In his hand Corvu held two printouts. Balistreri stared at them in disgust.
“Listen, Corvu, we’ll do it this way. Just fill me in on the conclusions to your analysis. If I have any doubts, then we’ll look at the sheets of paper.”
Corvu got to his feet. “Do you mind if I move around?”
Balistreri imagined Corvu out to dinner with a girl, with a stack of papers in front of him full of figures, diagrams, and formulas. She asks him a question whose answer isn’t on the sheets of paper. He gets up and starts walking around.
“Corvu, just sit down.”
Corvu perched on the edge of a chair and glanced sideways at his notes.
“Well, the Bella Blu’s part of a chain of nightclubs, betting parlors, and arcades that belong to a company called ENT. Ajello’s been the main shareholder since the end of 2004, when he took over ten percent of the stock from the heirs of a previous shareholder and director, a certain Sandro Corona, who died in an accident at the end of October 2004. The remaining ninety percent of the company, since it was constituted in the middle of 2002, is in the hands of a trust.”
“Which means we need a judge and a valid motive to find out who’s behind it,” Balistreri said.
“Ajello has an immaculate record, but ENT makes a huge profit, five million euros, half a million of which go to Ajello.”
“And we have nothing on ENT?” Balistreri asked.
Corvu consulted his notes. “Yes, proceedings on a charge from the finance police in September 2004. They found electronic games in one of the arcades that weren’t properly registered and taxed. But ENT was run by Corona back then, not Ajello.”
“All right, Corvu, we’ll get back to this later. Hagi should be here by now.”
Balistreri had known Hagi’s lawyer, Massimo Morandi, for more than thirty years. They had met in 1971, when they were students at Rome’s Sapienza University and active on opposite political fronts. Morandi, an acknowledged leader of the far left, was giving a speech, and a group of right-wing students led by Balistreri stood out in the hall with bats and crowbars and created a disturbance. Morandi and Balistreri ended up sharing a jail cell, where they passed the night exchanging insults. These days, Morandi was a left-wing senator who made millions in fees defending CEOs accused of false accounting. Less frequently, he also defended immigrants, but only those like Marius Hagi who had the means to pay his exorbitant fees.
When Balistreri and Piccolo entered the room for the informal questioning they had no idea whether to expect a kind of senior underworld boss or someone like Greg. Hagi was neither. He was extremely thin, almost ascetic, with short black hair, hollow cheeks scored with deep furrows, and black eyes set below thick eyebrows and with dark bags underneath. He was dressed in an almost nondescript fashion, and was resting against the chair with his bony hands placed loosely and calmly on the table. He didn’t seem worried, as if the matter was nothing to do with him. He had a weary air, a sharp cough, and the rough voice of longtime smoker.
Morandi said, “So, Captain Balistreri, what’s the charge against my client?”
“Nothing, officially. We’re asking for his help,” Piccolo answered.
“I assure you he knows nothing,” Morandi said. He didn’t even look at Piccolo.
“He knows nothing about his three employees who were armed, one of whom was in possession of cocaine?” Piccolo said.
“The cocaine was not in Mr. Hagi’s possession and he knew nothing about it. And the two men with the knives weren’t even in the bar.”
“We’d still appreciate your client’s cooperation in this matter,” Piccolo said evenly.
“Be more specific.”
“We have some questions. How does a legitimate businessman come to have two prostitutes as houseguests? How does he come to employ people who go around armed with knives and with cocaine in their pockets?” Piccolo asked.
Morandi didn’t even look at her. He gave a little laugh and addressed Balistreri. “Do you really think I’d let my client reply to questions of this kind without any corresponding charge? I want to know now, right now, what this is about. You’re the special immigration team, not a local precinct.”
“You’re absolutely right, sir,” Balistreri replied. “One of the two young Romanian women living in Mr. Hagi’s apartment on Via Tiburtina disappeared on December 24, and the second young woman reported the fact only yesterday, December 28, and as soon as she did she took off for Romania. We have reason to be concerned about the missing woman and the possible involvement of your employees.”
Hagi turned deep black burning eyes on him. He spoke in the hoarse voice of a smoker.
“Do you suppose all Italians are honest? There are many prejudices against Romanians, although the majority are normal, inoffensive people. Among those I help, giving them a home or work or a gift, there are extremely honest people and also some young men who are difficult. It would be easy to wash one’s hands of them, but then what help would it be if I abandoned precisely those who needed help the most?”
“So, you know about their illegal activities,” Piccolo said. Hagi didn’t look at her either.
“If by illegal activities you are referring to the fact that Nadia and Ramona sell their bodies on the street, yes, I do know, as do the Italian police, who see them on the street every night. Except that I don’t earn a single euro from it, whereas I cannot say the same for your police.”
Morandi shifted uneasily.
“They’re all employed by your travel agency, aren’t they?” Piccolo asked.
“Yes. And they work hard, at least twelve hours a day. I often send Greg and Mircea to Poland and Romania to check out new hotels and restaurants. Giorgi and Adrian look after the office in Rome.”
“And they need to be armed with knives to do that?” Piccolo asked.
Hagi smirked. “They live in the Casilino 900 camp. If you lived there, you’d need more than just muscle for protection, too.”
“Are you telling us they’re good guys?” asked Balistreri. Hagi had another coughing fit and followed it with a weak smile.
“Are Greg and Mircea good guys? No. Honestly, they’re terrible people. But their parents helped me escape from Ceausescu’s Romania when I was young. In 2002, they told me that Greg and Mircea had moved on from dealing contraband goods to dealing drugs. They asked me to take them to Italy and find work for them. I did. I couldn’t deny the people who saved my life. I set down clear rules for Greg and Mircea. I told them they were going to work hard, and they couldn’t have weapons or get involved in crime.”
“Aside from a little cocaine and prostitution,” Piccolo said. Balistreri shot her a warning glance.
“If they push so much as one gram of cocaine I’ll send them back. They know that. They probably had it for personal use. Plenty of Italians do the same thing, including the police and politicians.”
Balistreri caught a trace of deep embarrassment on Morandi’s face.
Balistreri said, “What about Ramona Iordanescu and Nadia? First, do you know Nadia’s last name?”
“No. She was a guest and paid no rent, therefore I wasn’t obliged to report her presence.”
You’re almost as good as a lawyer yourself, Marius Hagi. This country’s brought you up well.
“The girls were there almost a month and you never saw them?”
“I don’t live there, and we had completely different schedules.”
“But you knew that Nadia was missing and Ramona was about to leave?”
“Greg told me Nadia might be missing on the evening of December 25. Mircea told me today that Ramona left.”
“What do you make of that?”
“Of what?” Hagi seemed genuinely surprised by the question.
“Nadia has been missing for five days. What do you think happened to her?” Piccolo asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“All right,” Piccolo said, pressing forward, “let’s go back to December 24. We’re i
nterested in what happened from six o’clock onward.”
Morandi raised a hand for them to pause and whispered something in his client’s ear. Hagi shook his head calmly and replied.
“At six o’clock I left Marius Travel with the other four. We took the subway to Via Togliatti. From there, they went to Casilino 900 and I walked to my house to pick up presents for the children. I put the presents in my car and drove to Casilino 900. We celebrated Christmas there with sparkling wine and panettone, and the children opened their presents. At half past nine I went home. The others went to St. Peter’s Square.”
“Why didn’t you go to St. Peter’s with them?” Balistreri asked.
“I was tired. My health isn’t what it used to be. I go to bed early these days.” After a long pause, he added, “And because if God existed, I’d be more likely to find him in Casilino 900 than in St. Peter’s Square.”
. . . .
Pasquali’s secretary, Antonella, was a Mediterranean beauty of forty. She and Balistreri had slept together a few years earlier, but it had never been anything more than physical. He had subsequently lost interest and the sex had grown less frequent until it disappeared altogether. However, in its place a friendship was born in which Antonella was able to lavish her maternal instinct on this man who had so little enthusiasm for life.
She ushered Balistreri into the small meeting room, which was decked out like a room in a stylish apartment with an ultra suede sofa and armchairs, a marble coffee table, and a nineteenth-century bar cabinet in one corner. Out on the balcony stood a sculpture of an angel surrounded by allegorical figures representing the fine arts. Pasquali called it his guardian angel.
“Pasquali’s with the chief of police. They’ll be here soon. Would you like coffee?”
Balistreri knew he couldn’t smoke and that coffee would make him want a cigarette, so he declined.
On the one hand, the chief of police means problems, but on the other there are advantages.
A telephone and a few magazines sat on the coffee table. Balistreri glanced at the cover of a magazine with a photo of Casilino 900 and the headline “Europe’s Gift to Italy.”
The scent of expensive aftershave announced Pasquali’s arrival. He ushered in the chief of police. Pasquali’s dark-gray designer suit was impeccable. His gray hair was perfectly styled, and he wore a pair of glasses with sleek titanium frames. In comparison, the chief of police looked like a country bumpkin, and Balistreri a homeless man plucked from the street and rinsed off with a hose.
Pasquali’s greeting to Balistreri was cold and formal, but the chief of police shook his hand and smiled. Floris belonged to those leftists Balistreri had fought when he feared them. Nowadays, when he found them as inoffensive and confused as a ninety-year-old in the middle of traffic, he looked at people like Floris with more objectivity. Floris was no genius, but he was a good man.
Over the years he had had to learn to live with people who were incapable as well as those like Pasquali, who were capable of anything.
The inevitable compromises, as my papa used to say. The ones that make a child into a man.
Pasquali offered the chief a seat in one of the two large armchairs, while he took the other. Balistreri grabbed the sofa.
Pasquali turned to Balistreri. “So, the chief of police is present at this meeting for two reasons: one urgent, the other more basic.”
“Urgent things first,” Floris said.
Although it was obvious that the balance of power tilted toward Pasquali, there were appearances to keep up: rank, age, hospitality. All things in which Pasquali was a master. He spoke affably.
“The chief of police has received a telephone call from the commissioner’s deputy prefect.” Pasquali paused. Balistreri sensed that he was searching for any sign of guilt, fear, or embarrassment on his face. Pasquali really was a master of the pause, the meaningful silence, and the unexpected question. He was a very talented actor.
“It seems that one of your deputies, together with a colleague . . .” Floris’s voice trailed off as he searched for the right words.
“Created a disturbance in a police station,” Pasquali finished for him.
Balistreri raised an eyebrow and frowned, as if he were trying to remember something. He turned directly to the chief of police.
“Did the prefect really use the word disturbance?”
“No, no,” Floris said. “They’re alleging intimidation of Deputy Captain Colajacono and seizure of an officer inside the station.”
“Did they use the word seizure?” asked Balistreri with an even more bewildered air.
“The word choice really isn’t important,” Pasquali said. “We’re here to ask you some questions and receive an explanation. And when I say ‘we,’ I mean the two of us plus the prefect.” His voice was soft and calm. He was a man who didn’t need to raise his voice for his orders to be obeyed.
Balistreri stood up. He knew his attitude would irritate not only Pasquali but also the good nature of the chief. It was essential, however, that some time should elapse. He went to the bar cabinet and chose an unopened bottle of Delamain cognac and twisted the cap. He turned to the two men. “Excuse me, but I need a drink.”
Balistreri sat down with his glass of 1971 cognac. He needed another forty minutes. He spent thirty of them relating the story of Nadia and Ramona.
“And where are Marchese and the Albanian now?” the chief asked.
What a good man you are.
“No need to worry,” Balistreri reassured him. “They’re both safe in our offices.”
“Was the officer arrested?” Pasquali asked.
“Of course not. He’s with us of his own free will.”
“But you did question him?” Pasquali asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.
“He chatted a little with Corvu, one of my deputies. They talked about Sardinian women versus Sicilian women.”
He turned to Pasquali with a submissive air. “I was planning to tell you. I’m certainly not hiding anything. I want to proceed with the arrest of Deputy Captain Colajacono.”
Pasquali was truly a cold-blooded animal. Balistreri watched as he paused to reflect, weighing the pros and cons—the political implications, of course, not anything to do with the investigation. He was being forced to think on his feet and answer in front of the chief of police.
“First the chief of police and I will have a word with the prefect. In the meantime, you will refrain from taking action of any kind.”
There was no hint of menace in his voice, but without question it was an order. With two sentences, he had re-established who was in command.
The telephone on the table rang. Pasquali answered and said, “Antonella, during meetings like this I don’t want—”
He was suddenly quiet. “Put her through to my office,” he said. Something serious. Not only was he interrupting a meeting with the chief of police, but he didn’t want to be overheard.
Balistreri decided it was time to visit the angel. He would allow himself his fourth cigarette of the day, and he knew that Floris always kept a half-smoked cigar in his pocket. He nodded and indicated the door to the balcony with a tilt of his head. They stepped outside.
Up on the fourth floor, the sound of the traffic was a little muted. The well-lit streets were full of shoppers. It was cold but no longer raining. The balcony was dirty; the rain had turned the dust on the railing to muck.
“Your relationship with Pasquali seems a little strained,” Floris said apropos of nothing.
“I’m working to improve it,” Balistreri said obediently. His fate depended on the chief of police. Pasquali didn’t have the authority to demote him.
Floris took a puff on his Tuscan cigar. “It’s a shame. Until the Samantha Rossi case came along, the two of you saw eye to eye.” Floris was one of the few people familiar with the details of the case.
“But ever since you’ve had my back. Why is that?”
The chief mulled that over. “First of
all, I happen to think you’re one of our best men. And second.” Floris paused.
Balistreri drew an R in the wet grime on the balcony railing. “It seems easy enough, but you have to know how to write,” he said.
“Exactly. And we’ve arrested three illiterates.”
. . . .
Pasquali reappeared in the room. He started tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, which for someone like him was a sign of deep agitation.
“We have a problem,” he said to both of them. “That was Linda Nardi, the journalist. My secretary told her that I wasn’t available to speak to her and she told her to give me a message, immediately.”
“What message?” Floris asked.
Pasquali’s eyes met Balistreri’s. “Her message was ‘the Torre Spaccata police station.’”
The chief of police looked startled. Pasquali kept his eyes on Balistreri.
Yes, you know I’m capable of it. But you can’t do a damn thing. Not now.
Balistreri looked interested and at the same time concerned. He had to be very careful not to overdo either his indifference or his concern.
If the chief of police had the slightest inkling of what Pasquali suspected, he was in trouble.
“What did you say to her?” Floris asked Pasquali.
Pasquali grimaced. “She told me that an informant told her there was a fight of some kind in the Torre Spaccata police station this morning.”
Pasquali paused, clearly waiting for Balistreri to speak. But Floris spoke first. “That’s hard to believe. Who would be talking to her?”
Balistreri said, “There were a lot of officers in the station, and plenty of civilians. Any one of them could have called her. Unfortunately, Colajacono made a real scene. Piccolo escorted him to a private room, but he was a little out of control.”
“Fucking moron,” Pasquali mumbled. Balistreri had never heard him swear before.
Pasquali continued, “Nardi sent one of her reporters to the station, and a policeman told her that the fight occurred between members of the special team and Deputy Captain Colajacono over a report made by a friend of the missing Romanian woman.”
The Deliverance of Evil Page 18
