Tatò nodded thoughtfully. People were moving toward the windows to place their bets.
“From nine o’clock onward you didn’t leave the police station?” Piccolo asked.
“That’s right, we didn’t leave until the morning after.”
“Neither of you went out?”
“No, neither one of us.”
“How can you be so certain? You were together the whole twelve hours?”
Tatò let out a guffaw. “Well, not exactly. I don’t know about you, but when I go to the john I don’t like company.”
Concentrate on the objective here. Don’t let yourself be distracted by anger. Do as the boss told you.
She counted to ten, then started calmly again. “Apart from calls of nature, you were always together. Therefore you would be ready to swear that Colajacono was with you from seven o’clock until nine, and in the twelve hours from nine that night until nine the following morning he never left the station.”
“Absolutely,” Tatò said. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to place a bet.”
. . . .
Balistreri opened the door. There stood his best friend of more than twenty years. His only friend, really. Alberto was his brother, and Corvu was a colleague.
Angelo Dioguardi hardly looked any older, but he’d become a lot stronger over the years. Breaking off his engagement with Paola and resigning from his job with her uncle the cardinal in 1982 had changed him. Paradoxically, while Balistreri felt that his own life had been in decline since then, that was when things had started looking up for Angelo.
They had never stopped their endless nights of conversation about things great and small, but their roles in life had become reversed. Now it was Angelo who, not often but every once in a while, went after women in search of the ideal he never found, while on the same front Balistreri had retreated: endless repetition, the sense of guilt, and the lack of stimulating women had all played a part. And while Balistreri had become ever more involved in the mechanisms of networking and in the bureaucracy he had so hated, Angelo Dioguardi had become one of the ten best professional poker players in the world. He continued to donate a large portion of his winnings to charity, but he now oversaw their use directly.
While Alberto and Corvu were talking about balances and the damn value chain, the two friends went into the living room. Angelo lit his thirtieth cigarette of the day and poured himself a double whiskey; Balistreri lit his fifth and refilled his water glass. Whiskey upset his stomach.
“I have a question for you, Angelo. I’d like some information about illegal gambling. You must have seen some early in your career.”
Angelo frowned. “Have they transferred you to the vice squad?”
“Don’t be a prick. I just need some information.”
“Michele, times have changed. Today there are high-stakes tournaments in private clubs, but it’s all legal. They pay taxes and everything.”
“What are ‘high stakes’?”
“Depends on the jackpot. I think it’s quite high in the midlevel tournaments. What exactly do you want to know?”
“I’m investigating a company that runs a nightclub and poker tables, slot machines, and betting parlors. It’s controlled by some trust abroad.”
Angelo thought for a moment. “I suppose you could use that kind of business for money-laundering. But for large amounts of money, you’d need something bigger.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve ever been involved in anything like that. My poker winnings are more than enough for me.”
“I know, you’re a saint. I’m certainly not accusing you of anything. But if you were going to do something like that, how would you arrange it?”
“Serious money-laundering uses property, not in Italy, but in places where you can buy a skyscraper for cash in a week—the Caribbean, Dubai, Macao.”
“And where does the money come from?”
“Criminal operations: drugs, arms dealing, prostitution. It’s not just Italian criminals, of course. Even our criminals are falling behind the Russians and the Chinese. The Russians will fly in with a suitcase full of cash and buy a couple of apartment buildings during the course of a weekend.”
“But even the Italians . . .”
“Sure. But Italian criminals tend to invest at least some of their money in Italy. Real estate, retail chains, hotels, the service industry, nightclubs. They want to create jobs here. That way they can sway votes, which means they can influence politicians.”
“Are you talking about kickbacks?” Balistreri asked.
Angelo smiled. “Kickbacks no longer exist since the Tangentopoli trials, right? Look, anyone with his hand in the public purse is more careful these days. They prefer to sweeten a deal with a nice penthouse purchased in cash for the guy’s children, or they’ll renovate a country house. Someone small-time might get a hooker.”
“Where does our slot machine and nightclub company fit in?”
“Right in the middle, most likely. It invests the illegal money that’s been laundered abroad in Italy.”
Angelo lit another cigarette. Balistreri watched him with envy. “How many do you smoke?”
Angelo shook his head. “That depends on my mood. One or two packs a day. Please don’t lecture me. Not you, of all people.”
“I’ve cleaned up my act, you know that. What about women?”
Angelo smiled. “It’s a time of freedom, of transition. Anyway, it’s not my fault I sleep around so much. I’d like to stay with the same women, but they all get bored with me eventually.”
“It’s your fixation with love. Why can’t you be satisfied with a simple healthy fuck?”
“Look who’s talking.”
“I’m the opposite—I’m sick of feeling guilty because of women’s illusions. The price to pay is too high.”
Angelo thought for a moment, looking perplexed by the affirmation and sorry for his friend.
“Michele, you’re confusing value with price.”
“Comparing, not confusing.”
“I wanted to say that some things are priceless.”
He said it with the humility of an uneducated boy from the working-class slums in the face of an educated middle-class friend. For Balistreri that “I wanted to say,” which Angelo sometimes used, almost to excuse himself when he wasn’t in agreement, was the starting point for their great friendship and kept it alive.
Alberto called them to order. The card table was ready. Things went as they nearly always went. Angelo won, almost without wanting to. In all this time, they still hadn’t understood when he was bluffing and when he had a good hand. In the end he won, and the winnings went to a nonprofit that ran homeless shelters.
As Angelo drove Balistreri home, Balistreri felt drained from the interminable day.
“I really need one,” he said, pointing to the pack of cigarettes.
“Then I’ll keep you company,” Angelo said, lighting his fortieth of the day.
They ended up talking until four in the morning.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Morning
MASTROIANNI’S FLIGHT FROM BUCHAREST landed in Iasi at eight. The airport was small, but modern and functional, like many things built in Eastern Europe after the fall of Communism. A lanky young man in a jacket, tie, and jeans was waiting for him at the arrivals exit.
“I’m Florean Catu, deputy inspector of police,” he said.
“Marcello Scordo. Do you speak Italian? My Romanian isn’t very good.”
Catu smiled. “My aunt lives in Florence; I visit her every summer.”
They drove off in Catu’s Golf. There were few people around. It was very cold, but the sky was clear. The city’s architecture reflected successive periods in Romanian history: a few ancient buildings, the small low terraces from the years between the wars, stark monumental buildings from the Communist period, and last of all the post-1989 era, represented by modern buildings that looked like they’d fall over in a stiff wind.
“We’re interviewing people in the country villages near Iasi to find out Nadia’s last name. Maybe someone was waiting for her to arrive for the holidays and reported her missing, but I doubt it,” Catu said, driving between the few vans and bicycles.
“Wouldn’t her relatives be worried when they didn’t hear from her?”
“You’d think so, but here we only start to worry after several months, not several hours. We’re going to pick up Ramona near the university, but we can’t force her to answer your questions.”
“I’d like to speak to her alone. That way if there was a crime involved, the Romanian police won’t know about it.”
Catu appeared to be weighing the pros and cons.
“All right, but you’ll have to question her outside the police station. There’s a bar on December XIV Square that makes the city’s best and most expensive espresso. Take her there.”
. . . .
Balistreri had slept only a couple of hours, and in that brief time he’d had nothing but dreams full of unanswered questions. Exhausted, he ate a breakfast of decaf and whole-wheat toast, then walked to the office in a cold drizzling rain.
At seven thirty Corvu arrived punctually at his office together with Piccolo, who looked a little too subdued for her normal self.
“Did you find a safe place for Rudi?” Balistreri asked.
She flushed and looked at Corvu.
“The witness is receiving excellent protection. He’s staying at Piccolo’s place.”
Balistreri felt a twinge of anxiety. He couldn’t stop himself from being sarcastic. “Really? A homosexual linked to a criminal gang is sleeping in the home of a female deputy captain? Great idea.”
You’ve become an old pain in the neck. And she’s not your daughter.
“Precisely,” continued Corvu. “Corvu said, “Well, we figured since he’s gay, better Piccolo’s apartment than mine.” Before Balistreri could answer, he changed the subject. “Sir, Coppola’s waiting. He’s ready to report on the prostitutes he’s questioned.”
They brought Coppola in.
“Well,” he began in embarrassment, “I’m sorry to say I found out very little.”
“Well, let’s hear it,” encouraged Balistreri.
“I talked to the four girls who were there on the night of December 24 and who stood near Ramona and Nadia’s usual spot. I asked for information about charges, services offered, and so on.”
“Okay, Coppola,” Balistreri said, “spare us the rates for their services. Did you get any useful information?”
“I learned two things. The girls watched out for each other. They took customers’ license plate numbers. Second, the evening of December 24 was quiet. They didn’t see Nadia go off with anyone and they haven’t seen anyone acting strange. But one girl did mention a car with a broken headlight. She remembered because from a distance it looked like a motorcycle.”
“Did she know the model?” Corvu asked.
“She didn’t see it. Her cousin saw it. She was alone that night, so her cousin was there with her.”
“Good. Bring her in and I’ll question her and see if we can figure out the model,” Corvu said. “Did the girls on the other side of the street see anything?”
Coppola shook his head. “They don’t remember it.”
Balistreri looked worried.
He persuaded Nadia to get in. He switched off the headlights. Bad sign.
. . . .
The area was full of young people on foot or on bicycles. While Mastroianni buzzed the intercom for Ramona a pair of female students gave him an inviting wink, which he returned with an inoffensive smile.
Ramona Iordanescu was good-looking—tall and dark, with a country girl’s healthy face on a great body, as he’d already noted from the photo with Nadia. But she came down without makeup in baggy sweatpants, a shapeless pullover, and a black imitation leather jacket. She spoke decent Italian: without articles, but with the verbs more or less correct.
She was a little taken aback to see the handsome young Italian, and she was happy to be invited to the bar in the center. “That bar is very expensive. A German student took me there once, but he was rich,” she warned him. A taxi got them to December XIV Square in ten minutes. The bar was on the ground floor of an ochre-colored eighteenth-century building; it was a beautiful, warm place with wood paneling and circular wrought-iron tables.
“What would you like, Ramona?”
“Very good cappuccino here.” She hesitated, clearly wanting to say more.
“Would you like a croissant with that?” Mastroianni asked.
She nodded. “What’s your name?”
“Marcello.”
“Like Italian actor. You look like him.” Their order arrived, and she smiled as she bit into her croissant.
Mastroianni said, “You had to report Nadia missing twice, right?”
“Actually, three times. First time was at dawn on December 25. It was seven in the morning. Police station seemed closed. I rang the intercom and that man opened for me.”
“Deputy Captain Colajacono?”
“Yes,” she nodded, finishing the last bite of the croissant. “I think so, but I knew his face, not his name.”
“You already knew him by sight?” Mastroianni asked.
Outside the large window of the café, grandmothers were pushing bundled up babies in their strollers. A few brave cyclists chanced the freezing roads. In the bar, a romantic Romanian song began to play.
“That man has wicked eyes. Eyes that say you don’t exist.” She wiped away a tear. “For him I was a piece of meat.”
Mastroianni felt terrible for her. “I’m sorry, Ramona. Not all Italians are like that.”
She smiled at him. “Can I have another cappuccino?”
Mastroianni ordered another round, and she went on with her story.
“I met him in a nightclub, the Cristal, maybe ten days ago. Mircea bought me black leather pants and top. He told me to wait for him in the bar and left me cell phone. At midnight it rang and Mircea told me to come out. Outside was big policeman, Colajacono.”
She paused, bit into the croissant, and made up her mind. She spoke very quickly, all in one breath, becoming agitated. “He asked me if I know how to use a whip and I say yes, even if not true. To get him excited I said I would be happy to whip him. He looked me with those evil eyes and gripped my arm with his huge hand. He asked me if he looked like the type to be whipped by a Romanian bitch, and I said it was a mistake and was sorry.”
Mastroianni rested his hand on top of hers as a tear rolled down her cheek.
“Then the big policeman took me to a studio apartment on the second floor beside the nightclub. Big bed in the middle, big mirror on the ceiling. Whips, handcuffs, and dildos. He gave me house keys and said to leave them in the house after. Then he explained what I was to do. Go back to Cristal and sit at the bar. Wait for old, very well-dressed man. I had to say straight away that I wanted to be slave owner.”
“And Colajacono left?”
“Yes. Then the well-dressed gentleman came and I did my work in the apartment. With whip.”
“Did you ever see the man again?”
“No, never.”
He had to get to the point. “And when you went to the police station in the early morning on December 25 to report Nadia missing, there was Colajacono.”
“Yes, I rang and he opened the door. I was surprised and frightened. He asked what I wanted and then he laughed. Said it wouldn’t be smart to piss him off.”
“Was he embarrassed or surprised? He must have been shocked to see you there. It meant you knew he was a policeman.”
She seemed to think about that for a moment. “He didn’t care at all. For him, I was nothing.”
“So you went back to your room?”
“Yes, to see if Nadia had come back. She was not there, but she wasn’t with a client. She left the clothes there.”
“Are you sure her clothes were there?”
“Yes.” Ramona smiled at something. “Nadia’s clothes were all over floor and on the bed, as usual. She was messy. Rudi cleaned up after Nadia, so she gave him little presents.”
“You went back to the police station later. Weren’t you afraid of Colajacono?”
“Yes, but it was almost eleven. Nadia had not come back and I was worried.”
“Why were you worried, Ramona?”
“We never got into a car with a customer unless the other was there.”
“I don’t follow,” said Mastroianni.
“We stood in pairs. We never get into a car unless a partner took license plate number. Customers saw and were afraid to do bad things.”
“Very clever. But what if a customer comes while one of you is working and the other’s standing there alone?”
“We made him wait. It doesn’t take very long.” She gave a little laugh.
“And you went off with a customer and when you came back Nadia wasn’t there?”
“Yes, it was six thirty. There were few customers because at Christmas Italian men do not go to women on the street. I went with a client, she wrote the number. When I came back, Nadia was no longer there.”
“You were only gone a few minutes?”
“Well, a little longer. He had trouble getting hard.”
“All right, now tell me about when you went back to the police station.”
“It was almost eleven. I could do nothing. I looked in the police station and saw there were people. I had to be brave. I rang the intercom and a young policeman opened.”
“Marchese?”
“I don’t know his name. The young man took me to Colajacono in his office, then went away. He said I am a whore, Nadia is a whore. He said he would put me in prison if I came back. Coming out, I saw the time sheet and saw Colajacono didn’t come to work until nine.”
She was brave and smart, too. Colajacono had been unlucky. Most girls wouldn’t have dared to return, but Ramona was different. She seemed to read his thoughts.
“Not because I am brave,” she said. “Nadia was like a sister to me.” She burst into tears.
The Deliverance of Evil Page 20
