Balistreri nodded. “You met Fabio Ajello through his father, I imagine.”
“No, the opposite. It was Fabio who introduced me to his father when he came to lunch at the Sport Center.”
“How old is Fabio?” Balistreri asked. Immediately he regretted the question. He’d given her the reaction she wanted.
Now she’s laughing at me. An old fool who’s thinking the unthinkable. And she’s amusing herself by having me think it.
“Nineteen, or so. He finished high school a year late and is still trying to decide which university course he should take. He’s not a minor—I’m sure of that,” she finished, giving him with the most innocent look in the world.
He had one more chance.
“How long have you been going to the Sport Center?”
“Five years.”
“And Fabio Ajello?”
A slight hesitation. To lie or not to lie. She decided not to. The gym would have log books, of course.
“He’s a member of the water polo team. I think he’s been on the team since he was a little kid.”
“How did you get to know a little kid when you were a young married woman?”
“I knew his mother, Mrs. Ajello, and I met Fabio through her. Then Fabio grew up and gave me swimming lessons. Then one day he introduced me to his father.”
“The father who some years later acquired your husband’s ENT shares.”
She remained silent. That was her way. Evasiveness instead of a lie—only a few privileged people can allow themselves to do this in a relationship where the powers are unequal. Balistreri imagined the good soul of Sandro Corona in this woman’s grip and felt sorry for him.
“Ajello’s been in the business a long time. Was he the one who got your husband involved with ENT in the first place?”
He cursed himself straight away. His best card, the only ace left in the pack, played far too soon. And all because of male solidarity with a dead man he’d never met.
Morally done in by this siren. Perhaps physically as well.
Ornella Corona was no longer smiling. She was considering her options. She could have told him to get lost, but she was too clever to fall into that trap. One was obvious. She could say “It’s none of your business, Captain Balistreri. What’s all this got to do with Camarà?”
Naturally she was too clever to make a mistake like that. So she chose her usual tactic, evasiveness. Finally she said, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
She wasn’t confirming she’d known Ajello before 2002, nor that she had introduced her husband to him. She hadn’t confirmed it was Ajello who had introduced Sandro Corona to ENT. Nor had she confirmed it was Ajello who had suggested the life insurance policy that had allowed her to buy the very nice apartment where they were sitting.
Her answer neither denied nor confirmed anything. He could now ask more detailed questions, go deeper, dig further, back her into a corner. She knew this, so she was cannily showing him her breasts. And he was looking at them, though he was thinking of Linda Nardi and the vertical crease that etched her forehead each time he let his gaze wander in that direction.
She got up unsteadily. “My head’s spinning, Captain. I’m going to lie down in my bedroom. You can come in and talk to me there if you like.”
He followed her. He had a good idea of what the room would look like. A large circular bed, an enormous mirror in front of it. Back in the day he would have handcuffed her in front of the mirror, taken her leggings down to her knees, and thrashed her with his belt until he drew blood. Which was what she wanted.
He stopped on the threshold.
“I’ll let you rest, Mrs. Corona. Please don’t bother to see me out.”
Ornella Corona was only a fork in a road that started from very far away. And only when he was outside once again and saw the posters with the face of the deputy mayor, Augusto De Rossi, preaching the words Only integration can stop the violence did he feel certain of it. The man with the newspaper who was leaning against a traffic light and calmly smoking a cigarette was watching him.
. . . .
“They’re all in there questioning the shepherd. The public prosecutor is in there and so is his lawyer,” Margherita said.
A flower sat in half a glass of water on her desk.
“All right. And Mastroianni made the travel arrangements for Ramona?”
“He’s come to an agreement with the Romanian police and Iordanescu. She’s flying back to Italy and should arrive the day after tomorrow.”
“Any news from Coppola?”
“Detective Coppola’s also in there for the questioning. He hasn’t managed to track down the American tourist.”
“And what about Carmen, Camarà’s girlfriend? Has he found her?”
“He already sent you a report by e-mail.”
When he was alone, he lit a cigarette and opened Coppola’s e-mail. Subject: Camarà’s urinary tract infection. After several requests, I received a copy of the file from the doctor who treated him. Symptoms: itching, burning, swelling, urgent and frequent micturition. Diagnosis: acute prostate inflammation. Therapy: systemic and local antibiotics. P.S. A friend of mine who specializes in men’s health says urinary tract infections are common among men who practice unprotected anal intercourse. Black people’s poor hygiene makes them more susceptible.
Presumably, the racist comment came from Coppola, not the specialist. But Balistreri was starting to connect the dots. Camarà’s infection and his subsequent increased urge to urinate and Nadia’s small theft had upset the murderer’s plans.
He called in Corvu and Piccolo. “Let Coppola and Mastroianni finish questioning Vasile.”
He read them Coppola’s e-mail.
“I don’t see what that has to do with it, sir. We already have the lighter to link Nadia to Bella Blu,” Corvu said.
“Exactly, but the lighter doesn’t link Nadia to Camarà. Why was he killed?”
As usual, Piccolo was faster. “Because he saw Nadia that night.”
“I don’t think so,” Corvu said. “Nadia entered the private lounge directly from the back alley.”
Balistreri said, “True, but Nadia saw Camarà when he went to pay an urgent visit to the bathroom, just as Nadia was coming in from the back alley. The doors are all along that same hallway. Unfortunately for Camarà, Nadia wasn’t alone. Someone else saw him.”
“But why? It doesn’t hold up,” Corvu protested. “You don’t commit a murder for something like that,” Corvu protested.
Giulia Piccolo got it. She said, “Unless the bastard knew he was going to murder Nadia the following day.”
Keep your cool now, girl. With prejudices and a hot head you only make grave errors.
There was another point that needed immediate clarification. The most dangerous connection. All three went into the interrogation room. After greeting the public prosecutor and the appointed defense lawyer, Balistreri noted the plaster cast on the wrist Colajacono had crushed. He asked the prosecutor for permission to ask a question and turned to Vasile.
“When they brought the Giulia GT back to you, was it any different apart from the broken headlight?” he asked.
“No,” murmured the shepherd.
“Did it smell any different?”
“Smelled of cigarettes more than usual. I smoke, but not very much.”
“Were there any cigarette butts?”
Vasile shook his head.
“I figured,” Balistreri said, “because smoke doesn’t yield DNA results, but cigarette butts do.”
Corvu swore in Sardinian. Balistreri said to the public prosecutor and the lawyer, “Please excuse the interruption.”
His deputies followed him back to his office.
“I can’t believe I overlooked that,” Corvu said.
Balistreri could believe it all too well. Natalya was affecting Corvu’s concentration. He felt sorry for Corvu, but he had to tell them. “One of the three Roma said the Invisible Man was smoking while they were rap
ing Samantha Rossi.”
Corvu and Piccolo looked shocked.
“You don’t think it’s the same killer, do you?” Corvu asked.
The three folders were still on his desk: Samantha Rossi, Nadia X, Marius Hagi.
We’re only at the start of the game. These are only the first three cards on the table. The decisive ones are yet to be revealed.
Evening
Balistreri decided not to bother Pasquali. He was afraid that a wrong move might lead to cancellation of the Dubai trip. So he didn’t tell him that he suspected he was being followed, and he didn’t mention the links between the murders of Samantha Rossi and Nadia. The Bella Blu lighter, however, was enough to justify the short visit.
Antonella greeted him with a decaf and made a slight fuss over him, as a sister would over her unruly brother.
“You look tired, Michele. You should get some rest,” she said.
She ushered him into the less well-appointed meeting room. That meant Floris wasn’t coming. Pasquali, even more impeccably dressed than usual, rushed in a minute later. His hair was fresh from the barber and he wore a new made-to-order suit. He shot a slightly disapproving glance at the sleeve of Balistreri’s jacket. If he knew that breaking into the cellars of an apartment building under investigation had caused the tear his disapproval would have been more evident.
“I know you and Corvu are leaving tonight for Dubai,” he began. Of course, all requests of this nature passed across his desk, even if Balistreri had his own independent budget.
Balistreri explained the link between Nadia, Bella Blu, and ENT, including the outcome of the visit to the trust administrator. He had to give credit where credit was due: Pasquali was an excellent listener and asked pertinent questions.
“Where does ENT fit in with Nadia and Camarà?” he asked.
“Camarà was killed there—at the time that was all we knew. But Nadia was in the private lounge the night before they kidnapped her. We can’t exclude the possibility that she might have been with one of the ENT shareholders. If we don’t investigate we may miss an important lead.”
“Isn’t there a less costly method for finding out the names of the shareholders?”
“It would appear not. Corona’s dead. Ajello says he’s never met them and his only contact is with Trevi, who deals only with the Lebanese lawyer, Belhrouz. Mrs. Corona once spoke with one of them on the telephone, but she didn’t know who it was.”
Pasquali stared at him. “Do you really think there’s a link between the murders of Nadia and Camarà?”
It’s no use, he’s too sharp.
Balistreri knew how slippery the ground was, but under those inquisitive eyes he had to answer truthfully. Pasquali would catch on to any possible lies immediately.
“Perhaps Camarà unwittingly saw the person who was planning to kill Nadia.”
Pasquali fiddled with his glasses while he weighed his reply. “And after a few hours, this person dressed up as a motorcyclist, faked an argument, and then killed him.”
“Not exactly,” Balistreri said.
“I don’t follow,” Pasquali said.
“Let’s say that this character, let’s even call him the murderer, already intended to kill Nadia out of some sadistic sexual compulsion. But at that moment he hadn’t killed anyone yet. Does it seem logical to you for him to improvise something so complicated in order to protect himself against a crime he hadn’t committed yet? And what crime? Killing a Romanian prostitute? He could have just killed a different one three days later.”
You’re an idiot, Balistreri. Pasquali’s managed to get you to reveal your innermost thoughts. And now you can see something in his eyes you don’t understand.
He immediately backtracked. “Naturally, there are more plausible explanations. This character wanted to kill Nadia specifically, her alone. Perhaps he was a stalker.”
Pasquali peered at him from behind his glasses.
Okay, we both know this is bullshit. I’m asking for a truce. Let me have it and let me check things out in Dubai. Pretend you believe me and let’s postpone the Samantha Rossi problem.
Pasquali stole a glance at his expensive Piaget. That meant the truce was granted.
“One last thing,” he said, stopping Balistreri before he could leave. “Linda Nardi.”
Since Balistreri was a boy he had learned how to sniff out real danger, so he said nothing.
Pasquali wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring at the computer screen. “A very intelligent woman. Dangerous for us and for you. Be very careful, Balistreri, and keep as far away from her as you can.”
. . . .
Angelo offered to take him to the airport for the night flight to Dubai. He was both cheerful and thoughtful at the same time.
“Michele, you’re not upset that I’m seeing Margherita, are you?”
“Not at all, Angelo. I’ve already fucked her up, down, and sideways. Your turn.”
Angelo’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Then he burst out laughing and playfully punched Balistreri.
“Lying bastard. Margherita wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth.”
“If I’d wanted to, she’d have let me. But I’m no longer interested in cradle-snatching.”
“No, I’d say Linda Nardi is just about your age.”
Balistreri was taken aback. “How the hell do you know about Linda Nardi?”
“Graziano told me. It slipped out—don’t be mad at him.”
“I’ll kick that guy so hard he’ll land back in Sardinia with his goats. Corvu’s in love, and he’s lost his mind. The usual story.”
“He thinks of you as a father figure. He wants you to be happy. We all do. And he says Linda Nardi is just your type.”
Balistreri interrupted him with a threatening gesture. “You can stop all this bullshit. The Nardi woman’s an arrogant and presumptuous shit—lesbian or frigid, I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I wouldn’t touch her, not even—”
Dioguardi burst out laughing.
“What the fuck are you laughing at, Angelo?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never heard you talk like that about a beautiful woman before. This must be serious.”
Tuesday, January 3, 2006
Morning
BALISTRERI DIDN’T SLEEP A wink on the flight to Dubai. The seats were small and uncomfortable. Business class was only for politicians and executives, not for someone doing something as inconsequential as tracking down a bunch of murderers. Beside him, Corvu was playing video poker on the small screen.
He fell asleep exhausted during the last hour of the flight when they were already over the Arabian Peninsula, music from the headphones still penetrating his ears.
The Ottoman servant had her face half-covered, but her body was draped in transparent veils. When his eyes fell on her breasts a vertical line furrowed her brow. He murmured words of apology, but couldn’t manage to shift his gaze and realized with horror that his hands, which were no longer linked to the control of his brain, were loosening the knots and progressively revealing the girl’s nakedness. She let him do as he wished, silent and unmoving. Her eyes stared at him from the opening in her veil. It’s your choice, they were saying.
He awoke bathed in sweat when the undercarriage hit the runway. When they disembarked, Corvu turned out to be fully prepared: map of Dubai, address in Media City, Nabil Belhrouz’s telephone number, passport, landing card, sunglasses, baseball cap, Lacoste shirt, and light cotton trousers.
The airport was aggressively modern and full of noisy stores. Courteous officials in long white robes led them through the arrival process.
Huge hoardings advertised new residential centers in the middle of the sea in the shape of palms. A cluster of drivers stood holding cards. One card read MR. BALISTRERI—MR. CORVU.
“He must be from the hotel,” Corvu said.
The driver in a dark blue suit was a young Pakistani. He led them through a forest of big cars and
SUVs to a limousine. It was air-conditioned, with a bar and a television in the back.
Before Corvu could pass the address to the driver, he said, “Media City, correct?”
The traffic was heavy. The driver explained that Dubai was sprawling and it would take a while to get downtown. The limousine moved slowly amid Porsches, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis. The number of cranes and construction sites was incredible. They crossed the bridge over Dubai Creek, which divided the city in half, and entered the modern side.
Gleaming glass skyscrapers soared in the air. Corvu enthusiastically played tour guide.
“It’s the emirate nearby, Abu Dhabi, that has the petroleum. But Dubai has skyscrapers, seven-star hotels like the Vela, shopping centers out of a sci-fi movie, a ski slope covered in snow right next to the beach. Alcohol, nightclubs, girls.”
They took Sheikh Zayed Road, which led to the recently developed area along Jumeirah Beach. They arrived in Media City at ten o’clock. Balistreri insisted on wearing his jacket and tie, though he thought longingly of Rome’s rain and cold as he sweated through his shirt.
The driver dropped them in front of the main door to the building that housed the offices of ENT Middle East. A Filipina secretary greeted them and accompanied them to a meeting room on the third floor. The wide window offered a view of the green sea furrowed by motorboats and catamarans.
Nabil Belhrouz was a handsome man with gleaming black hair and a sunburnt complexion. He was thirty-five at the most.
“We can speak Italian, if you prefer.”
Balistreri accepted his offer, relieved not to be forced to serve as Corvu’s interpreter.
Belhrouz served them cups of American coffee. He said, “You’re probably surprised to see how young I am, but Dubai offers a world of opportunity for the young.”
Balistreri took an instant liking to Belhrouz. Corvu seemed a little sullen, however; perhaps he was envious.
“Mr. Belhrouz, we’re here because one of the ENT nightclubs in Rome, the Bella Blu, was the scene of a crime before Christmas,” Corvu said.
“Yes, I read your e-mail and I’ll give you any information I can. I don’t exactly understand the connection with the crime, though.”
The Deliverance of Evil Page 30
