“Yes, Dottore, and in fact an autopsy is automatic and mandatory. We’ll take him to Vercelli and—”
“You can go to Vercelli on your summer vacation! This body is coming back to Aosta!” the judge shouted again.
“But . . .” the prison warden tried objecting. “We report to the Vercelli court and—”
“Listen carefully, Martinelli. This man belongs to me. I’ll talk to the prosecuting magistrate in Vercelli. Italo! Alert Fumagalli. I want him to do the autopsy.”
“Right away!” Italo stepped away from the little group.
“I don’t think this is at all standard operating procedure,” the warden complained.
“Martinelli, let me just say this, I don’t give a merry fuck!”
“So you’re certain that this isn’t a heart attack?” asked Dr. Crocitti.
The judge looked him right in the eye. “I’ll bet both my testicles that this was a murder.”
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT, BUT IN THE STREET IN THE TRIESTE neighborhood, you’d say it was five in the afternoon from the traffic and the hustle and bustle. Paoletto Buglioni was standing in front of Hysteria, keeping an eye on the line of young people waiting to gain admission to the discotheque. Arms crossed, dressed in black, not a hair on his head, with a ferocious glare and several days’ growth of whiskers on his face, he stood a good foot taller than any of the would-be clientele. His biceps looked as if they were about to rip the sleeves of his jacket asunder any second. As soon as the young people shouting and brandishing plastic cups brimming over with who knows what alcoholic potion reached the double doors and caught sight of that brooding giant, they fell silent and waited, suddenly docile and well behaved, for the bouncer to accord them entrance to the club. Rocco and Brizio stood leaning against the metal roller shutters of an antiques dealer, watching Buglioni from a distance of thirty feet or so. Paoletto looked up and noticed them. He nodded to Brizio, and Brizio nodded back. “He’ll be right over,” Brizio muttered to Rocco. Not two minutes later, another bouncer emerged from inside the discotheque, shorter but even more muscular than Paoletto. This bouncer was black, with dyed-blond hair and a pair of sunglasses. Buglioni leaned down and spoke into his ear, the other bouncer nodded, and then the giant stepped away from the line of impatient young people and strode decisively over to the deputy chief and his friend.
“Hey, Brizio!” At the sound of Paoletto’s voice, Rocco barely managed to keep himself from bursting into laughter. It was a good octave higher than La Callas’s voice, but it was also faint and weak. It seemed like the voice of a particularly innocent young girl.
“Ciao, Paolè . . . So do you know Rocco?” Brizio said.
Paoletto nodded but didn’t extend his hand to the deputy chief. “So does someone have it in for you?” he asked.
“Who told you that?” Rocco asked.
The bouncer looked off to one side, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and lit one with a movement that he’d surely seen some actor or other use once. “It’s just that people are talking about it . . .”
“You’re the one who told Stefania . . . but who told you? What else do you know?” Brizio asked him.
“Beats me. You know how it is, Brizio.”
“No, how is it?” Brizio retorted.
“Rumors going around. I’m sorry about Adele. How’s Seba?”
“How do you think he is?” Rocco broke in. “He’s fucking furious.”
“If I could do anything for Seba, I would. But for real, guys, I don’t know anything at all.” And he took a puff on his cigarette, holding it between his thumb and his index finger. He narrowed his eyes and looked at Rocco. “How did she die?”
“Eight shots, 6.35 mm, small caliber.”
More silence. Two young women walked out of an apartment house door, momentarily snagging Brizio’s attention. Paoletto flicked away his cigarette. The neon sign of the antiques shop, reflected off his bald head, gave it a pale blue cast.
“How’s your brother?” asked Rocco.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“About what happened up north?”
“I haven’t seen Flavio for a while. You know that, right? He lives with Mamma, poor old thing, she’s eighty-five, deaf, and not in the best of health. Anyway, now that I think of it, it was Antonio Biga who told me. You know him, right?”
Brizio nodded. He ran his hand through his hair. “Listen up a second, Paolè . . . If you hear anything, will you tell us? Either me or Seba?”
“Of course I will. You can count on it.”
Brizio stretched out his hand. The bouncer clasped it. Then he shook Rocco’s hand, too. “I’m sorry, Rocco.”
The deputy chief and his friend walked away. Paoletto went back toward the discotheque. As soon as he saw the two men vanish around the corner, he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Flavio . . . yeah, it’s me . . .”
His brother’s voice answered sleepily: “What is it?”
“How is Mamma?”
“Wait, you’re calling me at one in the morning to find out how Mamma is?”
“No, listen to me. Did you sell a gat, a 6.35 mm, a while ago?”
“So, what if I did?”
“Fuck, Flavio. You weren’t supposed to sell that one, and you know it. Who did you sell it to?”
“Hey, why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”
“This is my own fucking business, you asshole! Who did you sell it to?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because whoever it was, they used it . . . probably to shoot Adele up north in Aosta. Well?”
“Oh, fuck . . . and I thought he just wanted it for an armed robbery.”
“Who?”
Flavio took a deep breath. “Enzo. Enzo Baiocchi!”
Paoletto rolled his eyes heavenward. “The cop is looking for him. Don’t say a thing. Keep cool. And if it ever turns up again, throw it into the Tiber.”
“You think they can trace it back to me?”
“I don’t know. But you don’t know a fucking thing and I never told you a fucking thing. To Enzo Baiocchi you had to go and sell it . . . Couldn’t you think of anything stupider to do with it?”
ROCCO FELL ASLEEP DIRECTLY ATOP THE PLASTIC SLIPCOVER that enfolded the bed. And it was a sleepless night, with ghosts popping up relentlessly every time he shut his eyelids. From time to time he had the sensation that there was one sitting at the foot of the bed, gazing at him as he lay there with his eyes shut. And he was thirsty all night long.
Thursday
He got up at the first light of dawn, happy that his dreamless night was over. He hoped he’d never have to spend another night like it as long as he lived.
At 6:15 a.m. Rocco was on the terrace smoking the first cigarette of the day, sitting facing the rising sun as it painted the city orange and red.
“THERE’S NO ARGUING WITH HOW PRETTY IT IS, IS THERE?”
Marina holds her coffee cup with both hands and shivers a little from the cold. “That’s why we bought this apartment, isn’t it?”
“Actually, it was because it was close to your folks’ place.”
“Come on, let’s have a contest. All right, you point and I’ll describe.”
After all, she gets every one of them. “Let’s start with an easy one. That cluster of roofs down there?”
“The Basilica of Sant’Anastasia at the Circus Maximus.”
“Good job. And that other roof over there, behind the Altare della Patria?”
“Torre delle Milizie! Come on, now, can’t you come up with anything a little harder?”
“All right, that stand of cypress trees . . . you see it? Over Testaccio?”
“Santa Sabina! I’d like to remind you that that’s where we got married!”
She’s right. With the cypresses of the Aventine Hill and the Orange Garden right next to it. “Marì, do you know why they plant cyp
resses around cemeteries?”
She takes a sip of coffee. “Because of the roots. They’re narrow and they sink down straight, they don’t spread out horizontally, which means they don’t bother the graves or tickle the dead.” She looks at me and smiles.
“You sure know a lot of things.”
“Right?”
I look at her. She turns her eyes to the city and narrows them slightly.
“Are those wrinkles I see around your eyes?”
“No. They’re just folds. I didn’t have time to get wrinkles.” She turns to look at me. “Want to know the truth? You’ve forgotten my defects. It always happens with the departed, doesn’t it? The first thing you forget about us is our defects.”
“You didn’t have any.”
“Baboom!” And she breaks out laughing. “Admit it, Rocco. You’re starting to see a mist, I’m starting to blur . . .”
“Wrong you are!”
“THIS ISN’T SOMETHING WE CAN CRACK IN TWO SECONDS . . .” said Furio, lighting a cigarette. Sebastiano was busy making sure that the cocoa powder didn’t sink into the foamed milk. As always, Brizio was looking around. Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere at that hour of the morning was already full of people, young women for the most part.
Rocco grabbed the demitasse of espresso. “Antonio Biga won’t talk. Zaccaria has nothing to do with it. And Paoletto is just a megaphone.”
“So much so that here in Rome everybody knows about it,” Furio threw in.
“That’s what I told you,” said Brizio. “Huh, beats me, I’ve got to say. No one else comes to mind for the moment.”
“What about this Walter Cremonesi?” asked Furio.
Rocco finished his espresso and slumped against the backrest of his chair. “I don’t know. It’s an old thing . . . so why now? He could have done it a long time ago, when I was still in Rome.”
“He was just waiting for the right time?”
Brizio turned to look at his friends. “No. Cremonesi is a guy who works at the highest levels. He was up to his elbows in government-issued contracts, public works, zoning and regulations. Why take a risk when you’re riding high like that? And after all, Rocco didn’t put him behind bars all by himself.”
“That’s true,” Furio agreed. “He’d have to have taken down that deputy inspector of the special task force . . . what’s-his-name . . . I can’t quite . . .”
“Nardella,” Rocco said.
“Exactly. No, Walter Cremonesi doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“I go over it and over it again, but I just can’t figure out who it could be. And I don’t like that,” Rocco replied.
“This is a rat that’s come back out of its rat hole,” decreed Sebastiano, without once taking his eyes off his cappuccino and the pastry that he still hadn’t touched. “Someone who hasn’t been out on the streets for some time.” He finally looked up, turning his glistening eyes from one friend to the other.
“I agree,” said Rocco. “I was thinking the same thing. We need to go find someone who was doing time and just got out.”
“Right!” Sebastiano added. “I’d bet my life that the guy who shot Adele is a prison rat, and now he’s hiding out somewhere.”
At the sound of the dead woman’s name the other three looked down at the café table. But instead, Sebastiano smiled. “No, that’s not right. Let’s do this, anytime we hear Adele’s name, why don’t we just smile?”
And that’s what they did. The only problem was that Sebastiano was forced to brush away a tear. “Jesus fucking . . .” he muttered, and with his hairy oversized hand he reached out and grabbed the pastry, bit into it, and tore off half, sprinkling his beard and his jacket with flaky crumbs. Then the sounds from Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere broke into their reverie. They looked around at the Sinhalese street vendors peddling trinkets, the young people sitting on the steps and smoking. Rocco was reminded of that afternoon so many years earlier when he had spotted Marina for the very first time, on those very same steps, and decided, as the sun kissed the golden mosaics on the facade of the Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere, that he was going to make her his wife.
THE JOURNEY BACK FROM ROME WAS A NIGHTMARE. MORE than an hour’s delay at Fiumicino. And when he landed at Turin he discovered that someone had locked his car in the parking lot. He’d had to call a tow truck to get his Volvo and leave Caselle Airport. Only when he was in his car heading back to Aosta did he finally turn his cell phone back on. A burst of sounds announced the presence of dozens of messages. He didn’t waste time checking to see who they were from. He knew. His office, the prosecutor’s office, and Anna. He called Officer De Silvestri.
“De Silvestri, I need you again.”
“Tell me what you need, Dottore . . .” the old Roman officer replied.
“The guy I’m looking for is someone who couldn’t put his nose out on the street.”
“You’re thinking about someone who was behind bars?”
“Or maybe who was just afraid to show his face. Which means there’s something I need you to do . . .”
“A serious search. Find out who’s just been released, who’s escaped . . .”
“Have you ever seen a case where you cross-reference the information and you come up with something?”
“I sure hope so, Dottore. Just don’t make the same mistake you just made.”
“Which would be?”
“You came to Rome and you didn’t even swing by to say hello.”
“You’re right, Alfrè, you’re absolutely right.”
CATERINA WAS WAITING FOR HIM ON PIAZZA CHANOUX, IN front of the bar. As soon as Lupa saw him emerge from Via di Porta Pretoria, she came galloping to meet him and leapt at him as if she hadn’t seen him in a lifetime. Dogs have no sense of time. Whether their owner is away for five minutes or twenty years, like Ulysses in the Odyssey, it’s the same to them. Especially for dogs like Lupa, who no longer really trust people.
“Thanks, Caterina. Was she a good girl?”
“She was a very good girl. We’ve become best friends. Isn’t that right, puppy?” She smiled at the little dog as she wagged her tail and scampered around Rocco, whining and yipping. “Listen, Dottore—”
“Here we go again! We’re on a first-name basis, not ‘Dottore,’ not ‘sir’!”
“I’ll try to do better . . . Listen, Rocco, Baldi is looking for you. A murder at the prison.”
“A murder?”
“That’s right. I don’t know anything more than that. I didn’t quite understand the message. Yesterday Italo had to run up there, along with the judge.”
“And what does Italo have to say?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea. I haven’t seen him since yesterday, in fact.”
Rocco nodded. “Wait, so, you weren’t together yesterday evening?”
“He got his feelings hurt. He’s all bent out of shape because he found out I told him a lie.”
“You told him a lie?”
“Oh, yeah, technically. He wanted us to go to dinner at his aunt’s house, and she’s not feeling well, but I really didn’t feel like it. I can’t stand family dinners. Let’s just say that I have my problems with the family as an institution. And he took offense.”
“For a trifle like that?”
“Sometimes for much less!”
A crack in the wall, then. That relationship that looked so solid, diamond-hard—had it already started to creak and sway under the weight of time and routine? He felt ashamed to think it, but he couldn’t lie to himself: if that couple was having problems, he could take advantage of the fact. “Did you have a fight?”
“Let’s just say that . . . Dottore, maybe that’s none of your business.” And the deputy inspector started petting Lupa.
“You’re right, Caterina. Excuse me. That’s none of my business. Thanks for taking care of Lupa. I’ll take her back to my room at the residence.”
“When will you be coming into the office, sir?”
Rocco rolled his eyes. “Okay, Caterina, I give up. One of these days you’ll get used to the idea of calling me by my name.”
“That sounds like a threat!” said the woman with a smile.
“That’s exactly what it is!” He whistled to Lupa and headed back to the residential hotel. Caterina stood there watching him go; then she turned and headed back to the cathedral, where she’d left her car.
HE’D JUST TAKEN A SHOWER AND PUT ON SOME CLEAN CLOTHES when someone knocked at the door.
“Who is it?” Rocco shouted.
No answer. The siege was under way again. It must be the guy from the reception desk. “Who is it?” Silence. Huffing with annoyance, he got up off the bed and went over to the door. “Who is it?” he shouted again, scant inches from the wood.
Silence.
He pulled the door open.
Standing before him was Officer D’Intino, looking at him out of empty eyes, holding his uniform cap in one hand. D’Intino, a native of the far-flung lands of Abruzzo, was the worst punishment that Aosta had held in store for him since his arrival at police headquarters. Worse than the snow, worse than the cold.
“Why are you here? What do you want? Didn’t you hear me shouting?”
“But I used the secret knock.” And he smiled.
“The secret knock?”
The officer raised his fist and gave three sharp raps on the wood, all the while smiling at the deputy chief.
“What are you talking about?”
“Our secret knock, no?”
“No. You and I don’t have any secret knock. Plus, three knocks on the door, what kind of damned secret knock is that? D’Intino, for fuck’s sake, you have to learn that when you knock on a door and someone yells out ‘Who is it?’ you’re supposed to answer them!”
Lupa barked as if to emphasize the absolutely linear logic of the point.
“What a handsome boy,” said D’Intino.
“What a pretty girl,” Rocco corrected him. “She’s a she!”
“Oh. What breed is she?”
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