The dogs of Rome cab-1

by Conor Fitzgerald

“Well, it had better be soon,” she said and hung up.

  The ads ended, and Taddeo Di Tivoli’s face appeared on-screen.

  “La TV Di Tivoli,” was the name of the show. tonight’s episode, Di Tivoli promised his viewers, was going to be a scathing report on cruelty to animals and the failings of Italian law enforcement. The title of this week’s episode was “Una vita da cani,” A Dog’s Life.

  “Are we going to watch this?” asked Kristin, taking a seat in the armchair rather than, as he had been hoping, on the sofa beside him.

  “Yes. It’s to do with a case I am, or was, involved in. Well, you know, don’t you?”

  “More or less,” said Kristin. “What I’m interested in now is the widow and the possibility of political fallout.”

  “Political fallout?”

  “If there is any. Then I can put it into a report from the Country Team, flag the report for the DCM’s attention. It’ll make me look good. You, too.”

  “Who’s the DCM? The lead singer in this country band of yours?”

  “Yes. Deputy Chief of Mission. He’s OK.”

  “Well, I may be meeting her tomorrow,” said Blume. “In the morning.”

  It was hardly enough to get Kristin to stay the night, but it was worth a try.

  Di Tivoli had added blond highlights to his mop of ginger and gray hair since Blume last saw him. He looked slimmer, too. He reused plenty of footage from the first show that Blume had watched days ago with Ferrucci.

  Once again, he saw the pictures of dogs with torn bloody ears that had so upset Ferrucci. Then back to the studio to see Di Tivoli shaking his head sadly, before brightening up a little and announcing that there were people and organizations dedicated to fighting such horrors. The screen filled with a photograph of a younger version of Clemente. It dwelled on the face for some time, as Di Tivoli did a voiceover describing Clemente’s unstinting commitment and fundamental sense of justice. The report described the founding of the Anti-Vivisection League in 1977, when a group of like-minded individuals inspired by a sense of duty and compassion banded together to defend the defenseless. This was also the year in which the infamous Magliana Gang embarked on its blood-fueled exploits, Di Tivoli said. Blume watched some footage of young animal rights women answering phones. Then back to the picture of Clemente and Di Tivoli’s voice: On Friday, August 27, Arturo Clemente was brutally knifed to death in the safety of his own home.

  “Your case,” said Kristin.

  “As far as it goes. The crime scene was compromised, too much time has passed, and other even more serious things have happened, but, yes, it’s still my case.”

  A red script imitating the style of a rubber stamp slammed the word “Assassinato” diagonally across Clemente’s face, which then dissolved into nothingness to reveal Di Tivoli with grim demeanor standing in the studio, one hand resting on a desk. He wondered who murdered Clemente, and why. He ran his hands feelingly through his hair, and asked whether the killer would ever be caught. Sadly, he held out little hope for justice, given that the criminal investigation conducted by the Rome police had been unprofessional, incompetent, slapdash, short-lived, and inaccurate.

  “Is this reporter some sort of enemy?” asked Kristin.

  “It looks that way,” said Blume.

  From the screen, Di Tivoli wanted to know why the police had completely failed to follow the most obvious lead. Why was he, a mere reporter, able to discover a vital witness who-he paused, turned ninety degrees to his left to address a different studio camera-might even be a suspect, a person the police had never even interviewed? An image of Manuela Innocenzi filled the screen. She was at least ten years younger in the photo than when Blume had interviewed her. Even then her hair was carrot- colored.

  Who is this woman, and what is her connection with the Clemente case, demanded Di Tivoli. The answer, he promised, was deeply disturbing, and was coming right up, after the break.

  Di Tivoli spent three minutes outlining the first half of the show. Then up came the picture of the woman again. As Di Tivoli said her name, it appeared with a ticker-tape effect below the photograph: Manuela Innocenzi, 41 years of age. Fund contributor and card-carrying member of LAV.

  One of the last people to see Clemente alive, noted Di Tivoli, Manuela Innocenzi was seen by him three nights before the murder. The pale-faced girl with black glasses from Clemente’s office appeared on-screen and confirmed this. She had seen them leave the LAV office together on the Tuesday before the tragic event. Had she told the police this? Yes.

  Who is Manuela Innocenzi?

  The scene cut to old footage of gunshot victims in cars, lying on the street. Magliana, Rome, 1986, said the caption. Local crime is converging with high politics, said Di Tivoli, and these are just some of the victims of the spiral of violence caused by the power vacuum. More shots of dead bodies, most of whom, Blume reflected, had got what was coming to them. The political-criminal nexus started unravelling and the police struck decisively at the power structures and key figures, culminating in the successful Colosseo operation. Blume remembered that.

  Now a new type of apolitical criminal leadership emerges, said Di Tivoli, slipping comfortably into the historic present. They break the political ties, limit their areas of operations and scale down the killing spree by striking an agreement on territory and areas of operations. The triumvirate, as they became known, gain a reputation for “moderation.” Di Tivoli, still standing in front of his desk, gave the word an ironic inflection, then added, “But it is a peculiar term to use, ‘moderation.’ Some might call it stalemate, or compromise, or corruption, or the defeat of the rule of law. For a quarter of a century, the police have not disturbed the criminal status quo in the districts of Magliana, Tufello, Ostia, Corviale, Laurentino 38, Tor Bella Monaca, Tor de’ Schiavi, Pietralata, Casalbruciato, and Centocelle.”

  Back in the studio, Di Tivoli stood before three photos of aging men: two jowly, fat; one thin with combed back white hair, resembling an osprey. He introduced them to his audience: Gianfranco D’Antonio, Fabio Urbani, and the thin one, known as “er falco,” real name Benedetto Innocenzi, father of the woman Clemente was last seen with!

  The rest of the show was repetition and filler. As the closing credits were rolling, the cordless rang again.

  “I need to recharge my mobile,” said Blume.

  “I’ll do it,” said Kristin, standing up. “I saw the recharger in the kitchen.”

  Blume answered the phone.

  “Did you just see Di Tivoli’s effort at investigative journalism?”

  It was Principe.

  “He’s decided to force open the case again,” said Blume.

  “You and I are still off it, and we can be thankful,” said Principe. “The widow phoned me earlier to complain about the show and its maker. Di Tivoli had the gall to tarnish the image of the heroic husband by revealing his tryst with that Innocenzi woman. Now, when she goes back to parliament, she’s going to be the wife of the guy who was fucking the daughter of a gangland boss. Bad PR. Makes her look stupid, or even complicit. Di Tivoli hasn’t done us any favors, either. He phoned me today, too.”

  “What did he want?” asked Blume.

  “He was more interested in that Nicotra case. The sex scandal. He did the journalist thing, pretending it had nothing to do with him, really. But when I didn’t give him any information, he started getting nasty, then asked what it feels like to be an incompetent prosecutor directing incompetent policemen,” said Principe.

  “It occurs to me that Innocenzi is not going to be pleased with the latest developments.”

  “Di Tivoli pretty much laid the blame for Clemente’s murder at his door,” agreed Principe. “That’s… I don’t know. Reckless, suicidal, brave even, in a creepy sort of Di Tivoli way. You don’t go around accusing Innocenzi of stuff like that.”

  “Especially when it’s probably not true,” said Blume.

  “I was going to ask you. You’re still convinced it was that… I forge
t his name.”

  “Angelo Pernazzo,” said Blume. “I am waiting for news on him from Paoloni. When I get some, I’m going to come back to you, get you to do something.”

  “I told you, I am no longer directing the investigation,” said Principe. “What that means, apart from my career if I ignore an order, is that any evidence we gather will be inadmissible, any actions we take will be illegal.”

  Blume ignored this. Principe was right up to a point, but there were ways of getting round orders, especially for a magistrate who could cite any one of hundreds of contrasting sections of the code of criminal procedure. Principe did not need a legal justification, he needed convincing-and he needed to be interested. Keeping his tone casual, Blume decided to go in for some speculation.

  “Have you thought that Di Tivoli may have something to do with it?”

  “Di Tivoli? No. How would that work?”

  Kristin, who had returned and was leaning against the back of the armchair, hand on chin, looked interested.

  “Well,” said Blume, gathering his thoughts, “Di Tivoli obviously despised Clemente. You saw the show. It was like he was dancing on his grave. Di Tivoli knew about Clemente’s affair with Manuela. Why did he not use it before now? It seems to me like Clemente had something on him. Maybe Clemente knew something about this Nicotra sex thing?”

  “If you’re asking why Di Tivoli did not use this knowledge of Manuela before now, I can think of many reasons. Maybe because they were friends. Maybe it just took him until now to turn his knowledge into a scandal show. Maybe he didn’t know about it, or he had better things to do, or because it doesn’t matter, or because his friend Clemente was not dead yet,” said Principe. “If you’re trying to get me to pursue a new line of inquiry, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  “For a friend, Di Tivoli has dragged Clemente’s reputation through the mud.”

  “He’s a journalist, Alec. That’s what they do. And Clemente is way past caring. Only one who cares is his wife. Maybe Di Tivoli is doing the opposite, getting back at the wife on Clemente’s behalf. Whatever the case, I don’t see any connection with the Nicotra sex scandal, and neither do you. You just want me to get back into the case, but I told you, I can’t.”

  “OK. What about Innocenzi, then?” said Blume.

  Principe sighed. “What about him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Blume. “Just a thought.”

  “So you’re giving up on the idea that it was this Pernazzo character?”

  “No,” said Blume. “Maybe Innocenzi used Pernazzo to kill Clemente.”

  “Innocenzi decides not to use anyone from his army of killers, and sends in a first-timer, a slasher, someone who was going to leave trace evidence everywhere and would probably not know any better than to confess to everything and implicate Innocenzi when caught? Is that what you’re trying to say, Alec?”

  “All right, what about Alleva? Maybe Alleva hired Pernazzo. Alleva gets people into debt, makes them do things.”

  “Women. He makes women do things. Young women. The wives, girlfriends, daughters of weak men. And what I said about Innocenzi applies to Alleva, too. Why would a criminal use an amateur? Innocenzi’s got his army, Alleva’s got Massoni. Nobody needs Pernazzo.”

  “Di Tivoli?” said Blume.

  “Di Tivoli hired Pernazzo?” Principe paused. “I suppose that would work. Apart from the fact I see no motivation whatsoever. Have you got any point of convergence between them?”

  “They both attended dog fights run by Alleva.”

  “It’s not much, though, is it?” said Principe.

  “No, it’s not.” Blume felt exhausted. “I’m going to hang up in case Paoloni’s trying to call.”

  28

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 11 A.M.

  A beeping sound woke him up. By the time he reached the kitchen, he had registered that his phone was recharged and ringing and Kristin was gone. He felt as if he had been drinking cheap grappa for a week. His bandaged arm throbbed, and as he reached out for the phone, he felt that the movement would snap his neck like a dry stick. As he touched the phone, it stopped trembling and beeping.

  Blume swayed over to the refrigerator, yanked it open and gazed at the desolation within. He removed a blue lemon and a black onion, and dropped them into the plastic bag below his sink. He carried the half-finished carton of milk with him into the bathroom, poured the yellow and green slop inside into the toilet bowl then pissed on top of the swirling mix. He stood there fascinated for a while, before flushing, washing his one functioning hand and returning to the kitchen for a breakfast of dry Rice Krispies. He had never noticed how salty they were without milk.

  Caller ID had been withheld on the last call. Blume looked through the menu, but found no trace of any communication from Paoloni. He put down his cereal spoon and thumbed in Paoloni’s number which he knew by heart, but got a message saying the number was unavailable and offering to send a text message to tell him when it became available again. In Blume’s experience, this service had never worked, but he keyed in the digit 5 as instructed. Telecom Italia thanked him.

  The salty cereal gave him enough energy to find more food in the house. After several boiled eggs, two pots of coffee, and four friselle steeped in olive oil, he felt better. Still no text message to say Paoloni was available.

  Blume phoned the office, asked to be patched through to wherever Paoloni was, but was told Paoloni was on leave. They tried the same number Blume had been using, with the same result.

  Although he didn’t like to have to ask, Blume said, “I don’t suppose you heard anything about a guy called Pernazzo getting arrested, did you?”

  The sovrintendente at the desk had Blume repeat the name. Blume could picture him shaking his oversized shaggy head and blinking his two pin-hole eyes as he tried to think. “No,” he said eventually. “No Pernazzo got brought in. I heard nothing. Maybe he was brought to a different com-missariato?”

  Blume thanked him, and was about to hang up when the sovrintendente seemed to be struck with a bright thought.

  “Do you want to talk to the vicequestore?”

  “He’s there in his office?”

  “No. But I can connect you to his cell phone if you want.”

  “No, it’s OK. Thanks,” said Blume.

  “No problem.”

  Blume hung up, opened the dishwasher to put away his plate, and found it was full of clean stuff already. Rather than empty the dishwasher, he washed his plate and cereal bowl, using his one hand at the kitchen sink, and soaked himself. Fine. He needed a shower anyhow.

  He waited for the water to warm, then stood beneath the dribble seeping out from the lime-encrusted showerhead and lathered shampoo into his scalp. The phone rang again.

  As he reached the kitchen, naked and dripping, it stopped. Once more, caller ID had been withheld. Paoloni was probably calling from an unregistered phone. Or maybe it was a call from behind a switchboard. Then it could be Kristin, calling him from her office in the embassy. He sat down at the kitchen table to dry out and wait for the next call.

  Ten minutes later, the phone started ringing, slightly freaking him out since he had just then been staring at it and willing it to do exactly that.

  It was Sveva Romagnolo. She wanted to see him now.

  Blume said, “Your caller ID is hidden.”

  “I know. I’m not sure how to change the setting. Why? Is it a problem?”

  “I suppose not.”

  She asked where they should meet.

  “I don’t know,” said Blume, annoyed. “You’re the one wants to meet. I didn’t even say I would meet you today. You decide.”

  “I need a place where I won’t be seen.”

  Blume said, “So this is to be a secret meeting?”

  “Not secret. I just don’t want to bump into anyone I know. I prefer it that way.”

  “Do you know anyone on Via Appia Nuova?”

  Not that she could think of, so Blume made a
n arrangement to meet her in an hour at a bar five minutes from his house. If she wanted to go somewhere she wouldn’t be known, she may as well come over to his zone of the city, to where he liked to hang out at breakfast, eating some mighty fine pastries with pistachio filling. He checked his appearance in the mirror and detached the whiplash collar, tossing it on the hall table. It made him look like an idiot.

  When Blume arrived the barman was putting out trays of lunchtime sandwiches. The pistachio pastries were long gone. Blume had two ring donuts and a sandwich while he waited. He hoped she would arrive before the lunchtime crowd did.

  She came in the door at the same time as a crowd of workers from the Banca di Agricoltura next door, but unmistakably not part of them. Blume found it hard to work out how certain women did this. They stood out from others without seeming to wear clothes that were particularly different, in this case a yellow silk blouse with a Chinese collar, a fawn skirt, strange sandal-shoes of the same color that looked like a child might wear them, a shoulder bag. Not too much makeup. Clean, unfussy, simple, and somehow visibly wealthy. Maybe it was the way she moved.

  She sat down on a chair opposite him that he had already had to defend twice as the place filled up. The noise level rose as the bank staff took their seats, joshed with each other.

  “Can I get you anything?” offered Blume.

  “No.”

  “Bettino might send the barman round to ask for your order. You’re occupying a place at lunchtime.”

  “I meant to get here earlier. It took me some time to find it. Well, it took the idiot taxi driver some time,” she said. “What happened to your nose?”

  “You mean my arm?”

  “Well, that, too. I’m sorry. It was a stupid question. I know you were injured in that terrible attack.”

  “You wanted to talk,” said Blume.

  “Yes.”

  As Blume had predicted, the barman came up and stood expectantly beside Sveva. She ordered a grapefruit juice, and turned back to Blume.

  The barman duly noted down one grapefruit juice, then asked what she would be having for lunch.