Balistreri said, “Mr. Fadlun, kindly ask these young men to drive the van around the block so this gentleman can pull out.”
“The road is now free, sir; you can drive off, no worries,” Balistreri said to the hidden thug.
The huge brute looked up uncertainly from his hiding place. “The pistol’s a fake,” said Balistreri reassuringly.
Upon hearing that the thug got his courage back. “Come down here and I’ll break your fucking neck.”
Balistreri smiled, but he didn’t move. Sometimes he wondered if he was getting soft.
“Calm down,” said the shop owner to the man as sweetly as he could. “This gentleman’s a policeman; he certainly wouldn’t fire at you.”
The white van had gone around the block and was now behind the SUV.
“I am, and I’ll shoot out the tires on your SUV if you’re not out of here in five seconds,” Balistreri warned him. He held up his unloaded Beretta.
The man jumped into the SUV and left. Balistreri shut the window and went into the kitchen to make coffee.
After a few minutes, he heard the doorbell ring. It was Mr. Fadlun. He was standing on the threshold with a package in his hand that smelled sublime.
“My wife has just taken this baklava out of the oven. I know you like it very much,” Mr. Fadlun said, full of contrition. Balistreri had told him, he didn’t know how many times, that he should unload after six a.m. like all good Christians did.
“Please thank your wife, Mr. Fadlun.”
“Again, I’m sorry,” said Fadlun, now smiling a little. They had known each other for three years. “It’s business—what can you do? Over Christmastime you have to have plenty to sell.”
Balistreri looked at the old man’s wrist, where the number that identified him as a Holocaust survivor was clearly visible. He shuddered to think what the Balistreri of thirty years earlier would have done to this old man. He thanked him again and decided to let it go.
The last two weeks of the year had been impossible. As usual, the center of Rome had been full of people hunting for Christmas presents and had turned into a pit of hell that was impossible to live in.
Balistreri took his acid reflux pill and ate a piece of dry whole-wheat toast while staring longingly at Fadlun’s wife’s baklava. Then he drank his decaf coffee, smoked his first cigarette of the day, and checked that there weren’t more than five in the pack. His coffee was like his life: insipid. His Sicilian father had been fond of saying that drinking decaf was like pulling out or smoking a cigarette without inhaling. But Balistreri had wiped out the Sicilian half on his father’s side, the part he detested and had forgotten about, in favor of the half he loved.
He took a shower and got dressed. His pants hung loose. He had lost some more weight and gained some more gray hair. He swallowed his antidepressant with the last sip of coffee. Once I wasn’t frightened of death. Now I’m reduced to putting it off for as long as possible.
It wasn’t yet seven when Balistreri left his apartment. He arrived at the office five minutes later. The guard at the entrance obsequiously rushed to open the elevator door for him. Balistreri disliked having people serve him, but the other high-ranking officials didn’t feel the same way. After his fall from grace, he didn’t have any latitude to criticize the system. In any case, it was a system he’d worked in for twenty-five years. He’d been an integral part of it for too long.
He went up to the fourth floor, where his team’s offices were located. His office was in the corner, a large room with an eighteenth-century frieze in the center of the twelve-foot ceiling and a view of the Colosseum and the Roman Forum.
All the other offices were empty except for the cubicle that belonged to Margherita, the new switchboard operator and secretary. She greeted him with a smile. She wore no makeup and had the appearance of a good clean girl.
She could be my daughter. If I tried coming on to her, she’d laugh in my face . . .
Over the years, he’d gradually eased up on his womanizing. He no longer had the ability to thoughtlessly inflict wounds with no feelings of guilt. Slowly the number of areas he had forbidden himself had spread into almost all female categories: those who were married or engaged and singles young enough to still entertain the hope of marriage. As a result of these self-imposed moral limits and his physical and mental decline, the field was reduced to the occasional one-night stand.
He had a good half-hour before his two deputies, Corvu and Piccolo, were scheduled to arrive. He started in on his daily routine. He put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, switched on his computer, and checked his email. As he did every morning, he read only the two that seemed most important. The first, from Graziano Corvu, was an update on investigations. It was a summary of all investigations begun in the past two years that hadn’t been solved, with the latest findings highlighted in red. There were only four cases. One of them was Samantha Rossi and the case of the letter R.
There was only one brand-new case: a young Senegalese man had been stabbed to death outside the Bella Blu nightclub a block from Via Veneto on the night of December 23, or rather, early in the morning on December 24. Papa Camarà was a bodybuilding instructor at the Sport Center gym. In the evening he also worked as a bouncer at the Bella Blu. There had been an argument at the club entrance between Camarà and an unidentified motorcyclist just before the stabbing, which took place about two thirty in the morning. The Bella Blu’s manager was a lawyer named Francesco Ajello. He was the one who called the police.
Balistreri made a note on a Post-it, stuck it on his desk, and lit his second cigarette. He turned to Giulia Piccolo’s email: new cases. The special team on foreigners dealt not only with serious crimes, but also with any offense or relevant aspects of any investigation that involved foreigners—assault with intention to do bodily harm, rape, missing persons. Over the holidays, Piccolo’s emails had been short. Around Christmas nothing very serious happened: women’s bags were snatched as they were out shopping, shop tills were robbed, and merchandise was stolen by bored young boys on vacation. Then there were the tramps found frozen to death and fights between relatives of different ethnic groups rashly gathered together for the holidays, and obviously road traffic accidents increased tenfold because of the number of Italians on the roads and the abundant drinking. It was all commonplace and you could live with it. Nothing that warranted his attention.
But that day there was something new. The morning before a Romanian prostitute had reported her friend missing since the night of December 24. Another Post-it.
Beyond the blinds, which Balistreri kept lowered, Rome was lazily beginning to wake up. He left his desk lamp on and turned over the overhead light, then put on a Leonard Cohen CD at low volume. His psychiatrist had suggested he stop listening to Cohen, Lennon, and De André for a while, but he couldn’t. He stretched out on the worn and cracked leather sofa, a symbol of both his status and his state of mind, and dozed off. He dreamed he was lighting a cigarette.
Balistreri’s two deputies entered his office at seven thirty sharp. Both were extremely punctual and absolutely dedicated to their jobs, but apart from that they couldn’t have been more different.
Graziano Corvu came from a poor family in a small village in the Sardinian interior. He’d studied like crazy and earned a cum laude degree in math at the university in Cagliari. Once he was employed by the police, he enrolled in evening classes and earned a second degree in economics. The youngest of five sons, he possessed the innate skill of pleasing everyone and had friends everywhere for whom he had done favors. Corvu was the ablest analyst in the Rome police. His Achilles’ heel was women. In this endeavor, the indefatigable Corvu was a mixture of awkwardness and bad luck, despite the advice and encouragement of an old hand such as Balistreri.
Giulia Piccolo had grown up in a small seaside town outside of Palermo where her ambiguous sexuality was a hot topic of conversation. She left as soon as she turned eighteen. She was almost six feet tall and muscular, attractive in an angular
way. She had earned a degree in physical education in Rome and held a black belt in karate. There was no talk of men in her life, which—according to Balistreri—was a bad sign. She was perhaps too impulsive, but her apparent courage and uncompromising nature were the very qualities the head of the special team knew to be the ones that over the years he himself had lost.
“Good morning, sir.” It had taken everything for Balistreri to persuade Corvu not to address him by his official title, Associate Deputy Police Captain. Corvu had agreed to call him “sir” only after Balistreri had appealed to his analytical skills, noting that his title contained two diminutives—“associate” and “deputy”—and was therefore actually rather insulting.
“You look tired, sir,” Corvu observed.
They’re worried. They’ve heard rumors in the corridors that I’m on the list for early retirement.
“This guy have any priors?” Balistreri asked Corvu, changing the subject.
“Both Camarà and Ajello have clean records—immaculate, in fact,” Corvu replied.
“Have you checked with Interpol?”
“Yes. Nothing.”
“Civil court?”
“Checked.”
“And SISDE?” It was a rather impertinent question. Corvu didn’t have sufficient authority to access the secret intelligence service computer records.
“Checked. Nothing there.” Corvu looked away. Balistreri didn’t ask how he’d managed that.
“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that the manager of a nightclub with cage dancers and bouncers, who are most certainly paid under the table, doesn’t have a record? I don’t necessarily mean a conviction, but being reported for stealing apples, that sort of thing . . .”
“With a lot of cash lying around, there’s always something,” added Piccolo.
Corvu scowled. “Sorry, sir, I should have thought of that. I’ll check with the revenue agency.”
“Good, you can tell me what you find tomorrow. For now, tell me about the dead man.”
“Papa Camarà started working at the Bella Blu in early September. His shift was from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., when the club closed. He stopped any ‘unsuitable’ types from coming in, so Ajello said. There was an argument outside the club.”
“And what do we know of this argument?”
“We’ve got a witness. An American tourist who turned up about two o’clock, saw Camarà arguing with a motorcyclist, who then sped off. Camarà was found dying on the pavement outside the club at two thirty. Stabbed in the stomach with a knife.”
“Any description of the motorcyclist?”
“The American was drunk. But he did say the rider was wearing a full-face helmet.”
“Okay, talk to him again. And find out more about the victim, Ajello, the money.”
He turned to Piccolo, picked up the other Post-it, and passed it to her. On it he’d written, “28!?”
“You’re right, sir. The girl waited four days. For a variety of reasons, she claims. I’ve got the statement she gave at the Torre Spaccata police station yesterday. Name’s Ramona Iordanescu. She only met the missing girl, Nadia, a month ago. She didn’t even know her last name. They both came from small towns in Moldova near Iasi. She hadn’t heard from Nadia since late afternoon on December 24.”
With a gesture Balistreri held Corvu back from the torrent of clarification he was about to request.
“Can you just give me the nitty-gritty?” he asked Piccolo politely. He was always very polite with her, less familiar than he was with Corvu. She didn’t seem to mind.
“Ramona Iordanescu, born April 4, 1986, in Iasi, Romania.”
“You said Moldavia,” Balistreri said.
“Moldova, sir, not Moldavia. It’s a region of Romania,” Corvu explained.
“Since December 1, 2005, she’s been living in an apartment on Via Tiburtina owned by Marius Hagi, who’s also the owner of the billiard hall next door and employer of a distant cousin of hers, Mircea Lacatus. She met Nadia on the bus she took from Moldova to Rome in late November. They liked each other and decided to share the room she was going to rent from her cousin Mircea’s boss. Once they arrived in Italy, Mircea and another cousin, Greg, forced them into prostitution and threatened to beat them if they didn’t comply. Usual ‘place of work’ was Via di Torricola, a long road out into the country between the Appian Way and Via Casilina. On December 24, Ramona went to the usual spot with Nadia about six. She got into a car with a john around six thirty. When she got back, Nadia wasn’t there, and she wasn’t in the room on Via Tiburtina, either, when Ramona went home early on the morning of December 25. They planned to go to Romania together for New Year’s. Ramona says she didn’t file a formal report before, because she thought her friend managed to get away from their pimps. She gave us a photo of the two of them.”
Piccolo handed over the photo. It showed two young women with their arms around each other in St. Peter’s Square. Someone had drawn a heart around them with a red pen. They didn’t look any older than twenty. One was tall and dark, the other small, slim, and blond. Someone had written an R under the brunette and an N under the blonde.
“And so yesterday she decided to report her missing?” Corvu asked.
Piccolo read directly from the statement, “Iordanescu came in today, December 28, 2005, at 5:00 a.m. to make a formal statement because one hour later she was departing for Iasi by bus.”
She looked up at Balistreri indignantly. “It seems no one ever dreamed of stopping her.”
Balistreri showed no sign of annoyance.
Who do you think is going to give a damn about a Romanian prostitute, without a residence permit, who disappears?
Now the car horns were honking outside the window, you could hear them even through the double windows. It was raining hard, and Balistreri was glad.
Rain cushions life, like an antidepressant.
He looked at the time.
“It’s ten past eight,” he said to Piccolo.
“I asked about the change of shift. It’s at nine o’clock.” Piccolo was on her feet.
“Take the dwarf with you, and use the siren. Rome’s a disaster area in the rain.”
. . . .
Inspector Antonio Coppola was a fifty-year-old from Naples known for three things: his short stature, which had earned him the affectionate nickname “the dwarf,” his way with women, and, lastly, his poorly concealed racism, typical of a Southerner who has been discriminated against himself. As a young man, he’d been married and divorced twice. Both women were better looking than he was, and both had kicked him out because he cheated. He said he was compelled to cheat as a way to compensate for the inferiority complex his height gave him. Then, twice-divorced, he married Lucia, who’d been his first love back in high school in Naples. Tall and beautiful, Lucia bore Coppola a son, Ciro, who was now a very tall sixteen-year-old and captain of a basketball team. Nowadays Coppola confined himself to flirting with beautiful women, without going on to taste the fruit.
Nevertheless, Balistreri was resigned to the need to keep him far away from any investigations involving attractive women. He didn’t want to be either the cause or a witness to any romantic crises.
Coppola drove, siren blaring, while Piccolo filled him in on the case. He sped through the chaotic traffic as if he were driving alone on the Monza racetrack.
Eventually they left the city center, and beautiful ancient buildings gave way to the shabby towers of Rome’s eastern outskirts, built during the speculative housing boom of the 1960s.
They arrived at the Torre Spaccata police station at a quarter to nine and approached the officer on duty. Giuseppe Marchese, a twenty-year-old with very short dark hair and watchful eyes, was dressed in civilian clothes. He addressed Coppola, ignoring Piccolo completely.
“What can I do for you?” he asked with a marked Sicilian accent.
“Inspector Coppola.” Coppola flashed his badge. A long pause. The officer became flustered, as many did when they dealt with t
he special team. Then Coppola pointed to the woman beside him. “I’m here with Deputy Captain Piccolo.”
“I’ll call my superior immediately,” Marchese said, reaching for the phone.
“No,” said Coppola, brusquely stopping him. “It’s you we want to talk to. Is there an office where we can do this discreetly?”
“To tell you the truth,” said Marchese in a feeble attempt to escape, looking at the clock on the wall, “my shift’s over in five minutes.”
“Perfect, so no one will disturb us. Where should we do this?” Coppola persisted. He was a little conflicted. On the one hand, Marchese was a kid who’d left some village in Sicily and been assigned to a police station in one of the worst areas in the city. And on the other hand, he’d let Ramona leave. Anger won out.
Marchese led them to a little room off to one side. The officers for the next shift were already arriving. Some looked at them inquisitively, but Coppola shut the door in their faces. There was a table and two chairs in the room. Coppola offered the larger chair to Piccolo, who took it into a corner and sat down. Coppola leaned heavily on the desk.
“Sit down,” he said to Marchese. The poor kid sat on the edge of the seat.
“Ramona Iordanescu. You took her statement, right?” Coppola said.
Marchese shot to his feet. “Inspector . . .” he tried to say.
Coppola placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed the kid back into his seat. He was visibly uncomfortable. Piccolo had learned to recognize fear instantly. Even for an emotional young man, his reaction seemed too extreme. Of course, he was dealing with the special team and the dwarf’s tough-guy attitude, but no one was accusing him of anything. She got up and stood in front of Marchese with perfect timing, while Coppola moved out of the young policeman’s field of vision.
Piccolo squatted down in front of Marchese so that their eyes were at the same level.
“Giuseppe,” she said calmly, “you’ve done nothing wrong. You’re hardly responsible for the whole station at your rank.” He looked at her as if she were Our Lady of Help of Sciacca and had come to save him. Piccolo gave him time to calm down, then in a low voice addressed him, Sicilian to Sicilian. “I just want to know one thing: Who told you to let her leave for Romania?”
The Deliverance of Evil Page 15
