The kid’s eyes shot toward the door; voices could be heard outside. Piccolo glanced at Coppola, who went and stood in front of the door. Someone knocked. Coppola opened the door, left, and shut the door behind himself. The voices on the other side of the door were growing louder. She had a minute, maybe less.
“We’re not back in our small towns in Sicily anymore,” Piccolo said sympathetically. “They’re not kidding around up here in Rome, so just tell me who it was or you’ll be screwed.”
“I’m screwed anyway. The little people always get the shaft,” he grumbled. Then he whispered a name.
. . . .
In the corridor, all hell was breaking loose. Piccolo opened the door. A fifty-year-old deputy captain a good foot taller than Coppola was screaming in his face, “I’m reporting you to the disciplinary board! We’re not in Chicago here. Just who the hell do you think you are?”
Piccolo stepped out and flashed her badge. The man said, “You can’t just come in here and subject one of my men to an interrogation.”
Then he whipped out his own badge in return: Deputy Captain Remo Colajacono. He was tall and fit, his long, thick gray hair combed straight back and held in place with plenty of gel; he had a boxer’s nose and close-set, dangerous-looking black eyes.
“We can talk about it in your office, if you wouldn’t mind, not out here in the middle of the corridor,” Piccolo said politely.
The man turned rudely on his heel and showed her the way to an office in a corner. He took a seat below a crucifix and a photo of the president of Italy. Without inviting her to sit, he pointed to Coppola and said,“The officer has to wait outside.” Coppola stepped out and closed the office door.
“All right, let’s talk about Ramona Iordanescu,” Piccolo began.
“She filed a report yesterday morning,” he said quickly.
Piccolo restrained a smile. Violent men were often quick to react.
“No, the last time. Did you speak to her?”
Colajacono was uncomfortable because Piccolo wasn’t easy to pigeonhole. For him, women fit into one of a small number of categories: mothers, sisters, whores, or murder victims. He was tall, but she was taller. He had quite a high rank, but so did she and on a high-profile special team. To buy time, he lit a cigar.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“No,” said Piccolo. She got up as if she were at home and went to open the window.
Colajacono decided to take the approach that would give him the most control. “I spoke to her a few minutes that time. She came in midmorning on December 25. Officer Marchese told me there was a young Romanian girl who wanted to speak to the captain, but I took care of her instead. She told me her friend Nadia was missing. I asked her if her friend had a cell phone, and she said no, they couldn’t afford phones. I asked her if her friend was happy working the streets and she said no, that she wasn’t happy either. She said there’s no such thing as a happy prostitute.”
Piccolo said nothing, but her look became darker.
“I told her to let us know if her friend didn’t show up,” Colajacono finished. He visibly relaxed.
Piccolo raised an eyebrow. “Really? You were that vague?”
Colajacono gave her a piercing look with his cold black eyes. “I don’t remember exactly what was said. We assumed that whore found some Italian sucker to be her sugar daddy and she stopped working the street.”
“Do you think the prostitutes on Via di Torricola are allowed to just stop working?”
“You tell me. You seem to know everything,” Colajacono answered sarcastically. He blew smoke in her face.
You can’t lay a finger on him, Giulia. Not here, not now.
Piccolo got up.
“We’ll start looking for Ramona,” she said. Then, looking him straight in the eye with an angelic expression she murmured, “Let’s hope nothing happens to her in the meantime.”
She found Marchese in the corridor. He’d finished his shift. The two of them and Coppola walked out together. Despite it being almost half past nine, the traffic was still very heavy. They crossed the street at the crosswalk on the corner. Cars and mopeds brushed dangerously close to them. The bar across the street was crowded, mostly with office workers stopping for breakfast before starting their days at their desks. There were also some immigrants dressed for manual labor.
“Fucking Romanians, already drunk on beer at this time of day,” Coppola said, not bothering to hide his contempt.
Marchese was more relaxed now that they had left the police station. He and Coppola stayed in the bar, but Piccolo went to the car and sat with the heat on. It was still raining hard and the street was blocked with cars moving at a crawl to get over some rut filled with ten inches of water. Get rid of the potholes and the Roma gypsy camps. That’s what the opposition was urging the mayor to do. Potholes and Roma gypsies.
You could fill the potholes with Roma bodies. Many would agree with that. She called Balistreri and told him everything.
“All right, Piccolo. Bring Marchese here and I’ll deal with Colajacono.”
Piccolo smiled. Balistreri wanted to keep her out of trouble.
. . . .
“Corvu, I’m meeting Linda Nardi after lunch. Top secret.”
Corvu was shocked. Linda Nardi was a journalist, and Balistreri usually avoided journalists like the plague. Moreover, she wrote for a paper that often criticized the police. Balistreri didn’t even read it anymore. Five months earlier, during the heat of the Samantha Rossi case, Linda Nardi had been particularly persistent in pointing out the many missteps made by the special team. She’d never joined in calling for Balistreri’s head, though.
Balistreri lit his third cigarette of the day and thought about Linda Nardi. How old could she be? She had to be about thirty-five, even though there were days and moments when she looked ten years younger, and others when she looked ten years older. A good-looking woman, no matter her age. The face of a serious child, eyes that went from intensity to detachment in a moment. A woman as polite and open as she was firm in her opinions and uncompromising in making them known. Balistreri knew that they considered her indispensable at the newspaper for the interest her articles aroused in their readers, but also dangerous in the past for the trouble the same articles had caused within political circles, the extremist fringe of the Church, and with officials from several foreign countries.
Rumor had it that many men—including police and journalists—had tried without success to get her into bed. She was courteous, even kind, but she didn’t respond to that kind of attention, sometimes with a bluntness that humiliated her would-be suitors.
One of them had been Balistreri’s predecessor in homicide, Colicchia, a real Don Giovanni. Having a beautiful woman aound who wouldn’t have sex with him disturbed his sense of equilibrium, partly because of his innate presumption and partly because he thought all women were easy. So Colicchia had sent Linda Nardi a bouquet of red roses and a card inviting her to dinner wherever she chose. She had politely declined, but when Colicchia had continued to persist, adding a veiled threat about cutting her off from privileged channels of communication, she finally accepted and had chosen Il Convento for their dinner. Colicchia, who was notoriously cheap, nearly had a heart attack: this was a restaurant with only eight tables where the food was heavenly but outrageously expensive, especially for an honest policeman.
But by then his reputation was at stake. He took her there and rattled off the usual selection of crimes he more or less romanticized and with which he usually impressed his prey, only to discover that Linda Nardi was as insatiable at the table as she was chased away from it. She ordered multiple dishes and the most expensive wines, which she barely touched. Then she began to ask Colicchia to tell her his bloodiest tales. In the end, when they were the only customers left, she began to tell him in all seriousness about her research into certain crimes committed in America by women against men. Tales of horrifying mutilation. In the end Colicchia who, like almost all
of the rapid response team, suffered from gastritis and had been forced to drink all the wine she’d ordered and barely touched, had to run to the men’s room and throw up, returning to the table as white as a sheet. So ended their night out.
. . . .
As usual, Balistreri decided not to use an official car. It was still raining, Rome was awash.
It was a little after nine thirty, and the city was waking up. Shop owners unlocked their doors. Office workers who were running late—and those who had punched in and then left for breakfast—finished their coffee. Government bureaucrats and messengers were everywhere. A sea of buses, taxis, official cars, and private vehicles with permits surrounded the ministry of the interior as half of Rome’s residents tried to gain access to the historic center to get to work. They were all sounding their horns like crazy, as if the cacophony would help move the traffic jam along.
He walked to the Via Cavour subway station. The train was dirty and empty. As he exited the station, two African immigrants entered, jumped the turnstile, and ran down the stairs. Two transit workers shouted at them, and then one turned to the other and said, “Fucking black bastards . . .”
When Balistreri came out of the station, his BlackBerry buzzed with two messages from Corvu: the first contained information about some Romanians he was planning to track down, and the second was simply a place and a time and a pair of initials: Sant’Agnese in Agone, 3:00 p.m. L.N.
He took a bus the rest of the way. At least the traffic was moving here, unlike in the narrow alleys of the city center. But the stench of refuse was evident, the garbage collectors having been on strike since the day after Christmas. A private company had cleared the city center so the tourists wouldn’t see the eyesore, but in the suburbs, the contents of the trash cans were spilling out onto the pavements and into the middle of the streets.
When he got off the bus, Balistreri saw two homeless people picking up wrappers from all the special Christmas cakes, hoping there might be something left inside. He passed them, noticing the smell of piss and alcohol. One of the two addressed him without ceremony.
“Give us a smoke, boss, will ya?”
Balistreri handed him a cigarette. So much the better—one less for him to smoke.
The billiard hall was located in a building that had seen better days. On the right was the main entrance to the building; on the left was the door to the billiard hall, which sagged half-off its hinges. Behind the bar stood a thin young man with his hair in a ponytail. Two Filipinos were playing the slot machines.
Balistreri ordered a coffee. The bartender poured it immediately and served it with a piece of chocolate. As in every bar in Rome, Out of Order was written on the restroom door—except that here, instead of a piece of cardboard, they had written on the door itself, thus making it permanent. Next to the restroom was another door that remained closed. Above it was written BILLIARDS ROOM.
A young thickset guy came in with a shaved head and three-day stubble, wearing a long black leather coat.
“Do you want a beer, Greg?” the bartender asked. He had an Eastern European accent. Greg nodded. He leaned on the bar and lit a cigarette right under the sign that read NO SMOKING. The Filipinos at the slot machines followed his lead and lit cigarettes of their own. “You can’t smoke in here,” Greg said.
The Filipinos dropped their cigarettes to the floor and stubbed them out with their toes, then started playing again. “Don’t just drop your butts on the floor. What are you, animals?”
The younger of the two Filipinos turned around with an attitude, but the other stopped him. They picked up the cigarette butts and left.
“No slant-eyes allowed in here, Rudi,” Greg told the bartender. He picked up his glass of beer, burped loudly, and headed into the billiards room. He closed the door behind himself.
“Where are you from?” Balistreri asked the bartender.
“Albania, sir,” the bartender answered.
Balistreri flashed his badge, but not his special immigration team ID.
“I’m looking for the Lacatus cousins.”
“There’s only Greg.”
“His cousin’s not here?”
“Mircea left this morning.”
“I was supposed to meet him here,” Balistreri said, feigning surprise. “When did he leave?”
“Actually he was here with Mr. Hagi. A half-hour ago he took the car and left. And Mr. Hagi went to Marius Travel, his travel agency.”
“What kind of car does Mircea drive?”
The kid thought for a moment. “I don’t know, but I paid for the registration, so I have the license plate number.” He reached under the counter and took out a piece of paper.
Balistreri typed the number into his BlackBerry and sent it to Piccolo with an order to stop the car and come to the bar as soon as possible. Then he changed the subject.
“Do you know Ramona and Nadia?”
The kid from Albania looked nervously toward the door to the billiards room.
The first difference between the gophers and the real villains: the former look upset, the latter don’t give a shit.
“I’ll take care of them. I can put them away for a long time. You’ll be far away from here before they have a chance to hurt you.”
The kid snorted. “In this country? They’d be out before I got to the bus stop.”
He’s pretty on the ball.
“If you tell me the truth—everything—I’ll help you.”
“You can’t keep me safe,” Rudi said.
“Hey, asshole, bring me another beer,” Greg boomed from the other side of the door.
Balistreri quietly walked over and locked the door to the billiards room. Then he returned to the bar.
“I want a lawyer,” the young bartender said.
Balistreri shook his head. “You’re not being accused of anything.”
The doorknob began to rattle. Greg was trying to get out.
Balistreri led the bartender outside, turning the sign on the door of the bar to CLOSED on the way. They couldn’t hear Greg’s threats out there, but Balistreri was pretty sure that by then he’d called someone on his cell phone to come let him out. He sent Piccolo a text message, telling her to get there fast and bring backup. Calmly, he turned to the bartender.
“What’s your name?”
“Rudi.” The kid relaxed a little. He took a pack of cigarettes and a slim blue lighter out of his pocket. “You want one?”
“No thanks. I’ve got my own.”
Rudi lit a cigarette, his hands trembling. “Greg and Mircea brought them back here at daybreak.”
“Was Hagi involved?” Balistreri asked.
“No. Mr. Hagi’s different. He pays me and gives me a place to stay. He doesn’t live here, but he comes by every morning.”
“Where do the girls live?”
“They have a room in an apartment on the second floor. Greg and Mircea share one room. I’m in another, and the two of them are in the third. They went out every day at five. Sometimes they’d have a private client and go out later, but Mircea always took them to meet the private clients.”
“Do you know where he took them?”
“No. I asked Ramona once and she said she couldn’t tell me.”
“Do you remember the last time Mircea went out with them?”
“Yes, December 23. He only took Nadia. Ramona went out at 5:00 as usual. He picked up Nadia at eight thirty. Ramona came back early that night. She wasn’t feeling well. It was midnight. The bar was already closed. A little later Mircea came in with Greg, but no Nadia. They stayed down here and played pool. I went upstairs to the apartment and I found Ramona throwing up. So I came back down and made her some tea with lemon, but I didn’t tell Mircea and Greg that she was back. We had a toast at midnight with the hot tea because we wouldn’t be able to on the twenty-fourth.”
At that moment, two young men in leather jackets and jeans pulled up on a motocross bike. They parked the bike and walked toward Balistreri.
<
br /> “Hey, faggot, what are you doing out here? Blowing old men during working hours?” the taller one said in a strong Eastern European accent. He was beefy and hairy, with tattoos covering his neck and shoulders.
“They’re going to tear you a new one, faggot,” said the second one, a short guy with yellow teeth. “Did you lock Greg inside so you could suck this old dude’s dick?”
Balistreri tried to look humble. “Sorry, sorry. It’s my fault. I asked Rudi—”
The larger of the two said, “Fuck off, Grandpa. Go find someone else to suck your cock.” He spat on the ground.
Two unmarked cars pulled up and parked. Piccolo and four detectives stepped out. Balistreri nodded to them to enter the bar. They did, and the two Romanians went in as well, followed by Rudi and Balistreri, who locked the door behind them.
“What the fuck you think you’re doing?” asked the big guy. Piccolo showed him her badge, and the four plainclothes cops opened their jackets and revealed their guns.
“Hands in the air,” Piccolo ordered. A search found that each was carrying a switchblade. Very good.
Piccolo read them their rights and declared them under arrest. Then she handcuffed all three of them, Rudi first.
Then they pulled Greg out, who was beside himself. He had a plastic bag of coke in his pocket. Seeing he was about to jump on the policeman who was searching him, Piccolo delivered a single blow to the solar plexus that made him fall to his knees, gasping for breath. A perfect blow, because it leaves no marks. While Greg was flaling, they handcuffed him. Balistreri shot Piccolo a warning look.
She’s just like I was. I’ll have to teach her to be a bit more careful.
Piccolo had already called for more cars from the closest police station. They sent the three men in to be booked. Balistreri turned to Rudi, who stayed behind.
“Who’s in Ramona and Nadia’s room now?”
“No one. I’ve got the keys. I do the cleaning.”
The Deliverance of Evil Page 16
