She couldn’t say why, but she thought of Palma, the commissario. A strange boss, cheerful and sociable. Perhaps it was because they were just starting out, and he wanted to motivate them. What would it have been like to have him as a father, instead of the general? Maybe it would have been exactly the same. Or maybe not. No point in thinking about it, anyway.
One thing she knew was that Palma was different from that asshole Rigoni, the commissario of Decumano Maggiore. An old man who was afraid even of his own shadow. She thought back to the look on his face when he’d emerged from his office, after hearing the shot. The expression of terror, of uncertainty. And then the anger, at her.
I didn’t lose a thing, thought Alex, switching on her turn signal before pulling into the nondescript courtyard. Not a thing. One place is as good as another. The important thing is to be able to do my job.
She got out of the car after pulling into a stall that hid it from view. Discretion, she thought, feeling reassured. Discretion was the first thing about this place, which meant it had the finest clientele.
She took the elevator from the garage straight up to the coat check. From her purse she pulled a bandanna, which she used to tie back her short hair, as well as a small black mask. She handed the girl her raincoat, her jacket, and her bag; the black top and tight pants she was wearing had struck her as a perfect compromise between the one Alex and the other.
The warm, welcoming jazz enveloped her as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, which was only slightly attenuated by dim, colored lights. She went up to the bar and ordered a drink. She no longer needed to screw up her courage, the way she’d had to the first few times; but she’d grown fond of the heat of the alcohol as it sank into her body, and by now she associated it with this setting.
A man came over, no mask, salt-and-pepper hair; his eyes were confident, his smile artificial. Someone who was pretty sure of himself. He asked if he could buy her a drink, and she said no. His gaze cooled instantly, and he sank away into the darkness without a farewell. Alex hadn’t come here for someone like him.
With her glass in hand she ventured further into the club. She knew exactly where to go, but she liked to take her time getting there, as if arriving by chance. She enjoyed pretending that she’d stumbled upon the place, without making any kind of specific effort. As if it hadn’t been an acute, urgent drive that had impelled her to come.
She continued through several rooms, all of them immersed in the semidarkness, with music piped in discreetly, low enough that you could talk, but loud enough to guarantee that any conversation was absolutely confidential. Many were masked, as she was, but others felt no need. Alex knew that for some people, the pleasure lay precisely in displaying themselves and their identities. Not for her.
There were times when she’d fantasized about meeting someone she knew. She couldn’t help laughing at the thought. She wouldn’t have been recognizable, and she’d have enjoyed seeing people’s true nature; maybe even the general’s. She thought about how unlikely that would be; in all his life, the most reckless thing the general had ever done was smoke in the boys’ bathroom at school.
She saw two masked men walk past, holding hands. Further on, a man introduced the woman he was with to another woman, who kissed her on the lips.
It was starting to warm up in there. Alex took a drink.
She reached a larger room, where people were dancing languidly to the lazy rhythm of the music. She stopped and took in the scene. At the edge of the room, she saw a woman standing alone. She was tall, with long red hair, a glittery mask covering her eyes and nose. Bare shoulders over a wide, low neckline; large breasts, just barely starting to sag, hung free beneath the fabric of her short black dress. Long legs, bare, and shoes that glittered with sequins. Aggressive clothing and a shy, awkward demeanor: typical for someone who was there for the first time.
Alex went over, her manner reassuring. She whispered a few words in her ear and the girl smiled, tense. After a short while she held out her hand and starting moving her hips in time to the music. They danced like that for a while, not touching, eyes locked through the masks, while around them everything faded and vanished, leaving room only for the saxophone and the scent of the faint sheen of sweat exuding from their bodies. After a few minutes, there was nothing and no one but the two of them: the slender, lithe girl in pants and a shirt, and the soft, feminine redhead with long, bare legs. They moved closer, imperceptibly, and the tips of their breasts brushed, sparking an electric charge that made both of them shiver.
Alex pressed her lips against the young woman’s, and the redhead tasted alcohol, lipstick, and mystery. Her green eyes grew lazy, losing all awkwardness.
They kissed, tongues intertwining, as desire took shape, sweeping away every barrier until it dominated their thoughts. One song gave seamless way to the next, accompanying the movement of their bodies. Alex placed one hand behind the redhead’s neck, and she in turn placed her hands on Alex’s hips. Then their lips parted, leaving their eyes to gaze levelly, saying to each other what the flesh already knew.
Alex took the woman by the hand and walked her to the door that led to the private rooms, where the guests could finally be themselves.
And the side of her usually left in shadow was suddenly beaming.
XXVIII
The night before, once he was done questioning the notary’s employees, Lojacono had phoned in to the precinct to update the team on their findings.
Ottavia had taken careful note: “Iolanda Russo, accountant. I’ll see what I can do. Listen, the commissario said that tomorrow morning we’re all supposed to be here for an operations meeting. Pisanelli is asking around about the victim, and we ought to receive a preliminary report from forensics. The notary’s apartment house is thronged with reporters. Word has gotten out.”
The lieutenant thought those meetings were a waste of time, and anyway he preferred to work alone: he found Aragona’s presence irritating, even if he had to admit that the corporal had served his purpose, casting, incredibly, a certain spell on Lanza.
He got to the office early, and was surprised to see Ottavia and Pisanelli already at their desks.
“Hey, don’t either one of you ever go home?”
The woman chuckled: “Oh, we go, we go. But you know what this job is like, it worms its way into a corner of your mind and you keep chewing it over. I have some news for you. But I’ll tell you about it later, in the meeting.”
Pisanelli, who was reading the paper, piped up: “I have some news for you myself. We’re on the front page again, the eyes of the whole city upon on us. But what else is new?”
In the meantime, Romano had come in too, his face weary from what looked like a sleepless night. He’d had a long argument with his wife, after trying to apologize for hitting her; she’d cried the whole time, and the cop had been forced to go sleep on the couch again, for the sake of her peace of mind.
“Early birds, eh? Well, so much the better. What time does the boss come in? I need to get a warrant to enter an apartment.”
“He should be here any minute now,” Ottavia replied. “It’s about the complaint that came in yesterday, that phone call, isn’t it?”
Alex came in too, wearing a pair of dark glasses: “That’s the one, yes. Good morning, everyone. There’s something strange about that place.”
Pisanelli studied her: “Hard night, eh, partner? Well, at your age . . . In any case, I checked the archives, we don’t have any previous calls from Amalia Guardascione; she’s not one of those people who call 911 and invent some complaint just so they have someone to talk to.”
Romano nodded: “I don’t know, at first I thought it sounded pretty fanciful. But then, in fact, the young woman wouldn’t let us in.”
Alex chimed in: “And that’s not all: there were strange hesitations in the way she talked. And no one we spoke to seems to have seen anyone go in or com
e out of that apartment.”
Palma walked into the group office and was pleased by what he saw: “That’s great, you’re all here first thing in the morning. Clearly, we’re starting to get into gear. So, Di Nardo and Romano, you’re interested in following up on the complaint from Guardascione.”
Before either of the two had a chance to answer, Aragona walked in, whistling. As soon as he noticed that everyone was already there, he abruptly broke off the tune, checked the clock on the wall and then his wristwatch to make sure they matched up, and said, bewildered: “Wait, excuse me, but it’s eight . . . was there an early meeting this morning I wasn’t told about?”
Palma laughed: “No, Aragona, don’t you worry. It’s just that evidently we’re all early birds, and I think that’s a good sign.”
Di Nardo did her best to bring the group’s attention back to the issue of the locked apartment and the mysterious woman: “We were hoping to ask for a warrant, commissario. There’s something in there we’ve got to figure out.”
Romano tried to chart a more cautious path, worried that if the bubble that was their operation burst, they might be seen as overzealous: “We don’t have all the evidence, that’s true. It’s more of a . . . sensation, I guess you’d say. But yes, we both agree that this bears looking into. Just to be absolutely sure.”
Palma made a quick note: “All right, then. I trust your sensations. Ottavia, let’s ask for a warrant from whatever magistrate’s on duty; Di Nardo, give us all the necessary information: street address, time of the complaint, any evidence you have, etc. Let’s see if we can get this taken care of this morning. Now, since we’re all here, let’s move on to the next topic.”
He pulled a bundle of newspapers from his bag and spread them out on Ottavia’s desk.
“Now then, the De Santis murder is on the front page of every newspaper in the city. Some idiot, one of the officers from headquarters who arrived in squad cars, or maybe the Bulgarian housekeeper, let slip that there are pieces of fine silver missing: as a result we have an avalanche of commentary on public safety, on the fact that burglars no longer show any restraint, etc. As you know, a crime of passion is one thing; a burglary that results in murder is quite another.”
“No one’s worried about the fact that a woman was murdered,” Lojacono commented bitterly, “whoever it is that did it. Instead everyone’s just wondering whether the same thing could happen to them, or whether this all happened because of an affair. Just as usual.”
Palma conceded the point: “Unfortunately, we not only have to be mindful of public opinion, but also of our superior officers. Yesterday the chief of police himself called me up, asking whether we thought we were up to it, whether we needed some help, or whether, believe it or not, we wanted to hand the case over to headquarters.”
Lojacono looked at him, his face expressionless: “So what did you tell him, commissario?”
“What do you think I told him? That the situation was under control, that we don’t need any help, and that we’ll be able to handle it all on our own. That’s what I told him. But now we know that we don’t have much time to work.”
Aragona broke in: “Still, the fact remains that the silver is gone. Not many items, according to the housekeeper, but definitely a few.”
“Are there any signs of forced entry on the downstairs door or on any of the windows?” Romano asked. “Broken glass, a hinge unscrewed . . .”
The corporal began his routine: slowly, he removed the blue-tinted aviators; then, just to change things up, he furrowed his brow and dropped his voice by an octave: “No, nothing. Evidently the woman knew whoever killed her and opened the door to him herself.”
Ottavia and Pisanelli concealed their laughter behind, respectively, a hand and a newspaper. “Or else the murderer had a key. Which takes us back to the notary: where he was, who he was with, etc. The silver might be nothing more than a red herring.”
Di Nardo asked a question: “What kind of woman was she, the notary’s wife? Could someone have had it in for her?”
Palma was pleased: the fact that everyone was absorbed in the discussion was an excellent sign. “Pisanelli, you know everyone in the neighborhood, can you answer the question?”
“Thanks for the compliment, Palma; I do know a lot of people around here, that’s true, and over the years I’ve also figured out where to go to find things out. I asked around, supplementing that information with what I already knew and remembered.” He sorted through a few sheets of paper, put on his glasses, and began: “All right: Cecilia De Santis, fifty-seven. She comes from a prominent family of builders and hoteliers, very wealthy and highly respected: Rotary Club, other associations, everything you need to be at the center of society’s upper crust. Cecilia, well educated and wealthy, wasn’t beautiful: average height, a bit plump; but she was well read and very intelligent, though not especially outgoing. She fell in love with the notary when they were in university together—they’re the same age; he’s from Luca, his family’s humble, he even worked as a waiter to support himself while he was studying.”
As he put his glasses back on, Aragona commented: “I can just picture him as a waiter—he’s so arrogant. I’ll bet they ran him ragged.”
“Maybe he wasn’t so arrogant back then. Long story short, they meet and they fall in love. Her family, I’m told, was opposed: it took him time to bring them around, and apparently it was ten or so years before a couple of cousins would even invite him into their homes. She practically supported him until he passed the civil service exam. But he was a sharp young man, and he passed the test with flying colors the first time he took it.”
Romano snickered: “Without any help from on high, I imagine.”
Pisanelli shrugged: “That I couldn’t say. The fact is, that same year, the two of them got married. And little by little he became one of the most prominent members of his profession in the city; he was in charge of a couple of very significant mergers and incorporations. She, on the other hand, gives up all professional aspirations, not that she seems ever to have really had any, and starts weaving her web to procure contacts for her husband.”
Di Nardo’s curiosity was aroused: “And how was their marriage going?”
“They had their ups and downs, from what I hear. They couldn’t seem to have children, and that might have driven a wedge between them. Aragona and Lojacono saw for themselves: he’s a good-looking man, athletic, youthful—plus he’s powerful, and that’s the best cosmetic a man can hope for. She, on the other hand, looked every bit her age. From what various sources have told me, at least three separate times over the years, he had affairs that he didn’t bother to conceal. She, however, has always led a very private life.”
Calabrese asked: “And how did she handle her husband’s escapades?”
“They were rarely seen together, only on truly important occasions. And there are no reports of outraged reactions—tantrums and scenes and things like that just weren’t her style. In any case, for the past four or five years, everything seemed to have gone back to normal. Until a few months ago, when he once again began frequenting certain social circles in the company of a much younger woman.”
Ottavia took a sheet of paper from the printer: “Iolanda Russo, up-and-coming accountant and tax consultant, just twenty-eight years old but already quite well known; she’s in charge of major debt rescheduling plans, and she mostly works with banks. They met on the job, working a couple of real estate deals. At first, they did their best to keep it under wraps, but then they started to be seen out and about as a more or less official couple. She’s a redhead, quite striking, an elegant dresser, obsessed with shoes: she likes to wear wedges and five-inch heels.”
Everyone looked at her, confused; she suddenly found herself on the defensive: “Well, what’s wrong with that? Gossip websites have all sorts of news, so . . .”
Pisanelli resumed: “In short, our victim is
a character in need of some deciphering. I did a little informal asking around, and an old friend of mine who knew her very well, the Baroness Ruffolo, told me that if we promised to be extremely discreet and to keep everything she said strictly to ourselves, she’d be willing to tell us something about what kind of person she was and what kind of life she led.”
Lojacono heard the news with pleasure. “Well, now, that’s an interesting development. Still, we shouldn’t overlook the theory that this was a robbery gone wrong, even though the fact that there are no marks to indicate forced entry seems very strange. Where can we talk to this baroness?”
“At the La Vela yacht club, where the ladies of the upper crust gather. They play canasta, fill their lungs with tar and their livers with alcohol, and spew venom all over each other. Let me know when you can go, and I’ll make a phone call; generally speaking, she’s there every afternoon from four o’clock on.”
Aragona put in his two cents: “Maybe, before we go, we might go poke around in the notary’s neighborhood. I don’t know, talk to the concierge, a few of the shopkeepers around there.”
“If I were you,” Romano added, “I’d check up on how the housekeeper lives . . . she’s Bulgarian, if I understand correctly. Not that I’m prejudiced, but I’ve heard of plenty of cases where burglars take advantage of the help to get into private homes. After all, she did have the keys, didn’t she? That could explain why there are no signs of a break-in.”
Di Nardo puffed out her cheeks in annoyance: “The same old story. Find the woman and there’s your guilty party. Plus the housekeeper certainly knew where the signora kept her really precious possessions, didn’t she? It’s not as if she’d be satisfied with carrying off a few trinkets.”
Aragona thought this over. “If you ask me,” he said, “the Bulgarian girl was sincerely shaken up. But maybe the signora surprised the burglar, and he killed her with the first thing he could lay his hands on, and it happened to be one of those glass snow globes; and then, as he made his escape, he was only able to grab the things he found on his way out of the apartment, that is, along the hallway and near the front entrance. If it was the Bulgarian girl, why would she have come back, given that she risked being seen?”
The Bastards of Pizzofalcone Page 12
