Still in a stupor, Nando turned his head to the right. Only then did he feel the cold metal of Salemme’s gun at his temple.
For a second, he considered his options. He even put his hand back to grab his Beretta, momentarily proud. But Salemme took it off him easily. What did it matter anyway? What was the point of reacting?
‘Were you going somewhere, Nando? You wanted to drop it all and leave?’
Panattoni wished he could explain. Not to save himself, but to let Claudio know how little he cared about them and their business. He’d never betray them, never say a word. He just wanted to leave and start a new life. A life away from the shitshow they ran, with their nice homes, their designer clothes, cars, money. Vermin, that’s what they were. Vermin. Worse than him.
‘Scumbags!’ he spat out.
The bullet bored through the void that was Panattoni’s life without Marita, shattering the upper half of his skull.
Claudio Salemme, wearing a plastic raincoat, pollution mask, latex gloves and polyethylene shoe covers, placed the gun in Panattoni’s hand, making sure to press his fingers on the stock and trigger. He took the man’s Beretta for himself. Murder-suicide, another case of gender-based violence. The police wouldn’t probe too deep, not with everything else going on.
He opened the door of the flat and looked around. No one. He took the stairs, pausing between the second and third floors to remove the protective gear. He stuffed everything into a paper bag from a high-street shop. Night had fallen by the time he stepped outside again. He strolled towards viale Lazio, where he’d left his bike. Bikes have no number plates.
He was proud of himself. He hadn’t thought killing would be so easy. His first time had been excellent; he’d behaved like a professional. Maybe he should have been the one to deal with Canessa instead of the three stooges they’d hired. He’d mention it to his father, though he knew that was a dead end.
In any case, the old man would have to give him this much: you can’t argue with conventional wisdom. If you want something done right, do it yourself.
12
Canessa had two phone calls to make. He opted for the most difficult one first.
He called Barbara Repetto from her husband’s phone.
‘Ivan, I’m worried about you! Where are you?’
‘Barbara, it’s Annibale, not Ivan.’
He heard a noise on the other end of the line, as if Barbara had just grabbed hold of something to steady herself. She gasped. So he hurried his explanation.
‘Listen, Ivan has been injured but he’s fine. He’s not in danger,
and I’m sorry that—’
‘Bastard.’
She delivered the insult calmly, without raising her voice.
Canessa waited for her to continue, to let it out, but Barbara said nothing else. So he spoke again. Without offering excuses or explanations, only logistics and instructions.
‘We’re not in the hospital. Ivan is resting. I’m sorry, but you can’t come to us. He’ll be able to call you tomorrow, and I’ll bring him home in a couple of days. I’ll never seek him out again after this, I promise.’
He used the Swiss phone to call Carla, withholding the number. She answered on the third tone.
‘It’s me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’ll explain later. How are you?’
‘All good, but I’m drowning in work. Things are manic here. Did you hear about that organised crime shooting? Salvo and I were the first on site.’
Canessa bit his tongue to stop himself telling her the truth.
‘I heard. Crazy, huh? So maybe we shouldn’t see each other yet?’
‘Why not come over around 2 a.m.? The night is still young!’ Her tone was full of energy, and he loved what it stood for: her passion for her job, her love of life, no game-playing.
‘You’re probably tired. Listen, I need to head to Liguria to sort a few things out. I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay?’
‘I’ll be here! Love you.’
Carla hung up quickly, as if the words coming out of her mouth had surprised her more than him.
She was wrong. On the other end of the line, Canessa stood as still as a statue.
13
The head of the rapid response team was watching the two prosecutors and trying his best to appear merely confused by their behaviour rather than outraged as he actually was. Flying in the face of all evidence, Marta Bossini and Fabio Guidoni were following their own path. But he had no intention of challenging them. They’d be the ones carrying the can.
Silvestrin had just brought some sensational news to their attention, plus a few smaller, but still interesting pieces. First of all, the second killer, whose prints weren’t in the national database, had finally been identified, thanks to their colleagues in Naples. His name was Ciro D’Alletto, aka ‘Rocco’. Unlike his associate, who was linked to a clan in the Vesuvius area and had a criminal past, Rocco worked for the best offer, whether Camorra business or not. A rare case of a freelancer in Naples. No boss wanted him around for long. He was a ticking bomb, only good as a killer, and dangerous in the long run. According to Silvestrin, he’d been the one with the contract in Milan; the other had been brought in as backup.
‘Because the job was bigger this time. Good precaution, but clearly not enough.’
‘Why “this time”?’ Bossini interrupted. She hadn’t sat down like her colleague, and instead she was leaning against the window looking into the office courtyard.
‘Because one of the two AK-47s—’ Silvestrin went for the suspenseful tone of a noir film, complete with dramatic pause ‘—is the one that was used to kill Pino Petri and Napoleone Canessa.’
‘Well, damn,’ Guidoni said, unable to contain his surprise. Bossini, on the other hand, maintained her icy calm. She moved away from the window and joined her colleague behind the desk.
‘Are you certain?’
‘Complete match: weapon, shells, bullets.’
Guidoni slapped the desk, practically shouting, ‘Bingo! That proves my theory. It’s nothing to do with terrorism. It’s a turf war between gangs, for control over drug-dealing. Like so many former terrorists, Petri turned to other criminal activities.’
The head of rapid response took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, your honour, but drugs up here are usually linked to the ’Ndrangheta or foreign interference. The Camorra has nothing to do with it.’
‘They’re trying to expand, my friend, and went against the current dealers.’
‘I’m sorry, I have to insist: it’s just not plausible. The Camorra attacking the ’Ndrangheta in Milan? Not possible. That’s not how organised crime moves. There’s no precedent. They agree on territories and treat it like a business.’
Marta Bossini cut in, her tone glacial. ‘You let us decide what is and isn’t plausible, Silvestrin. The two killers may very well have been employed by the ’Ndrangheta. We’ll see, but at this stage it’s not relevant. What we’re interested in right now is how it ties in with the Petri case. Before the shooting, we received crucial information about the drug trafficker behind it all. Now we have confirmation that it’s not Petri’s past that’s connected with it; it’s his present. Thank you, Silvestrin. You may go.’
The head of the rapid response team nodded and left the room. He found his right-hand man just outside.
‘So? How did it go?’
‘To hell with all of them!’ he blurted.
As soon as the police officer had left the room, Marta called the judge, as Astroni had instructed. ‘From now on, you need to make two phone calls every time. Savelli first, then me. Be efficient and loyal. Ask him for help and suggestions. Your career will greatly benefit. Then call me immediately. Don’t wait any longer than it takes you to dial my number.’
She told Guido
ni what Savelli had just said on the phone. ‘The two cases are connected, so we’ll work alongside the anti-mafia agency, but we’ll be in charge.’
Her colleague was excited. He couldn’t wait to show the ace up his sleeve.
‘Excellent. And the other thing?’
‘We’ll play that card as soon as we have more on our final player, our dear Canessa.’
Astroni was waiting for her call.
14
‘I’m the one who killed them.’
Carla pulled away from a long kiss, and looked at him in shock. She was even more shocked than when he’d told her the true story of via Gaeta. It wasn’t about the deaths, but the danger he’d been in.
Canessa had cheered up. Yet although she’d repeatedly shown him her affection (and maybe something more), his life on the edge might become an obstacle. Weren’t there enough of those already?
He’d suggested they spend the night in a hotel, ‘to celebrate our reunion after all this time apart. We’ll pretend we’re on holiday somewhere nice. Dinner on the balcony, breakfast in bed, and in between…’ They’d booked into a junior suite on the top floor of Hotel Gallia, she in her name, while he’d used a real ID card with a fake identity.
The temperature inside was perfect. Annibale had an urge to open the window, to let the night air come in. He settled instead for the excellent view of the gorgeous square beneath them, the sky turning electric blue behind it.
Canessa had spent days in the loft, never leaving Repetto’s side. Luckily, Repetto’s wounds healed quickly.
‘We’re even,’ Repetto said when he came to. ‘It was my turn to be the fool who got shot!’
‘Well, I was there too, so technically it’s two-one for me,’ Canessa teased.
Repetto wasn’t having it.
‘It was my job to be alert. You were recovering from passionate sex and weren’t in the right state of mind…’ His laugh turned into a grimace: the wound was still fresh.
After the call to Barbara, and in spite of Repetto’s complaints and stubbornness, he’d taken him home to Monza.
‘Very nice,’ Repetto commented as he lowered himself cautiously into the passenger seat of the BMW Series 1. He’d tried convincing Canessa one more time. ‘I need to watch your back.’
‘It didn’t help much last time.’
Repetto hadn’t taken it as well as he usually did. His pride hurt more than the wound.
‘I was an idiot,’ he kept saying.
‘We both were,’ Canessa reminded him. ‘We were distracted. That’s why we need a breather. We can’t let anxiety take over. You head home, I’ll go to Liguria for a couple of days. I’ve been away too long. It’s high season and I need to help my aunt.’
He hadn’t told Repetto – he wouldn’t have been able to drop him off – that that very afternoon he’d seen a photo of the third killer on TV. Fernando Panattoni. According to the news, he’d been found dead in a flat in via Bergamo along with his foreign girlfriend, legally resident in the country. Everything pointed towards a misogynistic murder-suicide, and the politicians and psychologists started having a field day.
But it was a cover-up and he knew it: his handlers had tied up a loose thread. Panattoni had been nothing but a pawn. Plus, the news cited a revolver as the murder weapon, but Canessa knew that Panattoni had shot him with a Beretta. Sure, he might have changed weapons later, but it seemed unlikely. Someone who’s just taken part in a shooting in which he was wounded doesn’t go home, change weapons, then top himself and his girlfriend.
He’d been killed.
Barbara Repetto emerged from the family villa, set within a magnificent garden, to help her husband get out of the car. Canessa spotted Repetto’s grandchildren looking at them through the windows. A small girl with red hair pulled a face at him. Was she angry at him, like her grandmother? Barbara hadn’t even greeted him, but Repetto firmly reminded her: ‘Manners. Please say hello to my friend.’
Barbara held his gaze, but Repetto was as stubborn as a mule.
‘Hello, Annibale. Thank you for bringing Ivan home.’
Husband and wife walked down the cobbled drive lined by the flowerbeds that were Barbara’s pride and joy. They were almost at the door of the villa, where the grandchildren had gathered, when Ivan turned round and signed for Annibale to phone him.
Canessa smiled. He just won’t quit.
She let her dress slide to the floor, and stood wearing only her panties.
‘Fuck me,’ she whispered. She kept her panties on as he entered her, over and over again, from every possible angle.
Eventually, when they woke up towards dawn, she asked him to tell her everything about the shooting. He told her about Panattoni’s death too, and the connection he’d made between the two.
‘Now what?’ she asked.
‘Now we need to find the connecting thread in all this. I’ll head to Liguria, for real this time, and try to piece it together as I deal with trenette al pesto and seafood fry-ups.’
Carla sat on the bed. ‘Two Camorra killers and a private investigator with PTSD who kills himself or is killed along with his girlfriend. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It does. Petri and Judge Lazzarini are the keys. I’m sure of it.’
‘It seems pretty clear that you’re on the right track if they tried to kill you. But these people clearly have money and contacts. You can’t just look up people like Rocco and his accomplice.’
Canessa agreed. ‘It’s true, they’re powerful. But more than the who and the how, I want to know why. I’m old school that way: motive is the most important thing.’
Carla stood up and opened the window, breathing in the fresh air. She took off her panties and stepped onto the balcony, completely naked. She leaned against the railing, slowly, offering him a view of her behind. Then she turned to face him, opening up her legs.
‘Come here and fuck me like there’s no tomorrow.’
15
Five hundred people were invited to the wedding of Renata – daughter of Nicola Frugoni, private healthcare king in Lombardy and one of the wealthiest men in the country – and Anton Giulio Castravano, son of the chancellor of Bocconi University, law and business economy graduate and one the leading experts in Italian civil code and family business inheritance.
Both parties were hoping that the guests wouldn’t turn up en masse for the religious ceremony in the small hill church above Bellagio – it held no more than fifty – and would only show up for the reception on the terrace of a glorious villa on the lake. It was quite the event. As it happened, word got around, and they had their wish. Everything went according to plan and the illustrious guests, dressed to the nines, threw themselves at the dancing and the buffet provided by a three-star chef.
It was sunset. The villa’s garden hosted three gazebos, each far enough from the other to offer some privacy, and close enough to the water that you could hear it lapping against the shore. It was refreshing, in all aspects.
Astroni sat, alone, under one of the gazebos. The other two were packed with inebriated guests, laughing and talking raucously.
‘Don’t you think buffets are a great invention? You grab, you eat, you grab again, you eat more. You leave plates and glasses around. You do the rounds. You take your own time and when you’ve had enough, it’s an Irish goodbye!’
Giannino Salemme, squeezed into a white suit that really needed to be let out (alternatively, he could have lost some weight), grabbed the chair next to Federico Astroni, who was picking at a plate of pasta tubes with tomato and parmesan, one of the chef ’s signature dishes.
‘That one’s taken,’ Astroni said, clearly annoyed.
Salemme pretended not to hear, and settled in next to Astroni.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ he almost jumped to his feet, then thought better of
it. ‘Everyone can see us!’
Salemme spread his arms. ‘Federico, relax! We’re some of the top guests at a boring wedding. We’re chatting, we’ve known each other for forty years, who do you think will care? Give me a break, please.’
Astroni glanced around, but everyone was still eating and drinking. No one was paying them any attention. He still couldn’t relax, however: his mind was spinning with problems, and the presence of this uncomfortable person made it worse.
Salemme moved his chair closer. Astroni tried to appear as normal as possible.
‘We need to talk.’
‘About what?’
Salemme lowered his head.
‘Federico, Federico… still the same I see. Always waiting for someone else to fix your problems.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why do you think you’re famous? Was it an act of courage? The brave prosecutor up against the powerful? Come on. You started locking people up when the system was in crisis, and the people,’ Salemme spat out the word while gesturing at the guests around them, ‘started standing under your window to praise you. You’ve wallowed in the muck for years, doing nothing, never making a clean sweep of it, cursing in private while publicly praising the politicians you sentenced to the scaffold when the opportunity arose. You only made your move, you and your accomplices, when you knew you had your backs covered. Not a moment sooner. And now, you’re doing the same.’
‘I don’t have to take this from you. I’m leaving.’ Astroni made to stand up, but a hand pushed him back down onto his chair.
Claudio Salemme flashed him one of his reptilian smiles. ‘Listen to my father, you tosser,’ he hissed.
The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 28