‘Did he ever mention a judge or a magistrate?’
‘A judge? No. What would he say about that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Alfridi picked up his bag and stood to go.
‘Wait, one more question: did you ever talk about anything besides work? Anything that might be useful.’
The young man checked his surroundings – it was only the two of them and the owner, who was now busy cleaning the coffee maker – and sat down again. His hair fell back into his face, covering one eye.
‘Actually, yes, though I don’t know how useful it might be. Right after he changed, seven months ago, he asked me how to access the Corriere della Sera archives from his computer.’ He almost whistled. ‘It’s not that hard.’
Annibale was all ears. ‘What was he after?’
‘He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I just taught him how to get around the system and into the archives. That’s it.’
For Annibale, the cogs started whirring, processing the new data. ‘Maybe we can access that information in his computer memory?’
‘We could have, but the police took it away. Do you have access to them?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
Annibale could feel his frustration mixing with the impatience coming from behind the bar. The owner was huffing and sending them clear signals: she was closing, they needed to leave. Alfridi insisted on paying for both of them.
They stepped out onto the wet pavement. At least it had stopped raining. Alfridi hesitated again before lighting a cigarette. ‘Actually, there is another way. His search might have left traces in the target system. But we’d need a device directly connected to the archives, one of the Corriere’s computers.’
‘Would you be able to find something out if you had one?’
Alfridi smiled, gratified. This was his field of expertise.
‘It would be easy, but we’d need to know someone from the paper, to let us use one of their computers.’ He sighed, as if to indicate the impossibility of the task. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’
‘I do.’ Annibale patted his coat for his wallet, and asked Alfridi for his contact details.
19
‘I don’t like it.’
They were sitting in the car, in piazza Piola. It was dark, and it was raining again. Repetto wasn’t sure he’d lost whoever was following him, but Annibale told him not to worry: they were here to follow him and he would get rid of them later if he had to.
‘You can’t trust that journalist. How do you know she won’t publish it as a story? Or worse, she might go tell them.’
‘I have no other choice, and she seemed ambitious and open to compromise. She’ll help me in exchange for an exclusive.’
Repetto shook his head and looked out, wiping the window with his sleeve to see if he recognised any of the cars parked around them.
‘The fog is lifting. Petri went the Hansel & Gretel route, and left me a trail to follow to find the truth. He knew they’d try to stop him from meeting with me, and he knew he was in danger, so he left a trail of crumbs.’
‘I’m not getting the metaphor.’
‘What he wanted was to meet me: he wanted to tell me about a secret he was holding on to, something from when I was hunting him down as a terrorist. But he was wary. He knew that the people with things to hide would play dirty, so he protected himself. He left behind a skeleton key, and a string of signs to decode. He was sharp: he didn’t leave them any old where, only in places where I would find them. As insurance.’
‘You seem very sure about this, but I still don’t understand.’
‘Bear with me. He talked about me with the only two people he trusted: a camorrista and a colleague; a criminal who wouldn’t speak to anyone but who thought of him as a man of honour, and an invisible man nobody notices. Opposites in many ways, but similar in their aloofness, for entirely different reasons. He didn’t do it randomly: he didn’t speak to anyone else. He knew I would start there. I’m a man of the law like they are. But he also knew that these people – who esteemed him as a criminal and possibly felt some affection for him, who knows? – would speak to me and me alone. Why? Because he’d let them both know that I was the only one he could trust. He also knew they wouldn’t say anything to the people investigating, and he was right: Cammello and the young man only told me about the book, about Petri’s change of demeanour, his request to access the Corriere archives and this mysterious judge. Which reminds me: look into the people who follow his case, starting from the parole judge. That’s our next target.’
Repetto lowered his head. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure he did all of this intentionally.’
‘I’m telling you he did. This is a scavenger hunt, and the prize at the end is the truth. We’ll get there.’
Annibale opened the car door.
‘And who are these fuckers following us?’ Repetto asked.
‘I don’t know, but it must be someone who’d be destroyed by this secret. They’re keeping an eye on us for now, but they can’t find out if we’re getting anywhere…’
‘Couldn’t we just turn the tables? See where they lead us?’
‘Later. We’re in no rush. We can catch them whenever. What matters with this whole thing is the why, not the who. Once we get to the treasure, we’ll figure what to do with them too.’ Before Repetto could open his mouth, Canessa had disappeared into the rare spring rain falling over the city.
*
Panattoni watched Canessa run quickly down the steps of the underground station. For a moment, he considered following him, then changed his mind. He was resigned to the fact that Canessa was allowing them to follow him, and could easily get rid of them whenever he wanted. Figuring out what he was up to wouldn’t be easy. But he didn’t want to mention it to his employers.
He was also restless. He was thinking about the tanned beauty waiting for him in his via Bergamo loft and how much he enjoyed her company, not to mention her long legs. More with every day, in fact. Maybe it’s old age creeping up on me. Every time he thought about seeing her again he felt a mixture of desire and tenderness. He’d probably never find anyone else like her, willing to be with him for nothing. But the pleasant feeling was marred by the fear of having to tell his employers that Annibale Canessa was not amenable to surveillance. He wasn’t going to be a pawn like those he’d taken care of in the past. He wasn’t like anyone else, in fact. He was the one keeping them under surveillance: letting them get close – and then losing them when he got tired.
He had to tell them. If he didn’t, sooner or later they’d find out themselves. That’s what scared him. He thought he’d wound things up with the killing at the station, but he was right back at the beginning. And with all those cops around, nothing good could come of it.
Nando Panattoni, locked in his car in piazza Piola, watched the rain cascading down his windscreen.
I was probably better off when I got paid in steaks.
20
Carla Trovati was watching the idiot waffling on the phone. She’d been sure she’d be alone tonight since it had been an extremely slow day for news. A night shift with no one to bother her.
But Saverio Martelli, one of the middle managers, had stopped for his monthly plug for the dog magazine he worked with. Caprile always snorted, ‘By dogs, for dogs’, and Carla’s opinion was that they were the only people who’d let him write something. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the clock behind the man. It had been years since he’d written something, if he ever had, for the Corriere. He was basically employed as a caterer.
Twenty past midnight. Ten more minutes and Canessa would be here. But if Martelli hadn’t left by then, she would have to intercept Canessa and postpone the meeting.
When he’d called her a few days earli
er she’d nearly fainted. The former Carabiniere’s offer had excited her more than a date or a hookup. He was running a parallel investigation and offering to share it with her. She’d be allowed to follow him every step of the way, as long as she didn’t write anything about it until it was over.
Carla was nervous. That was the story, the one that would turn her career around. The councillor’s outing was nothing in comparison. If only Martelli would finish his dog piece…
With that, Martelli switched off his computer, stood up and grabbed his coat. ‘Carla, I’m done here – you okay closing up?’
Always the same question, always the same answer. ‘Of course! You go home. I’m good, thanks.’
She watched him walk the length of the corridor, and when she saw him disappear into the lobby, she called the doorman. ‘I’m expecting two people. When they show up, please let them through.’
She caught Canessa eyeing up her legs. She hadn’t put any thought into her outfit that morning, but clearly something was working for her: black tights ringed with horizontal stripes, black miniskirt and a white shirt.
Gentle, distracted, barely there… Carla felt his look all the same. Maybe what they say about him is true after all – he’s a heartbreaker, with a taste for women… She smiled as she led her two guests into the office.
Canessa’s friend hadn’t even looked at her; he’d barely said hello. He was a little unnerving. Initially she had him down as younger, but now that she was closer, she saw that his baggy clothes, the tote bag, the post-grunge look topped off with greasy hair – had deceived her, and he was actually older than she was. What was a man like that doing with Canessa, with his chiselled looks?
‘The Corriere headquarters… I’ve always wanted to see them!’ Alfridi was looking around in awe, overexcited, like a clueless tourist. Carla changed her mind pretty quickly about that.
He sat down at one of the desks and before she could tell him that it belonged to Ferraroni, the journalist covering local politics (now there was an annoying bore), the not-so-young man had already turned on the computer, bypassed Ferraroni’s password and hacked into his personal account with a laugh.
‘Impressive porn collection,’ he commented, opening one of the folders, ‘but no kids or weird stuff. He’s just a perv.’
‘Please don’t leave a trace,’ Carla reminded him, worried that Ferraroni might notice something. Though she did appreciate the irony, as he rode a moral high horse around the office.
‘Sorry, the habits of a hacker are hard to lose. But don’t worry, he won’t notice a thing. I’ll get to what we’re here for.’ His fingers started flying over the keyboard. ‘Just give me a couple of minutes.’
Carla took some time to study Canessa, who was leaning against one of the other desks, checking the open area around them. He was wearing a casual outfit, but underneath the light jacket she could make out a well-built body. She was sure he carried a gun, but she couldn’t figure out where. Being so close to him and not being able to ask any questions, not even why they were there, was extremely frustrating. She didn’t protest, though: they’d made a deal and she would stick to her side of it. It would be the making of her career, after all. She just needed to be patient.
‘Has it always been like this in here?’ Canessa seemed genuinely interested, not just making polite conversation.
‘No, it used to be smaller before our section expanded quite a bit.’
He walked over to another desk and picked up a newspaper, pretending to look through it as he scouted out the corridor and various access points. What a freak, Carla thought. Just when she was about to ask him something, Alfridi called her over.
‘There’s a problem here.’
Canessa quickly joined them. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’m working from a Corriere terminal, yes, but I might as well be working from mine. I can access the system but I’m not inside the system I asked for, the archive. I’d have to use the archive computers to find any trace of Petri.’
Canessa turned to Carla. ‘Where is it?’
‘Downstairs, but we can’t get in there now. It closes at midnight.’
‘Good. Fewer archivists around while we work.’
Carla felt a wave of elation mixed with fear. On one hand, she was drawn in by all of this, while on the other, she knew it could be dangerous – for her in particular. She knew what Canessa was saying, but at the cost of coming across as naive, she asked, ‘How do we get in without keys?’
‘That’s the least of our worries.’
Canessa patted Alfridi on the shoulder and gestured to him, then turned back to Carla. ‘Come, show me the way.’
‘We’re taking a quick tour of the Corriere.’
Carla felt the need to tell the doorman where they were going, but she knew she wasn’t all that convincing given the time of day. Alfridi’s smile was rewarded with a grunt. Canessa sidled across the lobby, as he had done on his arrival, to avoid giving the security cameras full view of his face.
They walked out into the courtyard and Carla turned right, heading for a small door between some large recycling bins filled with newspapers. She stopped. ‘First closed door,’ she announced, but before she could finish her sentence, Canessa had pulled out a set of keys. He tried one of them in the lock, then heard a clack. ‘First open door,’ he replied with a grin.
They felt their way down a corridor, since Canessa suggested it would be better not to turn on lights that could seen from outside. They turned on the overstairs light. Two flights later, they were standing in front of a large, sturdy wooden door, double-locked.
‘The archives.’
Carla was extremely worried. If someone found them here, she would lose her job, or at least any chance of a career. But she couldn’t stop herself. The excitement of what she might discover was winning out over her worries. Adrenaline had started to course through her. It took Canessa a little longer, but he managed to open this second door too.
They were in.
21
Calandra answered his phone, clearly annoyed. He was lying on a king-sized bed in the penthouse suite of a nice hotel on the Lungarno, in Florence, and he was sharing it with a woman young enough to be his daughter, even his granddaughter. Entirely naked except for a red thong, she was stretching languidly in front of the window, in the light of the moon, and boy was he enjoying the show. Calandra preferred it when she danced, admittedly, but this was her choice today. He was considering whistling an appropriate tune for the scene, something like Firenze sogna, when the phone call snapped him out of his bliss.
It was one of his most trusted men, someone who didn’t officially exist – on the books or anywhere else – and wasn’t employed by the State, though it was the State that paid his egregious monthly salary. No one had ever seen him outside the place he was calling from. Not even Calandra. For years, he’d lived in a basement in Rome, a sort of techno bunker that allowed him to listen in on other people’s lives. Maybe he didn’t even have a home; maybe he lived there.
‘What?’
‘Two pieces of news, neither good.’
Calandra sighed. ‘Tell me.’
‘The prosecutors are getting antsy, especially the guy. He’s been to the Opera prison several times.’
‘Cammello?’
‘Nah, Cammello’s tough. Another one, the cellmate, used to be with Petri too, when he was alive. RIP.’
‘Amen. Interesting, keep an eye on the situation. Do we know anything else about him?’
‘A smalltime dealer, a nobody. But if the guy’s pressing him, it means there’s something of interest, something that might help him out, right?’
‘True,’ Calandra agreed. He was starting to feel prickly, nervous. They were moving ahead, out of the picture, and it was troubling him. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences.
Can we intercept them?’
‘It’s difficult, you know, with prosecutors. There are protection levels and special checks, but I’m moving in that direction. Mr Muscle isn’t as dumb as we thought. He might actually pose a challenge to our star inspector.’
‘An unpleasant surprise, I agree. He’s cooking something up and it can’t be good. I should warn Canessa. We can’t afford to lose him. Do you know where he is?’
‘Ouch. That’s the second piece of bad news. For all I can see, it’s as foggy as January, and he’s as slippery as an eel. Not even a ping on our radar.’
‘Let’s wait. Focus on the prosecutors. Warn me if they have any strokes of genius. Are we clear?’
‘Crystal.’ The man-who-didn’t-exist hung up.
The young woman had finished her session and was looking at Calandra with eyes as murky as the river three floors below.
‘Come here, babe. Life is full of bad people, and I want to feel good.’ He gestured for her to move closer. He knew she wouldn’t be able to soothe his mind, though. He couldn’t stop thinking about Canessa.
Where was their detective, damn it?
Annibale was fascinated by Alfridi’s work. He looked like a pianist, as light on the keyboard as if he were playing a sonata. Carla was keeping watch. She was tense, but Canessa had been through similar situations and wasn’t worried. He didn’t want to get her into trouble, but it was a risk he had to take. He couldn’t stop now.
‘Here, I’ve found something.’
Alfridi wiped the sweat off his brow, then dried his hand on his trousers. Carla was disgusted; she didn’t like the guy. Canessa, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy his presence, or was at least amused by him.
‘What is it?’ he asked his personal tech wizard.
‘He looked into some old stuff, pre-1984.’
The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 14