“Here’s what we’ll do. Right now, you go make a photocopy of my ID. Then I’ll write on it that I personally promise to get you and your sister Italian citizenship, as quickly as possible. I take back the sheet of paper. If your information proves useful to me, I’ll give it back to you.”
“Marco!” Alba cried.
“Otherwise,” Malatesta concluded, still speaking to the man, “this very night I’ll take you to Regina Coeli prison on charges of pimping and profiting from prostitution, and your sister will wind up in the refugee center of Tor Cervara, with all the other illegals scheduled to be expelled from the country in the next forty-eight hours.”
Without another word, the Albanian took the colonel’s official ID card, asked for fifty cents—“Xeroxes cost money here, like everything else”—and vanished into the back office.
“You’re out of your mind!” Alba hissed.
Marco kissed her on the cheek.
She shoved him away from her, infuriated.
“I’m no one’s third wheel.”
The Albanian returned, gave Marco back his original and a Xerox of his document, and asked to see the photos again.
“This is Lara, but she’s out of the business by now. Says she’s living with a film producer. This other girl, poor thing, said her name was Vicky. They worked as a pair. Two professionals, no offense, Signora. She died here. The night of June 12.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I saw her. If you ask me, she overdid it with the drugs. What is it you say here in Italy? Overdose. They were girlfriends with that politician, the one you see on television. Malgradi, I think his name is. That evening they were together in the Anna Magnani suite.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” said Marco.
The porter coughed.
“Sorry. Right now, there are guests. But there’s something else to see.”
Kerion Kemani took them to his sister’s apartment and handed them the pillowcase and the cell phone with the photos that he had taken that night, when Spadino and Lara had taken away Vicky’s corpse.
Marco and Alba went to Michelangelo de Candia’s apartment in the middle of the night. They asked for immediate warrants for the arrest of the woman and Malgradi.
The prosecuting magistrate gave a frosty reply.
“First find her, then we can talk about it. As for Malgradi, not a chance.”
“But he was the john. The Lithuanian prostitute died in his hands.”
“Prove it. He could always say that they were having a good time together when he was called away for an urgent matter, and that when he left the girl was still alive.
“We have the pillowcase! Her DNA must be on it.”
“What’s the chain of custody on the pillowcase? It was kept with the dirty laundry of an Albanian who’s probably an accomplice to the Honorable’s high jinks. And to whom you recklessly made promises of assistance in securing Italian citizenship. With that kind of a situation, any two-bit lawyer could make mincemeat of us. I’m not saying that you didn’t do a good job, I’m just saying it’s not enough. You need to find this Lara. She’s the key to the puzzle.”
“Still,” Alba suggested, “we could get the word out. Ruin Malgradi’s reputation.”
Michelangelo burst out laughing.
“Then this is a bad habit with you all. Do they teach you this stuff at the police academy?”
Marco locked arms with Alba, who didn’t understand, and got the hell out before a diplomatic incident could degenerate into a declaration of war.
He had to find Lara, then. Her legal name was Sabrina Proietti, and she had a long record of hooking it. The day of the vote was approaching, after which all this effort would become pointless.
They alerted their informants, they roped in the sex-crimes prevention squad, they even considered broadcasting an appeal to the public at large, a solution that they quickly discarded because, once their interest became part of the public record, the first one to hear about it would certainly be Malgradi. And Malgradi meant Samurai, Anacleti, and all the giddy rest of them. For poor Sabrina, better known by her stage name Lara, that leak of information would be tantamount to a death sentence.
Once again it was Alba who solved the situation. It happened the morning of November 11, three days before the vote to approve the proposal.
For years, Alba had been a passionate reader of gossip magazines. She enjoyed reading about the love affairs of screen kings and starlets, and especially loved hearing the losers from reality TV pompously announce their various schemes. Seeing the extent of other people’s vanity in this mirror, in a certain sense, made her feel like she was a better person. It was in the pages of the Italian gossip rag Chi, the bible of the sector, that she saw Sabrina’s face beaming out at her defiantly. Her arms were wrapped around a well-dressed man in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, a well-known producer, as she announced that soon the story of her life was going to be made into a film, a major international production with a stellar cast: Charlize Theron, Uma Thurman, Michael Fassbender, and Viggo Mortensen. That’s right, Italy was landing in Hollywood via the adventures of our own Roman-born Pretty Woman.
It was with immense pleasure that she brought the magazine to Marco.
“While you titillate yourself with radio programs for Zulus, there are others who drink directly from the spring of genuine popular culture, my dear colonel.”
The final act played out in Eugenio Brown’s penthouse apartment. It was noon, it was raining, and the most famous couple of the moment were still in bed when Marco and Alba rang the doorbell.
Eugenio Brown put on an understated cashmere sweater with subtle shades of green. Sabrina, in a pink dress, was lovely even without makeup, and she didn’t bat an eye when the colonel called her Lara.
“My girlfriend’s story is in all the newspapers,” Eugenio broke in, coming to her defense, “and we have nothing to hide.”
“No, she certainly doesn’t,” Marco said softly, finding himself suddenly well-disposed toward the producer, “but there might be certain details best discussed with the lady. In private.”
“No,” Eugenio objected. “Sabrina and I have no secrets from each other.”
Marco agreed. Poor fool. He’d recognized the stigmata of a man in love. What he was about to do pained him, but there was no other solution. He turned and spoke theatrically to Sabrina.
“Spadino is dead, Lara. They murdered him like a dog. And you’re in danger too. The same way we found you, those guys are going to find you too. And they’re not just going to question you. So, you really have no choice: You have to trust us.”
The ladylike mask crumbled. Sabrina stared at Eugenio Brown as if she wished she could incinerate him on the spot. She snapped open two vials of an echinacea-and-ginseng tonic that she purchased by the twelve-pack at the local organic herbalist, and poured them into a glass of water, because that brand of tonic formed part of the foundations of a genuine lady. She chugged it down at a single gulp.
“I told you that this whole idea of the publicity launch was a stupid idea! But you never want to listen to reason. The true story of Sabrina Proietti, the whore. You’ve ruined me for good, asshole!”
Eugenio gave her a stunned glance.
“But, my love, I . . . ”
Sabrina ignored him. She crossed her legs, let the crestfallen producer hand her a cigarette. Then, clamping it between her lips, she snapped off the filter, which she spat out into the ashtray in the center of the table. She turned to the colonel, truly a handsome piece of beefcake, no doubt about it, with a lethal smile.
“And what do I get out of this whole thing?”
“It depends on how much you have to lose,” Marco specified.
“Let’s just say that when the girl died, I was there too. And that maybe I helped out in procuring pious burial for her m
ortal remains . . . ”
“Sabrina . . . ” Eugenio Brown moaned in despair.
“Shut up, you. You opened Pandora’s box, and now it’s too late to put the cork back in. Well, Colonel?”
“Well . . . let’s just say that certain information not essential to our reconstruction of events wouldn’t necessarily need to become part of the public record.”
“That’s good by me,” Sabrina concluded. “You want to know about that swine Malgradi, no? Then let me tell you exactly how things went.”
LII
The Subaru Outback pushed slowly down Via del Corso, its flashing blue dome lights lighting up the Saturday afternoon crowds, which were much larger than usual. The lights slapped patches of blue onto faces overwhelmed by incredulity and happiness. On foot, riding mopeds, on bikes, from Piazza Venezia to Piazza del Popolo, men, women, and families were all flowing in a giddy disorder toward Piazza Montecitorio. Obstructing sidewalks and special preferential lanes.
Marco shot a glance at the thermometer on the dashboard—sixty degrees—and slapped his hand down on the driver’s leg.
“Andrea, what day is it today?”
“Saturday, Colonel.”
“I know that. What about the date. What’s today’s date?”
“November 12. Do you want to know the name of the saint today, too, Commander?”
“What?”
“This car has everything, right here on the GPS. Here it is. Today is St. Christian’s Day.”
“Then people say that there’s no such thing as divine providence.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Never mind, never mind.”
He tuned in to the frequency of the operations center.
“All right then, to all cars and personnel . . . Situation on Piazza del Quirinale rapidly evolving. At the moment, we report two to three thousand persons, number climbing. Large crowds gathering on Piazza Colonna, traffic blocked solid on Via del Corso. We recommend to all personnel currently on duty in the area to not REPEAT NOT prevent free access and departure between Quirinale, Montecitorio, Dataria, Via IV Novembre, and Piazza Venezia. Report in with any critical situations that may develop.”
Now the Subaru was stuck in traffic in the middle of Via del Corso. Malatesta reached out and grabbed the driver’s arm.
“Forget about the siren. It’s not the time or the place.”
“Of course not, now that that guy’s leaving, it seems like just yesterday that he first took power. What was it he said? ‘Italy is the country that I love.’ But it wasn’t yesterday, it’s been twenty years, eh, Colonel?”
“It seems more like forty.”
“And now who’s going to be in charge, Colonel?”
“A technocrat.”
“Anyway, it doesn’t seem to me as if anything’s going to change for us. We’re still just going to have to chase after thieves. Right-wing, left-wing, eh, Colonel? All the different ones we’ve seen.”
“Andrea, it’s a good thing you vote every five years.”
“Colonel, between you and me . . . I stopped voting a good long time ago.”
“That’s just as well.”
Malatesta went back to staring through the side window at the crowd surrounding the car. Some middle-aged guy was carrying a boombox on his shoulder—fuck, where did he find that piece of antique junk?—which was emitting the amplified melody of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.”
Maybe tonight wasn’t the right time to light the fuse, he thought. Or maybe it was. St. Christian’s Day, the night that marks the end of his twenty-year rule. Of course, the kabbalah was sure to have something to say about it.
He thought back to the story that Sabrina had told him in the penthouse apartment over Piazza Vittorio.
“Now let me tell you how it went.”
Of course, then this was the last twist.
He looked at the time. It was seven o’clock. He opened the door of the Subaru and got out.
“I’m going to walk. It’ll get me there quicker. Wait for me at Largo dei Lombardi.”
Marco noticed that the neon signs out front of the “Back On Your Feet, Rome” foundation had been prudently turned off. But from the shapes that he could just make out behind the windows that were illuminated from within, he realized that his trip over here had not been made in vain. Without slackening his pace, he went past the bodyguards at the front door, waving his Carabinieri badge and ID under their noses; he also took care not to say so much as a word in response to the repeated questions from the young woman who barred his way at the reception desk and then tottered after him on her five-inch heels as far as the lounge.
“Excuse me, sir? Sir, can I help you? Who are you looking for?”
Mauro Lotorchio introduced himself, with an enthusiastically unctuous handshake.
“With whom do I have the pleasure?”
“ROS, Carabinieri. Anticrime Section. Lieutenant Colonel Marco Malatesta.”
“There must be some mistake. We didn’t call for anyone. Maybe the bad guys you’re looking for are right out here in the street. Ha, ha, ha!”
The laughter of that piece of dried cod in a double-breasted suit who reeked of French cologne ought to have been met with an open-handed slap. But deep down, he knew he could do better. He could crush his pride. His and his master’s pride.
“Listen, my dear Lotorchio. Nobody called for me at all. Let’s just say that this is a surprise visit. And let’s also just say you tell the Honorable Malgradi I want to see him.”
“I’d be very happy to do that for you, Colonel. But right now the Honorable is involved in an exceedingly sensitive political meeting. You surely understand, these aren’t easy hours for our country. We each have responsibilities and we are obliged to make decisions . . . ”
“Let me guess. Irrevocable decisions, is that the phrase? I must have read it somewhere already.”
These bagmen were trained to be more flexible than modelling clay, but the guy had registered the lunge and had changed his expression. On the lips of the idiot, the smile straight out of a toothpaste ad had vanished, giving way to a visible tremor of rage. Now, Malatesta. Now.
“All right, then, my friend. Given, as you well know, ROS doesn’t take action for apartment burglaries, if you’re not going to announce me, I’ll take down your name and I’ll interrupt the Honorable’s meeting myself. That way all three of us can take a trip down to the barracks.”
Malgradi rushed into the waiting room outside the large conference room.
Christ, now what the fuck did that Malatesta want? He’d known it all along, damn it. He knew that he should have gotten that asshole out of his hair long ago. What the fuck was Rapisarda up to? Hadn’t he settled Malatesta’s hash with the whole story of that Red Brigades terrorist they’d caught at St. John Lateran?
The Honorable shook Malatesta’s hand and waved away Lotorchio with the kind of gesture you’d use to dismiss a butler. He put on a stony face.
“I’m entirely at your disposal, Colonel. If you’d only called ahead, I’d have arranged to meet you in a more fitting place, at a more fitting time.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Your Honor, but you know how things go with homicides. You never know what thread you’ll grab next. Day, night, investigations don’t go according to the clock or even the calendar.”
“Homicide? Frankly, I don’t understand.”
Malgradi had taken on the color of the immaculate shirt that he was wearing, upon which a gold tie clip gleamed, with a miniature tricolor banner, a memento of the 150th anniversary of Italy’s unification.
“Homicide. You understand perfectly, Your Honor. For me, what’s important is to understand whether you’ve ever heard the name of a certain Spadino. Or if you prefer, Marco Summa, which was his name until last summer, when they roasted him to a turn in a pine grove.
All we found of him was his teeth.”
“How horrible.”
“Maybe he asked for it. Or maybe someone else had it in for him because he’d gotten too big for his britches. Or maybe he got smart with someone he shouldn’t have gotten smart with. Or maybe he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was just thinking aloud. But tell me, answer my question. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Think it over carefully. Spadino.”
“Nothing.”
“Then maybe I’ll have better luck with a certain Vicky. She’s a Lithuanian citizen. Excuse me, she was.”
“No, I don’t know any Polish women.”
“We were luckier with her. The dogs had only eaten half her head. And when we found her, the worms working on her decomposition hadn’t entirely digested her.”
Malgradi was seized by an uncontainable urge to vomit.
“Listen, Colonel, I wouldn’t want to seem discourteous to you in any way, but I honestly don’t see what help I can be. And so, if you’d be so kind as to excuse me, I need to get back to my meeting. Naturally, I am completely at your disposal if you happen to think of any other circumstances concerning which you believe I can be of some assistance.”
Malatesta smiled. The Honorable had taken the hook. And now he tried to lessen the tension on the line, letting a little play into the conversation. The man could have just burst into a black rage. He could have shouted that he was a member of the parliament of the Italian Republic. Kick him rudely out of the foundation and demand—he certainly would have been well within his rights—that Malatesta observe the traditional formalities required for an interview with a person of interest or even a suspect.
He hadn’t done any of that. Malgradi hadn’t done it, because he couldn’t. He was up to his neck in shit. Guilty as sin. And now Malatesta knew it. And so the countdown had begun.
St. Christian. St. Christian.
“Thanks, Your Honor. We’ll see you again very soon. You’ve been much more helpful than you could ever imagine.”
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