“Me? I’ll come . . . I’ll come with you.”
“Good boy.” Enzo pulled the hand out of his jeans pocket. Empty. Corrado heaved a sigh of relief.
“So where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you once we’re on the road. Tomorrow.”
“Do you have a car?”
“No. We’ll take yours.”
“It’s got some engine knock and the tires are old. How far do we need to go?”
“We’ll take yours,” Enzo insisted. “Okay, now do you have a place for me to sleep?”
“Y . . . yes. I’ve got a pullout sofa.”
“Then let’s get inside. It’s cold out here.” He flicked the cigarette away and followed Corrado through the front entrance to the apartment building.
Thursday
It must have snowed for a few hours during the night, even though the sky was clearer since day had dawned over Aosta. The air remained thin and icy cold, and the city still seemed to be locked in a deep slumber. The streets had already been plowed and only a light dusting, like confectioner’s sugar, still encumbered the sidewalks. It was six thirty. Too early to go over to Ettore’s; he’d get breakfast later on. He had to hurry over to the office, instead. The hours of sleep had done him a world of good and he had the sensation that he’d swept the cobwebs out of his brain. He took advantage of the open newsstand. The front page carried the news of Cristiano Cerruti’s murder. As he read the article, he could see that Costa had carried it off brilliantly. Just a few solemn words, boilerplate suited to the occasion, the usual clichés and phrases of reassurance. There was his own name, as the chief investigator. Surely, he’d soon receive a phone call from Judge Baldi. The day before, he’d forgotten to inform him of that minor detail.
And, just as expected, the call came in.
“Dottore?”
“So I have to read about it in the newspapers?”
“I’m so sorry, didn’t Farinelli call you?”
“Farinelli never called me.”
Piece of shit, Rocco thought to himself.
“But you were the one who owed me the phone call, Schiavone!”
“You’re perfectly right.”
“You know what you can do with your ‘perfectly right’? But listen, tell me, have you got a theory of what happened?”
“More or less. I think that Cerruti was deep inside this plot, with both feet. It’s very likely that they decided to shut him up.”
“Do we have any evidence?”
“We’re trying to figure out from the cell phone whether he made any calls, and to whom. It’s just that we were unable to find Cerruti’s cell phone. And knowing only the number, it seems that the matter is somewhat complex.”
“So it is. Just think, two years ago a defense lawyer brought in as evidence an incomprehensible graph to prove his client’s innocence. He wanted to show that on that day at that hour the accused was sixty miles from the scene of the murder.”
“But instead?”
“But instead a technician who read that tangle of lines and diagrams revealed the exact opposite. In other words, the lawyer nailed his own client for the crime because he hadn’t known how to read that confusing document.”
“That kind of thing happens.”
“Now prepare to be amazed at my generosity. Do you remember that ledger you brought me? The one you found at that shop, HeyDoodleDiddles?”
“HeyDiddleLiddles.”
“Whatever it is.”
“Of course I remember it.”
“Good. So it contains the names of twenty-five debtors. And I’ve discovered that twelve of them have one thing in common.”
“Which would be what?”
“They all have accounts at the Vallée Savings Bank. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”
“Maybe it is. Still, good to know. Thanks, Dottore. I’ve got that locked away.”
“I’m hoping to know things early this time, Schiavone. You and I have an agreement, remember?”
“Certainly.”
“And just to let you know, if a nice big ass-fucking comes down the pike. . . .”
“You’ll do the generous thing and split it with me?”
“No. I’ll leave it all for you. Have a good day.”
He couldn’t resist now. He pulled open the drawer and picked up a joint. He lit it, sat down, and gathered his thoughts.
On the messy desk, there were dozens of sheets of paper. No messages, no new developments. He stretched his neck. He stubbed out the roach in the ashtray and, as always, opened the window to let in some fresh air. Caterina walked in without knocking.
“Excuse me! I never thought that. . . .”
Rocco, caught red-handed, was left speechless.
“Why do you have the window wide open? Have you lost your mind?”
The deputy chief shut the window.
“I didn’t knock because it didn’t even occur to me that you might be here,” said Caterina as she went to take a seat. The odor of cannabis was overpowering. Could Caterina seriously not even notice?
When the inspector loudly blew her nose, the reason dawned on Rocco.
“Wait, weren’t you supposed to stay home?”
“I couldn’t take it any longer. Italo snores like a couple of lumberjacks,” and she smiled with her red nose and blue eyes, large and sincere.
“A couple of lumberjacks sounds like more company than you’d care for?” Rocco commented, in some amusement.
“Well, you know what they say!” she replied.
“No, what do they say?” Rocco asked, playing along.
“Laugh and the world laughs with you, snore and you sleep alone!” she trotted out the punch line and laughed at her own joke. Then: “Listen, deputy chief, maybe this isn’t important. But yesterday I went by the pharmacy.”
“Good for you.”
“That’s right, because if I don’t take my antibiotics this cold could easily turn into a sinus infection. And that would be a serious problem.”
“I know. It hurts so much you can’t think straight.”
“Right? Anyway, I was saying that I’d been to the pharmacy. You remember that slip of paper that you gave me? Green paper? With the mysterious phrase we’d been able to bring out by doing a pencil rubbing?”
“Of course. I took it from a note pad at the Berguet home. I was hoping for something better. What was written on it?”
“I thought it said Deflan, which is a medicine. So I took it to the pharmacist. He read it, too, and he told me that what’s written there isn’t Deflan, but Deflamon.”
“So is that important?”
“Ummm, I don’t really know. But Deflamon is a medicine, too.”
“And what’s it good for?”
“Hold on, I’ve got it written down right here.” She opened her purse. She pulled out her wallet, a makeup kit, a dark-blue paperback, and the bag from the pharmacy. She reached in and found the note. “All right, then, Deflamon . . . is used to treat a vaginal infection.”
Rocco squinted. “A vaginal infection?” but it wasn’t a question, he was just thinking aloud. Caterina looked at him. “Yes . . . a disease that. . . .”
Rocco lunged at his phone. “Please put me through to Dr. Fumagalli. Schiavone, police headquarters, Aosta.” He held the line while nervously drumming his fingers on the desktop.
“Hey there! Seven thirty in the morning and you’re already on the job?”
“Do you remember when you let me look in the microscope? That stuff you found on Carlo Figus’s body?”
“Not on his body, on his penis. Yes, of course.”
“What did you call that virus you showed me?”
“Oh my God, Rocco, it’s not a virus. It’s a bacterium. Gardnerella vaginalis.”
“Can it be treated with Deflamon?”
“Certainly, it’s a metronidazole. But why do you ask?”
“Because it’s a first step, my friend.”
“I told you that you needed to get
a steady girlfriend. Did you catch it?”
“Not me.”
“Then who did?”
“I’ll tell you later!”
“Listen, it’s a pretty common ailment. . . .”
Rocco hung up the phone. “It’s a clue, Caterina. A small one, but it’s still a clue!”
He picked up the phone again: “Oh, who’s at the front desk?”
“It’s me, Casella, Dottore.”
“Call up the highway patrol. I need to talk to Officer Umberto.”
“Last name?”
Rocco spoke to Inspector Rispoli: “Do you know Umberto? From the highway patrol, Italo’s friend?”
“Certainly, he was over at my house for dinner last night. Lasagna. Umberto Lasagna.”
“Casella, Lasagna.”
“Gladly, thanks.”
“Gladly, thanks, what?”
“Thanks for the offer.”
“What offer, Casella?”
“The offer of lasagna. I’d gladly eat some.”
“Lasagna is Umberto’s surname, you fucking moron!”
“It was a joke. I realized that, sir!”
“I’ll come down there and chew your liver out of your gut, you fool. Get moving!” He waiting with the receiver still in his hand. “Where do they put wrecked cars?”
“Usually down at the tow yard. In Villair. . . .”
“Call Italo. Tell him to come straight over to police headquarters. And get me copies of the photographs of Figus and Midea, the two men who were killed in that cargo van. Take the ones from their IDs. They ought to be in the files, but there I’m just guessing.” And he hung up the phone, cutting off the call with the front desk, and shot out of the office at top speed.
“I could ask Casella where they keep them. He’s in charge of the filing.”
“If you’re willing to talk to Casella. . . .”
Casella saw the deputy chief go racing past the front entrance. “Dottore? They’re connecting me now with Umbe. . . .”
“Fuck off, Casella, it’s too late! Go up and report to Rispoli and obey her orders. Get moving!”
Casella hung up, abandoned the front desk, and ran as fast as he could, one hand clapped to the top of his hat, toward the deputy chief’s office. At the same time, the deputy chief himself came dangerously close to slipping and falling on a step as he went out the entrance to police headquarters. He managed to stay on his feet, though, and stepped into the squad car. On the third attempt, the engine turned over.
“This piece of shit!” He shifted into gear and, tires skidding on the icy asphalt, roared away from police headquarters.
“Come along, Dottore, this way.” The custodian of the tow yard, a short, bald man, was escorting him past dozens of wrecked cars, all without license plates, an automobile graveyard that the snow had tried in vain to cover up.
“By any chance do you have a replacement dashboard for a 4WD Volvo XC60?”
“I can ask, but I don’t think so. Why?”
“Mine’s broken.”
“Here you are, Dottore, the cargo van involved in that fatal crash is right here!”
Rocco tried to open the driver’s side door.
“No, that one’s damaged, you can’t get it open. Try on the other side.”
The other door was practically ripped from its hinges. Running down the side of the door was a succession of oil-change decals that made it look like part of a Christmas display. Rocco pushed it open and climbed inside. There were still dark blood stains on the dashboard and the upholstery. He looked at the floor. There was a cigarette lighter, some mud, a length of rope. He opened the glove compartment. Documents, a screwdriver, an old rag, and a brand-new box of Stilnox, missing two pills. Rocco pocketed the box and smiled.
“Does it open in the back?”
The man threw open the two rear hatches.
There was a spare tire, there was a tool chest. Hammers, trowels, a paint brush, and a bag full of black plastic strip fasteners.
“You’ve been immensely helpful, maestro!” Rocco practically shouted.
He ran back to get the squad car.
“How do I look?”
Enzo Baiocchi had just stepped out of the bathroom. He’d turned blond. Corrado looked at him without changing expression. “You look like a German.” And he drank the last of his espresso. Enzo sat down. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Not much. Are you going to tell me where we need to go?”
“All you’re going to have to do is drive. Never accelerating, just nice and steady, a light foot, and straight ahead. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
Corrado Pizzuti put down the coffee cup. “Listen, about your brother, I didn’t. . . .”
Enzo grabbed him by the front of his shirt, knocking the metal cover of the sugar bowl to the floor along with a couple of cookies. “Don’t you even mention Luigi’s name. Never again, understood? Never again!” He released his grip. “How long have you been living here?”
“Three years, almost four.”
“You’re set up nicely.” Enzo drained the last of his coffee and looked out the window. “Look at that, you can even see the water from your house. And you own a bar. How’s business, pretty good?”
“In the summer, yes. But it’s slow in the winter. How did you find me?”
“Rats like you leave their little turds behind them.”
“You didn’t hurt my mother, did you?”
Enzo burst out laughing. “Do I strike you as the kind of guy who hurts a ninety-year-old woman? All I had to do was ask a couple of questions. Like I told you, you leave a stench.”
“But then, when we get where we’re going, are you going to let me go?”
Enzo glared at him. “If I wanted to hurt you, you’d already know about it.”
“But why me?”
“Well, you see, Corrado, I don’t have a lot of friends. And I need you to drive. I don’t have to explain to you that, someone like me, the less I’m seen in public, the better, right? Now, quit asking so many questions cause I’m fucking sick of it. Hurry up and get ready to go.” He kissed the gold-and-coral crucifix he wore around his neck.
“Do I have time to call Tatiana and tell her I’m not coming in today?”
“No.”
He screeched to a halt in front of police headquarters. Italo was standing there, with a sheet of paper in his hand. “Here you are, Rocco. These are the Xeroxes of the pictures of those two and. . . .”
“Give it here!” The deputy chief didn’t even get out of the car. He tore the sheet of paper from the officer’s hand, threw the car into reverse, and then roared away in the direction of Via Cretier.
Italo stood there watching the car as it swerved dangerously close to a camper. “What did he smoke this morning?” he asked himself. Then a chilly shiver drove him back up to the warmth of the office.
He’d parked three hundred yards from the school. He went the rest of the way on foot.
The kids were outside the front entrance. Among the dresses, backpacks, and hats, he spotted the blond head of Max Turrini. Sitting on a low wall, Max had his arm around a young woman’s shoulders. He was craning his neck to whisper something in her ear. Something that made her laugh. As he passed by, Rocco murmured: “Oh, ciao, Max. So you’ve already found a replacement, I see!”
Max looked at him as if he’d just taken a punch to the jaw, but said nothing. He had neither the wit nor the time, since the deputy chief had already plunged through the front gate of the school.
He didn’t bother to knock. He walked straight into the office of the shrew, better known as Principal Bianchini, like a torrent of wind. The school principal jerked in startlement when he saw Rocco appear before him. Hair wildly askew, jacket unbuttoned, trousers rumpled, one shoe unlaced, and two buttons missing from his shirt.
“Dottor . . . Schiavone? What’s this about?”
“Giovanna Bucci-Something-or-Other.” It was no good, he couldn’t get the architect’s double-barre
led last name into his head.
“Bucci Rivolta?” Bianchini asked shyly.
“Exactly. Where is she?”
Just then the bell rang. Looking out the window, Rocco saw the kids entering the school like a family of sloths.
“Class Five B, but. . . .”
“Take me to Class Five B. Quick!”
Bianchini put on his jacket and grabbed a bunch of keys. “Let’s go. It’s on the third floor.”
Rocco and the principal were standing at the head of the classroom. The kids came in shouting, but at the sight of the shrew, they lowered the volume of their voices. They were afraid of him. Rocco watched him out of the corner of his eye. On the principal’s face there now appeared, almost involuntarily, a complacent smile. That little half-man was happy to exert his smidgen of power. And the treacherous gleam in his eyes made it clear just how vindictive he could be.
A venomous shrew.
The faces of young women and young men passed by them, nondescript, handsome and homely, pimply and unkempt. Then in the midst of those anonymous masks, like a poppy flower in a field of wheat, Giovanna’s face stood out. A whole other category, a whole other gait. And the minute she saw the deputy chief she froze in the middle of the hall. Rocco smiled and went over to reassure her.
“Something’s happened to Chiara, hasn’t it?” she asked.
“Everything’s okay, Giovanna,” and he locked arms with her and led her to the window in the hallway.
“Have you found her?” asked the architect’s daughter.
“Not yet. But we’re getting close. Now, listen closely . . .” Something caught Rocco’s eyes. Down below, at the entrance, Max Turrini and his mother were talking to Pietro Berguet’s brother, Marcello, the math teacher. Laura was nodding while Marcello talked and Max kept his eyes on the ground. The bank director had come by for a conference with her son’s teacher and from the grim look on her face, the news couldn’t be good. But Rocco already knew that: math was one of those subjects that the young man would be retaking come September. In the end, Laura shook hands with Marcello while Max hurried back into the school. And that was when Marcello—perhaps because he felt someone watching him, or else just by chance—looked up and saw the deputy chief gazing down through the window pane. Laura, too, looked up. Marcello shyly raised a hand and waved to the deputy chief. Rocco waved back. So did Laura.
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