“That depends how you look at it,” said Italo. “I see lots of things.” Rocco’s only response was to turn out the light.
They were back out in the long corridor lined with stalls. There was also a third room without a door, but it was merely a place to park two wheelbarrows and a lawn mower. They headed back. Another horse poked his head out. This one was gray with black spots. As if he had caught his fellow horses’ attention, three other horses followed suit. “We’ve woken them up . . . now they think it’s time to eat. Hush, be good boys and go back to sleep,” Rocco said, tapping them lightly on the nose. At the center of the corridor was a larger stall than all of the others. Outside was a nameplate that read “Winning Mood.”
“This one seems to be a champion. A horse worth many hundreds of thousands of euros.” And Rocco glanced inside to get a look at the horse.
“Would stealing him be out of the question?” asked Italo.
The horse was on its side. It had been sleeping. Eyes wide-open, it was looking at the face of that intruder, come to disturb its nightly sleep.
Rocco noticed that the next stall was empty. After the sliding gate, they had built a wall complete with an armor-plated door.
“And what about this?” The deputy chief pulled open the sliding gate and went in. He touched the wall. He looked at the door a little closer. “Take a look at this lock!”
“Do you know how to pick it?”
“It’s not going to be easy. It’s a Mottura.” The two wooden walls that supported the jambs showed cement underneath the boards. “No, I thought I could remove the wooden facing of the wall, but there’s cement underneath. It’s an armor-plated room, in any case . . .”
“So what are we going to do?”
“That I don’t know,” Rocco replied. Then he glared at that obstacle made of metal and wood with hatred. He kicked at it. “This makes everything much more complicated . . .”
“So now what?”
“So now we go and look for the keys.” And he said it with simplicity, as if someone had just suggested they go to the bar for a drink.
BESIDE THE VILLA, ABOUT A HUNDRED YARDS AWAY, A SMALL structure served as a garage for the cars. The garage doors were open. Inside were a Jaguar, an SUV, and a small four-wheel drive vehicle. Above the garage, three windows with lots of curtains. Rocco and Italo, hidden in a thorny dog rose bush that was just putting out its first blooms, eyed the building. “We have to hope that he lives there,” said the deputy chief.
“Who?”
“Dodò.”
“Who’s Dodò?”
“The groom.”
“Ah!” said Italo, who still remembered what he’d been told at police headquarters. “The one who was at dinner with them?”
“Exactly, Italo. Are you starting to understand?”
“Absolutely not.”
They slipped outside.
THE DOOR TO THE LITTLE APARTMENT WAS LOCKED TIGHT. The deputy chief tried to turn the handle a couple of times, but there was nothing doing. “We’re going to need to get up on the roof.”
“On the roof?”
“That’s right . . . Haven’t you noticed something?” And without bothering to wait for an answer, he darted around the corner of the little stone house. Italo had no option but to follow him.
Rocco picked up a small metal outdoor table and carefully positioned it next to the wall. He climbed on top of it. He reached up with both hands and got a grip on the rain gutter. “Let’s hope this holds,” he whispered to Italo. “If not it’s going to make a tremendous ruckus!” He pulled himself up. The gutter creaked, but it supported his weight. The deputy chief was on the roof. “Come on, don’t sweat it, you weigh less than me.”
Italo heaved a sigh of annoyance and imitated his boss. With some difficulty he pulled himself up, and then they were standing on the terra-cotta roof tiles of the little outbuilding. “Walk gently now. One foot after the other, and test the tile to make sure it’s solid, otherwise don’t rest your weight on it.”
The two shadowy shapes slowly began making their way across the roof. One step after the other, balancing carefully, gingerly trying not to slip or knock anything off, for fear of waking up everyone in the house. After a few minutes they came to a halt. “There you go, right here,” said Rocco, bending over a skylight. “You see? It’s open!” Inside, the outbuilding was dark. Italo turned to look at the villa. Even the light in the little tower was switched off by then. A dog barked in the distance. Schiavone already had his Swiss Army knife out and was undoing the screws that fastened the plastic skylight to its fixtures. “Done!” he said, and pulled off the plexiglass cover. Now they could get into the house. Rocco was the first to lower himself inside.
He found himself in a small room with a washing machine, a sink, and a set of shelves packed with detergents and dirty clothing. He gestured for Italo to lower himself after him. His partner obeyed. Slowly he helped him to set his police boot on the lid of the washing machine, holding him by the waist until the officer set foot on the floor. The deputy chief opened the door to the little room. They entered a small living room with a fireplace; there were embers still glowing.
“What are we looking for?” asked Italo in a low voice.
“Keys . . .”
From the adjoining bedroom came a slow and regular snoring. Dodò was sleeping. Luckily, the task proved very simple. Next to the front door, on a wooden panel covered with hooks, there were six bunches of keys. Three sets of car keys, the others unidentified. Rocco immediately recognized the key to the armored door in the stables. Gently, he slid it off the hook. He showed it to his partner, who gave him a wink. One object struck Italo’s attention. On the table by the front door, lying in plain view, there was a wallet. Italo grabbed it. Rocco noticed and tore it from his hands. “I wasn’t going to steal it,” said the officer.
“I know. But I wasn’t trying to keep you from doing it. There’s just something I need to see.” He opened the wallet. Only a little cash but, more importantly, the thing that Rocco was looking for. The Swiss driver’s license belonging to the groom, who continued to snore in the adjoining room. He read the name. “Dodò, my ass!” he said. “You want to see what our little friend is named?”
Italo squinted and managed to read in the dim light from the fireplace: “Carlo . . .”
“Cutrì!” And the deputy chief looked the officer in the eyes. “Do you get it now?”
Italo nodded. “Fucking . . .”
“Right.” And Rocco put the wallet back where it had been. He opened the front door of the little house and left.
“Come on, let’s get moving.”
“Are we going to leave everything like this?”
“I’ll finish up later. Now get going!”
THEY WENT BACK TO THE STABLES. THE HORSES WERE STARTING to wake up. Many of them had put their muzzles outside the half doors and were stamping their hooves. Rocco and Italo reached the stall next to Winning Mood’s stall and went into it. The deputy chief inserted the key in the lock and pulled open the door to the little secret room.
Ten feet by seven, a refrigerator, English prints of horses hanging on the walls. Rocco opened the refrigerator. The dim bluish light illuminated his face. The fridge was full of pharmaceuticals. Phenylbutazone, Zylkene, Equanimity, Calmitan, Equiworm . . . Rocco examined them box by box. He would read the label and then put the package back. Stanozolol, Tefamin. Bronchodilators, corticosteroids, anti-inflammatory drugs, and hormones. Rocco was no expert in sports medicine, but he’d dealt with a few cases. Half the pharmaceuticals in that refrigerator were banned substances, products used for doping, things you’d definitely keep under lock and key. Then one box in particular caught his eye. Drontal Plus, a dog dewormer. He knew about it—he’d given the same stuff to Lupa. He picked up the package. It seemed odd to find that pharmaceutical in the midst of all those horse medicines. Under lock and key, and in a refrigerator. He opened the box. Inside were three glass vials. And they were labe
led: “Ethyl carbamate.” Urethane.
“Bingo!” said Rocco. He put the medicines back into the refrigerator. “Now we’ve got to get moving, Italo. I have to put everything back where it was, and soon it’ll be daylight. Let’s lock up here, and then we can meet at the enclosure wall.”
“Where are you going?”
“To put the keys back and screw down the skylight.”
BACK ONTO THE ROOF. THE SKY WAS BEGINNING TO LIGHTEN. On the one hand, that was a good thing, because it helped him to carry out the challenging task of screwing back together the opening mechanism of the skylight. On the other hand, however, if someone woke up and looked out the window, they’d spot him immediately. He was as unmistakable as a drop of blood on fresh snow. He took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. He had put the keys back and had shut the door to the outbuilding behind him. Up on the roof, with all the chill and the damp that had seeped into his bones during that long night, his hands seemed to be tied in knots. It was hard to get his fingers to move, and the screws were only about an inch long. He’d already driven home the first two. He moved on to the third screw. He silently hoped that Italo had made it back to the place where they’d crossed the wall and climbed over to the other side by now. At least that way, if he was captured, he’d be able to take full responsibility, without having to put poor Pierron in harm’s way. The third screw slipped into place as well. He pulled out the fourth. But the forefinger and thumb of his right hand refused to obey his mental commands. The screw slipped out of his grasp and bounced across the terra-cotta tiles. It continued its progress toward the rain gutter, landing with a metallic clang.
“Fucking hell!”
He couldn’t afford to waste time looking for it now. He’d necessarily have to abandon the task when it was only three-quarters finished. He stood up. Step by step, he crossed back over the roof, taking care not to slip. The smooth soles of his Clarks desert boots weren’t especially well suited to the purpose, but fortunately he managed to make it intact through the ordeal. He lowered himself from the rain gutter to the metal table, and then put the table back where it belonged. He was done! He was moving away from the outbuilding when something caught his eye. Looking out the window on the second floor of the villa, Max was watching him. Rocco stopped in the middle of the lawn. He looked up at the boy. Max slowly lifted his hand and waved to him. Rocco waved back. Then Max opened the window and gestured for him to come over. The deputy chief looked around. There was no one else on the lawn or in the house. He moved quickly over to the foot of the building. The young man had the appearance of someone still wandering in the world of dreams.
“Hi.”
“Ciao, Max.”
“Did Chiara give you the documents?”
The deputy chief nodded his head.
“And were you able to find anything?”
He nodded his head again.
“Make them pay, Dottore!”
“You understand that your father and mother are part of the group.”
“I know. But I didn’t give a damn. They can do what they want, but not with my life.”
“Are you sure? If they get tangled up in all this, what are you going to do?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m legally an adult. I could go to America and stay with my uncle. Or maybe I’ll finally graduate from high school. If there’s anything you need, you know where to find me. And don’t worry, I never saw you here!” With that he shut the window. Rocco smiled and quickly darted behind the bushes. As he was running toward the enclosure wall, he marveled at that young man in whom he hadn’t at first detected any noteworthy qualities. He regretted his hasty and superficial judgment of the young man. It’s typical of the old to dismiss and condemn the young. But it’s only jealousy of the things the old have lost forever.
How much had that decision cost Max? How many nights had he lain awake eavesdropping on his parents, their friends, and that whole clan of wrongdoers that were milling around in his home? They had forced him to mingle with people like Walter Cremonesi, Carlo Cutrì, and that asshole Luca Grange. Other young men would have looked the other way, interested only in getting a new car and a couple of credit cards in their wallet. But not Max. He’d made the decision to uproot his life, a change that he knew would soon turn into sheer hell. But at least he’d be able to sleep at night, in his own bed, and not sit up restlessly smoking at the window, eating his heart out.
“IT’S SIX THIRTY IN THE MORNING, SCHIAVONE!”
“Did I wake you up, Dottor Baldi? I’m already in the office . . .”
“You’re not a normal person. You either disappear for days on end or else you’re in the office at ridiculous times of the morning. I hope you have something really important to tell me.”
Rocco propped his soaking-wet Clarks desert boots up on the windowsill. “Well, let’s just say that I’ve found Carlo Cutrì. Is that sufficient?”
From the other end of the line came a moment of silence. “Where?”
“He works as the stable boy at the Turrini estate. He goes by the name of Dodò.”
“Are . . . are you certain?”
“I swear it, by all that’s holy. I need two warrants. Daniele Abela and Federico Tolotta. For the murder of Domenico Cuntrera.”
“Hold on, hold on, hold on, what are you talking about?”
“The mastermind, and this is the most interesting thing, is none other than Carlo Cutrì. Through the agency of Amelia Abela, the prison guard’s sister, an escort by profession.”
“You’re vomiting a series of details that I—”
“That I’ll explain clearly to you at the courthouse. But I need the warrant right away.”
“And this isn’t a dead end?”
“No, Dottore.” Over the phone, Rocco heard a distant car horn. “Wait, Dottore, you aren’t at home?”
A moment of awkward silence. Then: “No . . . listen, Schiavone. We can’t meet at the prosecutor’s office right now. This isn’t the right time.”
“This isn’t the right time?”
“No. Now just do me a favor, wait until after lunch. Then you’ll see that I’ll explain everything clearly to you as well.”
“You’re starting to worry me, Dottor Baldi.”
“I’m not the one who needs to worry, and neither are you. It’s someone else. We’ll talk later.” And he ended the call.
Rocco stood there with the cell phone in his hand, not sure what to think now. Lupa looked at him, her muzzle wedged between her two front paws. “Oh, well . . .” he said to her. “Maybe he was just over at his girlfriend’s house and wanted to cut the conversation short.” Someone knocked at the door. Lupa barked.
“Come in!”
Deruta and D’Intino made their entrance. They were gray, wrecked, and carrying a notepad. “Dottore! Here we are! Ciao, Lupa!”
“What’s up?”
“We’re done. We only have Val d’Ayas and Cogne left.” And they laid down a sheaf of twenty pages or so on the deputy chief’s desk. “We’re dead tired, but we’ve done a good job, haven’t we?”
“Sure,” said Rocco, looking at the stack of lists they’d just set down. Including the lists dotted with colorful highlighter stripes. “Can you tell me why you highlighted all the names?”
“Certainly,” said D’Intino. “So, pink is the females, blue is the males, green is the families, and yellow is the foreigners. Sharp, right?”
“Male foreigners or female foreigners?” asked Rocco.
D’Intino turned and looked at his colleague with a glance of despair. “All the foreigners.”
“And if I were looking for a male foreigner, or a foreign family, or a foreign woman, what am I supposed to do?”
He had posed them quite a problem. “What are you supposed to do?” D’Intino asked rhetorically, stalling for time.
“You can’t,” Deruta admitted in defeat. “You’d have to read them one by one.”
“No, no, that just won’t do,”
said Rocco. “No, no, you have to come up with a method.”
“I’ve got it!” Deruta burst out. “Now we’ll list all the foreigners on another sheet of paper, with hotels and times, and then we’ll make the males blue, the females pink, and the families green.”
“Then that means you wouldn’t use yellow at all anymore?”
“I’m afraid not, Dottore.”
“Fine. It strikes me as a good idea!” Rocco scooped up the sheets of paper and handed them back to the two policemen. “All right then, get to sorting.”
“Grazie!” the two officers replied happily.
“But first, give me back the yellow highlighters!” and the deputy chief held out his hand.
With a grimace of annoyance, D’Intino pulled them out of his jacket pocket and handed them over to Schiavone. “Here you are, Dotto’ . . .” he said, gazing down at the two highlighters like a mother watching her son leave forever.
“Then we’re all good. Get to work, now!”
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