“What does she want?” Floris asked. He looked as if he were already picturing the headline to a damaging front-page article: POLICE RIFT OVER RECENT DISAPPEARANCE. That was the best-case scenario.
And so they might have got away with it. But Linda Nardi wasn’t the kind of person to stop there. Unlike her colleagues, she wasn’t after any scoop, but something far more dangerous: the truth. He would have to warn the mayor and ask him to call the newspaper’s managing director, or better still the owner.
Now, with a touch of sadism, Pasquali landed the chief of police with what Linda Nardi had said on the telephone. “She’s filing a request to get access to the missing persons report. She wants to see the original, no copies.”
Balistreri had difficulty holding back a smile. The bit about the original was Linda Nardi’s touch.
“We can’t do that,” Floris said.
“If we refuse, she’ll just print an article in the paper tomorrow saying that we refused her request,” Pasquali said.
Floris poured himself a generous shot of Delamain. He sank into an armchair and relit his cigar without asking Pasquali’s permission. Balistreri could read his thoughts. The article comes out, the entire press demands an explanation. We refuse on the grounds that an investigation is underway. But we can’t be sure whether the person who spoke to Nardi told her that Colajacono sent Ramona packing the first time and discouraged her from coming back. If that got out, it would spell trouble for everyone, starting with the chief of police.
Pasquali had already arrived at the same conclusion. “I told her I wasn’t aware of any fight, but an investigation is underway about the way the report was filed, so I can’t give it to her tonight but she can have it tomorrow.”
“And she was okay with that?” Floris asked.
“She did ask me a question before she agreed. She wanted to know whether we were using this time to question Colajacono and the officer who filed the report.” Pasquali looked at Balistreri. “Naturally, I said yes.”
I know you’ll make me pay dearly for this. But this evening we’re doing it my way. And you can take it as you like, along with that guardian angel on your balcony.
Evening
Before he went out, he allowed himself a few moments’ reflection. Panting a little with the effort, he climbed the last flight of stairs that led to the roof of the old building. He had the key to the unused terrace where washtubs once stood and the washing was hung out to dry. The building was at the top of a slope, and on the roof it appeared as if you were on a tenth floor. It was dark and the noise of the traffic was only a distant hum. To his right he could see the floodlit Quirinale with the Italian flag fluttering on it. In front of him stood the white marble of the Victor Emmanuel Monument and Mussolini’s balcony on Piazza Venezia; to his left were the Colosseum and the Roman Forum.
This was the center of the new political power that had replaced the traditional parties after the Tangentopoli corruption and bribery scandal in the 1990s. New only in a manner of speaking, of course. The only new things were the issues: a country that was too well nourished and therefore lazy, too old and therefore weary. A country that needed young immigrants but was scared of them and had no system for integrating them or economic model to follow. In addition, St. Peter’s majestic cupola reminded the city and the whole world that behind those walls was an immense power enclosed in less than half a square mile.
I thought I could change the world, at least a little. But the world wasn’t in the least bit interested, and instead it changed me.
He’d witnessed the decline of the West parallel to the decline of his own body and spirit. The mistakes he made as a reckless and thoughtless youth had gradually turned into sins. In the cloud of remorse, his dreams had finally dissipated.
Slowly, inexorably, he had become what he had thought it was impossible for him to become: a bureaucratic old civil servant like his former boss, Teodori.
If I were offered the chance to be a child and start over again, I’d refuse. The effort would be unbearable.
. . . .
When he came down he found Corvu and Piccolo waiting outside his office. They had been worried about him for some time.
“Marchese says Colajacono offered to swap shifts with him and Cotugno on the night of December 24 as a favor, even though he was tired,” Piccolo said.
“So who was on duty between nine on the night of December 24 to the morning of December 25?” Balistreri asked.
“Colajacono and his right-hand man, Officer Tatò,” Piccolo said.
Corvu was impatient. “It’s half past eight, sir. We have to get going if we want to catch Colajacono at the police station.”
“You can see to Colajacono on your own, Corvu. His boss has already been informed by the chief of police.”
I don’t want Piccolo getting into any trouble.
“And What if he won’t refuses to cooperate?” asked Corvu the rule-follower asked, ever attentive to the rules.
“Either he comes voluntarily or you arrest him for twenty-four hours. No interrogation tonight, nothing until tomorrow morning. Just make sure he has no contact with the outside world. He’ll be very comfortable here in our guest room.”
He turned to Piccolo. “You talk to this Tatò, Piccolo, but outside the police station. And one last thing.”
“I won’t lay a finger on him, Captain, not to worry,” Piccolo said, holding her hands behind her back. He suspected she was crossing her fingers.
“Captain, today’s Thursday,” Corvu reminded him as he left.
Thursday. Dinner with Alberto. Poker.
He grabbed his cell phone to postpone.
His brother answered on the first ring. “Michele, I can’t talk. I’ve got to keep any eye on the guanciale. I’m making a carbonara that will blow your mind.”
. . . .
Colajacono showed no surprise at seeing Corvu. His massive form filled the whole threshold to his office door. Smoothing his hair, he said, “Can I help you?”
Corvu introduced himself. He was tiny compared to beefy Colajacono. A twig next to an oak.
“I’d like to invite you respectfully to come to the special team offices for an informal meeting, not for questioning, and we’ll put you up for the night.”
“A night in the historic center in your fine establishment? That sounds nice, but I’ve got plans.”
Corvu’s steely Sardinian soul came to the fore.
“If you don’t come tonight, I’ll have to come back with a warrant tomorrow, and then everyone will know about it.”
Colajacono spat. The gob landed a few inches from Corvu’s feet.
“Okay, I’ll come and sleep over. Is the room service any good in your hotel?” he asked in a nasty tone.
They went out along the corridor where several policemen were standing. Colajacono turned to them with a smile, his small eyes gleaming with irony.
“Boys, I’m just taking a stroll down to the offices of the smart police down in the city center. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
. . . .
EUR, south of Rome toward the coast, was a suburban area built in the Fascist era to house the 1942 Universal Exhibition in Rome, but then World War II intervened and the exhibition was cancelled. Work was completed after the war.
In the evening the district is almost deserted. The bars and restaurants that work frenetically until early afternoon for its thousands of workers are already closed by dinnertime. On the whole, the atmosphere is almost weightless, in contrast to the hubbub, chaos, and heat of the historic city center.
The villa where Balistreri’s brother lived with his German wife and two teenage sons stood at the end of a narrow street. There was always a patrol car parked on the street, because an important politician lived there. For Balistreri that car’s constant presence, even when the politician had no official engagements, was a sign of what Italy had become.
Alberto opened the door wearing a chef’s apron. He was Michele’s older brother, but h
e’d taken better care of himself. More exercise, no smoking, little drinking, a happy marriage, two fine sons, a career as a well-paid executive: the ideal outcome after he’d earned a bachelor’s and a master’s in engineering in the United States. His was a life full of plans and positive thoughts.
They embraced, then went into the kitchen. The house was hot. A halogen lamp lit the living room and the background music was the old Pink Floyd album Meddle. Along with Leonard Cohen and Fabrizio De André, it was one of his favorites.
“You’ve lost more weight, Michele.”
Balistreri was aware that his clothes were now too big for him, but he didn’t want his brother to worry. He’d done enough of that for a lifetime.
“I know, it’s weird. I skip a meal now and then, but I do eat. Anyway, I’ll make up for it tonight. What are you making besides the carbonara?”
Alberto pointed to his nose. It was his chef’s obsession: you could tell good things by their aroma.
Balistreri sniffed. “Lamb,” he said. “And I think I smell strudel.”
Alberto nodded. “But we’ll wait for Angelo and Graziano for dessert.” He popped the cork from a bottle of Frascati. “The strudel’s too hot to eat now. In an hour or so it will be perfect. Would you grab the red wine? That goes with the lamb.”
Balistreri saw the empty bottle of Brunello di Montalcino that had been opened two hours earlier and decanted into a wooden Piedmont-style carafe. His brother really did love him: in order to serve him his favorite wine, Alberto was breaking one of his cardinal rules. The lamb was a Roman specialty, and Alberto was a fervid believer in pairing food with wine from the same region.
The table was laid for two. Balistreri wandered around the room. So many photos, a peaceful life framed in silver. Alberto, his lovely wife, two boys with open, eager faces. In the only wooden frame was a black and white shot taken on the shore in Tripoli. Alberto and Michele as children dressed in short pants and knee socks. Beside them stood their mother, Italia, and their father, Salvatore Balistreri, a captain of industry.
She was looking at the sky, he at the ground. Honor and strength. An obviously unequal duel.
Alberto interrupted his thoughts.
“Okay, Michele, it’s ready. Angelo and Graziano will be here soon.”
The carbonara was delicious. Crisp guanciale, perfectly cooked spaghetti, just enough egg to coat the strands. The chilled Frascati was the perfect accompaniment.
“I wanted to ask your opinion about the slot-machine market,” Michele said.
“For investigative reasons?” Alberto was never happier than when he felt he was helping with a case.
The oven timer went off. “I’ll go and get the lamb and we’ll talk about it,” he said. He disappeared into the kitchen with the empty white wine glasses.
When Alberto had returned and settled back into his seat, he said, “After an investigation into illegal video-poker games in 2004, the government decided to regulate things before the situation got any worse. Also, the national debt was growing so quickly that collecting that kind of money was going to come in handy.”
“What kind of money are we talking about?”
“Fifteen billion euros a year from the legal ones,” Alberto said.
“Billion with a B?”
“Billion with a B. About three quarters of the money goes back to the players in winnings. Let’s say that the system keeps almost four billion euros and hands one and a half billion over to the government. Up until 2004, that one and a half billion stayed in circulation. Think what kind of fortunes were amassed from unregulated video-poker. And there are still two and a half billion floating around each year. That’s not even counting the illegal games.”
“Meaning what?”
“The games that still aren’t plugged into the system so that taxes are collected. No one can seem to do anything about them. Even if the financial police find out about them, they can only levy administrative fines.”
Balistreri made a face and sweetened his taste buds with the last piece of lamb and a sip of Brunello.
At exactly ten thirty the intercom buzzed. It was Corvu, who had been home to spruce himself up. Out of consideration to Alberto he was wearing a suit, whereas during the day he went around in jeans and a sweater. His hair was still wet from showering, but he would never have arrived late. He had brought along a bottle of homemade alcoholic cordial made from Sardinian bilberries. They put it in the fridge and Corvu sat down at the table with them.
“Have you eaten, Graziano?” Alberto asked him. He always addressed Corvu by his first name, which Balistreri couldn’t bring himself to do, even when they were off-duty.
“I have, but that lamb smells amazing, Alberto,” Corvu said. He gratefully accepted a plate. Then he turned to Balistreri. “Everything’s in order. Colajacono’s staying the night in our offices.”
Their Thursday evening poker sessions had been going on for three years. Corvu had replaced Colicchia, Balistreri’s predecessor, when he retired and moved away from Rome.
“Alberto was just explaining how bar owners make money off of their slot machines,” Balistreri said to Corvu.
“What role does ENT play in the value chain?” Corvu asked. He must have picked up the technical term in one of his evening classes in economics.
“What the hell is a ‘value chain’?” Balistreri asked.
The intercom buzzed again, and Balistreri went to open the door for Angelo. With growing irritation he heard Alberto explain the famous chain to Corvu and Corvu reply, “Oh yes, I see. That explains it all.”
. . . .
Piccolo took advantage of the wait to call home. Rudi answered after just one ring.
“Deputy Piccolo’s residence.”
“Rudi, I told you to answer the phone only after three rings and then a hang-up. And not like Jeeves the butler. I don’t want anyone to know you’re there.”
“I’m sorry. You have a beautiful apartment. I’m very grateful for your hospitality.”
“No problem, Rudi. The fridge is full, so help yourself.”
“No, I’ll cook something and wait till you come home. I’m really good in the kitchen.”
She saw Tatò coming out of the police station and ended the call. Tatò was a fat forty-year-old with thinning hair and rheumy eyes. She followed his car for a mile or two. The Capannelle racetrack was lit up, and the parking lot was crowded. Tatò parked on the sidewalk, and Piccolo was forced to do the same.
The stands at the track were almost full. She trailed him, trying not to get too close. Tatò sat at a table with three other middle-aged guys, clearly gambling men like himself. She saw him take out a wad of hundred-euro bills and speak animatedly. They were deciding where to place their bets.
She caught the words “. . . the jockey swears he’ll go slow . . .” and Tatò saying “If he fucks up, he knows I’ll arrest him, no problem.”
Glasses of whiskey arrived while one of the men went off to the tote windows. Piccolo sat down nonchalantly in the vacated seat,
“That seat’s taken,” one of the men said.
Piccolo ignored him. “I need to speak to you,” she said to Tatò.
There was no need to show her badge. He’d gotten a good look at her that morning in the police station.
He glanced around. He didn’t want a scene. “I’m off duty, Deputy.”
“So I see. Unless you moonlight here.”
Tatò turned to the other two men. “I’ll see you guys later.”
They got up without a word, but the look they gave Piccolo clearly expressed what they would have liked to do to her.
Why don’t you try it? You’d be in for a nice surprise.
“Can I get you anything to drink, Deputy?” Tatò had decided to take the path of politeness.
“No, thanks. I am on duty.”
“What can I do for you?”
Piccolo got down to business. “Let’s talk about the evening of December 24, when you and Colajacono were in
the station in place of Marchese and Cutugno. Why did you offer to take over their shifts?”
“We felt sorry for them. They’d worked nine to nine every night during the holidays. They asked if they could at least spend Christmas Eve with their families.”
“Cutugno and Marchese said it was Colajacono’s idea.”
Tatò looked slightly uncomfortable. “Well, maybe it was. I don’t know who came up with the idea. I just know they were thrilled to have the night off.”
“And Colajacono suggested that you and he take their shift?”
Tatò thought for a moment. “He suggested it to me on the morning of December 24. Colajacono’s like that. He believes people at the top should set an example. Besides, neither of us is married.”
“And neither of you went to midnight mass, I presume?”
“I went to Mass at six in the local parish church—it’s next to the police station.”
“And after Mass?”
“Colajacono was waiting for me outside the church. It was almost seven. We drove around the precinct. It was all quiet. Everyone was going home for Christmas Eve dinner. We stopped to eat something in the little restaurant across from the station; it was the only one open. We were back in the office just before nine.”
That was a lot of things to check. Mass and the meal in the restaurant were easy, the drive around more difficult. The patience of Corvu would be required.
The roar of the crowd announced the start of the race. The group at a gallop was at the other end of the oval. Piccolo saw that Tatò was following the race with trepidation, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The horses were approaching their part of the stands, and the crowd was on its feet. Tatò watched intently. In the home stretch, number six went ahead and won by a head. Tatò cheered.
Piccolo said, “Let’s get back to December 24, after Mass. Did you drive past Casilino 900?”
Now that Tatò’s horse had won, he was more relaxed. “There was no need. Everything was quiet. They were setting up for a party themselves. Even the gypsies celebrate Christmas, you know. They use all the money they steal from Italians.”
Piccolo clenched her fists but remembered Balistreri’s advice. “So, you have no idea where Colajacono was between six and seven while you were at Mass?”
The Deliverance of Evil Page 19
