by Grace Brophy
Alex was also a victim, an outcast from love, an encyclopedia of neuroses, if he were to believe the incantations of his friend. Psychic trauma, self-inflicted pain, repetition of unpleasure, death instinct, post-traumatic stress syndrome were some of the terms Sandro had used. Alex had quit after four sessions, feeling sane enough if he reflected on those of his colleagues who were not suffering from repetition of unpleasure. One thing that Sandro had said was true, however: that his job as a policeman was the cause of his pain. “Quit, do something else,” Sandro had also said. “I’ll think about it,” Alex had replied—adding to himself, but not until I’ve found Chiara.
6
CENNI WAS ABSORBED on the drive back to Assisi, Piero was sulky, and Elena, talkative. “It’s too peculiar,” she said. “That’s the strangest rape case I’ve ever seen. She looks like she died in her sleep. I was talking to Batori on the way down to the ambulance. He thinks it was staged. What do you think, Commissario?” she asked, glancing back at Cenni over her shoulder.
“I think Batori should keep his opinions to himself until he’s completed the postmortem,” he responded. He noticed the blush rising on the back of Elena’s neck and realized that he’d spoken too roughly. “Sorry, Elena, but I’d prefer to wait for the postmortem before jumping to conclusions. But, yes, I too think the rape was staged,” he added, his tone of impatience a clear signal to his subordinates that he was thinking and didn’t want to talk. Elena and Piero exchanged knowing looks, and Piero used the opportunity to go through a stop sign.
“What was the exact time that the Assisi police identified the body?” Cenni asked a minute later, addressing his question to Elena, adding rhetorically, to Piero, “Was that a stop sign back there?”
“Around eight o’clock,” Elena answered, turning to address him directly. “Sergeant Antolini said she was supposed to end her tour of duty at eight but when she called il lupino at home . . . Commissario Russo,” Elena amended, noticing Cenni’s raised eyebrow, “he told her to stay with the two flower ladies until he got there. He then insisted that Antolini accompany him and the two flower ladies back to the cemetery. That was just after eight o’clock.”
“The questore called me at the stadium close to eleven!” Cenni said aloud. A three-hour lapse of time, he thought. Plenty of opportunity for Russo to make mischief.
Fulvio Russo, il lupo to his friends, of whom he had none, had now been commissario of the Assisi station for twelve months. Assisi is one of those backwater towns where the commissario is either on his way up or on his way down, or as in the case of Assisi’s previous commissario, on her way up. Anna Duccio was now in Rome enjoying a spectacular career, a rising star, whereas Russo, as everyone in police circles knew, was destined for obscurity, although he himself was not yet convinced that his time had passed. He was still young, not yet forty, and until a year ago, had enjoyed a career of firsts: the youngest officer in Perugia to be promoted to commissario, the best-looking (if one admires Nordic muscularity), the one with the richest wife. Even his flaws were excessive. His disposition for cupidity and backstabbing was unequalled, but if one is rich and good looking in Italy, such flaws are generally overlooked.
It was the cupidity that finally sank Russo, and the questore had done the sinking. Russo had been caught suppressing evidence of fraud by his brother-in-law, a parliamentarian, who had devised a scheme to buy two thousand hectares of Umbrian land that had been secretly earmarked by the government to become a national wildlife sanctuary. This type of land grab is not unusual in Italy—it happens every day, in fact—but Russo had acted imperiously when the papers had first stumbled upon it. He had huffed and puffed, cajoled and threatened, and in the end had tried to bribe one of L’Unita’s more intrepid reporters who, as it happened, had come to their interview wired for sound. That Russo was still on the police force was a testament to his brother-in-law’s millions. That he was no longer stationed in Perugia, and unlikely to return, was partly due to L’Unita, but mainly to the questore, who also had a rich wife. The questore had his own talent for backstabbing and very much disliked competition.
Russo had been given his nickname by a subordinate some ten years earlier. An attractive woman, she’d found it necessary to ward off Russo’s advances whenever they were together. The name caught on rapidly, helped no doubt by his almond-shaped eyes of that curious shade of green that turns to a dirty yellow in certain lights. The nickname (amended to il lupo when repeated to Russo by one of his minions) had delighted him at first. He reveled in the image of himself as a rapacious predator. What he didn’t find out until much later was that the woman had used the diminutive, il lupino.
Cenni had worked with Russo for five years in Perugia. He had learned to work around him, by flattering him or whatever else was necessary. He was prepared to do the same again, but he was beginning to suspect that Russo had his own plans, none of which included being worked with. He had already violated the rules of engagement twice, the first time by not calling Cenni or the questore immediately after the body was found, and the second by speaking to the Casati family directly to inform them of the American’s death.
It’s a high-profile investigation, Cenni reflected. A clever man could rise by it. Perhaps Russo thinks it’s his opportunity to climb back up. Cenni knew that would never happen. Il lupino was a backroom joke in police circles, and a dirty one at that, but he was still in a position to throw a spanner into the investigation. “Tread lightly, Alex,” the questore had warned him. “The count has lots of high-placed friends, and he’s rumored to be Opus Dei.”
Fulvio Russo had now been commissario in Assisi for a year. Plenty of time to worm his way into the count’s social circle. He and his new-money wife Grazia had been notorious in Perugia for name-dropping and self-promotion. When they’d first started working together, Russo had treated Cenni in the same way that he’d treated most of his colleagues, and all of his subordinates—with contempt—until the questore had mentioned that Cenni’s mother was a Baglioni, one of the Baglioni’s. After that, every time that Russo threw a climbing party, Cenni had to find a new excuse to stay away. It had gotten close to the point of direct rudeness when Russo was exiled to Assisi. Did the banished Russo now hope to find Minelli’s killer himself, thereby acquiring her uncle’s gratitude and, with that, access to his high-powered friends? Russo was a barbarian from the north and given half a chance, he would screw up the Minelli investigation for his own purposes, of that Cenni was convinced.
Il lupino was waiting for his counterpart inside the front door when Cenni arrived at the Assisi barracks. Given Russo’s history of skipping out of the office early on weekends, and of never showing up on holidays, Cenni found this unnerving.
“Alex, Come ste?” Russo said, using the familiar Umbrian ste, suspicious in itself since Russo was from Valle d’Aosta and in the past had always made fun of the Umbrian dialect. “Come into my office where we can talk in private,” he urged. “Your people can wait out here,” he said, slamming the door in Piero’s face. As soon as they were alone, Russo confirmed Cenni’s suspicions. Il lupino had an agenda.
“We have an airtight case here, Alex. You need to know that, so you don’t waste your time talking to the family. They want their privacy. I have the murderer right here in the station, Sophie Orlic, the woman who found the body. She threatened the American a few months ago, and more than once. I have it on record,” he said triumphantly. “She’s a Croatian, a straniera,” he added. A stranger, the clincher!
“How did you arrive at that conclusion, Fulvio? Has Orlic confessed? I wasn’t aware that we’d established that Minelli was murdered. There’s no evidence of injury beyond a small bruise to her temple and a bump on the back of her head. Both could easily have resulted naturally, a fall after a heart attack, for example. Batori hasn’t done a postmortem yet.”
Russo sneered: “After she had a heart attack, she staged her own rape! Come on, Alex. We both know this is no rape, and Batori confirms it. It point
s to a woman, to Orlic directly. But it’s your turf, Alex. Just trying to help!”
“It’s not a matter of turf, Fulvio. We need to work together here. I’ve already spoken to Sergeant Antolini about working with us directly, and I can use anyone else you can spare.” Cenni had full authority to requisition whatever personnel and resources he needed, those of Assisi included, and they both knew it, but he viewed unnecessary displays of authority as counterproductive.
“What about Minelli’s handbag?” he asked, not waiting for Russo to accede openly to his earlier request. That too would have been counterproductive.
“It’s here,” Russo said, retrieving the bag from the bottom drawer of his desk, placing it on top. It was not plastic wrapped and Russo had handled it without putting on gloves. Cenni groaned inwardly.
“Another reason why we should focus on Orlic!” Russo insisted. “A convenient way for her to account for her prints being all over Minelli’s bag, carrying it away from the crime scene like that. I checked the bag’s contents myself and made a list. There were only six euros in her bag, all in coins, and Minelli usually carried large sums of money on her person.” Noting the surprised look on Cenni’s face, he added quickly, “Information from her family.”
“If you can wrap that, Fulvio,” Cenni said, nodding to the bag, “I’d like to take it with me. Include the list of contents as well. Perhaps I should talk to Orlic now.” He looked at his watch. “It’s after one. Has she eaten?”
“My budget doesn’t extend to feeding suspects. When she’s under arrest, we’ll be happy to feed her,” Russo replied. “She’s right next door, primed and ready,” he added with disdain, swinging the door open between his office and the interrogation room.
7
SOPHIE ORLIC HAD been sitting on the wooden bench in the police interview room for more than four hours. It was the first time in years that she’d been alone with her thoughts for so long a period, without an invalid to feed or dress, flowers to arrange, or deadening sleep to repulse memory. She’d found early on that it was impossible to keep the dark memories at bay through all her waking hours, so she’d devised ways to keep them in check. She would remember only those that gave her pleasure. And even then she had certain rules: No reminiscences after the age of fourteen, the year that she’d met Sergio at the lycée.
Too often, however, she was caught unaware, betrayed by her senses. Just yesterday while working in the cemetery, a large black bee with blue-violet wings, its body shiny like patent leather, had lighted on one of her flowers. Startled by its beauty, she had looked up and caught her breath at the sweep of countryside below, so like the countryside where she and Sergio had spent their summers. The memories flooded in of the long hot days when they were fifteen. They would escape from pulling weeds in her grandparents’ kitchen garden and hide behind the tall ears of ripening corn. When she managed to steal some of her grandfather’s tobacco, they would roll it in the yellowing corn leaves and assault their lungs with the pleasures of illicit smoke. It was there, hidden behind the tall rows of corn, that they had first kissed.
When they’d turned sixteen, it was spring and the corn was still in seed, so they sought privacy further afield, by the river that ran below her grandparents’ farm. Sophie had spotted wildflowers growing amid the meadow grass on the other side of the river, and they had waded through the cool muddy waters, holding hands and laughing as they stumbled on the smooth rocks that lined the riverbed. On the other side, they’d climbed the steep bank until they reached the elusive flowers. Their petals, the color of crushed strawberries, curved inward to cup golden yellow stamen. The flowers reminded Sophie of the magenta goblets flecked with bits of gold that her parents had brought back from their honeymoon in Venice.
That day she and Sergio made love for the first time. He had picked one of the flowers and drawn it softly across her neck and, later, when she had asked, between her breasts and thighs. Afterward, they lay on their backs, the flower filling the air with its delicate perfume, and talked of their future, the children they would have, and the work they would do. They were young, idealistic, and gloriously in love with each other and a world that had not yet betrayed them. Sophie kept the wildflower to show her grandmother. It was she who gave it a name—peony peregrina—the rarest of wildflowers and the most protected. For Sophie, it was the most beautiful flower in the world.
“Signora Orlic?” she heard a voice say, drawing her back to the present. She looked up to see a man standing directly in front of her. He was tall, two or three inches over six feet, of medium build, and casually dressed in a brown leather jacket and faded jeans. Perhaps because she was still caught up in her memories, she noticed the color of his eyes first. They were a translucent blue-violet, the color of lapis lazuli, a sharp contrast to his jet-black hair. Like the bee, she thought, and just as likely to sting.
She nodded in assent, looking down at the baskets of flowers at her feet, avoiding his eyes. She had done more than day-dream in those four hours of waiting; she had also planned. She would say nothing beyond what they asked. Yes, No, I don’t know, she had chanted to herself, creating a mantra that would protect her and Christina.
“I’m Commissario Cenni,” he responded to her nod. “This is Inspector Tonni,” he added, introducing a shorter, slightly rotund man, with ginger hair, light green eyes, freckled skin, and a glum expression. “Officer Tonni is ordering lunch. Which will you have, pizza or panini?” Cenni asked, smiling.
8
ALEX CENNI WAS a modest man but within the bounds of reason. His grandmother, an addict of Bogart films, often teased him, “Kid, you’re tall, dark, and handsome with a six-figure bank balance. What’s not to like?” He also knew that he had charm, whatever that meant. It seemed to work on most people when he turned it on. But not this day, at least not on Sophie Orlic.
From the sergeant’s description, he had expected a countrywoman, large, broad-boned, ruddy complexioned, and stolid. The woman who gazed back at him before lowering her eyes could have stepped out of any of the Annunciation masterpieces in the Uffizi museum: da Vinci, Botticelli, di Credi. It didn’t matter. The youthful Virgins were all alike, with their delicate pointed chins, short upper lips curved into a cupid’s bow, pencil thin brows emphasizing the heavy-lidded eyes, translucent fair skin with just the faintest blush of rose on the rounded cheeks. Her nose was less perfect than those of her predecessors; it had a slight bump, and she was certainly older than they, in her mid-thirties he guessed, but her expression of impassivity was the same as theirs.
She had refused his offer of food, her manner of refusal suggesting that to eat with the police was a compromise from which she would never recover. Cenni had told Piero to buy extra, just in case, but Orlic had watched in freezing silence as they ate their pizzas. Forgetting his diet, Piero had eaten the extra pizza, whether frustrated because he was still smarting from Sergeant Antolini’s cold shoulder or because Orlic’s fixed stare made him nervous. Cenni asked if she would like an interpreter, but she responded, No, that she understood Italian well enough. And she didn’t want a lawyer either, not unless the police were paying. Not that she needed either, he acknowledged to himself later that day. Her answers to his questions were a series of si’s, no’s, and an occasional non lo so. When she couldn’t provide a monosyllabic answer, her response was brief and unelaborated. A defense lawyer’s dream, he thought.
From what he was able to piece together from her reluctant responses, she had spent all Friday evening in her apartment near Porta San Giacomo arranging flowers for the next day. And, no, she hadn’t gone near the cemetery. On Saturday morning, she’d left her apartment at ten minutes to seven to walk to the cemetery with two large baskets of flowers. Orlic had expected her assistant to meet her at the side gate at seven but she was late. “I left the side gate unlocked so my assistant could get in and went ahead to begin the day’s work.”
“How did you come by a key to the side gate?”
“The cemetery ga
ve it to me.”
“Why did the cemetery give it to you?”
“I asked.”
“I doubt that everyone who asks for a key gets one. Let’s try again, Signora Orlic. What reason did you give for needing a key?”
“I have twenty-three customers and I need to get in before the gates are opened to the general public.”
“Does anyone else have a key?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe.”
“Does your assistant have a key?”
“No.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Who?”
“Your assistant. And please don’t answer yes. I’d like her name!”
“Alba Luchetti.”
It took another series of questions to elicit that Orlic normally started her work at the Casati mausoleum, as it was the closest to the side gate. It was right after entering the side gate that she realized the key to the Casati vault was missing.
“Was that when you were at the vault or before you reached the vault?” he asked, wondering why she hadn’t seen the body through the grilles.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” he asked sharply, losing patience.
“Yes, before I reached the vault.”
“Isn’t it a bit unusual to check for the key only when you get to the cemetery?” Cenni asked. “Why didn’t you check for it before leaving your apartment?”
“No, it’s not unusual.”
Another series of questions before she gave a fuller explanation.
