“All right,” Italo corrected himself, “then he must have taken Cristiano’s plug.”
Rocco heaved a sigh of annoyance.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m going to have go back upstairs again.”
“So what? You just need to ride up to the fourth floor.”
“Right, and when I get there I’m going to find that ball-buster Ernesto Farinelli from Turin. Who’s sure to read me the riot act.”
“How do you know that he’s here?”
“I can sense it!”
Italo shrugged his shoulders. They started walking toward the elevator when Italo stepped on something. The two policemen froze in place and looked down at the floor. There was a fragment of transparent plastic.
“What’s that?”
Rocco picked it up. “Take a look at it. I’d say it’s plastic, not glass.”
“This is polycarbonate.”
“Translate, Italo.”
“They use it to make automobile headlights.”
“Do you think this is the stroke of luck?”
“Maybe so.”
“Who can give us a hand identifying it?”
“Umberto. My friend from the highway patrol. He used to be a mechanic. He certainly would know someone.”
“Then go, and don’t waste any time!”
“Until the elevator gets here, I’m not going anywhere, Rocco.”
There were already two officers from the forensic squad in Cerruti’s apartment. They were already at work in their white jackets. The poor victim’s body had been covered with a tarp.
“Ciao, Schiavone.” The unmistakable voice of the deputy director of the forensic squad took Rocco by surprise, from right behind him.
“Come on, Farinè, tell me how we fucked up this time.”
“Nothing I know of so far. But how come today you aren’t asking me how my wife is?”
“Are you two still together?”
“Yes,” the policeman answered with some satisfaction. Today, for who knows what reason, he seemed to be in an excellent mood.
The age-old mystery. Signora Farinelli, a woman of such stunning beauty that in Turin she stopped traffic, continued to share her life with Farinelli, who to Rocco Schiavone’s eyes was the quintessential paragon of earthly squalor. Average height, no hair, the kind of face you forget as soon as you turn the corner and, even worse, devoid of the slightest hint of a sense of humor.
“Yes, we’re still together. Does the fact upset you?”
“Not me, no. What I don’t understand is why it doesn’t disturb her.”
“Were you looking for something?”
“Yes. The keys to the apartment. Did you find them?”
Farinelli nodded. “Cerruti, was that his name? He was a very tidy fellow. I love tidy victims. They make my job so much easier. Two bunches of keys, in the top drawer by the front door, you see? That Chinese cabinet?”
“It’s not Chinese, it’s Tibetan,” Rocco retorted.
“What do you know about it?”
“Forget about it, Farinelli. Just let these things slide. And if you piss me off, I’ll even tell you how much it costs. So, in these bunches of keys, were there any plastic plugs?”
“Yes, there is one. I already asked the concierge about it. They’re used for. . . .”
“Opening the metal gate down in the garage,” Rocco finished his sentence for him.
“I see that you know all about it. She told me that every tenant has two of them.”
“Two of them? Then where’s the other one? This Cerruti really didn’t keep track of his things, did he!” He smiled at his colleague. “But, unlike you, I know where it is.”
Farinelli cocked his head slightly to one side: “So where is it?”
“If the murderer is smart, he tossed it out, along with the murder weapon. If he’s a moron, he’s still carrying it in his pocket.”
“Too bad.”
“What’s too bad?” asked Rocco.
“That painting by Schifano. Blood spattered it.”
The two men stepped closer to the framed canvas. “If you ask me, it looks good on it,” said Rocco.
“I’m going to have to take it in to get the blood analyzed. It might not be the victim’s blood. My motto is: Leave no stone unturned!” said Farinelli, and after slipping on a pair of latex gloves, he pulled the painting off the wall.
Behind it was a safe, with a keyhole, not a combination dial.
“Good work. Bravo, Farinelli!”
“You see? What happens when you’re a stickler? Shall we open it?” and he started over, sorting through the bunch of keys.
When they got the safe open, they found nothing of value. Just a sheaf of papers. Rocco grabbed them, beating the deputy director of the forensic squad to the punch. “Lemme just take a quick glance. . . .”
They were account statements from a bank, with balances, transactions, and debits. “Axion Bank, in Lugano. A Swiss bank.”
“Well, how about that . . . and what does it say?”
“It says that our friend,” Rocco muttered as he quickly shuffled through the papers, “has an account balance of three million euros.”
“Nice going, Cerruti.”
“But you want to know the most curious detail about it? Of the three million, two million nine hundred thousand was deposited less than a week ago.”
Farinelli looked at Rocco. “What do you mean?”
“A wire transfer. From another bank in Lugano. That gives us something to think about, doesn’t it?”
“Quite a bit.”
Rocco handed the whole sheaf of documents to his colleague who began reading.
“What should we do about informing the judge?”
“You take care of it, Farinelli. You’re well behaved and organized, and the judge likes neat and tidy types.” Rocco turned to leave. Then he stopped in the door. “Would you explain one thing to me? Why do you seem to be in such a good mood? You usually never are!”
“Because if there’s one thing I love, it’s snow in May. It’s so strange, so fluffy. It takes me back to my childhood.”
“You’re not trying to tell me you had a childhood, are you?”
“I’m horrified. I’m a wreck, I’m speechless. What on earth is going on?” shouted Pietro Berguet. Someone had called from the office to tell him about the murder. Giuliana was overwhelmed, sprawled like a wet rag on one of the gilt sofas.
“And now what? Who did it? How could this have happened?” The president of Edil.ber was pacing back and forth in the large living room. “What should I be thinking? I’ve lost a friend, and now the police are going to come camp out in my offices. And those guys? They haven’t freed Chiara. What’s more, the notary Charbonnier . . . has been admitted to the hospital.” He looked at his wife. “What are we going to do?”
When Pietro Berguet finally sat down, Rocco took the floor. “Can I have Cristiano’s cell phone number? Cerruti’s account might have phone calls between him and the murderer. I need to get it and I need to try to track down the phone calls he made.”
“Of course, of course.” Pietro got up and went to the front hall.
“Do you think it was them?” Giuliana asked in a faint voice.
“I don’t know. Anymore than I know why Cerruti had a Swiss bank account in Lugano with a balance of no less than three million euros.”
Giuliana’s jaw dropped. “Three . . . three million?”
“Did he earn that kind of money at Edil.ber?”
Pietro, who had just walked back into the living room with a sheet of paper in one hand, answered the question: “He earned very good money . . . but three million!”
“As far as you know, had he come into an inheritance? Or had he won money? Anything that might justify such a huge sum of cash?”
“No, absolutely not. Dottor Cerruti was single and had no real family. An aunt, down in the Marche, but I don’t think that . . . no, I’d rule that out entirely.”
> “In that case, the matter becomes shrouded in mystery, don’t you think? Dottor Berguet, I’m going to ask you with all the willingness to listen and indulgence that I possess. Who suggested you turn to those people for the money? Who told you about Michele Diemoz?”
Pietro chewed his lip. “At first it was the bank itself that told me to try to find someone who could help me out. But the actual suggestion . . . I’m not sure. One night, we were in the office. . . .”
“We who?”
“Cristiano and I. And this Diemoz came in and introduced himself. I tried to understand who he was, and it was Cristiano who took down all his details. He seemed like a respectable person, someone who knew all the right people in Switzerland. That’s right, it was Cristiano who checked Diemoz out, and determined he was a solid person. But so, you’re telling me that. . . .”
“That you were nurturing a viper and it turned on you, Dottor Berguet.”
Pietro raised his hands to his face. Giuliana, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes, which had turned deep and mean. “So if that bastard, God rest his soul, was working with them, then why did they kill him?”
Rocco heaved a sigh. “That’s something I still can’t say. I have no idea of the motive. Who knows, maybe he’d had enough, and was planning to come and tell you about it. Or else. . . .”
“Or else?” Giuliana asked, practically shouting.
“Or else, things went another way. And the people from down south had nothing to do with it. But then it’s a different kind of murder. A private matter. In other words, let’s say that whoever killed Cristiano might be someone who’s very close to him, and that he had some urgent, thorny matter, still unresolved. Now, about the people from down south, here’s what I want to know: have you heard from them again?”
Giuliana and Pietro exchanged a glance. “No,” said Pietro. “Not since last time.”
“They’ll call to make arrangements about the notary. But we’re going to have to start over from scratch now that Charbonnier has checked into a clinic.”
“And Chiara? Out there somewhere, all alone, in the hands of . . .” Giuliana burst into tears. Pietro walked over to her, giving her a handkerchief. Then he turned to Schiavone. “Here’s the number,” he said, handing him the sheet of paper. “That’s the number Cristiano used for office business.”
“Thank you.” Rocco put the slip of paper in his pocket. “What do you intend to do now?”
The two Berguets, husband and wife, ashen-faced, wrapped in a helpless embrace, gazed back at the deputy chief. It was Pietro who finally answered: “We have no idea. We’ll wait for instructions. It was Cristiano who made arrangements with the notary. I . . . we don’t know what to do.”
“What about Chiara?”
“Like we told you. Marcello only heard her voice for a second. But it sounded as if she was alright. I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“I would, and very much so,” Rocco replied. “What assurances do you have that it was really her on the phone? None at all.”
“Then what are we supposed to wait for before we can be sure? An earlobe in the mail?” Giuliana snapped.
Just then, the home phone rang, and it was worse than an icy dagger in the hearts of the Berguets. Rocco raised a hand: “Calm down. Answer the phone. And try to act normal. Is there a second line?”
Pietro nodded and pointed to a phone sitting on a Louis something-or-other side table.
“Good. You take the cordless. If we pick up at the same time, they won’t notice.”
Pietro went over to the wireless phone. The sound of the ringing continued to echo through the apartment. Pietro went back to the living room. They all looked each other in the eye, their eyes dark with despair, eyes that hadn’t had a wink of sleep in days, eyes as deep and hopeless as artesian wells.
“When I count to three,” said Rocco. “One, two, three!” Pietro and Rocco picked up the receiver simultaneously.
“Hello? Who is this?” Pietro asked.
“What the fuck is happening?” replied a distant, cavernous voice.
“Is that you?”
“What are the police doing at the office?”
“Someone . . . someone killed Dottor Cerruti.”
Giuliana went over to Pietro.
“I want to hear my daughter’s voice.”
“Don’t fucking bust my balls!”
Rocco recognized the accent. Calabria, without the shadow of a doubt.
“You talked to her before. The notary is in the hospital. Now we’re going to change things . . . we’ll let you know the name of the notary we’re going to now.”
“Why did you do this to Cristiano. . . .”
“Quit talking bullshit, who ever touched that faggot? I’ll call you back. Tomorrow, not later. Berguet, do your best not to pull any crap. Speak a word to the police and your daughter dies!”
Click.
“Hello? Hello?”
Rocco hung up the phone. Pietro pulled the receiver away from his ear. Giuliana was there, waiting for news like a dog waiting for a biscuit. “He says they’ll call back to tell me the name of the new notary. Tomorrow.”
Giuliana went back to the sofa. Pietro slumped against the wall.
Without saying a word of farewell, the deputy chief left the Berguet home.
“What is all this?” Costa shouted into the phone as Schiavone was driving back to police headquarters.
“Sir, we arrived on the scene and found Cristiano Cerruti’s corpse.”
“I’ve summoned a press conference about that fencing ring and all the stolen merchandise. Now the reporters are going to ask me about this murder and I don’t know a thing!”
“No, Chief, believe me, for now there’s not much anybody knows. All you need to tell them is that your investigators are at work on this, and after all, the investigators in question would be me.”
“I want more information, I can’t let those newsvendors in my underwear without ammunition!”
“Let me send Officer Pierron over to you right now. He’ll brief you fully, and give you a nice snug pair of trousers. He’s been working with me on the investigation, every step of the way.”
“I need you to come, too.”
Fuck no, thought Rocco. Not the press conference. In the general hierarchy of pains in the ass, press conferences were the ninth degree. “Chief, I can’t.”
“So let’s hear why not? And don’t try to feed me some bullshit this time. I want the truth.”
Maybe the time had come to level with the police chief. Hiding the facts was no longer a good idea. “Dottore, I’m on my way in to police headquarters right now. In ten minutes, I’ll be in your office.”
“But you won’t find me there, I’m out of the office. Come on, tell me what you’ve got!”
Rocco told him everything, without skipping a single detail. That is, if you leave out his agreement with Judge Baldi, his agreement with the notary Charbonnier, his agreement with the Berguet family, and the unauthorized search of the HeyDiddleLiddles store.
“Holy crap . . . this is an unholy mess!” the police chief exclaimed when he was done.
“Yes, sir, it is. But I’m begging you, not a word to the press. The life of an eighteen-year-old girl hangs in the balance.”
“Who the hell have you taken me for, Schiavone? One of your Laurel-and-Hardy cops? Let me remind you that I’m your superior officer and you were obligated, let me repeat, obligated to brief me on the whole matter.”
“Dottor Costa, I haven’t slept a wink in the past two days. I’ve done nothing but drill down on this thing. I assure you I had no intention of keeping you out of the loop.”
“Are you playing on my side or are you playing against me?”
“Always on your side, Dottore. It hardly seemed appropriate to alarm you needlessly, putting pressure on you before matters had become clear.”
“Don’t forget that I root for Genoa C.F.C. So I’m well accustomed to living in a state of constant pressure. Spa
re the coaxing and simpering and save it for one of your lovers. . . .” Then he suddenly changed tone: “By the way, did I congratulate you on that notch in your belt?”
“Yes, Dottore, you certainly did. And I also know that you found out about it from your baker.”
“Good. Now, as I was saying, spare me the coaxing and simpering and save it for women like Anna. I want everything to be transparent and crytal clear. I never want anything of the sort to happen again, do you understand me?”
“It won’t happen again, Dottore.”
“And look, just to be clear, if a nice big ass-fucking comes down the pike, we’re going to share it fifty-fifty, is that clear?”
“The metaphor is a hundred percent clear.”
“And now it’s your fault that I’m going to have to go out in front of the newsvendors in this tense state of mental turmoil!”
“Don’t let it get to you. And don’t forget that you root for Genoa. You’ll see, you’ll get through it.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“I’d never dream of it.”
“But in fact you are. I don’t know what’s keeping me from transferring you out of here.”
“Now it’s you, sir, who’s trying to be funny. Because you know there’s nothing that would make me happier!”
“Get to work, Schiavone.”
He’d arrived at police headquarters. The sky was black and the occasional snowflake was falling slowly over the city. He looked at the sidewalk that would soon turn back into a dish of creamy vanilla ice cream.
But no signature. Caterina Rispoli and Antonio Scipioni were in his office.
“Caterina, how are you feeling?”
A red, chapped nose, dark circles under her eyes, the face of someone who’d slept little or not at all: “Well, what can I say, sir? Every time I go out, I just get worse.”
“How do you like it in my office?”
“Very nice indeed. It’s comfortable and it’s warm.”
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
“No, thanks. I even got a cup of tea.”
“Antonio . . .” said Rocco, as he handed Scipioni a slip of paper. “This is the victim’s cell phone number. See if you can get a printout of the last several phone calls received on this line.”
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