The Deliverance of Evil

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The Deliverance of Evil Page 8

by Roberto Costantini


  “Yes. I watched a few commentators talking about the game, and then I went to bed.”

  I decided to leave it at that, even though his story was hard to believe.

  “You mentioned a weird guy with binoculars. Who did you mean?”

  “The count’s son. He spies on everyone from his balcony.”

  “Do you know Manfredi?”

  Valerio made a face.

  “He usually keeps his helmet on so people can’t see his face. But three Saturdays ago I paid Elisa a surprise visit and found him there chatting with her. As soon as I got there, he found an excuse to leave. He didn’t say one word to me.”

  “Did Elisa say what he wanted?”

  “She met him outside in the courtyard a few months ago, one morning when it was raining. He had an umbrella, so he walked her from the gate over to Building B. Then he called her on the intercom around the time when she usually went and got a cappuccino in the bar. It was still raining, and he offered to walk her over again. I think he kept tabs on her with the binoculars and knew her schedule.”

  “Could be. Did you say anything to Elisa?”

  “Yes, but she didn’t think anything of it. She said he was always very polite and kind and every so often he came to the office to talk. She felt sorry for him.”

  “Elisa never said whether he hit on her?”

  “She was positive he’d never do anything like that, but I’m not so sure. A guy like that . . .”

  Elisa Sordi had been either a naive, kind-hearted soul or a tease. If I hadn’t seen how embarrassed she’d been that day in Angelo’s office, I would have assumed the latter.

  “Did you ever see Manfredi again?”

  “Just once, in the courtyard. He was wearing his helmet. I was waiting for Elisa next to the fountain. I was smoking a cigarette. He came up and told me to go outside the gate if I wanted to smoke. He stood there next to his Harley-Davidson and waited for me to go outside. Then he left.”

  “Did you see him on the balcony last Sunday when you were talking to Elisa?”

  “I saw the reflection of his binoculars. He was spying on us.”

  “How did your exam go, Mr. Bona?”

  He grimaced.

  “Elisa’s disappearance ruined my concentration. I withdrew.”

  I nodded over to boat number twenty-two.

  “But her death hasn’t affected your sailing abilities.”

  He looked at me seriously.

  “You don’t understand. The only time I stop thinking about it is when I’m on the boat.”

  “And when you do think about it, what do you think?”

  “That Manfredi’s dangerous,” he said, immediately regretting his words. “Well, I think . . . maybe . . . I mean, I don’t know.”

  I left feeling strangely satisfied.

  . . . .

  I arrived at the rapid response team headquarters after three hours stuck in traffic. Teodori had told me to wait for him. Vanessa wasn’t there, so I went straight into his office.

  On the desk sat a framed photograph of a teenage girl who was pretty enough, if a little chunky. She was wearing a lot of makeup. I knew that Teodori was separated from his wife and that he had an eighteen-year-old daughter named Claudia. A detective who had a daughter the same age as the murder victim. That might have helped Teodori understand the victim’s state of mind, but he was too afraid that he might disturb the illustrious guests on Via della Camilluccia to act on it. And Claudia Teodori was certainly very different from Elisa Sordi—you only had to look at the photo to see that.

  The light on the phone blinked to indicate two messages. Years working for the secret intelligence service had taught me that any source was legitimate and every opportunity should be taken. The first message was from a woman.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Teodori, this is the Via Alba clinic. We would like you to come by as soon as you can to see your daughter and talk to the doctors. Good-bye.”

  The second message was from a man.

  “Teodori, Coccoluto here. I wanted to tell you not to worry. I’ve spoken to the public prosecutor and the judge. If we can find out who slipped her the pills she can plead a lesser charge.”

  Coccoluto worked in juvenile crime involving drugs and alcohol. Now I knew why they’d chosen Teodori for this investigation. He could be blackmailed. His daughter must have gotten into big trouble. It would be hard to convince him to disturb the tranquility of Via della Camilluccia. However, there was one pathway open, even if it was a very narrow one. I left him a message saying I’d call him later in the office.

  . . . .

  I parked the Duetto and went up to Gina’s gatehouse, now occupied by her young daughter.

  Five minutes later I was at the door of Building B penthouse. Father Paul, worried and much less his usual sparkling self, came to open the door.

  Alessandrini sat at the same desk where I’d seen him the previous Sunday. He didn’t get up to shake my hand.

  “Any news, Captain Balistreri?”

  “Not at the moment. I’m here to ask for a helping hand.”

  “Earthly justice isn’t my field, Captain.”

  I decided that getting straight to the point was the best way with this man.

  “You can help by allowing me to investigate this little corner of paradise.”

  I caught Paul’s glance at the Cardinal. Alessandrini gave me a serious stare.

  “And you think you need my permission? It appears to me that you’re doing a fine job upholding the Italian state’s freedom from the Vatican’s shackles all on your own. However, you can ask me anything.”

  “There’s also Building A,” I said.

  Alessandrini took off his glasses and massaged his temples, smiling.

  “I imagine Chief Superintendent Teodori wouldn’t approve of this conversation.”

  “If you want Elisa Sordi and her parents to get justice, you have to help me investigate. The girl worked for the Vatican. You have every right—”

  The cardinal interrupted me with a gesture. “As you’ve seen, I have no problem getting the police involved. But that isn’t the point. Elisa’s body was found by the river. She’d left the office.”

  “She likely knew the killer. The river’s too far to walk from here. Elisa must have gone there in a car or on a motorcycle. No one saw or heard a thing. Surely if she’d been kidnapped by a stranger she would have screamed.”

  “Even so, she had friends in her neighborhood, school friends—there are thousands of possible suspects,” objected Alessandrini.

  “I agree. But that would require her running into one of them. Dioguardi told Elisa only the night before that she’d have to work on Sunday, and until he and I came to your apartment, no one knew when she’d be able to leave.”

  Alessandrini was silent for a moment. “Very well. I’ll see to it that you can question everyone so that you can clear away even the slightest suspicion. But the count won’t be happy. You’ll see.”

  “Thank you. We need to question everyone who lives or works here, including you, Your Eminence.”

  Alessandrini was silent for a while. Then he spoke.

  “You want to know my whereabouts on Sunday after we left here with you and Angelo? As you’ll recall, I took a taxi at six twenty. I entered the Vatican at six thirty. I went to pray in a chapel below the offices, where I remained for about an hour.”

  “Were you alone?” I asked. For some reason this powerful man didn’t unnerve me. The difficult question came out lightly, easily.

  “There are no witnesses who can confirm I was there. I came out of the Vatican toward eight, and that is recorded. I was here at home by about ten past eight, in time to see the game. Count Tommaso was parking his car precisely as I was exiting the taxi. We waved to each other from a distance. He was in a hurry, presumably because he had guests.”

  “Was his wife with him?”

  The cardinal thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Before the game started I walke
d out onto the terrace. Rome was deserted by then. I saw Manfredi arrive on his motorcycle at eight fifteen.”

  “Was Manfredi alone?”

  “Yes, he was wearing his helmet, as usual. He got off very quickly. He probably didn’t want to miss the start of the game. He went right into Building A.”

  I wasn’t satisfied, but there was little else I could ask. I turned to Father Paul.

  “We met downstairs on Sunday about five thirty. I was coming up to see the cardinal, you were in a hurry—you were going to San Valente.”

  He looked at the cardinal and received a small nod. Permission to speak. “I went straight to San Valente. There was another volunteer there, Antonio. He drove the children to the parish youth club in our bus. They were there until eight.”

  “And what did you do for those two hours?”

  “I cooked. At eight, when Antonio returned with the children, everything was ready. We ate in front of television.”

  “And after the game?”

  “Antonio and I put the children to bed. Then we also went to sleep.”

  “Did you know Elisa Sordi, Father Paul?”

  There was a shade of apprehension in those blue eyes that darted to Cardinal Alessandrini for a moment and then turned back to me.

  “Of course.”

  “Did you ever talk to her?”

  I felt Alessandrini’s eyes on me, but I kept my gaze on Paul. Beneath those freckles something was stirring. He ran a nervous hand through his red curls.

  “Every so often Elisa brought some papers here. Two, maybe three times.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  It appeared to be painful for him to remember.

  “About my vocation,” he replied in a whisper.

  I had to keep myself from laughing. Valerio Bona went to Mass with Elisa. Father Paul talked about his vocation with her. Manfredi escorted her courteously to a nearby café. Then someone dragged her under a bridge, violently murdered her, mutilated her body, and tossed it in the river like a piece of garbage. Perhaps after making the sign of the cross.

  “Was Elisa planning to become a nun?” I spat out sarcastically.

  Paul answered seriously.

  “Perhaps. She asked many questions about the religious life.”

  I turned to Alessandrini.

  “Do you know anything about this, Your Eminence?”

  “I never exchanged more than a few words with the young woman when she delivered some documents. We spoke only about work.”

  The cardinal was deep in thought. It must have been a disturbing thought, because his usually affable features had hardened in a stern expression.

  I turned to Paul. “Did you ever visit her in her office on the third floor?”

  Now the flush and embarrassment were clear. “On Saturday she called me on the intercom.”

  “You mean the day before she disappeared?”

  “Yes, about five o’clock. She asked if I would take some books up to the cardinal. We spoke for a few minutes.”

  “And what did you speak about?”

  “About her work, that she was there on a Sunday, but that was okay. She said something strange: that she wanted me to hear her confession. I told her I wasn’t a priest yet.”

  “And then she left?”

  He hesitated, then continued. “I waved good-bye from the terrace. She was standing by the fountain with Gina. They both saw me and waved.”

  There was the motive for this little confession. There was a witness, the concierge, who would be coming back from India and perhaps would remember that they had exchanged good-byes.

  “Then another thing happened,” added Father Paul, looking worried.

  My instinct told me what that was, before he could say it. “She waved good-bye to someone on the terrace of Building A?” I asked.

  I could read the stunned look on Paul’s face, and for the first time a mixture of respect and fear on the face of Cardinal Alessandrini.

  “You knew already?” murmured Paul, confused.

  “I don’t know anything, except that I’m more convinced than ever that evil lurked in this little earthly paradise.”

  Father Paul nodded. “The boy with the binoculars is strange. He—”

  Alessandrini decided it was time to put an end to this conversation.

  “This isn’t paradise, Captain Balistreri, but neither is it hell. You won’t find any evil here. However, I will take what action I can, as I promised, so that the count will be obliged to cooperate with the police. As for Father Paul and myself, I think we have told you everything we know.”

  I had one more question for Paul, but I couldn’t ask it then. Did you see Elisa Sordi the Sunday she died?

  . . . .

  I left as July’s unrelenting sun was finally setting on the horizon. I looked up at the third-floor window, the office where Elisa Sordi used to work. The flower that had sat on the windowsill since before her death was now drooping and shriveled. I caught the usual reflection from Building A’s penthouse. From there Manfredi could keep an eye on everything and everyone. He could see without being seen, the ideal condition for him. He could see Elisa Sordi’s window. And in that moment, he could see me. I couldn’t resist the temptation. I lit a cigarette and, blowing smoke through my nose, waved good-bye to him.

  I walked across the magnificent grounds, enjoying my cigarette and the singing of the birds. I was in Rome, but it felt like the countryside. I glanced at the swimming pool. A woman in a bathing suit was lying on the grass, tanning in the sun’s last rays. I’d already caught a glimpse of her while she was getting in the car with the count the previous Sunday. She could have been my age, although her physique was that of a twenty-year-old, lean and slender. I saw her face sideways on, extremely delicate features and tiny crows’ feet in the corners of her eyes. She turned to look at me, her eyes a greenish-blue.

  “Strictly speaking, smoking isn’t permitted on the grounds,” she said politely. It was a warning more than anything else. I looked instinctively toward Building A’s terrace, but it was hidden by the trees.

  I should have said that I had lit it on purpose to provoke that overbearing husband of hers and her nosy young son. In that way we could have spoken. Instead, I did something very unlike me, meaning I did the diplomatic thing. I mumbled a few words of apology, stubbed the cigarette out on the ground and then picked up the stub and put it in my pocket. I cursed myself; the count was making me feel uncomfortable in a way I never had. I’d met men who were just as powerful and dangerous, but the difference was that I appreciated some things about Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno. Or at least I would have appreciated those things at one time, in my bad years: uncompromising belief in an idea, whatever the cost. There were other things I detested in him, such as fidelity to a king who had rejected Fascism and favored a medieval aristocratic system that left power over land and people in the hands of a few.

  Whatever it was, I’d had a bellyful of that unease and wanted to get away from there as soon as possible. I crossed the city in my Duetto with the top down in the first cool of sunset. Thanks to a special permit I was allowed to enter the historic center, which was closed to traffic. I parked nonchalantly next to a squad car below the Spanish Steps, showing my badge to the men in uniform. I bought a large cone of pistachio and chocolate ice cream and leaned against the Duetto looking around, shamelessly eyeing up the beautiful female tourists. And between the fountain and the steps there were plenty of them, some already looking curiously at the red Spider and the dark suntanned young man not giving a shit about the cops while peacefully enjoying his ice cream. A platinum blonde, suntanned and elegant in high heels, was coming out of Via Condotti with a Gucci shoulder bag and wearing a short Valentino dress. She was about ten years older than I was.

  It took me only a moment to see the moped coming and the two kids without helmets. The one behind stretched out his arm to grab hold of the bag and wrench it from the blonde in one swift move. In an instant an
d with a loud slap, my pistachio and chocolate cone was plastered over the eyes of the one in front. The moped wobbled off course, hit the edge of the fountain, and overturned, taking the two kids with it as it fell.

  The patrolmen ran over. I again showed my badge and recovered the lady’s Gucci bag, leaving my colleagues to deal with the two little would-be thieves.

  “They’re juveniles, Captain. We’ll take their names and let them go if they don’t have records,” one of the officers said.

  I shot a glance at the two kids. They were from the suburbs for sure. One was wearing an earring; the other had a Che Guevara tattoo on his muscular biceps. “No. Lock them up. A night in jail will be good for them.”

  The woman was waiting for me off to the side. She held her shoes in one hand.

  “Broken heel,” she explained with a smile.

  She was as tall as I was, even without her shoes. Then I noticed the wedding band and diamond ring on her left hand.

  “You can’t walk around barefoot. Let me give you a ride,” I offered, pointing to my car. She smiled.

  “I haven’t ridden in one of those in ages, but I remember it was fun.”

  The patrolmen were watching me, and I could imagine what they were saying to each other.

  “Where do you live?”

  “In London, with my husband and two children,” she replied.

  “Well, I can hardly take you all the way there. Where are you staying in Rome?”

  She pointed to the Spanish Steps leading up to Santa Trinità dei Monti.

  “I’m at the Hotel Hassler up there. But if you’re not in a hurry, I’d love a tour. This car is bound to make me feel like a kid again, and I see you can drive through the zones forbidden to common mortals.”

  In the Duetto with the top down, we crossed the city. The golden domes of Rome’s many churches were lit by the setting sun. I drove slowly into the pedestrian area. Mine was the only vehicle. All around us were Romans and tourists heading out on a Saturday night. She asked me to show her Piazza Navona and do a loop around the Fountain of the Four Rivers, and I obliged her, to the surprise of the tourists.

  “This is the car from The Graduate, isn’t it?” she asked me, while we were driving up toward Santa Trinità dei Monti.

 

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