“That leaves Francesco Ajello.”
There was a slight pause, the usual slight irritation that Ajello’s name evoked in many people.
“Francesco was a promising and ambitious young man; he handled some paperwork for me very skillfully. Then he broke up with his girlfriend and stayed away from the parish. But Paul can tell you more about him. He’s taking the kids to the beach today, but he’ll be at San Valente tomorrow.”
It was eleven thirty. He could have gotten out of there with the excuse that the pope was waiting for him, but he didn’t move to go.
“If I have to make a confession one day, would you give me absolution, Eminence?” Balistreri asked.
Alessandrini placed a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, but only if you are sincerely penitent.”
. . . .
“Ornella Corona’s at her beach house in Ostia. She’s expecting you after dinner,” Corvu announced at lunchtime.
“All right. I’m going to stay here and try to get some work done today while it’s quiet.”
“Angelo called from London. He says hello.”
“From London?”
“Today’s the Texas Hold ‘Em world championship final, live on TV starting at four. Angelo’s one of the finalists.”
“Is Margherita with him?” he asked.
Corvu pointed to the open letter on her desk. “That’s from Margherita. She’s asking to extend her holiday for a week and to be transferred.”
Balistreri raised his eyebrows. “All right, Corvu, enjoy your lunch with Natalya.”
“Do you need me this afternoon?”
“Corvu, it’s Sunday, and your girlfriend’s leaving town tomorrow morning. Don’t you have something better to do than sit in the office?”
“All right, thanks. But if you need me let me know.”
“I need you to tell Natalya you’re going with her to Ukraine tomorrow. That’s an order.”
Corvu started to protest, but then he looked at Balistreri’s face and thought better of it.
Afternoon
For a while Balistreri did nothing but smoke and drink a beer as he looked out of his office window at the flow of overheated tourists walking below. He was now smoking nearly a pack a day. His stomach burned from the cigarettes, not to mention too much coffee and beer. He pushed the thought aside. Then he realized he’d forgotten to take his antidepressants. Despite feeling tired, he wasn’t depressed. So many things had happened in just one week, starting with Italy’s victory. Linda had left him. Or perhaps it was he who had left her. He thought about it constantly and wasn’t sure what had happened. Something inside him was changing. His buried memories were rising up again, together with that anger he had managed to quell.
In that week, so many years before, he and his friend had continued to chat a great deal, almost always in the car parked on the pavement, and they had tacitly avoided going back to that terrible night. But from that July in 1982, Angelo Dioguardi had reacted by throwing off his previous existence and, with a great effort, had tried to live a little for himself and a lot more for others. Balistreri, on the other hand, had slowly started to disintegrate in his own remorse.
I’ve gone to sleep, leading a life that’s not mine in a world I hate.
But now Giovanna Sordi had taken him back to that night. Angelo had disappeared and had finally called from London, sending his good wishes but no invitation to call back.
He went downstairs to buy a slice of pizza and another beer. Then he had another espresso and smoked another cigarette. He then went back up, closed the blinds, and turned on the air-conditioner. He looked at the blackboard. By now he had plenty of answers. Not all of them, but most. And now there were other questions and old acquaintances from 1982.
He switched on the television and found the right channel. The poker final hadn’t started yet. He stretched out on the sofa; the quiet, the beer, and the darkness took effect.
. . . .
Pasquali’s private cell phone rang immediately after lunch while he was playing a hand of tressette on the porch of his country house in Tesano, his hometown.
He excused himself and walked away to take the call. As usual, he pressed the button and said nothing.
It was the icy voice he knew all too well. “There are serious issues. Begin removal.”
“Couldn’t we—”
“No.”
He attempted a feeble protest. “But in my view—”
“I’ll send you a detailed message.”
The call was broken off. Pasquali returned to the card game with his legs feeling like lead. With his head in a daze, he wasted a magnificent hand and lost the game.
. . . .
Balistreri awoke suddenly in the middle of the afternoon, sweaty and dazed. Angelo Dioguardi was staring at him from the television screen as he swept a large number of chips toward himself in a gesture that was familiar to Balistreri.
He followed the game easily. He knew Angelo’s tactics by heart. Twenty minutes from the end, there were only two players left, and his friend was clearly in the lead. All he had to do was sit out each hand, until he got the cards that would allow him to eliminate his final opponent. Angelo Dioguardi had the Texas Hold ‘Em world title in his hands. All he had to do was be cautious and wait for the right hand.
On the table there were four cards face up on the table: the three, six, and nine of clubs and the nine of diamonds. The camera that allowed viewers to see the cards the players held showed two clubs for the opponent, who therefore already had a flush before the fifth card. Dioguardi had the four of spades and the jack of diamonds and no possibility of winning that hand, no matter what the fifth card was.
His opponent made his call, high enough to dissuade Angelo from placing a bet on the last card if he held only a pair or three of a kind. It was a predictable situation. Balistreri waited to hear him pass.
Then Angelo Dioguardi turned and stared out at him from the screen. He immediately knew two things with absolute certainty: Angelo was looking at him personally, and he would do the same thing that he had done on the night he and Balistreri first met, which was to call and match his opponent.
Angelo Dioguardi was looking at him, Michele Balistreri. He was showing him his thoughts.
All in, playing for everything.
The viewers must have thought Dioguardi was crazy, risking a world title that was as good as his. The dealer dealt the fifth card, the nine of hearts. Dioguardi’s opponent turned pale. He thought long and hard, wringing his hands. He could risk everything for an unlikely victory, or else he could keep the chips he had in front of him and try another hand. “Fold,” he said, shaking his head.
Angelo’s face wore the same disinterested and absent expression it had on that first night, when Balistreri had seen him bluff at the card table in Paola’s apartment. His opponent looked at him one last time, then shook his head and put his cards down.
Angelo didn’t even smile as he took the pot. The freeze-out came in the next hand. Angelo Dioguardi was world champion.
. . . .
When Balistreri came out of the office, the sun was beginning to set, but the air was barely any cooler. He walked home, sweating furiously. The sound of his cell phone shook him out of his thoughts.
“Corvu, you haven’t gone back to the office, have you?”
“I’m running there now to get a car. Where are you, Captain?” Corvu wasn’t the type to get excited easily, and Balistreri could hear him breathing heavily. Something serious had happened.
“I’m on my way home. I’ll wait for you outside,” he replied, without asking any questions.
Corvu arrived five minutes later.
“We’re driving to L’Aquila. They found the body of a girl there this afternoon.”
“Another prostitute?”
“No, a foreign student at the university. The last time her friends saw her was Sunday night during the World Cup celebrations, but they didn’t report her missing because the day after she was
supposed to come to Rome and fly home from here.”
“I’ve got that, Corvu. But I don’t understand what it has to do with us.”
“The victim is Selina Belhrouz, the sister of the lawyer in Dubai.”
Balistreri turned to stone.
It was my fault. I broke the pact. The truce is over.
Corvu sped down the highway, and in an hour they were there. The body had been found at the bottom of a well at an abandoned farmhouse near Tesano, Antonio Pasquali’s hometown. Pasquali was at the scene. He was there for the weekend and had followed the police cars that drove past his villa.
He was dressed differently this time, wearing a jacket and an open shirt, and he looked very shaken. “What are you two doing here?” he asked Balistreri.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll tell you afterward in private. Right now I’d like to find out what’s happened.”
“Then hurry up. Forensics is finished, and they’ll be taking the body away soon.”
But Balistreri was already on his way to the well. The girl’s body had been placed on a stretcher and was covered with a sheet. He introduced himself to the local police captain.
It looked just like Vasile’s farmhouse. A clearing, a little wooded area, a tumbledown farmhouse, and a well. And only a few miles from the country home of Antonio Pasquali. There was nothing to see apart from the body under the sheet. Forensics would have taken care of the rest. The body had been down there for a while, and the smell was overpowering. Everyone else on the scene was wearing a mask, and Balistreri and Corvu followed suit.
The paramedics were waiting to load the body into the ambulance. L’Aquila’s medical examiner was writing a few last notes.
“Has she been dead for long?” Balistreri asked him.
“I’ll have a better idea after the autopsy. At least three days, maybe four.”
“And the cause?”
“There are clear signs of strangulation at the base of the neck, besides the bruising, cuts, cigarette burns, and various fractures.”
Just like Samantha, like Nadia, like . . .
In his anger, he dismissed the thought of the last name. But he couldn’t drive away the feeling of dismay. It was there, fixed, immovable in a corner of his mind. He turned to the captain. “I’d like to see the body before they take it away.”
“Please, be my guest. It’s not a pleasant sight, but I imagine you’re more used to it than I am.”
Struggling for breath, the paramedics folded the sheet down to her feet. The body was badly decomposed, but the marks around the base of her neck were very clear.
“Can you turn her over?” he asked the paramedics, who reluctantly performed the task.
At the base of her spine Selina had a tattoo, one of those half-hidden ones that rose above the panty line. They were popular among young girls. This one depicted a sun surrounded by its rays and a half-inch V had been scored at its center.
Evening
Pasquali’s villa was as sober-looking as its owner. His wife served them dinner and left them alone.
Corvu was clearly uncomfortable. “If you’d like me to leave I can.”
Pasquali reassured him. “That’s not necessary. Maybe this terrible event can be of some use to us.”
His usually smooth and relaxed face was marked with deep lines. Pasquali waited until the end of the meal, then offered a stiff drink. He lit up a cigarillo and led them out onto the patio. “It’s cooler outside. It’ll help us think.”
Balistreri realized he could no longer skirt the issue. He told him what they’d seen in Dubai: the SUV, the death of Belhrouz, who happened to be the brother of the girl found in the well. As usual, Pasquali showed he was an excellent listener. He also decided not to ask why this had never been mentioned to him before.
“So, you don’t know whether it was an accident or a murder,” he said.
“We weren’t sure until this afternoon,” Balistreri replied.
“It could be another coincidence,” Pasquali offered, but it was clear that even he no longer believed that.
“Is it a coincidence that they tossed her down a well behind your house?” Balistreri asked sarcastically.
Pasquali let out a kind of resigned groan.
“There’s more,” Balistreri added.
Pasquali grew visibly nervous listening to the account of the events and people connected to San Valente. “You contacted Cardinal Alessandrini?” he murmured, incredulous. “And he actually met with you?”
“He’s very friendly.”
“He’s one of the top five people at the Vatican. What did you ask him?”
“ENT’s mixed up in something serious,” Balistreri said.
“Even I have gathered that,” Pasquali replied. “But that doesn’t mean it’s mixed up with these murders. And what’s Cardinal Alessandrini got to do with it? To say nothing of Count dei Banchi di Aglieno.”
“Do you know the count?”
“By reputation. Everyone does. We golf at the same club.”
“May I say something?” Corvu cut in timidly.
“What is it?” Balistreri asked.
“It’s just that there was an anonymous call.”
“What?”
“He’s right,” Pasquali said. “The local police station received an anonymous call today about five reporting a terrible smell coming from the well. It must have been someone passing by who didn’t want to get involved.”
Corvu looked at Balistreri. “I’m sorry, Captain. I should have mentioned it.”
“I’m not sure I follow. Does that change anything?” Pasquali asked.
Balistreri suppressed an evil thought. “It’s the second anonymous call after the one made to Colajacono. And now we have the third letter, a V. Another coincidence?”
“All right. Next week you can question the three Roma who killed Samantha Rossi. But not a word to the press about the letters.”
I should tell you how Colajacono died on that hill. But I can’t, not yet.
. . . .
They said good-bye to Pasquali about eleven and got back on the highway. Balistreri was exhausted. His stomach burned. He smoked in silence in the dark, his eyes fixed on the taillights of the car in front of them.
They managed to distract themselves by chatting about Angelo Dioguardi and his big win. Corvu decided to call him at his London hotel. He dialed on speakerphone.
They heard the phone ringing, then someone at the hotel desk put them through to Angelo’s room.
“Graziano.” A television was playing in the background.
“Angelo, you were great. I’m in the car and Captain Balistreri’s here with me.”
Silence. Then Angelo said, “Hello, Michele.”
Those two words and the way in which they were spoken made Balistreri feel—for the first time since he’d known Angelo—that there was an unbridgeable gap between them.
“Well done, Angelo. We need to talk about that bluff sometime.” It was his way of telling Angelo that he’d gotten his message.
“Okay, sure, Michele.” Angelo’s tone didn’t encourage further conversation.
They said good-bye then, still distant with each other.
Corvu and Balistreri began to talk about the afternoon’s events.
“I don’t like anonymous calls, Corvu, especially this one.”
Balistreri suddenly remembered something. “Did you tell Ornella Corona that I wasn’t coming this evening?”
“I didn’t think it was necessary. She said she’d be home after dinner anyway and you could just come by. It wasn’t a real appointment.”
“Call her now.”
“Sir, it’s almost midnight. She’s probably asleep.”
“Call her.”
Corvu punched the number and got a recording saying the phone was off.
“Call her landline,” Balistreri said.
“I don’t have her home number in Ostia.”
“Never mind,” Balistreri said. “Turn on the siren an
d step on it.”
Ornella Corona had heard that voice on the phone, just like Selina Belhrouz.
They didn’t exchange a word for the rest of the journey. It took less than an hour. Corvu only switched off the siren once they entered Ostia. Along the seafront there were crowds around the ice cream parlors that were still open. They entered the calm, silent residential area. Ornella Corona’s two-story villa was completely dark, surrounded by a small garden.
They rang the bell on the gate. No reply. They rang again. Nothing.
“I’ll climb over,” Balistreri said.
“But, sir—”
“You stay here.”
Corvu stiffened. “Let’s call the local police station. Let’s not risk—”
But Balistreri was already at the top of the gate. He didn’t have his gun, but he knew he wouldn’t need it. If the Invisible Man had paid a visit, he was already gone.
He landed in the yard. The only light came from the back of the house. He rang the front doorbell. Nothing. He decided to go around the back. As soon as he turned the corner, he saw a parked Golf. Its doors were closed, but a single light was glowing on the dashboard.
He stopped to inspect the car. Beside him was a small lamppost. He pressed a switch and the scene was illuminated.
He knew where to look. The light on the dashboard indicated the trunk was unlatched.
Ornella was inside, her eyes wide open and filled with fear. She was dressed, but her leggings were pulled down around her thighs. The letter I carved on her began at her belly button and ran down her pelvis.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Morning
BALISTRERI PASSED THE ENSUING nights sitting in front of his television set and his window. His cigarette and whiskey consumption had spiraled out of control. He had full-blown insomnia, his head filled with unpleasant conjecture about the past, the present, and the future. The routine he’d shared with Linda Nardi for a few months now seemed like the last quiet moments in his life, a last failed attempt to forget who Michele Balistreri really was. He brushed her angrily from his thoughts, but she always came back.
The Deliverance of Evil Page 42
