Pietro Berguet nodded. “Oh, Madonna mia.”
“Right. It was our duty to inform you.”
“But he doesn’t work for us anymore,” Cristiano Cerruti broke in, still sitting with his ass parked on the sofa. “So technically we could say it’s no longer any of our concern. Please convey our condolences to the family.”
“Forgive me, I don’t remember your name.”
“Cristiano Cerruti. Now would you care to explain why you’re asking all these questions about that poor guy?”
“Certainly. Of course. Since he had a stolen license plate on the van and a criminal record, I’m investigating the man. Do you think that’s all right, or should I have come to ask your permission?”
At last, Cerruti snapped to his feet, as if instructed by some internal command. “Do you have a warrant from a judge?”
Rocco burst out laughing. “Do you hear, Italo, how much trouble the television causes?” and then he focused on Cerruti’s face: “I don’t need one. You strike me as tense and a little on edge, Dottor Cerruti. My own experience suggests that you’d be well served by taking a seat and counting slowly to ten.” Then he addressed the president of the company: “Dottor Berguet, do you mind if I go and have a brief chat with this Fabio in personnel?”
“Why of course not; it’s Fabio Limetti,” said Pietro with a sigh of relief, clearly glad to see that the two policemen had decided to be on their way. “Be my guest, absolutely, let me ask my secretary to accompany you.” He opened the door. “Ines!” he called, and the dumpy woman in her early sixties reappeared in the hallway. “Please see the gentlemen down to Limetti’s office. I’d appreciate it, thanks.”
The woman nodded and extended her arm, pointing the opposite way from the elevator. “Gentlemen, if you’d care to follow me.”
“Are you planning to stay in your office, Dottor Berguet?” asked Rocco.
“Certainly. Of course. If you need anything at all, you’ll find me here.”
“What about you, Dottor Cerruti?”
“For sure,” the man replied, sitting back down on the sofa.
“Good. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again.” And he said it very seriously. He wanted it to sound like a threat. And in fact, a threat is what it sounded like.
Fabio was a young man in his early thirties, fair haired, pale, with a pair of enormous blue eyes without eyelashes, which gave him a slightly stunned, innocent expression. He was calm and cooperative, with a small, faint voice, almost a woman’s voice. He handed over the file with Carlo Figus’s pay stubs and even left the two policemen alone in the room to read through the files.
“But what are we looking for?” Italo asked.
“You just continue to keep an eye on the parking lot. If Berguet leaves, we’ll go after him.” Rocco was leafing through the papers. “So, where is the blond boy? I have a couple of questions to ask him.”
As if to grant the deputy chief’s every wish, Fabio opened the door with a paper cup in one hand. “Ah, my good Fabio, you’re exactly who I need right now. I see here that the payroll accounts are handled by the Vallée Savings Bank.”
“Certainly. It’s the bank that we’ve always worked with.”
“Excellent. And are the company’s accounts all there?”
“There and at the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro. But mostly there. The engineer also has his personal account there.”
“What about you? Where do you keep your savings?”
“Me what, Dottore? With what they pay me, it’s a miracle if I make it to the end of each month.”
Rocco and Fabio enjoyed a hearty laugh and gave the matter no more thought. Italo continued to keep an eye on the parking lot. “But are things going better now?”
Fabio looked at the deputy chief. He hadn’t understood the question. Rocco clarified the concept. “I mean, are things going better here at Edil.ber? Is there enough money now?”
“Ah!” Fabio said, his smile returning. “Yessir, much better now. For the past month now, the payments have been regular and reliable. Certainly, it happens from time to time, a shortage of funds, a lack of liquidity, delays in payments, suppliers knocking at the door. But now it seems that things have leveled out.”
“In other words, you’re receiving your paycheck.”
“Well, I did last month. Let’s keep our fingers crossed for this month, too,” Fabio replied, in his mezzo-soprano voice.
Then the deputy chief got to his feet. “Thanks, Fabio, you’ve been helpful. Extremely helpful.”
“Now I want you and Antonio to tail Pietro Berguet and the other guy, with the trim little beard.”
“Cerruti?”
“That’s the one. Make sure you don’t lose them.”
Italo shifted to a higher gear and accelerated. When they entered Aosta they were doing sixty. “Should I leave you at headquarters?”
“Yes.”
“But we’re not going to inform the judge?”
“When the time is right. And time, my friend, is not on our side.”
Not even three minutes later, the squad car screeched to a halt in front of police headquarters. Rocco got out. There was a clap of thunder and it started pouring down rain, as if a giant hand had turned the shower knob. “Fucking hell . . .” muttered Rocco, as he ran to take shelter in the front door. Casella was still standing in the entrance. “But isn’t anyone going to take over your shift?”
“Sure, another guy is coming down, a guy from Naples. Then I can knock off. Ah, deputy chief, D’Intino and Deruta came by. But there’s no news.”
“What did you tell them?”
“What you told me to say, sir. To just keep searching without ever stopping.”
“Did they look tired?”
“Tired? They looked like two of those thingamajigs, there, what do you call them? The little bears with black circles around their eyes?”
“Raccoons?”
“Exactly. A couple of raccoons, considering the circles they had under their eyes.” And Casella burst into laughter, confident that he was on comfortable terms with the deputy chief. But Schiavone shut down that illusion abruptly: “Casella, what the fuck do you have to laugh about? Are you interested in being sent to keep Deruta and D’Intino company?”
“No, sir.”
“Then cut the laughing.” And he left him standing there at the entrance.
As he went up the stairs he ran into Scipioni, who was hurrying down them. “I’m going to join Italo, deputy chief.”
“Good, but make sure you take two different cars. You need to be able to move independently. Give each other the relief and stay in constant contact with me or Inspector Rispoli.”
“Yessir. And thanks.”
“For what?”
“For the trust you’ve placed in me. Desk work really doesn’t suit me.” And he vanished, with a handsome smile on his lips.
When Rocco opened his office door, Caterina Rispoli wasn’t there. He took advantage of the opportunity to get another joint out of the drawer. Then he picked up the phone. “Architect? This is Deputy Chief Schiavone.”
“Yes, sir, deputy chief. . . .”
“What school does your daughter attend?”
“The scientific high school on Via Cretier. Why?”
Did I sleep? Did I dream? Where am I?
Still here. Still bound to the chair, still with a hood over her head. She inhaled all the air she could. She still wasn’t used to the stench of that dark, filthy fabric that clung to her face. She craned her neck, pushing back with her head. The back of her head touched the column against which the chair rested. That it was a column was something that had already become clear to her. As was the fact that she was bound to a chair. She continued to twist her neck.
If you bang your head harder against the wall, you can crack it open, and you’ll be done with all this misery.
The little voice again. But Chiara was determined to pay it no mind.
What about down below? Does
it hurt? Does it hurt?
Not as bad. Down below it was hurting a lot less. She could still feel the pain, but like a memory of what it had been before she fell asleep. How many hours had it been? She couldn’t say.
I can see the metal shelves. All of that rusty junk on them. Now there’s a little light.
She rested the back of her head against the cement column again and then let her head fall forward. Her face slammed against the rough cloth, which no longer followed her movement. She tried again. No good. The bag remained immovable.
It’s hooked onto something. It’s stuck . . .
She tried once again to press the back of her head against the hard cement. Then she snapped forward. The hard, smelly bag wouldn’t budge.
What is it stuck on? A nail? Some snag? Yes! Yes!
“Yessssss!”
The first piece of good news.
I just need to slip down lower. As low as I can go. That way I can get it off my head. That way I’ll be free to move.
She needed to try as hard as she could. It would be hard, but she could do it.
She clenched her abdominals and pushing back slightly, tried to lower her torso. She could feel her face rubbing against the canvas. A good sign. That mean her body was moving while the hood remained stationary.
She arched her back, tugging hard on her stomach muscles. She managed to gain a few inches, but it still wasn’t enough.
Lower. She needed to slide even lower.
She pushed her chin down as far as she could. She glimpsed a piece of silver duct tape around her chest.
That’s what’s fastening me to the chair! The duct tape. Over my tits! If I can just get the duct tape over my breasts . . . there! I did it! I did it! It’s looser now and I can move to one side. And get lower. And then I’ll be able to get this stinking bag off my head.
But make sure you don’t sweat.
The little voice was back now.
If you sweat, everything’s going to get sticky and then nothing will slide, you’ll be jammed in place!
“I’m not sweating! I’m not drinking and I’m not sweating,” she shouted.
What’s that got to do with it? You peed in your pants, and now for all you know, you’re sweating.
“Go fuck yourself!”
Don’t sweat . . .
The voice was right. She had to keep from sweating! If she sweated, her T-shirt would stick to her skin, it wouldn’t slip anymore, and the duct tape would stay there, over her breasts, nailing her to the spot like an entomologist’s insect pinned in place. She had to be very careful. Move slowly, without any sudden jerks.
You’re thirsty, and if you get too thirsty, you’ll fall asleep. And then you’ll die, won’t you?
“Quit messing with me!” she shouted.
She started inhaling the stinking air again, puffing up her chest so she could slowly slide lower, and then exhaling all the oxygen and straightening up suddenly. It was no good. The duct tape remained stuck on top of her breasts.
It’s pointless. You can’t do it. You’re ridiculous. You have small breasts, but you still can’t do it!
She tried again. Inhale air, puff up the chest, slide down, exhale the air, come back up. She was certainly sweating.
My head. It’s spinning. I feel like puking.
But Chiara didn’t stop. Three, four more times.
You can’t do it!
Then it suddenly happened. The silvery duct tape rose toward her shoulders until it was just inches from her throat. She gained some distance.
“That’s it!” Chiara shouted. “I did it, you asshole! You asshole!”
She stopped to catch her breath. Now she had to make sure that the bag was still anchored.
Please, please, please . . .
She could move her torso. And so she lurched to the right, contracting her abdominals once again and toppling over to the side. She jerked once, twice, felt a stab of pain on her left side, but didn’t give up. And then, at last . . .
Air!
There was a gust of wind on her cheek, as if someone had opened a window. She breathed as deep as she could, holding the clean, fresh air in her lungs. Her head was spinning, but that didn’t matter, it was almost pleasurable. Her cheeks and forehead felt cooler.
I’m free! I’m free! I can breathe real air! It’s so good!
By now, the hood must be behind her, attached to a nail or a projecting section of the column. She could imagine it sagging pendulous like a chicken skin. She spat onto the floor the stench that had been constricting her for hours, the dust that she’d been forced to swallow. And finally, she took a look around.
A room measuring about a hundred square feet. In front of her were metal shelves covered with old equipment and tools. On the left, a wall with a dripping sink. She wished she could hurl herself against that dirty, rusting faucet and lick every drop. On the right was another wall with a window up high. She could see the clouds. And an orange cat that had been watching her for who knows how long.
“And where is this Max?”
“In room 4A,” Giovanna replied, fluttering her eyelashes over the emerald glint of her eyes. “What about Chiara? Have you found her?”
Rocco shook his head. “No, Giovanna, still no news. Now go back to class. I’m going to ask the principal to let me speak to this Massimiliano Turrini.” Rocco turned to speak to the principal, a man of about sixty who had stood, arms crossed, leaning in the doorway of the front office the whole time Rocco had been questioning Giovanna. “Dottor Bianchini, I need to speak to Massimiliano Turrini, in room 4A. Shall I go up, or will you have him called down?” The principal didn’t reply. He waited until Giovanna had left the room, then he strode over to Rocco Schiavone with quick, short steps. “Listen, Deputy Chief Schiavone, I’m happy to cooperate, but you do realize that I’m going on trust and nothing more here, don’t you?”
Rocco looked at him. He’d already catalogued Eugenio Bianchini, principal of the high school, in his mental bestiary. He was a specimen of Sorex araneus, also known as a common shrew. An enormous upturned nose, and underneath it a short, bristly mustache like that sported by Bristow, the famous British buying clerk featured in the cartoon of Frank Dickens, small dark eyes behind a pair of round eyeglasses.
“Excuse me, I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at, Dottor Bianchini.”
“I’m trying to tell you that we’re holding regularly scheduled classes here, and I wouldn’t want your presence to frighten or alarm any of my students. Are we sure that all this is really necessary?”
“Yes.”
“But shouldn’t I be looking at a sheet of paper signed by a judge?”
“No.”
“Listen, Deputy Chief Schiavone, I’m going to make this very simple. Max Turrini has had some problems, I know that and we all know that.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, to make a long story short, every so often he sells things he shouldn’t strictly be selling. As far as that goes, of course, even I. . . .”
“That’s not why I’m here. Max Turrini’s drug dealing will be the subject of another visit I intend to pay your high school.”
“Let me insist on this point. He’s a sterling young man, his father is a respected physician, and you need to proceed very cautiously. He’s a slightly questionable. . . .”
“A slightly questionable what? He deals drugs, so? Listen, thank you very much, but believe me, I’m here for entirely different reasons. And I’ll use velvet gloves, trust me.”
The principal grabbed Rocco by the arm: “I’m required to be discreet, but also to protect my students.”
Rocco looked at that pale, dainty little hand that was clutching at his biceps. The principal immediately released his grip.
“Bianchini, as far as that goes, you’re also required to protect your own personal safety.”
The principal was nonplussed. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“Let me see if I can make
it any clearer.” Rocco stood up from his seat. He was a good foot taller than the principal. “It’s not as if this morning I had nothing better to do with my time and I just said to myself: Rocco, why don’t you stroll over to the high school and ask the kids some questions, to help pass the morning?”
Dottor Bianchini was breathing slowly. He could now sense a growing wave of aggressive hostility in the policeman he had before him. Still, he remained the principal of a high school, and he certainly had no need to listen to the orders being given him by just any old deputy police chief. At least not after twenty years of orders imposed upon him by his beloved spouse, Signora Bianchini, née De Cicco, and by his mother Rosa, eighty-seven years old, and still filled with all the vim and energy of the legendary cyclist Fausto Coppi on the Pordoi Pass. “You know what I say, Deputy Chief Schiavone?”
“No, what do you say?”
“That if you want to talk to Massimiliano Turrini, first I want to see. . . .”
Rocco interrupted with a sudden gesture. For a moment, Bianchini was afraid the man was about to slap him.
“How old is Massimiliano Turrini, a.k.a. Max?”
“Twenty, I believe.”
“And he’s a senior?”
“That’s right.”
“Well then, Einstein is no longer a minor. If you don’t mind, in that case . . .” and he stepped around the principal and left the office.
But the shrew had no intention of letting himself be bypassed so easily. “You can’t just pop into a school without a warrant, without so much as a scrap of paper from police headquarters or the district attorney’s office and expect that. . . .”
This time Rocco whipped around, grabbed the man by his lapels, and glared straight into his eyes: “Listen, asshole. I’m going to tell you something right now, and it would have been better for your health if you’d never heard it, but seeing that you insist, here it is. I’m trying to save the life of one of your students, Chiara Berguet, who’s in trouble as deep as the deep blue sea. And if this particular piece of information starts circulating around town, there’s a good chance that the girl won’t make it. Is that all clear to you now, or do I need to get rough?”
Out of Season Page 9