The Deliverance of Evil

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The Deliverance of Evil Page 29

by Roberto Costantini


  Coppola and Mastroianni listened closely to the latest.

  “We should talk to Ramona again,” Mastroianni said.

  “And Ornella Corona,” Coppola said.

  “Mastroianni, arrange to get the Iordanescu girl back to Rome—we’ll pay her airfare. I’ll take care of Ornella Corona.”

  “I don’t see why I can’t,” Coppola objected.

  “Because you have to talk to the American tourist—Fred Cabot.”

  Coppola didn’t like the idea of another conversation with the American and the linguistic humiliation that went with it.

  “Cabot’s back in America by now,” he objected again.

  “We’ve got his number. Call him up.”

  Cursing silently, Coppola nodded.

  “And there’s another thing I want to know from Carmen, the victim’s girlfriend. What kind of urinary infection did he have?”

  They all looked at him in amazement.

  “Captain, there’s no way I’m asking personal questions like that!”

  “Very well, you can go and question those shepherds in prison,” Balistreri suggested.

  Coppola said, “All right, I’ll get in touch with Cabot and go and talk to Carmen.”

  “Good. Corvu and Piccolo will question the two shepherds, along with the public prosecutor.”

  Corvu raised a hand. “We have authorization from the judge to get the names of ENT’s shareholders from the trust administrator now that there’s a direct link to the crime.”

  Afternoon

  Corvu was in a very good mood. It worried Balistreri to see him so happy and confident, as if his deputy’s reliability depended on insecurity. Falling in love might make him take his job less seriously.

  They were early for the appointment, which was for two o’clock, so they mingled with the people swarming toward St. Peter’s Square, bought two slices of pizza, and made their way toward the great dome, which stood out against a sky that was finally blue after so much rain. Young Roma women with their children were chasing after the tourists. The citizens of Rome recognized them instantly and steered clear.

  The main office of the ENT trust was on the third floor. There was a nameplate on the door, and a pale secretary led them into an imposing office.

  A gentleman of a certain age, who introduced himself as Davide Trevi, was waiting for them. On his business card he was identified as CHIEF ADMINISTRATOR. The card provided a telephone number and an e-mail address, but no cell phone number.

  “Naturally, gentlemen, we are willing to cooperate. If you’d like to explain what you need, within a few days I’m sure we can provide it.”

  Corvu shook his head. “We need something very simple—just one thing. But we need it now.”

  “As you can imagine, we have our protocol to follow.”

  “Mr. Trevi,” Corvu said, “one of the nightclubs run by ENT is linked to a murder, possibly two murders. We need to know the names of the shareholders.”

  “I understand, but you are aware that we have the right to see any official request before supplying the documents requested. With all due speed, of course.”

  Balistreri stood up and went to collect his raincoat from the hallstand.

  This shit is accustomed to all kinds of problems and to resisting them, procrastinating. We won’t get anything in the normal way.

  “You say that you need some time, Mr. Trevi. Very well, please take it. However, these two murders could be linked to a previous one and the sequence could well be followed by another.”

  Alarmed, Corvu shot him a glance of strong disapproval.

  “Captain Balistreri means to say that we can’t exclude the risk of a recurrence.”

  “I mean to say,” Balistreri said, interrupting Corvu sharply and staring into Trevi’s eyes, “that if by any chance there is another victim and we ascertain any link whatsoever with ENT, then we will rigorously check how you used the intervening time.”

  Like Pasquali, Trevi was used to weighing the pros and cons. Unlocking a drawer, he took out a gray file with ENT written on the spine and drew out a sheet of the trust’s white letterhead.

  “This is our authorization to act as agent,” he explained. “There’s only one shareholder who’s entrusted us with ninety percent of the ENT shares. The authorization is tacitly renewed every year in the absence of a written order rescinding it.”

  “And who is this shareholder?” Corvu asked.

  Trevi allowed himself a little smile. “ENT Middle East, a company registered in the Dubai Free Zone, United Arab Emirates.”

  Balistreri and Corvu looked at each other, stunned. “But there must be a name on the authorization,” Corvu insisted.

  “The ENT Middle East administrator is Nabil Belhrouz, a Lebanese man. Here is his contact information in the Emirates.”

  “His address is a post office box,” Corvu protested.

  “That’s how they do it over there, but there is the name of the company’s sponsor, Free Zone Media City. We have the address for that.”

  “And how often are you in touch with Mr. Belhrouz?”

  “I’ve never seen him or spoken to him,” Trevi said. Then, seeing their faces, he added, “That’s actually very common. Trusts are employed by people who don’t want to be known. No client comes here to us. Mr. Belhrouz’s signature was obtained by an Italian notary who has a counterpart in Dubai.”

  They made a photocopy and left his office. As they passed by the secretary’s desk, Balistreri saw the light for Trevi’s external phone go on.

  . . . .

  Linda Nardi was walking in the cold air of the early afternoon, lost in her thoughts. The lives of these women meant nothing to anyone. She knew this scenario very well. The politicians never gave a damn about any Italian deaths, let alone a Romanian prostitute. And the police cared even less.

  And Balistreri, an ex-Fascist now working for justice? Can I trust him?

  Graffiti was beginning to appear on the walls saying ROMANIAN MURDERERS, ROMA GO HOME, LET’S BURN THE TRAVELERS’ CAMPS. No distinction between the Roma and the Romanians. Rather, the fact that the victim was Romanian and the presumed murderer a Roma gypsy only served to link them in people’s opinion. And the political party posters had already leaped into the argument, milder in tone but the same in substance. The opposition laid all the blame on the city council and promised they would dismantle the camps as soon as they were in power. The mayor’s party underlined what had already been done and what would soon be done. Faces and names of senators, MPs, city assessors—all had something to promise. The electoral implication of these circumstances was a juicy bone for some, a bitter pill for others. No doubt there were those among the politicians who were hoping cynically for another Samantha Rossi.

  At the newspaper offices, Linda learned there would be an important city council meeting the following day. For the first time, a majority was prepared to vote to move the camps outside of Rome immediately. If the mayor and the council wanted to avoid an electoral massacre, they had no choice but to go along with it.

  She was now about to do something that both her editor and Balistreri would not only have disapproved of, but forcefully deplored. She was prepared, having brought along something to use as a weapon, but it was still a dangerous business. This was a part of her she knew well, ever since she was a girl asking her mother questions she couldn’t answer.

  Linda demands the truth, even when it could do a great deal of harm.

  The Marius Travel office was closed for lunch. Behind the glass door she could see two young men, who had to be Mircea and Greg, eating sandwiches and drinking beer. Two ordinary employees. No one would have thought they were exploitative pimps or perhaps worse.

  When she knocked on the door, the taller of the two glanced at her, sizing her up. She smiled winningly.

  Mircea opened the door, then locked it behind himself after he’d let her in. They looked at her with condescension.

  “Actually, we’re closed,” Greg sai
d, “but for you we’ll make an exception.”

  Linda flashed her press card. “I’d like to speak to Mircea.”

  They stiffened a little, but then Mircea snickered and signaled to her to take a seat in front of the desk at the back of the room. Linda was aware they couldn’t be seen from outside, but there was nothing else she could do. Mircea sat opposite her and Greg at her side, blocking any escape route. She saw the key was no longer in the lock.

  “What is it?”

  “I’d like to ask about your dinner with Nadia on December 23,” Linda said calmly. She was not afraid.

  “What will I get if I talk?” Mircea asked, staring at her breasts.

  “If you provide useful information, I’ll give you a present.”

  “What kind of present? Money?”

  After a huge effort, she managed to give that smile again.

  “All right then,” said Mircea. “It’s very simple. Me and Nadia went there on the Metro, about nine. We ate, argued, I left there and called Greg, who was nearby in an arcade. We took the Metro and were at the Bar Biliardo by midnight. You can ask the Albanian bartender and the other girl, Ramona, who were there.”

  “What were you arguing about?”

  He looked at her in a provocative manner. “Nadia had said she was tired and that I’d promised her a night off. So she didn’t want to have sex. And I don’t waste my time with women who don’t want to have sex.”

  “Why did you take her out to dinner then?” Her tone was polite, understanding, as if she were speaking to a child who had confessed to eating chocolate in secret. She knew Mircea was only voicing what most men thought.

  “If I’d known I wouldn’t have wasted my time and my money.”

  “So if you hadn’t known she wasn’t willing to have sex with you, you would have skipped dinner and taken her straight to Piazza del Popolo at eleven thirty.” She said it softly; she knew she was courting danger.

  Mircea hesitated and glanced at Greg. His chair squeaked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mircea said at last.

  “Are you familiar with a nightclub called Bella Blu?”

  Mircea’s face relaxed and he looked relieved. “Never heard of it,” he said.

  “Okay, tell me about Cristal. You know that club, right?”

  “Yes,” Mircea replied. “Greg and I go there once in a while.”

  “Some beautiful pieces of ass there, like you,” Greg said with a wink.

  “You took Ramona there,” Linda said to Mircea. She could feel the danger clearly as she got close to the crucial area, but she had to press on. She tried not to look at the door and confined herself to taking out her cell phone with its send message ready and pressing it as she transferred it from her bag to her pocket.

  “Maybe. I don’t remember.” Mircea gave her a threatening look; Greg was so close to her that he was almost on top of her.

  “You had to introduce her to a policeman, Colajacono, and he had to introduce her to someone else,” Linda said.

  Greg was on his feet. He walked over to the glass door and drew the blinds.

  “Does Marius Hagi know about Cristal and Bella Blu?” she asked, looking Mircea straight in the eye.

  Mircea grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. “Fuck you, bitch.”

  She stared back at him. “Let go of me,” she said flatly, and he did.

  Quickly, she reached into her bag and aimed a can of pepper spray at Mircea. She pressed the button, and sprayed it in his eyes. As Mircea staggered back screaming, someone began knocking energetically on the glass door.

  “Who the fuck’s knocking like that? Fucking . . .” swore Greg, pulling back the blind.

  He instantly recognized the mountain of muscle with the pistol in her hand and jumped back a step. He still remembered the blow she had landed on his solar plexus. He pulled out the key, quietly opened the door, and let Linda Nardi go over to Giulia Piccolo’s side.

  . . . .

  While they were walking back to the office after the visit to the trust administrator, Corvu called Media City in the Arab Emirates on his cell phone. He got Belhrouz’s number and asked to be put through to him. Not only did Belhrouz answer his phone, but he spoke surprisingly good Italian and said that it would be no problem to meet them in Dubai the following day.

  Soon after, Corvu’s cell phone rang. He lowered his voice as he answered. “Yes, of course, but I can’t take you to the amusement park tonight. I’ll see you later.”

  “Was that your niece?” Balistreri asked sarcastically. Corvu blushed and said nothing.

  Balistreri stopped in front of a shop window to tie his shoelace. “You’ve got a good memory for faces, right, Corvu?”

  “Of course. I never forget a name or a face.”

  “Then take a look.”

  Corvu looked in the direction indicated by Balistreri and was appalled to find himself staring into a window display of sexy lingerie. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “Check out the reflection,” Balistreri said, turning to the other shoe. “Across the street, next to the lamppost.”

  Corvu stiffened. “The guy with the newspaper?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was outside the pizza place when we bought two slices.”

  Balistreri nodded and set off at a brisk pace.

  “Coppola had a feeling he was being followed when he visited Ornella Corona,” Corvu recalled. Plus there was that gray sedan Balistreri seen outside Bella Blu, but he didn’t mention that.

  And I saw a gray saloon outside Bella Blu. And other little things . . .

  “All right, let’s leave it there,” he said. “You head back to the office.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’ll see you there later. I have to go see Pasquali and explain why we’re going to Dubai. But first I have to make the acquaintance of an attractive woman.”

  . . . .

  Bottom, one-hundred-percent. A woman who’d let you do anything you wanted while she filed her nails and then, when you’re finished, she’d start to polish them.

  One glance at Ornella Corona was enough to confirm for Balistreri that Coppola was infallible reader of people.

  Her dark black hair, smooth and shiny, was gathered in a ponytail that fell to her hips. Her distant and bored eyes regarded him without curiosity. The watch with the eye and eyelashes winked from her slender wrist.

  “Are you sure you’re the famous Michele Balistreri? You don’t look like a supercop.” She wasn’t the least bit sarcastic.

  “Shall I show you my badge?”

  “I believe you. You just don’t look like a hard-boiled detective, or a character out of one of those British mystery novels.”

  “You were expecting someone with a pipe and mustache?”

  Instead you get someone who looks like a retired punch-drunk boxer.

  Ornella Corona smiled and Balistreri could easily imagine how many men she had knocked out with a smile like that. It wasn’t a real smile, more like “I’ll let you play with me awhile if you like, but when I get bored, you’ll be dismissed.”

  She moved like a former model when she brought him something to drink and when she bent down to sit on the large sofa, folding her long legs sheathed in leggings beneath her. She wore no bra under the baggy cotton shirt.

  “You can smoke if you like, Captain Balistreri.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “That’s one bad habit I don’t have, but I don’t mind the bad habits of others.”

  All right. Let’s play. Just for a while.

  He could smell nail polish in the air, and the fingernails on the middle finger, index finger, and thumb of her left hand were painted dark purple. “I interrupted your manicure,” he said.

  Ornella Corona didn’t even look at her hands. She said, “Every couple of weeks I change the color, but I only paint some of my nails.”

  “I see that,” he said, indicating her left hand with his chin.
/>   “I’m left-handed,” she said, holding up her hand, “so I use these three fingers for creative things. Holding a paintbrush or a pen.”

  Balistreri tore his gaze away. He wondered what he would have done at one time with a woman like Ornella Corona and her three purple fingernails. Various hypothetical activities came to mind, none of which attracted him at that moment.

  I’ve become a sinner in thought and omission. How sick . . .

  She was going on in the same tone. “That man of yours who came to pay a visit, the little one.”

  “Detective Coppola.”

  “Yes. He asked an awful lot of irreverent questions.”

  Damned maniac . . .

  “My apologies for him. Sometimes when he sees a beautiful woman, Detective Coppola sometimes—acts less than professional.”

  She laughed. “Silly me. I meant to say ‘irrelevant.’ I get all mixed up sometimes.”

  Balistreri said, “I have a question for you that I’m pretty sure he didn’t ask.”

  “Is it relevant or irreverent?”

  “Relevant. We now have reason to believe that it was no accident that the crime took place at Bella Blu. And therefore any questions regarding Bella Blu are relevant.”

  “But I haven’t been there in ages,” she protested, suddenly serious.

  “Not since you sold your ENT shares to Mr. Ajello?”

  “Even before that, even when my husband was still alive. I can’t stand that place.”

  Ornella Corona stood up. She walked gracefully to the bar cart and poured a glass of grapefruit juice with her back to him. The leggings fit her toned backside like a glove.

  You have to turn around. I want to see your face, not your behind, when I put the question to you.

  She sat down again, and she leaned forward toward Balistreri. The baggy shirt sank lower, and he was offered a clear view of the sight that must have tortured Sandro Corona and plenty of other men.

  “Did you already know Ajello before your husband died?”

  “Yes,” she replied immediately. Then, after a short pause, she added, “That is, I knew Fabio Ajello, the lawyer’s son. We took spinning classes together at the Sport Center.”

 

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