The dogs of Rome cab-1

by Conor Fitzgerald

  His pistol was lying on the ground, and she would probably get to it first. It was a lost fight. He stepped back, just in time to avoid taking the full brunt of another white elbow in the throat. Her hair collected the light as she stepped forward after him and delivered a punch to the side of his head, which he managed to parry with his left hand with the result that his hand bitch-slapped the side of his own face.

  A flash of red to his left warned him of another attack, and he realized she was preparing to use her leg this time, while the cop was now coming at him straight on, struggling to get his arm out of its sling.

  Pernazzo saw his chance. Dropping his right shoulder, he wheeled his left leg around and smashed it into the cop’s right ankle. The impact caused Pernazzo’s cotton espadrille to fly off. As the cop staggered to regain his balance, waving his broken arm in a narrow useless circle, Pernazzo jerked upright out of his crouch and back-smashed his elbow into the side of the cop’s face, sending him lunging sideways into the woman.

  Then he ran straight off the sidewalk and diagonally across the road, losing his second espadrille. A car whipped by him at high speed, inches from his feet and stomach. A horn blast sounded in his ears, and behind the horn, he heard a shushing noise and someone’s tires failed to find purchase on the asphalt. As he reached the other side, a scooter horn squawked at him, and the driver seemed to swerve with the intention of running him down.

  Kristin stayed Blume’s sideways fall to the ground, but she allowed him to hit the concrete nonetheless. She jumped over him, landed, and hunkered down without losing sight of the pistol, which lay next to a piece of pink bubblegum. She snatched the pistol off the ground, tossed it to her other hand, and drew a bead on the small white head of the assailant before it ducked into the traffic.

  Blume made an exclamation and she swiveled around, fearing he might be under attack from some other quarter, but realized he was referring in some way to her handling of the weapon. She snapped her head and shoulders back again to take aim, but she had lost vital seconds. She could not fire into the traffic. She held her aim, watching as the assailant ran almost headlong into a speeding car. Had she fired, the bullet could easily have hit the vehicle. Serve the asshole right for driving like that in a built-up area.

  The assailant was now on the other side of the street and running parallel to the old Roman wall. A missed shot would bury itself into ancient Roman history rather than straying into a passerby, she reflected. She moved the pistol fractionally upward. If the traffic let up, she would have a clear shot, and she would not miss. If the traffic let up. He had put thirty-five meters between them. She saw the breach in the walls to which he was headed. It was maybe seventy-five or eighty meters away and required a leading shot against a moving target. It was beyond the limit of a handgun of this type.

  Even so, she realigned. As she did so, a red and gray Number 85 bus heaved into sight and stopped on the far side of the road.

  “Kristin!” Blume was standing beside her now. She lowered the weapon, and turned to him. A semicircle of shocked pedestrians had come to a halt several meters away, and was bunched up in a group, afraid to go near the English-speaking couple standing in the middle of the street brandishing a weapon.

  Casually, in full view of everyone, Kristin wiped the gray metal against her white blouse. It left a dark stain. She placed the weapon on the ground.

  “His fingerprints,” he protested.

  “We know who that was,” she replied.

  Blume placed his foot on the pistol, and said, “Polizia. Siamo della polizia.” “Polizia!” Kristin yelled out in a clear voice. “Goddamn it, what a nation of rubbernecks,” she said to Blume.

  Blume shouted out again, turning as he did so to trace an exclusionary arc around himself and Kristin as more people were drawn toward the commotion.

  “Kristin, listen,” he said. “You may want to walk away from this. Just walk away. What ever you want. But decide now, because a patrol car is coming up behind you. Do you want to be a character in the story I am about to tell the patrolmen?”

  “No. It would be easier if I wasn’t.”

  “I agree. Will you meet me tonight?”

  “OK.”

  “It’s possible I won’t make it. Depends how this pans out. I’ll let you know. Also, can you avoid going home?”

  “I need to change.”

  “Pernazzo might know where you live,” said Blume.

  “I don’t see why. And too bad for him if he does.”

  As she turned to go, one of the patrolmen yelled out: “Signorina! Non si muova!” but he had no real authority in his voice. She heard Blume’s voice ordering the two young policemen away, telling them not to enter the crime scene, to call for backup, to clear the crowd. The gawking file of people on the corner opened ranks to let her through. She was calm. She was smiling.

  51

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1:05 P.M.

  Principe looked over his half-moon spectacles at Blume. It occurred to Blume that the spectacles were a sort of stage device. Like the piles of folders, barely held closed with ribbons, they formed a necessary but also a theatrical part of the public prosecutor’s paraphernalia.

  The two men were seated in Principe’s office in government-issue armchairs, knees up, almost touching. It was already past lunch time, and as far as Blume could see, nothing had been done to catch Pernazzo.

  “Alec, I know what you’re thinking,” said Principe, frowning over the steel spectacle frames.

  “You’re psychic? Maybe you should book a hall, get out of the business of directing murder investigations, because…”

  “That will do. You’re thinking you should be out there hunting down the man who tried to kill you and your woman.”

  “What woman would that be?”

  “We can come back later to the question of the two officers and several witnesses who saw an imaginary woman with you, but just because you’re not out there yourself doesn’t mean all investigative activity has ground to a halt. There is a warrant issued for Pernazzo

  … Also, there have been some developments.”

  “What developments?”

  “Di Tivoli.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was found this morning by his cleaning lady. His head smashed in by a heavy object-Wait!” Principe slammed his hand down as Blume cursed. “I only found out about it shortly before you arrived in the back of a police car. A team is already there.”

  “I need to get there, too,” said Blume.

  “The call was not assigned to us and they have an investigating magistrate already on the scene. Anyhow, you already know who it was.”

  “I seem to be the only one.”

  “No. It was Pernazzo. At least that’s what Di Tivoli said.”

  “Wait, I thought you said Di Tivoli had had his head…”

  “Di Tivoli is not dead, though I hear he’s in a very bad way. He keeps repeating the name Pernazzo, or did until he fell unconscious again. He might not make it.”

  “When was the attack?”

  “Seems like it was last night,” Principe replied. “It looks as if Pernazzo tried to kill Di Tivoli and then you. The magistrate on the case is a good guy, used to work as an assistant with me. He’s got a team searching Di Tivoli’s house.”

  “Check Di Tivoli’s computer for recordings.”

  “What?”

  “He records things. He’s a journalist and a Craxi-era socialist. You don’t get trickier than that.”

  “OK,” said Principe. “If you say so.”

  Blume didn’t like the tone. “I do say so.”

  “I’ll pass on that information to the investigating magistrate in charge of the case.”

  “And I’ll tell my colleagues,” said Blume.

  “And you’ll tell your colleagues. But I will pass on the information, and the magistrate is reliable. He’s already ordered a search of the neighborhood, and they found Pernazzo’s car.”

  “Did
they look inside it, too?”

  “Yes. Nothing important yet. Let me finish, would you?” Principe waited for a signal from Blume. “So the next thing the magistrate did was to start looking for Di Tivoli’s car and-this I just heard-it’s missing from the underground garage where he parks it.”

  “So Pernazzo is driving Di Tivoli’s car. Now we have the make and license plate. Maybe we’ll get lucky, though it didn’t do much good when Pernazzo was driving around the city in his own car.”

  “We might,” said Principe. “Di Tivoli has a Telepass device on his vehicle. RAI pays all travel expenses, you see. Including motorway tolls.”

  “Good to know that my license fee contributes to his free travel through toll gates,” said Blume.

  “Maybe you’ll see it as money well spent in a minute,” said Principe.

  “Every time the vehicle goes on or comes off a motorway, it is electronically logged. That means once Pernazzo takes a road out of the city, we’ll know, and we’ll also know which one,” said Principe. “The ICT unit in Tuscolana is monitoring the numbers now.”

  “Immediately? The vehicle passes a toll point, they see the ID flash up on their screens and call you?”

  “No. It takes almost an hour to process the numbers. It’s not us that’s slow, it’s the mainframe to which the electronic toll gates are connected. But I’ve also alerted the highway police.”

  “I didn’t know you could get a vehicle ID from a Telepass device,” said Blume.

  “You can’t,” said Principe. “But the device has to be associated with a credit card or bank account number. In this case it’s a bank account number held by RAI. We checked with RAI, and they were able to associate the device ID to Di Tivoli’s expense account.”

  “We?”

  “Me, then. It was my idea.”

  “That was good. But suppose he doesn’t take a motorway?”

  “Then it won’t work,” said Principe. “But he has to take a motorway sooner or later. It would make it easier if we knew where he was headed. Have you any idea?”

  Blume shrugged. “He should be trying to get out of the country. If I were him, I’d be driving towards the sea.”

  “We checked to see if he has any other properties he might try to use as a safe house. Nothing in his name, or his mother’s name. No brothers or sisters. Some cousins in Australia. We’ve been looking through his apartment, but the guy’s best friends seem to be computer avatars, gambling sites, Helen Duval…”

  “Who?”

  “A porn diva. I was certain you’d have heard of her. Also, we’ve already checked Alleva’s place in Rome, and Massoni’s, just in case he thought he could hide out there.”

  “You’ve connected Pernazzo to that crime scene already?”

  “No,” said Principe.

  “But you think it was him?”

  Principe hesitated. “Half an hour ago I got a phone call from Innocenzi.”

  Blume stayed silent. There was something inevitable about hearing the name again.

  “What did he tell you?”

  Principe ran the palm of his hand up his face, finally pushing off his spectacles, and said, “He didn’t tell me anything. He asked questions. Asked if the police know the probable whereabouts of the man who had killed Clemente.”

  “The concerned citizen,” said Blume. “Do you think someone has tipped him off?”

  “That we’re looking for Pernazzo? Maybe. Where Pernazzo is, no. We don’t know that ourselves yet,” said Principe.

  “No, we don’t,” said Blume, an idea beginning to form in his mind. “So everyone is coming round to my idea that Pernazzo is the person we want?”

  “Sometimes you act as if Alec Blume is the only man in town who knows where the bad guys are,” said Principe. “I can maybe find a good legal argument for coming in the window after being thrown out the front door on the Clemente case, but the finest argument won’t do me or anyone any good if the whole thing collapses into a heap of recriminations.”

  “But you think it will collapse? With all this evidence?”

  Principe sighed. “It’s messy. But if we don’t step on anyone’s toes, then we’ll get Pernazzo for Brocca’s murder at the pizzeria. We don’t need Pernazzo for the Clemente case.”

  “Yes, we do,” began Blume, but Principe held up a calming hand.

  “I said we don’t need Pernazzo for the Clemente case, not that we don’t need the Clemente case for Pernazzo.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “The Clemente case is still off-limits for us. In the end they’ll have to convict Pernazzo, but that’s up to them. Maybe they’ll have to recognize his responsibility for the killing of Alleva and Massoni, but we get him for the killing at the pizzeria, and now for trying to kill you. Is that OK by you?”

  “I don’t want him getting off for anything.”

  Principe lowered his voice, “All the rest will come out during the trial. I guarantee it.”

  “Why not now?”

  “The wheels of justice turn slowly. The case will take a long time coming to trial. By then, interest will have died down. And a general election held.”

  Blume touched a new bruise on the side of his face. “There is nothing political about Pernazzo. He’s psychopathic. We never get dumped on for psychopaths. If anything, it’s the opposite. Everyone suddenly remembers they need the police and the magistrates. Even the politicians have to pretend to appreciate magistrates for a day or two. Society rallies around and remembers it exists. Everyone’s happy.”

  “With Pernazzo out there killing people, Clemente becomes a random murder. Before Pernazzo appeared on the scene, it looked like Clemente died for an ethical cause. Your version of events makes it less clear-cut.”

  “That’s nice: my version,” said Blume.

  Principe relaxed his shoulders and looked directly at Blume. “Alleva’s role as the main bad guy was helped a lot by the fact he, directly or indirectly, got a cop killed.”

  “I get that,” said Blume.

  “But when you complicated the story with talk of this new person, Pernazzo, it was almost as if you were exonerating Alleva in some way. That’s one reason you were not getting the full support of your colleagues. It is as if Pernazzo was somehow your problem. I know that’s not the case, but there is a psychological element at play here. Especially after the death of Ferrucci. I am not condoning this, and as the magistrate in charge of the investigation into the random killing of Brocca, I shall do everything in my power to bring the perpetrator to justice. What I cannot afford to do is insist on investigating Pernazzo for the Clemente case. That will come out eventually, but it will be the decision of the judge in charge of preliminary inquiries, the chief prosecutor, the court, even the magistrates’ council. But it is a decision for other people to take later.”

  “He tried to kill me… and my woman.”

  “Ah, so she was there, your woman.”

  “Fuck it, Filippo, stop playing games. She was there. She saved my life. But she prefers to be left out of this.”

  “Fine. Are you so sure she’s ‘your woman’?”

  “What that’s supposed to mean?”

  “An irrelevance,” said Principe. “Pernazzo. He’s-how can I put this-he’s like a leftover piece from a completed jigsaw puzzle. It would be good if we could just throw out the extra piece. If someone were to get to Pernazzo first, then the full truth would never be known, but I suppose justice could be achieved nonetheless. Also, I’d say your efforts were due some recognition.”

  Blume’s mobile rang. He looked at the screen to see who it was, but the ID had been withheld. He answered anyhow.

  “Aha! My favorite American policeman,” said Innocenzi’s voice. “I was on this side of town, and I thought I’d pick up a few pastries from De Pedris for after mass.” He dropped his voice, low, confidential. “Better a day-old De Pedris pastry than a fresh one from the rat hole near my house.” He continued, “When I realized where I was in the city, I
wondered if by any chance business might have brought you to the court house, which I can see from where I am sitting. By happy coincidence, I catch you there. De Pedris does this fine coffee with chestnut foam-know it? You deserve one after the shock you had this morning. Also, there’s a thing I was wanting to ask you. Just you, mind, and no one else.”

  52

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1:45 P.M.

  Blume checked the time on his phone and walked with his head down, not saluting anyone in the corridor. It was quarter to two already. If Angelo Pernazzo had been in Di Tivoli’s house the night before and taken Di Tivoli’s car… When he reached the elevator, he suddenly turned on his heel and marched back the way he had come and straight into Principe’s office without knocking. Principe was on the phone and covered the mouthpiece as Blume entered. Then without even saying anything to whoever it was, he hung up.

  “Filippo, listen to me,” said Blume, speaking rapidly. “Di Tivoli had-has-a second house in Amatrice. I just remembered Manuela Innocenzi mentioned it. There’s a damned good chance that’s where we’ll find Pernazzo. Find out as quick as you can. Get the address. If Di Tivoli has more than one property outside Rome, give priority to whichever is nearest, but I’d bet on Amatrice. If Di Tivoli’s vehicle is logged going in that direction, then we’ll have him.”