The Second Life of Inspector Canessa

by Roberto Perrone

  ‘Carletti? He isn’t up to this. He’s only good at snitching,’ Nando whispered.

  Giannino Salemme spread his arms, and gestured to his son for him to open the door.

  ‘C’mon, it’s getting too hot in here. If Carletti can’t do it, ask Rocco to bring someone. He’s bound to know one of those guys in Gomorrah who walk around in their pants with AK-47s. Make sure they wear trousers though.’ The Salemmes burst out laughing.

  Panattoni interrupted them. ‘What do you think’s the best way of catching him?’

  Claudio stopped laughing. ‘Good question. We could say that’s your fucking job, but what about this: on his way to or from his girl, the journalist. That’s when he’ll let his guard down.’

  ‘And his pants,’ his father put in. They laughed again.

  ‘As for the girl,’ Salemme senior turned deadly serious. ‘I don’t want you touching a hair on her head. Is that clear?’ He pinched Nando’s cheek. ‘Good lad. Do the best you can. Get backup. Money’s no problem. But,’ he stopped at the door and patted his cheek, ‘you need to get Canessa on the first try. He’s like Tex Willer. You know Tex?’

  Panattoni shook his head.

  A sigh. ‘Do you read anything other than porn? Comic-book hero Tex, with his sidekick Kit Carson, never gives you a second chance. And neither do we. Panattoni, from what Rocco tells us, you’ve been doing a lot of the driving and very little dirty work recently. Take a weapon. You’re going to do the shooting this time. Now get out of here. I’ve ordered a Florentine steak and I need time to enjoy it.’

  6

  Every now and then, Annibale heard from Sara and Giovanna. Life in Reggio Emilia had gone back to normal. But his sister-in-law would tell him (and sometimes Giovanna, too, when she took the phone) that things were different from the way they used to be: there was an empty space. Canessa was always surprised and moved by the strength of the bond between husband and wife. It was something he’d never experienced.

  Now and again, whenever the conversation touched on Napoleone’s memory, there was a crack in Sara’s voice, and she held back tears. Because she was strong, she managed. She would soon turn back to the conversation at hand, telling Annibale about what a help Giovanna was and how mature she had turned out to be despite her twelve years. Canessa liked talking to Sara.

  Their conversations were moments of respite from the worries of his investigation. He wasn’t worried for himself, but for the people around him. He couldn’t stop thinking like a soldier, something he hadn’t expected to be again. Yet here he was. His suspicion that his calls might be bugged grew stronger every day. He knew there weren’t any bugs in Carla’s flat – he’d swept the place while she was asleep.

  Still, he made a point of not saying anything over the phone to Sara or Carla. But it upset him to think that someone might be sharing their intimacy, recording it, transcribing it for someone else to read and file away somewhere. He thought of giving Sara a burner phone, but he didn’t want to worry her.

  Annibale decided to pay Carla a visit. He and Repetto had spent the past two days on the internet looking into Lazzarini, but the little there was they knew already. They’d moved on to the files on the murder but didn’t turn anything up.

  Would Carla see something they didn’t? After all, they had got this far thanks to her. A different pair of eyes might help. He smiled, knowing that this was an excuse. He wanted to talk to her, to make up after their fight.

  Dog-tired, Repetto had collapsed and was snoring from behind the screen. Canessa knew what a telling off he’d get when he returned – but with any luck he’d be back before his friend realised he was gone.

  Friday evening in late May, and Corso Garibaldi was still busy thanks to the unseasonably warm weather. Carla always walked the corso to and from the Corriere. New places and businesses were cropping up all the time. She read some of their names and wondered how long they’d been there.

  She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans (maybe too skinny, given the looks she was getting) and a light blue blouse. One of her favourites. She was a bit down about Annibale’s disappearance. Okay, she was the one who’d stormed off in the middle of the road, but he’d really narked her with all his paranoid safety precautions. And then, he’d taken her fuck you literally when she drove off. Jesus, he really was a Carabiniere. So where had he got to?

  There he was. Right in front of her.

  Leaning against the door next to hers.

  She felt like she was in a romcom. She walked past him and did a double-take, unable to believe her eyes. She walked back, and Canessa was still there, smiling at her.

  Kissing him furiously seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘So, what was the “little girl” like?’

  A cool breeze lifted the curtains and got into bed with them. Annibale was admiring Carla’s perky, youthful breasts and shaved muff. The first time they’d had sex, he’d been a little surprised by it; he’d suddenly felt old. Was that the norm now? A fad, or her personal style?

  He smiled at the thought, and Carla pounced.

  ‘So, my questions amuse you?’

  She plunged a sharp finger into his side.

  ‘I was thinking of something else. Sorry. Caterina? She’s four, five years older than you.’

  ‘You’re squirming, Colonel. What is she like? Blonde, brunette, short, tall, a dog, pretty?’

  Canessa placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

  ‘Tall, blonde, sparkling green eyes, gorgeous.’

  Carla looked at him. He looked for a smidgen of jealousy in her eyes, but there was almost nothing. Almost…

  ‘Really? And she still has the stuffed animal you got her? So sweet.’

  So sarcastic.

  ‘It’s true, she was a kid, but she was strong. She was five when she watched her father die, and she described his killer perfectly. Gennaro Esposito.’

  ‘And now you think the other man was Petri.’

  ‘I don’t think so, I know it.’

  Carla got up and slipped on a t-shirt that barely covered her bum. She went to the kitchen and came back with two mugs of herbal tea (Canessa was a convert).

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, nothing. If I’m right, there’s something else behind the murder of Lazzarini.’

  ‘All because of a case of mistaken identity concerning the hit squad? How is it relevant?’

  ‘It’s not just that. If Petri was the second killer, then that would be the only murder that has never been credited to him. There’s never been any doubt about the identity of the killers in all the others. Even before the supergrass spilled. There have been confirmations, debates, witness reports, even confessions. The only oddity about Petri’s atonement is his visit to Lazzarini’s tomb.’

  Canessa got up and started getting dressed.

  Carla said nothing. She’d realised he wouldn’t be staying the night.

  He was the first to speak. ‘I need you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He leaned in and kissed her.

  ‘In every way. Can you get into your archives? During the day, this time. See if you can find anything odd about Lazzarini’s murder. Maybe some gossip in an old cutting, a photo that catches your eye. Follow your instincts.’

  Carla jumped to her feet and pretended to click her heels.

  ‘At your service!’

  7

  Rocco and his associate arrived on separate trains at different times, one at Centrale, the other at Rogoredo. To avoid risk – if a hotel was unthinkable for Rocco himself, there was no question of booking in two of the same species – Panattoni had set them up in a small flat in via Teodosio, a former janitor’s quarters converted into a two-room flat and rented out to business people needing somewhere to fuck their new lovers, or vis
iting managers who hated living in hotels (there were more of the former than the latter).

  He’d rented it out for a week. Hopefully that would be enough. Cash payment, no documents required. He’d stocked the fridge – sandwiches, ready-made pizzas, Coca-Cola and other soft drinks, couple of light beers but no other alcohol – and had left a stack of porn films on top of the DVD player. He’d also installed a small camera connected to his smartphone, to keep an eye on the killers. He was particularly keen to know whether they’d disobey orders and head outside to cause havoc.

  He picked them up in a single trip, stopping at Rogoredo first, then Centrale. He’d drop Rocco’s associate at the flat on the way. He didn’t show up in his underwear, as Salemme had joked, but it was clearly visible under his rapper-style jeans. He was even wearing a snap-back cap and a couple of heavy gold chains around his neck.

  ‘Jesus, what a chav!’ Panattoni muttered to himself when he spotted him coming out of the station. No one else seemed to notice him.

  They hadn’t agreed on a signal to recognise each other – a newspaper, a flower, a certain colour – but it wasn’t necessary. The guy headed straight for Panattoni and slapped a hand on the car.

  ‘Hey mate, you Nando?’ he asked in a loud voice.

  ‘I am, but why not raise your voice a little? That way everyone can hear you and remember we were here.’

  The guy flashed him a terrifying smile, just like one of Rocco’s.

  ‘Let’s hope not, huh, or we gotta kill them all!’

  At least this one has a sense of humour. Panattoni sighed.

  Rocco dropped the fake Louis Vuitton luggage in a corner. He grunted at his associate, gave him a high-five and then sniffed out the place. Literally.

  ‘Panattoni, this place smells of whores but I see no whores, what? Can you sort that out?’

  Panattoni collapsed into an armchair. He’d briefly considered moving in here himself to keep an eye on them. He didn’t trust them.

  But no, fuck them. Fuck the Salemmes. He wasn’t going to play babysitter to these psychopaths.

  ‘With this sort of contract, you have to look sharp. The rule is: look, don’t touch. And don’t be seen. It’s a delicate situation and you need to make an effort. Do you understand who we’re dealing with?’

  ‘Oof, how hard can it be! We got the brother, we’ll get him.’

  Panattoni ran his hands through his hair. They didn’t get it.

  He stood up.

  ‘Okay, well. The fridge is stocked, there’s porn over there, rest up, and get ready. We could be moving as soon as tomorrow evening.’

  Fabio Guidoni sauntered into Marta Bossini’s office wearing his regular jeans with a preposterous cream-coloured jacket and a black tie sporting green giraffes. Marta, in her designer suit, stared him up and down. He looked like he’d just been to London to learn how to ‘be eccentric’. He hadn’t brought it off.

  Guidoni seemed oblivious – or maybe he didn’t care.

  ‘I’ve got fantastic news!’ he announced. ‘Interesting developments on the Petri case!’

  Marta was all ears. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Nope, not here. For this sort of fireworks, we need a drink. No security. I’ll take care of us.’ He opened his preposterous jacket, revealing a gun in its holster.

  8

  A couple of hours later, ‘fireworks’ lit up the night sky on Milan’s west side, though Guidoni and Bossini couldn’t have predicted it. Explosions, not unlike those on the closing night of traditional festivities, were heard from a couple of kilometres away. A famous TV channel called it one of the most violent shootings in Milan’s criminal history, a ‘bloody settling of scores’. No one actually knew if organised crime was behind it, but reporters started citing Chicago in the ’30s, Palermo in the ’80s, even Beirut. Eventually, when the investigations were complete and the results made public, the conclusion was this: there might have been more victims in other cases, but never had there been so much shooting.

  Forensics had recovered from the scene a hundred and twenty-six 7.6x39 calibre shells spat out from two AK-47s (the only weapons left behind), a hundred and four 9x19 calibre parabellum, pre-sumably from one or more MP5s and several other guns: a SIG P226, a Beretta 92. According to experts, not all the bullets were recovered, but the ones from the bodies of the two men on the ground and those from the blazing car and nearby scooter were easily recovered by the white suits. Several had fallen into the canal. Five were found embedded in the façade of the Canottieri Olona sports club on the other side of the canal. Witness reports and fingertip searches confirmed that at least four men had been involved. Two had died on the spot and two were wounded, one severely. None had ended up in hospital. According to forensics, there was blood from four different sources. A probable fifth suspect had not been injured; there was none of his blood. There was insufficient information to determine the direction that the fifth person and the two wounded had taken after the shooting. Two cars had been involved, but only one was left in via Lodovico il Moro. Investigating officers agreed between themselves – though certainly not in public – that there was little hope of finding it after all that time, and certainly not in a state that would permit a full investigation. It had probably ended up in a lake or reservoir outside Milan, or locked in an old building on the outskirts, undoubtedly torched.

  No one would have imagined, however, that the car missing from the site of the shooting (colour: grey; make: Alfa Romeo; model: unknown) was currently parked behind the high walls surrounding a former printer’s-turned-high-end loft. No one would have imagined, or believed, that the car had moved only a couple of hundred metres. So no one looked for it close by.

  A few hours earlier, Canessa had been making his way home from Carla’s place. She’d come to terms with their routine and no longer complained about his secrecy about where he lived.

  ‘For now,’ he insisted, ‘it’s better if you don’t come to my place. It’s still too dangerous. Later, after I’ve figured things out.’

  ‘Maybe I won’t care “later”,’ she teased.

  Annibale would leave just before dawn, and he’d done so this time too. Repetto had been waiting a few parking spots away from Carla’s front door, and he was now driving with one arm draped out of the window. The MP5 lay between the two seats, hidden under a cloth.

  The former Carabinieri sat in silence, wrapped in the sounds of a city neither slumbering nor awake.

  Repetto was on edge. He’d had yet another fight with his wife, who was understandably upset about the amount of time he was spending away from home. Barbara Repetto knew her husband well, and she’d realised that this wasn’t technically to do with work, whatever he might have told her. When she got out of him that his former boss was also involved, she’d blown up. ‘That man’s middle name is Danger!’ she yelled. Repetto had tried to reassure her that times had changed and she had nothing to worry about, but even if it had been true, she wouldn’t have believed him. The phone call had ended badly.

  Annibale, for his part, was thinking about Carla. By now, it was clear that there was more between them than physical attraction, and even that was a long way from ‘fucking’. He knew he felt something more for Carla, but he was torn. What sort of a future could he have with a woman half his age? He’d seen relationships like that, of course, long-lasting ones where the age gap didn’t matter. But they each had their own situations, their own outlooks. Carla was a young journalist on the rise, he a former Carabiniere living in a small town in Liguria, a place far removed from the world and accessible only by boat or on foot. He worked in a restaurant – or not at all, while her job took her all over. She wasn’t confined to one place, and definitely not to his place, as beautiful as it might be. So what future was there for them? Where could they put down roots? It was hard for him to even think about the word ‘love’. He’d alw
ays been afraid of it.

  So the two former colleagues had found themselves stewing in their own juices on a night that would prove to be pivotal. Maybe nothing would change, however, since this time, Panattoni (on a scooter) and Rocco and his associate (in an Astra stolen from Linate airport) had perfected their tailing. Their timing was spot-on, and Canessa only noticed when the scooter overtook them and lost control, skidding a few metres ahead of their car as they sped down via Lodovico il Moro near the Canottieri Olona sports club.

  Panattoni didn’t know what direction Canessa would take as he left Carla’s place. So he’d placed the two Neapolitans in largo La Foppa, even though he was sure Canessa had parked on the opposite side, near Foro Bonaparte. When he saw the damn Carabiniere walk down the corso and turn onto via Tivoli, he knew his hunch had been right. Canessa got into a car with its engine on. Nando called Rocco and told him to meet him immediately on Cadorna: he was sure they’d pass that way.

  ‘When the time is right, I’ll overtake them and pretend to fall off the scooter. They’ll focus on me and you’ll get them from behind, got it? Don’t mess up. They’re not new to this.’ Panattoni hoped that Rocco’s man was at least good at killing people. He wanted it to be over quickly.

  Then all this shit would be in the past, and he’d disappear without a trace.

  *

  The shooting didn’t last long, maybe three minutes.

  When Repetto saw the man overtaking them and losing control, he instinctively slammed on the brakes. Canessa, shaken out of his thoughts by the car jerking to a halt, turned around while his partner checked in front of them – old habits were hard to lose. That was how he spotted the two men with AK-47s getting out of the car stopped behind them.