly. “Di Tivoli had—has—a second house in Amatrice. I just remembered Manuela Innocenzi mentioned it. There’s a damned good chance that’s where we’ll find Pernazzo. Find out as quick as you can. Get the address. If Di Tivoli has more than one property outside Rome, give priority to whichever is nearest, but I’d bet on Amatrice. If Di Tivoli’s vehicle is logged going in that direction, then we’ll have him.”
Blume left again, and walked quickly down the corridor again and out of the Halls of Justice. He hurried across the broad avenue and headed in the direction of Via Cola di Rienzo. A platinum blonde woman with black made-up eyes and puffed-up lips eyed him contemptuously from a café table. Mutton dressed as lamb.
Blume pulled out his phone, called Principe, and got a busy signal.
Only four minutes had passed, anyhow. Calling like that would just slow things down. But he could not allay the feeling that Innocenzi was ahead of them.
Two youths in red and yellow tracksuits sat outside the café, neither of them drinking anything, both of them smoking. They side-watched Blume as he walked in. Innocenzi was seated alone at one of the four tables in the café, reading Il Messaggero. There was no sign of the pastries he was supposed to have bought.
Innocenzi folded the paper as Blume sat down opposite him.
“What do you want?” said Blume.
“Coffee, thanks, Alec.”
“Very funny.”
“Calmness and control, Alec. If you’re not offering, then I’ll get the coffees.”
This entailed raising his hand in a languid salute. The barman was beside the table as if teleported there. Innocenzi ordered. The coffees arrived. They drank them in total silence. Innocenzi curled his little finger in the cup, covering the tip in a sludge of coffee and undissolved sugar, which he rubbed like cocaine on this gums, then sucked his finger.
“I see you, and I feel a sort of admiration—you know? Like a singer who won’t compromise his style or politics to sell albums. Like Lucio Battisti, Gino Paoli, Neil Young, you know?”
“No,” said Blume.
Innocenzi laughed. “That’s it. Just that sort of bolshie attitude. So what can I do for you?”
Blume wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nothing. You said you wanted to tell me something.”
“I heard about your trouble this morning.”
“Who told you? D’Amico?”
“I don’t betray people who tell me things. That’s how come I’m the last one standing. Are you all right?”
“I am fine, and very moved by your concern.”
“Will they get the person who tried to do this?”
“We will get him, yes.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Excellent. What a bitch you having a sprained arm. Otherwise you’d probably have got him there and then.”
Blume said nothing.
“Lucky for you, you had such a good woman to defend you. Kristin is a girl who knows how to fight.”
Blume may have blinked, but no more than that. He should have been ready for that. How much Innocenzi knew about Kristin was anyone’s guess, which is just how he wanted it.
“I heard extraordinary reports of a man running barefoot from the scene,” continued Innocenzi. “Probably an exaggeration, but you have to wonder. No professional would have made all
those mistakes. A professional would have got you both. You, then Kristin. That’s what a professional would have done. You’d never have seen it coming. I often wonder, do you even have time to hear the sound of the last shot. But this guy?” Innocenzi tapped the coffee cup as if it had turned into the person he was talking about. “He’s a bad joke. An embarrassment. He kills people like Clemente, who my daughter says was a very good man. I finally squeezed the name out of the department. Angelo Pernazzo. His apartment is being searched.”
“Pernazzo is the subject of inquiries,” said Blume.
“Now I hear Alleva and Massoni are dead, may they rest in peace. I don’t suppose you have any idea who did this?”
“It looks like they killed each other,” began Blume.
Innocenzi held up a restraining hand. “Please. Reciprocate some of the respect I have shown you. You’re not a good bullshitter, anyhow. Not Italian enough. Play it straight, like an American.”
“That really stirs my national pride,” said Blume. But Innocenzi was partly right. He saw no point in temporizing just for the sake of it. “OK, maybe Pernazzo had a hand in this killing, too,” said Blume. “It seems clear he was in regular contact with Massoni. You realize that, if he’s not the one who killed Alleva, suspicion will fall on you?”
Innocenzi flicked at an invisible piece of dirt on his wrist to dismiss the idea. “You realize that Alleva was under my protection. And even if he wasn’t, you can’t have debtors killing creditors, customers murdering entrepreneurs. The whole system would collapse. I take it you have heard what happened to our poor friend the television host?”
“Yes.”
“Pernazzo again?”
Blume half nodded.
“This is becoming embarrassing.”
Blume’s phone rang. He pulled it out. It was Principe. Blume had been right. Di Tivoli had a house near the village of Amatrice.
“What now?” asked Principe. “Shall I send out units to the place?”
“What about tracing the vehicle? Wait for that,” said Blume. “I’ll call you back in five minutes.” He closed his phone, slapped it on the table.
Innocenzi leaned over, gave him a playful push on the side of the shoulder. He looked almost pleased. Now it was his turn to pick up his phone. He keyed in a number, holding up a hand as if to stem a flow of inconsequential chatter from Blume, who remained tense, mute, and watchful.
“Fifteen minutes tops,” Innocenzi told whoever it was had picked up on the other side.
Blume’s phone danced on the tabletop. He grabbed it.
“Di Tivoli’s vehicle was logged seventy minutes ago entering the Strada dei Parchi motorway. He should be at Amatrice by now. I’m giving the order to move in.”
“OK,” said Blume. “Tell them to approach with caution. Remember they’re country policemen you’re dealing with.” He closed the phone. “Let us suppose,” he said to Innocenzi, “we were both looking for the same person at the same time. Who do you think would find him first?”
Innocenzi did not hesitate. “Not the authorities.”
“You don’t think the authorities are on the right track?”
“They could be rushing to the spot, Alec, as you and I sit here at one remove from all that is going on.”
Just to make sure, Blume said, “Rushing to the spot where this common enemy now is?”
“That’s how I would picture it.”
“And, based on your past experience, do you think the authorities would make it in time?”
“Let’s say a magistrate were to place a call through to the local police in Amatrice right now. I still think it would already be too late.”
“Damn!” Blume hit the table. “Manuela tells you everything, doesn’t she?”
Innocenzi touched his lips. “I don’t like hearing you say things like that, Alec. It’s almost as if you’re saying that if anything happens to this man who tried to kill you, Manuela’s responsible. See the problem there?”
“It’s no problem if nothing happens to him.”
“If nothing happens to him. You want that?” But before Blume could reply, he continued. “You don’t want it. You just gave us five minutes’ warning. If something bad happens to him, it’s because you wanted it that way. You’re setting him up.”
Blume pulled out his phone, hit redial, got Principe. “Go for it. Get as many units to that address as you can. Do it now.”
Innocenzi watched him. “It will still take about fifteen minutes before the first local cop gets there. It is now five past two. Want another coffee? Something stronger? We’ve got a few minutes to sit here serenely together, see how things pan out.”
“With me playing alibi to you,” said Blume.
“I don’t need alibis, Alec.” He raised a finger, the waiter appeared. “A Crodino for myself and . . .”
Blume said nothing.
“. . . the same for my friend.”
The waiter returned and Innocenzi watched as he poured the fizzing orange drink from the dinky bottles into two small glasses. Then he said, “Do you remember Gargaruti, your landlord? The one you had after your parents died?”
Blume knocked back his Crodino in a single gulp, pouring half of it down his air passage.
Innocenzi leaned over and gave him a thump between the shoulder blades. “I see you do. Now I’m not going to pretend I know all the details. Let me give it to you as I got it at the time. Gargaruti owned at least twenty apartments, which brought him to people’s attention. Twenty apartments and you become visible. If you don’t want to get shot at, you need to declare yourself, strike a deal. Right?”
“I suppose,” said Blume, his eyes still watering. He suddenly felt as lost in the world as when he was seventeen.
“Also, Gargaruti was already paying a pizzo on his rosticceria, or so they say. I wouldn’t know. So he was known. He needed persuasion to generosity. One of those guys who must’ve been worth millions but preferred to spend the whole day in a dirty apron sticking spikes up the asses of chickens and serving fried potatoes with rosemary. In his spare time, he spent the evening screwing rent from his tenants. You want to hear the story?”
Blume did. He had to.
“One day a request came through to me to have someone lean a little on Gargaruti, just to give a poor American kid a break. The reason I came to hear about it in person is that the request came from the cops. We have a sensible rule that says no one except me is allowed to do deals with the authorities. All contacts with the police had to go through me, and still do. I always have to meet the policeman in person. Just to keep things honest. So I talked to this cop and his partner, who was a woman, which is something I don’t approve of, but they were both good people, and they told me the story about an American kid, lost his parents in a bank raid. It seemed like a good thing to do, and it was fun to get at Gargaruti that way, and so this kid’s rent just suddenly and magically went away, and we were all happy to feel a bit like heroes. You’d think this American kid would have wondered about it. But he didn’t. Instead, he went to college, and then—guess what—joined the Polizia di Stato, bought the apartment at a knock-down price, not asking too many questions why, and became the purest policeman in the entire world. His career isn’t up to much, but he’s totally uncompromised. I like to think I contributed to that story of success.”
Blume gripped the table hard, anchoring himself in the present. He was thirty-eight years old, no longer a lost child. His feet were flat on the floor, and his body had weight and substance. He would not allow Innocenzi to be the one to guide him back.
“You think I’m polluting your memories?” asked Innocenzi. “I helped you, my friend.”
“You’re not a friend,” said Blume.
Innocenzi fingered the crucifix under his silk shirt. “That’s up to you.” He made as if to get up.
“You are not a friend,” repeated Blume, gathering his thoughts. “So I want to know why you decided to help me.”
“An exchange of fa
vors. It happens all the time. I think it may have just happened now between us.”
“The two police officers weren’t senior enough for you to do them a favor.”
“I make no distinction in rank. One of them’s pretty senior now, so maybe I saw in advance . . .”
“No. That’s not it. Who killed my parents, Innocenzi?”
Innocenzi put the palm of his hand against the side of his face and pushed the loose skin folds below his jowls, causing the skin of his face to crumple. “It was not my doing.”
“If you remember the name of my landlord after all these years, you can remember the murders in the bank, and you know who did it, and why.”
“Maybe someone has already told you who did it,” said Innocenzi.
“The grave number of the killer that got sent to me? That was you?”
Innocenzi nodded.
“Was that another favor?”
“Yes. That was a favor. But it came with no strings attached.”
“Who were those two in the bank that day?”
“They were nobodies. The robbery—it wasn’t even for the money. It was an invasion of my turf, a challenge to my authority. A sfregio from my rivals. It led to . . . some terrible things. Pointless cruelty, and it helped the Albanians get a foothold. When two fight over a bone, the third gets the meat.”
“You knew who killed my parents.”
“The killer was my enemy, too. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Had you anything to do with the death of Pietro Scognamiglio?”
“Was that his name? I’d forgotten.”
“I haven’t.”
“No, you never forget a thing like that.”
“Did you have him killed?”
“If I did, would I say so? Maybe in this context, speaking to you as a son, not as a cop, I would. But no, it wasn’t me. We couldn’t touch him—part of a truce agreement we reached after a few months. I think his own side got rid of him eventually. Not my concern. When I heard, I thought you’d be interested.”
“You think I should be grateful for this? You think I don’t blame you? They were killed because of you, because of the division of Rome into fiefdoms. Because of you and your drugs and racketeering and protection and gambling and prostitution and extortion and theft and your exploitation of the weak and your miserable fucking low-life turf wars.”
THE DOGS of ROME Page 39