“Do you know them?” Coppola asked.
“No. Well, I did hear one of them on the phone once. A call came to the house. The man said my husband’s cell phone was off and asked me to tell him to go to Monte Carlo that evening. He didn’t say please or thank you, only to pass the message on. I objected that it was already five o’clock in the afternoon, and he said that was why they had a private airplane. Then he hung up on me.”
“Was he Italian?”
“Yes, he was Italian. An Italian used to giving orders.”
“Was your husband angry?”
“More than angry, he seemed puzzled about why they’d called our home number. It had never happened before, and from then on he began complaining about the job, saying there was too much pressure.”
“In September 2004 your husband was hit by a truck while he was walking in a crosswalk.”
She didn’t ask what that had to do with anything. “The traffic cop said the driver might not even have realized he’d hit someone. The investigation was endless.”
She sighed dramatically, crossing her legs once more. Then she leaned toward Coppola to pick up a cigarette case from the table. The low neckline of her T-shirt sank even lower. Coppola almost had a stroke.
He took his leave in a hurry. As soon as he was out of the building he contacted Balistreri. He gave a meticulous account of the facts, at the same time omitting any description of Ornella Corona.
“Coppola, the investigation into Corona’s death is fishy. It took twice as long as normal. Any idea why?” Balistreri asked.
“I told you everything I know, sir. I’ll go to the traffic department and ask.”
“What’s Mrs. Corona like?”
Coppola wondered if he’d given himself away.
“Typical widow,” he said. He thought he heard Balistreri laugh.
“Are you sure?” Balistreri asked.
“Uh, yeah. Nothing special.”
“Really? Should I come over myself and verify that?”
“Unbelievably gorgeous,” Coppola admitted.
Balistreri laughed. “Her photo’s in the file. One last thing, Coppola, from a purely investigative standpoint: top or bottom?”
This came from one of Coppola’s vulgar remarks for men only about a very beautiful woman under investigation. Balistreri had redeemed the remark from its vulgar meaning, using it to refer to the character of the woman under investigation and thus giving it true investigative weight.
“Bottom, sir, one hundred percent. She’d let you do whatever you wanted, but she’d just lie there, filing her nails and then applying polish. Even her watch winks at you.”
. . . .
Corvu tidied up his cubicle before Natalya arrived. While he was polishing the glass walls, Margherita approached. They had been friends since she’d first arrived. Margherita leaned against the door.
“Graziano, I’m worried about something.”
Corvu finished polishing the glass and moved on to dusting his computer keyboard. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, but I wanted to speak to you about that witness who’s coming in again.”
Surprised, Corvu stopped cleaning and looked at her. “Natalya? What is it?”
“Well, I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. Are you really interested in a prostitute?”
Corvu explained Natalya’s situation, and that he, too, had been surprised.
“Oh, good. She really likes you,” Margherita said with relief.
Corvu blushed. “How do you know?”
“I’m a woman. And as she was leaving she told you she doesn’t have a boyfriend. She wants you to ask her out. You should go for it.”
“You know I’m terrible at that kind of thing,” Corvu said.
“I’ve got a brilliant idea,” Margherita exclaimed. She hurried off to her own office and returned shortly with a framed photo of a good-looking blonde.
“Isn’t that your sister?” Corvu asked.
“We’ll put this here,” Margherita said, placing it on a corner of Corvu’s desk. She nodded with satisfaction.
“Why would I want to have your sister’s photo on my desk?” Corvu picked it up and handed it back to Margherita, who promptly placed it on his desk again. They went through this routine a few times. Finally, Balistreri came in.
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing, sir,” Corvu said.
“I’m trying to help him out,” Margherita said. She explained the situation with Natalya.
“Corvu, I order you to leave the photo on your desk,” Balistreri commanded.
“With all due respect, sir, this is a private matter. You can’t order me to do that.”
“You’re right, I can’t order you to put the photo on your desk, but I can assign the questioning of Natalya to someone else. After all, you got nowhere with her before. We need someone with a real grasp of female psychology,” Balistreri said. He turned to Margherita. “What shift is Mastroianni working tomorrow?”
Before Margherita could answer, Natalya knocked on the glass. Balistreri waved her in. Margherita still held the photo in her hand.
“Please sit down,” Balistreri said. “We’re almost finished. Deputy Corvu tells me you’ve been a great help.”
“It’s easy to help when the police are so kind.” Natalya shot a smile at Corvu, who turned red.
“Excuse me, Deputy Corvu,” Margherita said, placing the photo on the desk. “I replaced the broken glass in the frame. I apologize again for my carelessness.” She turned to Natalya and said, “Unfortunately, Deputy Corvu’s fiancée passed away last year.”
Balistreri said to Natalya, “Can you go over for me again everything from the evening when you saw the car with the single headlight?”
Natalya said, “As I told Graziano, I was alone. My cousin was working. It was well past dark, and I thought it was a motorcycle. When it came up to me it slowed down as if to stop and I realized it was a car, and then it sped up and turned the corner in seconds.”
You didn’t tell me, Corvu, that it slowed down so much. And you didn’t wonder why?
“I don’t suppose you got a good look at the driver,” Balistreri said.
“He was wearing a hat and dark glasses,” Natalya replied.
Balistreri looked at Corvu. His face was so mortified that Balistreri could only think of excusing himself from the room to save him from embarrassment.
If I hadn’t popped in here by chance I’d never have known. Look what a disastrous effect a young girl can have on this chump here! Hat and dark glasses in a car in at night.
Evening
Balistreri had almost an hour to spare. It was enough to get him to Trastevere on foot. He felt the need to walk, and all the better through the steady drizzle that seemed determined to last through the end of 2005.
He went down Via Nazionale. The shops were about to close and customers were leaving, while restaurants were opening and filling up. Money was shifting from clothes to food.
While he was crossing the Tiber—from the dark city center lowering its rolling shutters, over to Trastevere lit up by its restaurants—his mood darkened, as it did every time he put the river between himself and the capital’s temporal power and came closer to the Vatican’s spiritual one.
He whose judgment no one escapes.
The doubt had been growing slowly inside him since 1982, inexorably and against his will. It was the revenge of the Catholic education that he had rejected as an adolescent.
He suddenly found himself in front of her. Linda Nardi’s profound and distant beauty was, as usual, equaled by her total lack of interest. The contrast was as irresistible as it was permanent.
It’s as if she were a nun from a cloistered order temporarily visiting the outside world.
Balistreri had booked a table in a pizzeria popular with young students and families. They ordered. When he ordered himself a beer, she told him she didn’t drink. So those costl
y wines had served only to teach Colicchia a lesson.
For a while they chatted about Christmas shopping and other inconsequential topics. Then Balistreri began to fill her in on the developments in Nadia’s case. She expressed little interest.
It was very warm in the pizzeria. Linda took off her jacket. Balistreri was unable to resist glancing at her breasts. And then the vertical line appeared down the middle of her forehead.
They were quiet for a long time, until the arrival of the tiramisù. Only in front of the dessert did Linda relax again, taste it, and give the waiter a satisfied smile, asking him to pass on her compliments to the chef. After a while the chef came out in person. He was a young Egyptian man.
“You are very kind,” he said humbly.
“And you’re an excellent chef.” She got up and hugged him briefly.
Balistreri watched with some surprise.
Unselfish kindness, tenderness toward the weakest. A distant memory.
When the chef had returned to the kitchen and she sat back down, he said, “Okay, there must be something you wanted to know. What is it?”
“You’re under no obligation to tell me,” she said. She was so unfailingly polite that it was almost irritating.
“I really appreciate your making that phone call to Pasquali. I gave you the information on Colajacono and the Iordanescu woman’s report, and I can guarantee you’ll be the first to hear of anything else that happens.”
“I’m not here to talk about future crimes.” She said it flatly, with no aggression.
You’re not interested in the next crime. You want to speak about the one before. But I don’t.
“All right. What do you want to know?”
“You’re not convinced. I want to know why.”
He was taken aback. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Those three Roma boys and the fourth man they implicated.”
“What makes you think I’m not convinced?”
“Because you can’t stop thinking about it and it shows.”
“Ms. Nardi, there’s been no miscarriage of justice in that case. Those in prison are guilty, without a shadow of a doubt.”
“But maybe not everyone who’s guilty is in prison, right?”
“The case is closed. It’s over.” He heard the doubt in his own voice.
“What about the fourth man?” she asked.
Don’t get yourself involved in this business, Balistreri. This woman has things in her head you don’t fully understand. Things that could cause you a great deal of harm.
“I’ll get the bill,” Balistreri said.
She said softly, “What if he carves up another girl?”
She wasn’t expressing a challenge or an accusation, only a concern, and even appeared apologetic about making him feel embarrassed by the question.
Balistreri, who prided himself on his control, on thinking before he spoke, visibly lost it. He was a little frightened at himself, hearing his own voice before having thought what he was going to say.
“I’m going to figure out who passed information to you, and when I do I’m going to destroy him,” he said, his voice rising.
“Best of luck with that, Captain Balistreri.” There was no challenge or trace of arrogance in her voice.
As if I’d made her a promise, not a threat.
Linda Nardi got up, left money for the bill, and made her way out.
. . . .
An analytical appraisal of the risks and advantages should have put her off, but Giulia Piccolo wasn’t Graziano Corvu. They had nothing at hand to ask for a search warrant of Mircea and Greg’s flat before they were released.
“Don’t worry, we’re going there to pick up your things and take them to my place. Ten minutes at the most.”
“What if someone comes in?”
“Mircea, Greg, and the other two are being held until tomorrow. Don’t worry.”
“Why don’t you call a couple of uniformed guys for backup?” he suggested.
She suddenly realized that Rudi was afraid for her safety as well, because she was a woman among a bunch of beasts.
“Don’t worry, I have my gun for backup.” She smiled and pulled back her jacket to reveal the holster.
The policeman they had put on guard on the street confirmed that plenty of people had come and gone in the building, but not Marius Hagi. Piccolo had wanted to put the officer on the landing outside, but Balistreri had said no.
It was already late and only a few windows were lit up. They used Rudi’s keys to enter. The apartment was completely dark, with no light coming in from the outside.
“Didn’t we leave some of the blinds open yesterday?” asked Rudi.
Piccolo took the gun from her holster and motioned to him to stand close to the door of the first room and stay still. She moved silently along the hall with the gun in her hand. When she came to the third door, the one to Ramona and Nadia’s room, she quickly switched on the light. The room was in chaos: mattresses ripped open, drawers pulled out—even the radiator had been wrenched from the wall.
Slowly, she turned toward Rudi’s room. She stopped in the doorway and switched on the light. This room looked even worse. Rudi’s things had been scattered about. She could hear him breathing quickly behind her. “Stay here in the hall,” she whispered. The doors of the wardrobe were closed. She went into the room and approached it, gun in hand. As she reached to open it she heard Rudi cry out. There was a thump, and then a door slammed shut. She rushed to the door and almost fell over Rudi, who was lying on the ground and moaning, his hands cupping a bloody nose.
She rushed to the window and called down to the officer on the street, “Someone’s coming down—stop him!”
Then she ran down the staircase. The policeman said, “No one’s come out.”
Piccolo went back in followed by the policeman. “The basement,” she said, pointing to the stairs. “You stay here and keep an eye on the front door.”
“But . . .” he objected. She was already on her way down the stairs.
You’re crazy, going into an apartment building full of sleeping families with a gun in your hand. And what if the guy also had a gun? Would you blaze away in there like a “Gunfight at the OK Corral”?
The cellar was a real labyrinth. She switched on the light and followed the passages. Nine floors, four apartments per floor, thirty-six storerooms. Thirty-six locked metal doors. He could be behind any one of them. The light, on a timer, went out, and she couldn’t find the switch. In the dark she felt the sweat trickling down her neck. She performed a breathing exercise her karate teacher had taught her. Her anger was stronger than her fear. The bastard was in here, a few meters away.
She waited in absolute silence. Several minutes went by. The policeman called to her from the top of the stairs. She made no reply. Then a gust of cold air wafted through. Piccolo held her gun with both hands and released the safety. In the dark and total silence she heard rustling. She heard footsteps coming toward her. She aimed her gun in that direction.
“Stop where you are and put your hands up,” she called out, her voice shaking slightly.
“Deputy, it’s me.” The policeman turned the lights on. Piccolo lowered her gun, but she could see that he’d been thinking the same thing she was—another few seconds and she might have shot him.
They went up to the ground floor. Piccolo phoned Balistreri, who was walking back from Trastevere. She told him everything briefly, including the fact that she had been about to shoot a fellow officer. Balistreri listened without interrupting.
When she had finished, he said, “Piccolo, the person driving the car was wearing a hat and sunglasses.” This news shut her up, as he had hoped it would. They hung up, and Rudi came down the stairs holding his nose, his face and his sweater covered in blood.
She put an arm around his shoulders and led him to the car. The uniformed officer returned to his post.
“Get in the car and tilt your head back,” she said to Rudi
, handing him a pack of tissues. Then she opened the trunk, took out a canvas bag, and went back into the building.
She said to the policeman, “Check anyone who comes out. Call for backup if you need it.”
Without another word she went back down into the basement of the building. From the bag she pulled out a crowbar and a pair of cutters. It would take a couple of minutes per door.
A half-hour later, Balistreri arrived. By then she was almost halfway done. It was hard work, and she was sweating and cursing.
“Twenty to go,” she said.
“You can stop. He’s not here,” he said.
“Where the fuck is he then?” she hissed.
Balistreri looked up. “In order to have a storeroom, you’d have to have an apartment.”
She dropped the cutters and cursed loudly. Breaking open the doors of thirty-six storerooms was one thing, but searching thirty-six apartments without a warrant was something else entirely.
Balistreri picked up the cutters. “If we’re going to pass this off as a robbery, we’d better open all of them.”
He gave her a little pat on the head and immediately regretted it as being too affectionate.
You’d be a real disaster as a father.
Piccolo then went back to breaking open the storeroom doors. When she had them all open, Balistreri told the policeman to go home and make no report until his boss had spoken to Balistreri.
Balistreri asked Piccolo for a lift back to the office. Rudi was asleep in the passenger seat, so Piccolo gently fastened his seatbelt and Balistreri got in the back.
“I know the captain in this precinct. He’s a good man. I’ll sort things out,” he said to her.
They drove in silence. Before he got out of the car, she mumbled, “Thanks.”
. . . .
He imagined no one would be up on the third floor, it was almost midnight and he was exhausted, but as soon as he entered the corridor he heard giggles.
Then he heard Corvu’s voice coming from his office. “Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”
Balistreri peered around the corner. Corvu and Natalya were at his desk. Two empty pizza boxes sat in front of them. They were staring at the computer monitor with their heads together. Each held a can of beer.
The Deliverance of Evil Page 24
