Kill the Father
Page 34
“Exactly. He wouldn’t have had to sell the video of the Palladino boy if someone was still financing him. Which means he’s operating on his own resources now. He has cover, collaborators, and accomplices; plus maybe someone who helped him back then, or even someone who gave him orders, is still in a position of power and can give him some help. Especially when they see a pair of shoes hung up at the scene of a crime. I think it’s a signal of some sort: ‘This was our work, stay out of it.’ And his friends cover up for him. They forget to have an autopsy done on the Palladino boy, they hasten to arrest Luca’s father . . .”
“A signal more or less like what we assumed the whistle was for you,” said Colomba.
“Even though we now know that it was Rovere who put the whistle there to draw me in. Just like he did with you. What a remarkable coincidence that he happened to have the exact newspaper clipping to show you that would make you believe. Truly a cunning son of a bitch, if I may. It must have been interesting to work with him.”
“Like playing in the major leagues. Always,” Colomba replied, battling against the memories that came crowding into her mind. “Did you ask your friend Santiago to dig into Blackmountain? To see if we can find the names of any other beneficiaries?”
“Yes, but it’s impossible. It’s an international holding company based in Portland, and its servers are too well protected. Plus it has millions of shareholders around the world, and it sits on the board of directors of I don’t know how many banks and major corporations. Name a company, and it’s part of the inside power structure, from armaments to tobacco, by way of pharmaceuticals and aerospace. And plenty of nonprofits and charities, too, including Save the People.” Dante tried to extract a cigarette from his pack, only to discover that it was empty. He made a gesture of disappointment and hurried over to Santiago, coming back with one cigarette, lit, in his mouth and another tucked behind his ear. “We don’t know whether other members of the Father’s little group might have received money from the same holding company. Even if they did, it’s more or less like using a bank. There’s only one detail that might be of some significance, though it also might not.”
“Which detail?”
“Save the People was one of the international financers of Silver Compass, the support center where the Palladino boy went. Two years ago, they cut off the funding.”
“That could be pure chance,” Colomba began. “We don’t even know whether Silver Compass was really connected.”
“But if it was, then it means that the Father had international financers.”
“To kidnap children?”
“This is something big, CC,” Dante said in a whisper. “So big that we have trouble seeing the outlines of it. That’s why we have to work back to the origins. The eighties. What Pinna was talking about.”
Colomba grimaced in distaste. “If I were still on duty, I’d ask the Ministry of Defense for information.”
“Luckily, Rovere already did. The ministry didn’t give him anything about Bellomo, but they told him where Pinna had been. The General Annoni Barracks, which was actually a reconverted ammunition dump. It was open only as long as the Caorso power plant was in operation, from 1981 to 1990. They mostly sent men there who had criminal records or were disciplinary problems. In those nine years, roughly a thousand conscripts passed through there, about eighty in the same period Pinna was there.”
“Do we have all the names?”
“There were about eighty of them, and seventy or so are still alive, scattered the length of the peninsula. But before going through them one by one I’d like to test a hypothesis.”
“Namely?”
“Pinna said that when he dismantled the warehouse, Stankfoot was there too, right? If he mentioned him but not the others, I’d have to imagine that they were pretty close friends.”
“Maybe.”
“In the documentation on Pinna that Rovere put on the flash drive there was also a criminal complaint for a brawl while he was still doing his military service. He got into a fight in a bar not very far from where he grew up. According to the police report, he was with a certain Augusto Stanchetti, twenty. Stanchetti, stanky, stankfoot . . .”
“Now you’re just taking wild guesses,” Colomba observed.
“Maybe so, but since we have to start with someone, he might just turn out to be the ideal candidate. Let’s go see him. He lives in Cremona,” said Dante with a dark flash in his eyes. “A chance for a homecoming visit.”
Colomba shook her head. “We’re wanted, Dante. We can’t go around as if everything were all right.”
“Santiago will put us in touch with someone who can get us a car.”
“And maybe even fake IDs,” she said, feeling a wave of irritation rise inside her.
“That would take too long. But my birth father will find us a place to stay.”
“They’re going to keep him under surveillance if they’re looking for you.”
“But I know how he spends his days and where to find him. And he’s the only person I trust, aside from you and Roberto.”
“I don’t know, Dante . . .”
“What alternatives do we have? Stay here and wait for them to come get us, or turn ourselves in and hope that they believe us?”
Colomba thought it over for a solid minute, while her mind teemed with disastrous scenarios and her heart filled with suffering. She’d started out by breaking the rules, then she’d turned into a fugitive from the law, and now she was going to scrape bottom, piling deceit upon subterfuge.
She sighed. “I’ll have to dye my hair. Find some clothing . . .”
“Santiago’s sisters have everything you’ll need. If you want, you could even add fake nails. I’ll think of something.”
“When do you want to leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. Tonight we’ll make our preparations, and then we’ll get moving at dawn.”
“Rush hour would be better. Harder to spot us.”
“Right.” Dante put out his last cigarette. “If you go downstairs, would you bring me up a pack of cigarettes when you come back? There are a few cartons lying around.”
“You’re not coming?”
He shook his head. “Too many people down there. Up here I have a sleeping bag and a sofa. And there’s a bathroom in the garret, so I can use it.”
“A full life.”
“I really miss my balcony,” said Dante sadly. “I really, really do.”
Colomba went back down into the chaos of Santiago’s apartment, where there were now three more girls between the ages of thirteen and sixteen and the mother, a fat bleached blonde who eyed her suspiciously.
Ayelén understood what Colomba needed, supplied her with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and told her to choose between a bottle of mahogany red hair dye and a light blue one. Colomba concealed her disgust and chose the mahogany red; she refused Ayelén’s offer of help, though. As a girl she’d dyed her hair more than once and thought she remembered how it was done. Ayelén went away, promising to get her some clothing and make her something to eat. Colomba suddenly realized that she was hungry as a wolf. She shut herself up in the bathroom, at least as much as the ramshackle door would allow, and took off her hospital gown. She was covered with bruises, and the bags under her eyes made her look like a junkie: she pitied herself. She took an enormous hamper of dirty clothing out of the tub and ran the water, getting ready to wash her hair. Outside the bathroom, in the meantime, the hubbub had grown more intense, punctuated by bursts of laughter, shouts, and the ringing of phones. One of the cell phone ringtones caught her attention because it was identical to her own, a ringtone she’d very carefully chosen out of the less overused and abused ones, and she instinctively turned her head toward the door: in the gap between door and door frame, she spotted one of the thirteen-year-old girls answering a cell phone. When their eyes met, the girl suddenly looked guilty and slipped away. Colomba also noticed that the cell phone the girl was using looked exactly like hers.
She slipped the hospital gown back on and went in search of the girl, whom she found sitting on the bed in the master bedroom. She was talking into the cell phone in a low voice, and even seen from up close, it looked like her phone. When the girl noticed that Colomba was staring at her, she hid the phone behind her back. “What is it?” she asked.
“Where did you get that?” asked Colomba.
“It’s mine.”
Colomba held out her hand. “Let me see it.”
The girl shrank into herself. “I’d used up my own phone card . . . I swear, I only used it twice.”
“Give it to me now!” she roared.
The girl left the phone on the bed and took off. Colomba grabbed it and removed the battery.
She ran out of the room and almost crashed into Santiago, who was sprinting down from the roof. “Dante and I have to get out of here,” she told him.
Santiago grimaced. “It’s too late.” And that was when Colomba heard, above the ruckus that surrounded her, the distinct sound of sirens.
12
Dante had stayed up on the roof, alone, stretched out on the sofa, wrapped in the parka that Colomba had given back to him before heading downstairs. He was going off coffee cold turkey, refusing to drink the foul swill Santiago’s mother made, so his head hurt. He lit a cigarette, trying to assuage his anxiety.
Cremona.
Cre-mo-na.
He turned the word over and over again in his head: the city where he had been born was a clump of nostalgia and regrets, but the thought of going back there summoned up the worst memories. He’d believed for years that the Father might still be there, hidden in one of the ancient, dusty streets, though now he knew that that city had been just one of many stops in his career as a kidnapper and murderer. But even if Cremona was no longer any more dangerous for him than any other city on Earth, he still trembled at the thought of going back. With a sigh, he selected a tablet from his now sadly depleted supply and gulped it down with a mouthful of vodka from the pint bottle he kept under the sofa, hoping that the combined effect would lower his internal thermometer, now dangerously close to sounding alarm bells. He almost thought he heard that alarm bell ringing, until it dawned on him that the sound was coming from outside and below him.
Police sirens.
His eyes opened wide and he saw Colomba emerge from the fire escape, followed in short order by Santiago and Jorge. She was wearing only the hospital gown and her police boots, but she carried what looked like a bag of clothing. “They’ve found us,” she said. She didn’t say who, and there was no need.
Dante leapt to his feet. “How did they do it?”
“Santiago’s sister used my cell phone. High intelligence must be a family trait.”
“Watch your mouth, puta,” Santiago snarled.
Colomba ground her teeth. “What’ll you do to me if I don’t?”
Dante grabbed Santiago and Colomba each by an arm to separate them, the way you do with children when they fight. “How are we going to get out of here?”
“You can’t,” Santiago replied, continuing to stare at Colomba. “My boys downstairs say that the cops have surrounded the building.”
“And no doubt they’ve set up roadblocks on all the roads leading to the area,” said Colomba. “At least, that’s what I would have done. Or better yet. I’d have put the apartment building under surveillance and waited for the suspect to emerge. Or at least I’d have waited for the light of day. They certainly must be in a tremendous hurry to catch me,” she added bitterly.
Santiago slapped Dante on the back. “Sorry, compadre. I hope that you’ll respect our agreement and tell them that I had nothing to do with it.”
“Yes, of course I will,” Dante replied mechanically.
Jorge had started dismantling the computer workstation, and Santiago went over to give him a hand.
“How much time do we have before they arrive?” asked Dante.
“All the way up here? Maybe half an hour if no one helps them. They found me by tracing my cell phone, but they don’t know anything about Santiago, otherwise they’d have made a targeted raid instead of coming en masse. They’re going to have to go through all the apartments.”
“Then add a few more minutes: it’s not going to be that simple,” said Dante.
He was right, because at that very moment, six floors below, a group of officers from the Mobile Squad, dressed in riot gear, were facing off with a compact mob of screaming, furious tenants filling the lobby and the stairway. Between the two formations Chief Inspector Infanti was yelling himself hoarse, trying to make himself heard.
“People, please! Don’t interfere with the work we’re here to carry out. We’re looking for a person who doesn’t live here! This has nothing to do with you!” he shouted. As he did, he pondered the fact that until just a few months ago the woman they were looking for had been his direct superior and that he still couldn’t believe that she was guilty of the things they accused her of. A bit of a nut, no doubt, but capable of planting a bomb in Rovere’s apartment? That wasn’t possible. As for the evidence, someone on the Forensic Squad must have screwed up. It would hardly be the first time. Still, no one had asked for his opinion on the matter, and most of his colleagues were less disposed to defend her innocence.
A stout woman stepped forward, banging on a saucepan with a spoon to silence all the others. She was wearing a heavily teased-out wig and a dress with vertical stripes that made her look like a barrel. “Who is it you’re looking for?” she asked in a strong southern Italian accent.
“Signora, that’s not any of your business. You just need to let us do our jobs.”
“You’re looking for him in our homes, so it’s definitely our business now. Do you think we’re just going to let you in like this?”
“We’re trying to find him, that’s all. None of you are going to have any problems.”
An old woman stuck her head down the stairs. “Liar!” she shouted. “That’s what you always say! And when you took my son away, you said it was just for a routine check.”
“Signora, I swear it’s true,” said Infanti, increasingly worried about the turn the situation was taking. He wondered why he hadn’t just called in sick that evening. Especially once he found out that the judge who had issued the arrest warrant was De Angelis. That college-educated donkey.
At that very moment, the educated donkey in question was leaning against an unmarked police car parked across the street from the front entrance of the building. He was uneasily watching the kids in the glare of the floodlights as they stared back at him from behind the line of armored cars. They couldn’t have been any older than twelve, and they already seemed eager to grab handguns and start shooting, he thought with a faint sense of disquiet. Santini, a couple of yards away, was talking in a low voice into the radio.
“What the fuck is going on?” De Angelis asked him. From what he could see, the officers who should already be searching apartments were just standing, half in and half out of the apartment building entrance, while from inside bursts of shouting and cursing could be heard rolling out at intervals.
Santini held the radio away from his ear. “There’s a problem with the tenants,” he said. “This isn’t an easy neighborhood.”
“We aren’t easy either. Let’s give them a wake-up call.”
“Caselli can’t go anywhere. Let’s wait until things calm down.”
“Let’s wait, my ass.”
“Are you sure, Judge?”
“Stop asking questions and get going,” said De Angelis, irritated.
“Yes, sir.”
Making his way through the officers, Santini emerged alongside Infanti, who was still trying to negotiate. “Why aren’t we moving?” he asked.
“You can see for yourself, Deputy Chief,” sai
d Infanti, sweaty-faced. “They’re afraid we want to take away one of their people.”
“Just one of them? They don’t understand a thing. Let me explain something to them.” Santini signaled a member of the squad to hand him a small megaphone and took a couple of steps forward. He switched on the device, and it emitted a piercing electronic shriek. “Now, then,” he bellowed into the microphone, and his voice, transformed into the voice of a robot, echoed all the way up to the top floors. “Either you get IMMEDIATELY out of our way, or else we’ll cart you all off for resisting the orders of public authorities and interfering with the duties of law enforcement officers. Is that clear? You all need to DISPERSE THIS UNLAWFUL ASSEMBLY RIGHT NOW.” He lowered the megaphone for a second, and the place was silent as a graveyard. Then a bedside lamp flew down the stairwell and shattered half an inch from his feet. “Who threw that?” he shouted, red in the face, forgetting he was holding a megaphone. “Who the fuck threw that?”
“Your mother did,” someone shouted back from two stories up. There was a round of laughter.
Santini tried to figure whose voice that had been, unsuccessfully. He went back and stood next to Infanti. “Charge them,” he ordered.
“We’ll wind up in the newspapers, sir,” he replied.
“So much the better. Maybe they’ll think twice about it next time.”
Infanti took his helmet off his utility belt and put it on. He hadn’t worn a riot helmet since the G8 summit in Genoa, and things hadn’t gone well for anyone back then. He gave the signal.
The sounds of distant shouting reached the roof of the building. Colomba was still standing next to Dante by the sofa. “You need to hide, they don’t know you’re with me. And if you’re lucky, once they’ve caught me they’re not going to waste a lot more time around here.”
“What then?”
“Then you continue.”
Dante shook his head. “That won’t work, CC.”
“We’ve already talked about that, I think.”
“But I wasn’t comfortable with it then, and I’m much less okay with it now.” He broke away from Colomba’s side and went over to Santiago and Jorge, who had now been joined by Tattoo-Hands. They’d almost finished breaking down all their equipment, and they were stuffing it into two large backpacks. He leaned close to Santiago and whispered into his ear. “You need to get her out of here.”