“You . . . you’ve already gotten rough,” Bianchini stammered. Rocco let go of him. He adjusted his jacket for him. “You don’t know anything and I never said anything. If we manage to save Chiara’s life, then part of the credit will go to you, and that will only be possible if you stop getting in the way and busting my balls. Have I made myself clear?”
Bianchini nodded.
“So should I go to the classroom, or will you have him come here?”
“I’ll send a hall monitor. Wait in the administrative office.” And he hurried away.
Massimiliano Turrini, a.k.a. Max, but dubbed Einstein by Rocco, compensated for his lack of scholastic talent with a shameless, Apollonian beauty. He stood six foot three, blond as an angel—that is, if angels really are—deep, soulful dark eyes. His teeth, straight and dazzlingly white, were set in his soft, fleshy lips. He had a prominent nose but, far from clashing with the rest of his face, it gave it a stroke of virility.
“So all four of you were at Sphere.”
“That’s right, my cousin Alberto with Giovanna, and then me and Chiara. We danced and got up to some trouble. But Chiara had too much to drink.”
“How do you know?”
“Because at a certain point she disappeared. I walked around the club trying to track her down and I found her in the bathroom throwing up. I took her outside, I got her some fresh air, let her smoke a cigarette. Anyway, these things happen, right?”
“Of course.”
“And then nothing, commissario.”
“Deputy chief, Max, it’s the third time I’ve told you. . . .”
“Ah, right, you said that. Then, nothing else, I took her home and I left.”
Rocco took a cigarette from his pack and lit it. Max stared at him, eyes bulging: “Deputy Chief, you’re not allowed to smoke in here!”
“True. And you know what I heard? That at school, you’re not allowed to peddle drugs either.”
Max dropped his gaze.
“Have you stopped?”
The young man just nodded his head.
“Tell me something. Do you steal pharmaceuticals from your father’s clinic?”
Max smiled naively, then scratched his blond hair.
“Sometimes, yes . . . Rohypnol, Stilnox, you know, light drugs that trip you out. Only . . . I swear to you, I don’t do it anymore.” And he crossed his forefingers in front of his lips and kissed them twice to drive home the point.
“Well, Max, now I want you to think hard. When you took Chiara home, did you see her go inside?”
He thought it over for a short while. “No, she got out, she walked to the door, and I left.”
“That is, you didn’t wait to make sure she got the door open?”
“No. Why?”
“Just because, Max. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you see a young woman home. Didn’t your Papà teach you that?”
“No. I don’t talk much with Papà.”
“Right. All you do is empty out his medicine chest. What about with your Mamma?”
“No, she never told me that.”
“Fuck!” Rocco stood up. He opened the window to throw out the cigarette. Outside it was still raining. “Doesn’t it ever stop?”
“Do you know that last year in Aosta we got snow in May?”
“Do you know that if it happens again this year, I’ll commit a murder?” The deputy chief shut the window. “All right, Max. Go back to your class. How are you doing this year?”
“What do you mean, how am I doing?”
“I mean, how are you doing in school?”
Max thought it over. “Ah, how am I doing . . . great. I’m taking math, physics, and chemistry.”
“Which is quite impressive, seeing that you’re attending scientific high school.”
“You know something funny? My math teacher is actually Chiara’s uncle.”
“Marcello Berguet?”
“What do you say, should I see if Chiara can put in a good word for me?” Then he seemed to stop and think it over. “Deputy Chief, why are you asking me all these questions about Chiara? Yesterday Giovanna was asking me about her too.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Sunday night.”
“And since then?”
“I called her twice but the phone was turned off. So I texted her on Whatsapp. But she still hasn’t replied. Do you know anything?”
“I think she might have gone to stay with her grandmother in Milan.”
“What are you, crazy? Her grandmother is basically in a coma!”
“Right, maybe you’re right. Take care of yourself, Max. And take my advice. No more strange business dealings.”
The young man got up from his chair. “I swear!” He opened the door but didn’t walk through it. “Dottor Schiavone, do I need to worry?”
“Maybe so, a little.”
Max looked at the policeman, then bowed his head. “Has something happened to Chiara and you don’t have the nerve to tell me? Is she dead?”
“She’s not dead, Max. Don’t worry. You’ll see, she’ll turn up safe and sound.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Will you call me if you find out anything?”
“Of course. If anything, I’ll leave word with your secretary.”
Max failed to grasp the irony. “I’ll keep calling her. She’ll have to turn her phone back on eventually, no?” And with his gleaming white smile, he vanished behind the door of the principal’s office.
She’d tried to coax the orange cat closer. But it had just gazed at her for a few minutes, then it had turned and vanished without another thought for her.
Cats aren’t like dogs.
The little voice was right. A dog would have barked. And barked and barked. And maybe someone would have heard it.
Don’t you need to pee?
Of course, I need to pee.
Even though she hadn’t had anything to drink in who knows how long. She looked down at her legs. Bound to the chair. Her skirt hiked up and on the flesh of her thighs, the foam from the urine that she’d peed on herself hours ago.
My stockings? Why don’t I have my stockings? I had them on before! I don’t like to go around without stockings.
The tidal wave of pain down there took shape again. Not as strong as before, but still quite distinct. Chiara shut her eyes. She waited for that impact wave to subside.
“Is anybody there?” she shouted. “Oh!” Her voice was hoarse and weary. “Please!”
If they brought me here, there must be someone around, right? There must be someone.
No. There’s no one. No one at all.
“Shut the hell up! I’m trying to think!”
Kidnapped. Someone kidnapped me and brought me here. But you bring water and food to a kidnap victim. Even if it’s in a dog bowl, you don’t just abandon them, do you?
There was nothing on the floor. No bowl, no containers. And the old wooden door had a chain that fastened it tightly through a hole in the wall.
“Is anyone there?”
If you ask me, things will only get worse if someone does show up.
“Worse than this?”
Yes.
Soon my father will get here. He’ll take care of things. Right, Papà?
The rustling of tree branches in the wind. Then a sudden gust of water. It was raining outside.
Think about it: what would happen if the cellar flooded?
“Fuck you!”
You’d drown like a rat.
She hauled on both arms with all her strength. But, aside from sawing the straps binding her deep into her wrists, she obtained no other results.
I’m not going to die here, I’m not going to die here. I’m not going to die.
Are you sure?
The Vallée Savings Bank occupied an entire office building on Via Frutaz. And on the ground floor of that building was Branch Office No. 1. With his loden overcoat and his hair drenched with the rain that for some time now was refus
ing to yield to the sweet-smelling month of May, Rocco Schiavone tried to enter the bank through the revolving door. But midway through, the door clicked to a locked position, trapping him. An expressionless voice ordered him to leave keys and other metallic objects in the lockers supplied for that purpose. Rocco did as he was told. He kept only his cell phone with him. But the door froze again. Behind the bulletproof glass, the security guard rather brusquely waved him back to the lockers. Rocco rolled his eyes and put his cell phone in the locker, too. But now the door froze in place for a third time. Once again, the guard waved him back. Rocco threw both arms wide, as if to say: “I don’t have a thing left to put in the locker.” But the security guard wasn’t interested in discussing the finer points. Indifferent to Rocco’s objections, he waved him back to the row of lockers. The deputy chief reached into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet. He pressed his police headquarters identification card against the glass and urged the security guard to come closer to read it. Then, since it was impossible to make himself heard through all that bulletproof glass, he pointed to his mouth and carefully and visibly enunciated the string of words, “I’m-from-the-police-and-if-you-don’t-open-this-fucking-door-I’ll-kick-your-ass-black-and-blue.” And then he smiled. The guard nodded to show that he’d understood and went over to press a button next to the revolving door, which finally spat the deputy chief out into the bank. “What the fuck, do I have to strip bare naked to get in here?”
“Maybe you have a chain,” the security attendant tried justifying himself.
“I don’t have a chain.”
“Any metal plates in your bones?”
“I have one in my balls. Could that be it?”
The guard didn’t answer.
“The director. I need to talk to her immediately.”
The man pointed to a door to the side of the tellers’ windows. “Third office down the hall.”
“Thanks.”
“Please forgive me, I’m just doing my job.”
“No, you need to forgive me. I’m just doing mine, too.”
He turned to look at the tellers, with the lines of customers waiting. Sitting in the waiting area was Anna, looking at him. Rocco tried flashing her a smile. He saw her write something quickly on a sheet of paper. Then she held it up so Rocco could see: “There’s no getting away from you, is there?”
Rocco narrowed his eyes. He read the message. Then he held both arms out helplessly and went through the door that led to the offices.
“Dottor Schiavone, I’m so happy to make your acquaintance,” Laura Turrini began; she was the director of the bank branch, a distracted forty-five-year-old.
“Dottoressa Turrini . . . let me ask you something. Is your son Max Turrini, Class 4 A?”
“Oh my lord! What’s he gotten up to this time?”
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just a coincidence.”
Laura Turrini took a deep breath and blew away the clot of anxiety that had just gathered in her trachea. “That’s good, what a relief. My husband and I were thinking of sending him to boarding school, you know?”
“That way, instead of just peddling his father’s barbiturates, he’ll go directly to working for the Medellin cartel. . . .”
“Please, take a seat.” And she pointed to the little office sofa. “Can I get you an espresso, a mineral water?”
“No water, thanks, what’s falling from the sky is more than enough,” and he pointed to the window that was weeping thousands of rainy tears.
Laura smiled and sat down next to the policeman. Her elegant skirt suit was a color that fell somewhere between pink and lavender and clashed violently with her pale skin and her freckles. Her blonde hair was the fruit of a talented hairdresser’s efforts. Laura’s hair had lost its original color years ago. Her dark eyes darted this way and that. They transmitted messages, retreated shyly, smiled. Laura Turrini spoke with her eyes. And at that particular moment they were focused on Rocco’s face. “You know what? I’ve heard a lot of people talk about you. Rumors circulate here in Aosta. I hear you’re very good at your job.”
“So it would seem.”
“You just have one shortcoming. You don’t have an account with our bank.” And she broke into laughter. She had the same perfect teeth as her son. She let the laughter go on a little too long, as if showing off her array of molars and incisors. Who knows how many times she’d practiced that pose in front of the mirror. Neck bent slightly back, head held high, chin thrust forward, and lips opened wide to display the entire double arch of teeth.
“That’s true. I don’t have an account here.” Rocco came right to the point. “What can you tell me about Edil.ber?” And Laura Turrini’s smile flickered out. “What do you want to know?”
“Do you have their accounts here?”
“Let’s just say that this bank is a point of reference for them.”
“Lines of credit?”
“Certainly. We have always supported Edil.ber. But may I ask just why all these questions?”
“We’re trying to understand what happened a few months ago, all the problems they were having with their workers.”
Laura nodded, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “Yes. They were having difficulties meeting payroll. Edil.ber was running late on getting paid by their clients, but then, thank God, it all worked out.”
“Were you the ones who financed Edil.ber?”
Laura paused. “Yes,” she replied.
“I know that you aren’t required to answer me, but can you tell me how much money you gave Edil.ber?”
“You said it yourself. I can’t answer that.”
“So I’d need a judge to make you answer?”
“I think that’s right.”
Rocco nodded. “But you can tell me how many years you’ve worked with Pietro Berguet’s company, can’t you?”
“Certainly. At least four years.”
“Is Pietro the brains of the company?”
“I’d say so. But Engineer Cerruti, too. They’re a tight pair, they work well together. Cerruti hasn’t been working for the company very long, but he’s immediately distinguished himself.”
“What about Pietro’s brother? Marcello?”
“Marcello? Marcello is a teacher, and he doesn’t work for the company. In fact, you know something? He teaches my son. He only has a percentage of the company. He’s on the board of directors, but he doesn’t make any major decisions.”
“Do you know the Berguet family very well?”
“Certainly. Giuliana and I have been friends since high school. Our children, as you must know, are dating.”
“Tell me something, Dottoressa Turrini. Have there been any major transactions on the Berguets’ personal accounts in the last few days?”
“I can’t answer that question either.”
“Does he enjoy good health, economically speaking?”
“No comment.”
“Again with the judge?”
“Again with the judge, Dottor Schiavone.”
“You haven’t lied to me today at all, have you?”
She opened her eyes wide. “How dare you ask such a thing?” Laura Turrini practically shouted.
“Well, then, let me thank you and apologize for the intrusion. I hope you have a good day.”
Rocco got to his feet, and so did Laura Turrini. Rocco thought she seemed very relieved that that interrogation disguised as a pleasant chat was over.
He hated police issue cars. They always had clutches that were slow to disengage, mysterious and worrisome percussions inhabited the engine compartment, there was never a cigarette lighter, the seats were uncomfortable and swaybacked from overuse, and the windshield wipers left streaks on the glass because of the worn rubber. He was taking the car back to police headquarters to switch it out with his own, but Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” the ringtone of his cell phone, burst out at a louder volume than the noise of the raindrops drumming on the car’s sheet metal roof.
“Tell me, Italo.”<
br />
“Well, listen, sir. . . .”
Listen, sir, thought Rocco. Italo wasn’t alone.
“Go ahead. . . .”
“Maybe it’s nothing, but Pietro Berguet just left Edil.ber and went into a shop.”
Rocco turned on his blinker and pulled over. “He must have gone in to buy something, right?”
“I doubt that. It’s a children and babies boutique. All sorts of things for kids. It’s called HeyDiddleLiddles!”
“HeyDiddleLiddles? What the fuck kind of name is that?”
“How am I supposed to know? I didn’t name the place.”
“What does he have to do that’s so urgent in a kids’ store?”
“From zero to ten years of age?” Italo added.
“Scipioni is with you, right?”
“Yep.”
“All right then, leave him there and let him stick to Berguet like glue. In the meantime, you follow the other guy, what was his name? Cerruti, the VP.”
“In all this rain?”
“What’s the matter, don’t you have a car?”
“We have one car between the two of us!”
“What the fuck!” Rocco swore and swung a fist at the plastic dashboard, opening a laceration right above the car radio. “But I told you that you needed to be able to move independently!”
“The other car was out of gas, sir.”
“Ain’t that great. Then you can take a cab to police headquarters and get another car there. I’ll pay for the taxi.”
“Who ever took a taxi in Aosta?”
Rocco looked out of the window, cursing between clenched teeth. Then something in the street caught his attention. He got out of the car.
“Deputy Chief? Deputy Chief?” Italo looked over at Antonio Scipioni. “He hung up.”
“I don’t doubt it. You’re driving him crazy with all this talk about taxis.”
“What is that supposed to be my fault?”
The rear door opened without warning. “Who the . . . ?”
Rocco Schiavone had just hopped into the car and was shaking the rain out of his hair. “Deputy Chief!”
Out of Season Page 10
