And, as Linda had predicted, he saw the first glimmer of truth. It was only a sensation, not a real and fleshed-out idea. Incredulous, horrified, he took a step back, staggering. He crashed into a table lamp, which fell and broke, and he left the apartment in total darkness. He took advantage of it to escape into the night.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Morning
BALISTRERI ARRIVED AT THE airport after yet another sleepless night. His beard was unshaven, his clothes dirty and wrinkled. He smelled of alcohol and tobacco. He wasn’t sure whether his excitement, wedded to his fatigue, was the result of going off of his antidepressants or was simply the result of how quickly things were happening now.
I don’t care. I’m going to get to the bottom of this, wherever that may be.
The last time he saw Franca Giansanti was twenty-four years ago on that wretched day when Ulla had launched herself into the air and the concierge had come back from India with her part of the truth. She was somewhat bewildered to find him in a state of total disintegration, but acted as if nothing were amiss.
During the flight to Lecce, Franca spoke through tears about her daughter, Fiorella. She was thirteen when Franca’s husband had died from cancer. Cardinal Alessandrini found a place for her in a boarding school, where they encouraged her studies. Then Fiorella went to Milan, where she graduated from the Catholic university, and recently she had begun working for a bank in Rome.
Balistreri’s thoughts wandered from Linda Nardi to Fiorella Romani—locked up without food and water in an isolated farmhouse where they would find her starved to death.
When they landed, a car with two policemen was waiting for them. They passed through Lecce’s splendid Baroque center, which was already hot in the morning sun. On the bypass they encountered the Saturday summer traffic and Balistreri ordered them to switch on the siren.
“My mother has heart trouble. We haven’t told her what happened to Fiorella.”
He remembered Gina, the touchy old concierge, devoutly religious and taciturn. “We may have to inform her in order to get her to help us.”
The car stopped outside a row of terraced houses on a quiet street in Lecce’s outskirts. Franca rang the bell, and Gina came to the door. Her severe, tight-lipped face was now wrinkled with age. The dark shadows under her eyes, her trembling, and her swollen ankles all indicated that she wasn’t in good health.
The house was full of crucifixes and photographs of Padre Pio, the pope, and Cardinal Alessandrini, as well as many photos of her daughter and her granddaughter, Fiorella: recollections of a life that was about to be shattered.
“I’m not surprised to see you, after Elisa’s mother’s suicide,” Gina Giansanti said. “Are you here to arrest me?”
“I’m here to talk about Elisa Sordi, but not to arrest you, although I suspect that twenty-four years ago you forgot to tell us something.”
“You’re only getting suspicious now?” Gina said harshly.
Franca intervened. “Mamma, did you hear on TV about that Romanian who killed the policeman and all those women?”
“Of course. They said that animal confessed to killing Elisa Sordi.”
“No, Mamma. He said he’d killed all of them except Elisa.”
The lines on Gina’s face deepened as she frowned. “What did the gypsy have to do with her then?”
“He was there at the time,” Balistreri replied. “He was working for Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno.”
“Oh, the count,” Gina mumbled with a tone that spoke of resentment that had survived for decades. “Only a man like him would give work to an animal like that.”
“It wasn’t the count’s fault—he didn’t know what kind of a man Hagi was. But please try to remember. Was there something you didn’t tell us at the time?”
“No,” Gina Giansanti replied firmly. “There’s absolutely nothing I didn’t tell you.”
Balistreri looked at Franca. She was biting her lip.
“Mamma, this is very important. I want you to swear on Fiorella’s life that you’re not keeping anything from Captain Balistreri.”
With the kind of contempt and authority that only a Southern Italian mother could muster, Gina Giansanti said, “How dare you ask me to swear on Fiorella’s life.”
“If you lie, Fiorella will die,” Franca replied.
Balistreri saw that threat transfigure Gina. There was no limit to the pain that Marius Hagi was able to inflict on his victims even from inside prison, using Balistreri as his blunt instrument.
“I don’t understand, Franca,” she said. All of a sudden she was an old trembling woman with a heart condition.
Franca burst into tears. “That man kidnapped Fiorella and is holding her somewhere, Mamma. And he says he’ll let her die if you don’t tell us the truth.”
Gina Giansanti looked as if she might pass out. “Oh, my God. Lord have mercy upon me.” She hugged her daughter and wept silently.
Balistreri watched the two women cry. Their bodies distorted with pain; their bony hands clutched each other’s shoulders. He remembered them embracing like that on a rainy morning outside the Via della Camilluccia gate, while Cardinal Alessandrini held Gina Giansanti’s hands in his.
He clearly remembered the sound of Teodori’s cup as it shattered on the floor tiles, the end of Michele Balistreri’s dreams of power, and the beginning of his farewell to life.
Elisa Sordi left while I was getting into the taxi to the airport, at eight that evening.
He cursed himself for having believed her, for having given up thinking and reacting, then and for the next twenty-four years, and for not having the courage to follow his instincts and his convictions, for not remembering Christ’s words to the Jews, when he said that faith comes before morality for God’s children, and also Cardinal Alessandrini’s words about divine and earthly justice.
How many times since then had Gina Giansanti remembered that untruth and then cursed herself for telling it? What debt had she paid with that lie?
Balistreri knew he had little time. “Gina, you have to tell me when you really saw Elisa Sordi for the last time.”
Gina Giansanti lifted her sorrowful face to him. “Elisa called me on the intercom just before five, before you and Angelo Dioguardi arrived. I went up to collect the paperwork from her to take to Cardinal Alessandrini. She was glad to be finished. That was the last time I saw her, poor child.”
There was no time for Balistreri to ask any more questions.
“I have to leave immediately,” he said.
The old woman embraced him, and for a moment she pressed her face against his chest. “I’m begging you, Captain, please save my granddaughter.”
In the car, Balistreri looked at the marks that Gina Giansanti’s tears had left on his jacket: damp rivulets right near his heart. They brought back ugly memories.
Twenty-four years earlier, in a residential complex that had seemed like paradise, a group of people above suspicion had deceived inexperienced and unconcerned police officers with lies and cover-ups.
Balistreri thought again of poor Teodori and the inglorious end to his career, and of all the deaths caused by that shameless lie. The truth that everyone was looking for had been buried under it for twenty-four years.
All of them, the investigators and those under investigation, had contributed to leaving a horrendous crime unsolved and had put in motion an infernal mechanism whose victims were still piling up.
Afternoon
He spent the return trip rereading the Elisa Sordi file. Gina Giansanti’s false testimony had turned the case upside down, raising suspicions again against Manfredi and all the other possible guilty parties associated with the Via della Camilluccia residential complex. By saying that she had seen Elisa leave the office at eight o’clock, Gina Giansanti had given alibis to everyone. With the World Cup final beginning at eight thirty and the celebrations afterward, everyone had a friend ready to swear they were somewhere else.
Now they were
coming back to the point of departure, to the time card Elisa had stamped at six thirty. Between six thirty and eight o’clock, no one had a solid alibi: certainly not Valerio, Manfredi, or Paul. The count had gone to see the minister of the interior, and it would be necessary to reconstruct the details of that visit. Cardinal Alessandrini had gone to the Vatican, which would be difficult to check. And there were other people to add to the list: Hagi, Colajacono, Ajello—and who knew where they had been on July 11, 1982, after such a long time had passed?
The airplane landed in Rome early on Saturday afternoon. Balistreri crossed the blazing hot city by taxi; it was empty of its residents, the streets full only of tourists. Anti-immigrant graffiti was everywhere. He saw that the Pakistanis, who had once raced up to cars stopped at intersections to offer to squeegee their windshields, now approached cautiously. Passing by the Termini train station, he noticed that the Africans selling counterfeit goods had disappeared. Not a single Romanian was out. They had vanished into thin air.
When he arrived at the office, Piccolo and Mastroianni were waiting for him. They said nothing about his appalling appearance. The air conditioning was on and the blinds were half-closed. Balistreri immediately noticed the changes on the blackboard, the latest questions and answers were written in capital letters.
. . . .
What does the letter R mean? And the E? Is that the right order? OR BEFORE? AFTER THE V AND THE I OR BEFORE THE O AND THE A.
Why did Colajacono want to take Marchese and Cutugno’s shift? Because he knew Ramona might come in about Nadia.
And how did he know that? Mircea told him.
Why was Colajacono already tired on the morning of December 24? BECAUSE HE’D BEEN AT BELLA BLU ON THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 23.
Why was Deputy Mayor Augusto De Rossi serviced by Ramona? In order to blackmail him and make him change his vote.
Who blackmailed him? Mircea and Colajacono. AND HAGI.
On behalf of whom and why? THE SAME PEOPLE AS IN DUBAI.
Is there an Invisible Man in the Samantha Rossi case? Who is he? There is, AND IT’S MARIUS HAGI.
Is he the same person who phoned Vasile to ask for the Giulia GT? YES.
When was the Giulia GT’s headlight broken? IT DOESN’T MATTER.
Where was Hagi between six and seven on the evening of December 24 when Nadia was taken away? And then after nine? FIRST COLLECTING NADIA, THEN KILLING HER.
Same question for Colajacono and Ajello. WE DON’T KNOW, BUT IT DOESN’T MATTER.
Where was Hagi the night Coppola and the others died? WE STILL DON’T KNOW.
Same question for Ajello. WE DON’T KNOW, BUT IT DOESN’T MATTER.
Were Mircea and Greg guilty of murder in Romania? And who were the two victims? THE MEN WHO KILLED HAGI’S BROTHER.
How did Alina Hagi die in January 1983? SHE WAS RUNNING AWAY FROM MARIUS HAGI.
Why did Colajacono want Tatò with him, even though he knew he intended to spend time with his sister? HE WAS TOLD TO HAVE HIM THERE. IT WAS A TRAP SO THAT HE’D HAVE NO ALIBI.
Why did the Giulia GT slow down when the driver saw Natalya? HAGI TOOK HER FOR NADIA.
What was the relationship between Ornella Corona and Ajello and his son before her husband died? SHE ALREADY KNEW THEM.
Who suggested that she take out a life insurance policy on her husband? AJELLO.
How did Sandro Corona really die? IN AN ACCIDENT, PERHAPS LIKE THE ONE IN DUBAI.
Why did Camarà die? Because he’d seen Nadia with someone in the private lounge on December 23.
Who owns ENT? SAME PEOPLE IN DUBAI WHO WERE BLACKMAILING DE ROSSI.
WHERE WAS HAGI WHEN ORNELLA CORONA DIED? HE WAS THERE TO KILL HER.
WHERE WAS AJELLO WHEN ORNELLA CORONA DIED? HE WAS THERE JUST BEFORE.
WHAT DO THE LETTERS R, E, V, I, O, AND A MEAN?
WHAT WILL THE NEXT LETTER BE?
WHAT’S THE CONNECTION BETWEEN HAGI, BELLA BLU, DUBAI, DE ROSSI, ETC.?
IS FIORELLA ALIVE? WHERE IS SHE?
. . . .
The writing was Piccolo’s, but Balistreri recognized Corvu’s style. “Where did he call from?” he asked Piccolo brusquely.
“He’s back but he stayed home. He says that if you don’t want him in the office, he’ll take some personal days and spend them in Rome.”
Balistreri decided to ignore the tone of disapproval in Piccolo’s voice. This series of calamities had forged an indissoluble bond of solidarity between these deputies who were otherwise very different.
“Tell him to come in immediately. There are some key questions missing.”
Piccolo smiled and immediately sent a text message. Balistreri went up to the blackboard and added his latest questions.
WHY NADIA IN PARTICULAR?
WHOSE VOICE DID SELINA AND ORNELLA HEAR ON THE TELEPHONE?
DID HAGI DO EVERYTHING BY HIMSELF?
. . . .
Corvu arrived fifteen minutes later, looking contrite.
“What did Natalya say?” Balistreri asked him.
“That I should come back here, finish what I’d started, and then come back to Ukraine. If you don’t send me off to count goats, that is.”
“I wouldn’t want to inflict you on the goats, Corvu.”
He told him about the new details gleaned from his visit to Gina Giansanti. Corvu stared at the latest questions on the blackboard.
“So, there’s definitely a link to Elisa Sordi?” Piccolo asked.
“Yes, it all starts there, with Alina Hagi and the church of San Valente. And Hagi wants to know the truth. Why?”
“To get his revenge on someone who injured him. We’ve seen how cruel and vengeful he is. He waited years to get even with his brother’s killers.”
“Hagi played a role in Elisa’s death,” Balistreri explained, “and Alina learned about it from Ulla, I think. That’s where the problems between them started, and then she fled on her moped and died.”
“And in his sick mind, Hagi blames everything on Elisa’s murderer,” observed Piccolo. “For him, it’s as if the murderer killed Alina, too.”
Balistreri said, “Correct, but if he knew for sure who it was he would have taken his revenge already—he’s not lacking in means or imagination. But Marius Hagi knew that Gina Giansanti had lied. That’s why her granddaughter, Fiorella, is his latest victim. But did he know back in 1982, or has he only recently come to know?”
“How could he have known?” Mastroianni asked.
Balistreri thought about Mastroianni’s question. The answer was obvious.
Hagi knew that Elisa was already dead at eight o’clock that evening.
Corvu made a few calculations. “Now we know that Elisa did indeed leave at six thirty, as her time card showed. And no one has a rock-solid alibi. In the space of an hour and a half, someone she knew could have led her away to a secluded place, attacked her, tortured her, and killed her, then tied weights around her and thrown her in the Tiber and still gotten back in time for the game.”
Balistreri listened.
Corvu went on. “Then there are the letters.” The gears of his analytical mind were hard at work. “I’ve thought about it for the last few hours. Hagi was determined to let us know that we have to consider the letter A as well, the initial of his wife Alina. He wants her included among the victims. And that there’s still a letter missing. Now, if we accept for a moment that this isn’t a red herring—”
“Only for a moment,” said Piccolo, not entirely convinced.
“That’s fine, Corvu. We’ll accept it for a moment. Let’s say there’s a message in those letters. What is it?” Balistreri asked.
“What’s the most obvious meaning a series of letters could have?” Corvu asked.
Mastroianni said, “The name of the killer. That’s what it would be in a detective novel.”
Corvu wasn’t laughing.
Piccolo voiced an objection. “I don’t follow, Graziano. We already know who the killer is: it’s Hagi.”
“Except he didn’t kill Elisa Sordi. He knows all the details of the case, but he says he didn’t do it. And I don’t see why he would lie; one extra murder isn’t going to change anything. Besides, the man is dying.”
“Keep going, Corvu,” Balistreri said.
“Hagi says the last letter is missing, the one that will be carved on Fiorella Romani. I think it’ll be an L.”
Balistreri studied him.
Too simple. Or too complex.
“What do the letters mean?” Mastroianni asked. “
“Why on earth would Hagi go to all this trouble?” Balistreri asked.
“To suggest a solution for us. Because he knows who the perpetrator is, and he wants us to find the proof so we can nail him before he succumbs to cancer.”
“But Corvu, if he knew who it was already, he’d have killed them,” Mastroianni objected.
Piccolo the psychologist intervened. “Unless Hagi prefers to think of them locked in a cell for the rest of their lives—a worse revenge than a pistol shot. Hagi’s suffered all his life for Alina’s death. An eye for an eye.”
Balistreri came to a decision. “Notify the prosecutor and the judge. Today’s Saturday, so he’ll be out on his boat at Ostia. Go and pick him up—we’ll see if you’re right. But before that I want you to arrange another meeting with Cardinal Alessandrini.”
. . . .
Halfway through the afternoon he spoke to Floris, the chief of police, to bring him up to date.
“Cardinal Alessandrini will refuse to be questioned, Balistreri, and the treaty between Italy and the Vatican is clear: we can’t force him.”
“Leave it to me. It’ll be an informal chat. I don’t think he’ll refuse.”
“Do you really think the cardinal is connected to all of this?”
“Yes. It all started in 1982. Hagi thinks the person who killed Elisa caused his problems with Alina. Of course, he may simply be trying to frame an innocent person, but that’s a risk we have to take.”
The Deliverance of Evil Page 47
