“Yes.”
“Then I’ll come with you. Inside the cable car would be better.”
The first one in the cabin was Pierron, followed by the deputy police chief and, last of all, Caciuoppolo, who got in after securing his skis to the external rack. The cabin attendant checked to make sure the doors were securely shut, and the little shell began its descent.
“All right, then, what do you have to tell me?”
“There are things you ought to know. Leone Miccichè, the corpse . . .”
“Well?”
“Well, he’d been with Luisa Pec for three years. And they were expecting a baby.”
Rocco looked into Caciuoppolo’s dark eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I know because Omar told me so.”
Italo Pierron nodded.
“Do you know him?” Rocco asked him.
“Sure. Omar is one of the ski instructors. Or maybe we should say the chief ski instructor, really,” Italo replied.
“Well, what the hell is it to Omar? Instead of teaching people how to ride on those gadgets, what do they do? Gossip like a bunch of housewives?”
“No.” Caciuoppolo laughed. “No, you see, Dottore. Omar Borghetti was Luisa Pec’s boyfriend. Before she started seeing Leone. So that means he knows everything.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Right.”
Rocco looked outside. The sun was smashing down onto the mountains, drenching them in orange and making them look like so many enormous caramel Mont Blancs.
“The boyfriend. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
“That’s not all, Dottore,” Caciuoppolo went on. “There’s something that I think you might need to know. Omar Borghetti was very upset when Luisa broke up with him. He couldn’t get over it. They had planned on fixing up the hut together. Omar had applied for loans and everything. Then the dream vanished in a puff of smoke. I mean, you’ve seen Luisa Pec, no?”
“Good work, Caciuoppolo. You’ve already identified the person of interest. Bravo.”
“Grazie.”
The cable car slipped between sky and clouds. Mountains and sunset both disappeared, swallowed up by the milky glaze. The deputy police chief started thinking aloud. “In other words, he found out that Luisa was pregnant and he just saw red. Could be, eh? I don’t say no, Caciuoppolo. Let’s leave no stone unturned.”
The downhill station came closer and closer. Rocco saw the men of the forensics team loading plastic crates onto their parked pickup trucks. He rolled his eyes skyward. “There are the guys from the forensics squad,” he said. Italo and Caciuoppolo pressed their faces to the windows to see. “You know how you can recognize them? When they walk, they look as if they’re afraid they’re going to step on shit. An occupational hazard. You see the guy with the green jacket?” He pointed his forefinger at a man waiting with folded arms next to the pickup. “That one is an assistant commissioner. And he’s the team leader.”
“How do you know that?” asked Italo.
“Because I know him. His name is Luca Farinelli. He’s a tremendous pain in the ass, but he’s also the best there is. In particular, he’s got one thing that could make anyone go a little apeshit.”
“And what’s that?” asked Caciuoppolo.
“His wife. A terrifyingly hot babe. Olive skin, curly hair, green eyes. Nobody understands how she could have fallen for Farinelli. You can’t really see him from here, but he’s the most uninteresting man I know. You know that kind of face you see and immediately forget?”
Rocco’s cell phone played the first few notes of the “Ode to Joy.” “What’s up, Deruta? Tell me all about it.”
“Ah, Dottore, we’re hard at work. But there’s a bunch of English names. What should we do, check them all out?”
“All of them, Deruta, check them all. Do you have anything else for me?”
“D’Intino.”
“Well?”
“He collapsed.”
Rocco burst out in a liberating peal of laughter. “And how is he?”
“He got a look at Miccichè’s corpse. First he turned white, then purple, then he slammed to the floor. Now he’s at the hospital, but they say they’re only going to keep him overnight.”
“All right, Deruta. All right. It strikes me as an excellent piece of news.”
“You think?”
“I do. Take care of yourself,” Rocco said, and, cackling to himself, put his cell phone back in his pocket. Pierron was looking at him inquisitively, but he saw no reason to satisfy the young officer’s curiosity.
The cable car lurched to a halt and vomited out the three policemen.
“All right, Italo, now you go with Caciuoppolo to the bar and exchange telephone numbers. I’m going to talk to Farinelli. Have a good time. Ah, no, wait a second. Italo, give me a cigarette.”
Pierron pulled out his pack of Chesterfields and offered his superior officer a cigarette.
“Why don’t you buy Camels, Italo? I don’t like Chesterfields.” Rocco put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it while the two young officers headed off toward the metal staircase that led down to the main street of Champoluc. The deputy police chief twisted the cricks out of his neck and started walking toward the parking lot, where the assistant commissioner of the forensics team was waiting for him.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s going,” Rocco replied. “What do you say?”
“You guys made a mess.”
“Farinelli, come to the point. My right leg hurts, my feet are frozen, I’m smoking a cigarette that tastes like iron, and I have no time to waste. Is there anything I would be interested to know?”
“This.”
He pulled a plastic baggie out of his pocket. Inside were a number of indistinct particles, small and black. They looked like gnats smashed onto a windshield.
“What’s that stuff?”
“Tobacco. There was a fair amount of it, you see?”
“Tobacco?”
“Now we’re going to look into it and try to find out more.”
“Okay, fine, whatever.” Rocco knew that that kind of analysis took forever—biblical amounts of time. And he also knew that if you don’t catch the killer in the first forty-eight hours, then it’s too late. “Marlboro Light. The corpse had a pack in his pocket. He smoked it.”
“Ah. Well. He smoked it. In that case . . .” and he put the baggie back into his pocket. “Someone peed on the tree next to the crime scene. We collected the urine.”
“Throw it away.”
Farinelli looked at Rocco, tilting his head to one side, as if he hadn’t heard him right.
“That was Officer Casella.”
Farinelli looked crestfallen. “There were a bunch of footprints, but I’ll bet that if we run it all to ground we’ll find it was all your guys’ shoes.”
“Mine are easy to identify.” Rocco lifted his foot and pointed to it. “I’m the only one wearing Clarks desert boots.”
“Those are Clarks?”
“Yeah, they used to be.”
“They look like your feet are wrapped in rags. I’m going to have to report to the judge.”
“Do as you think best.”
“Do you want to come, and we can report together?”
“No, I’ve got things to do.”
“Listen, Schiavone, I don’t give a damn about how you do things. I like to follow procedure.”
“Good for you, go on following it. But did you happen to take a look at the corpse?”
Farinelli nodded a couple of times while Rocco discarded his cigarette butt. “I cleaned under his fingernails,” the assistant commissioner said.
“Bravo. And what did you find?”
“Nothing. There was no struggle, no fight. Just traces of a black fabric, but . . .” Farinelli bent over. He had a black combination-lock briefcase on the ground. He opened it. “We found all kinds of things under the snowcat’s tillers. Shreds of clothing, blood, vomit, a couple of teeth, and even this
stuff here.”
He pulled out another plastic bag. Inside it was the finger of a black glove. The man from the forensics team stood up and showed the exhibit to the deputy police chief.
“What’s left of a glove. And I’m pretty sure that the fibers that the guy had under his fingernails belong to this one. It’s leather. Now I’m trying to find out the model and brand.”
“Don’t bother; I already know. This is a leather ski glove, made by Colmar. We found the other one next to the corpse.”
“Is it important?” Farinelli asked, looking Rocco in the eye.
“It’s fundamental.”
He’d turned off his cell phone. Now, under a dark, starless sky, wrapped in his loden overcoat, with a new pair of Clarks desert boots on his feet, Rocco Schiavone was in Piazza Manzetti, outside the train station. He’d left his car double-parked and had shouted at a traffic cop who wanted to point out the fact to him. Sebastiano’s train was coming in about half an hour late.
He finally heard the sound of train wheels screeching on the rails. He flicked his cigarette away and walked into the station. There weren’t many people. The Café de la Gare was empty and was about to lock up for the night. But that didn’t matter: he had no desire to drink anything, not even an espresso. He just wanted to wrap his arms around Sebastiano, take him somewhere to have some dinner together, and talk about the good old days.
He saw him climb down from the passenger car. Powerful, tall, with the briefcase of a traveling salesman, his beard still full and his hair curly and unruly. Sebastiano, in Rocco’s mental zoological classification, was an Ursus arctos horribilis, an ugly scientific name for the grizzly bear. He was placid, handsome, and big, but he was also very, very dangerous. Rocco stood under the streetlight, in plain sight, and waited for him. As soon as Sebastiano recognized him, he smiled and hastened his step, even though he’d bought himself a pair of boots that must have weighed about 150 pounds.
They hugged without a word.
Sebastiano insisted on going to the Trattoria degli Artisti Pam Pam. It was recommended by the Gambero Rosso restaurant guide, the one book he always carried with him, and there were plenty of positive comments online. Over a cutting board of salumi with mocetta goat ham and a bottle of Le Crete, Sebastiano and Rocco finally caught up.
“So how are you?”
“You see, Seba, I’m feeling like the guy who has three of a kind playing against someone with a royal flush.”
“Like shit,” Sebastiano summed up.
“That’s right. How about you?”
Sebastiano popped a slice of prosciutto into his mouth and swallowed it. “Rome just isn’t Rome anymore. It’s been a while since it was last Rome. I hate it. We all hate it. Speaking of which, Furio and Brizio and Cerveteri all send their regards.”
“How are they?” asked Rocco, a sweet smile of homesickness on his lips.
“Brizio’s struggling with alimony payments and a pack of lawyers, Furio’s opened two places that have slot machines, and Cerveteri seems to be on to something good in America.”
“Still dealing in Etruscan shit?”
“No. Now he’s moved over to paintings. After the whole episode with the stolen vase by Euphronios that was sold to that American museum with all the ruckus in the press, that’s a risky line of business, and you can’t make a euro in it anymore.”
“Sure.” Rocco forked a slice of speck and shoved it straight into his mouth. “Why do you say Rome isn’t Rome anymore?”
“Why? The people. When we were little and we used to play in San Cosimato, when it was time for lunch or dinner you’d hear: ‘Mario! Come home and eat! And if you don’t get up here this very minute we’re going to have a serious conversation, damn it to the place you know well!’ ”
“That’s right. And if I skinned my knee, Mamma gave me something to cry about.”
“These days there are no more kids out in the street. And if their mother has to call them, she’ll say: ‘Enrico, fucking hell! If you don’t get up here right this second, I’ll smash your face in!’ ” Sebastiano gave his friend a sad look. “You understand? A mother who tells her son that she’s going to smash his face in. It’s just depressing. And you know why? Because no one has a penny anymore. Everyone’s pissed off, choking on debt, asphyxiated by all the cars and the tour buses that park in front of your windows with the engine running. While if you try to park your own car but you don’t have the special permit, then the next thing you know you’ve got a hundred-euro ticket under your windshield wiper. Then there’s another thing that’s just heartbreaking.” Sebastiano poured himself half a glass of wine and drained it at a single gulp. “Old men. You go to a market. Any one you care to name: Trastevere, Campo dei Fiori, Piazza Crati. And wait for closing time to roll around. Even before the trash trucks, they show up: the old men. Some of them dressed in a suit and tie, can you believe it? They come around with their plastic shopping bags and collect the fruit and vegetables, still edible. And these aren’t bums, Rocco. They’re retired people. People who worked their whole lives. People who ought to be home playing with their grandchildren, reading, watching TV. Instead, there they are, rain or shine, gathering up old cabbages and fennels.”
Rocco nodded. “I know, Sebastiano, I know.” He tossed back the wine in his glass. “I know all that. I haven’t been gone all that long, you know? It’s been four months.”
“And another thing, Rocco, my friend: the ones who are in charge these days are the gypsies. But not the ones who live in trailers. The ones with villas in the country and penthouse apartments in the center of the city.”
“They’ve always been in charge,” Rocco replied, looking into his friend’s eyes—bovine, calm, and untroubled. Seba was a guy who never stopped complaining. Not since they’d first met, the very first day of elementary school. The bow on the front of their school uniform was made of nylon, and it smelled bad. The collar was too tight and cut into his neck. The covers of their textbooks came off. The blue pen and the red pen both ran out of ink. And even the Our Father Who Art in Heaven, which they had to recite every morning before lessons, was just too long—plus the “we forgive those who trespass against us” part had never made sense to him. But now Rocco could see an odd nostalgia in his friend’s eyes. Maybe it’s his gray hair, he thought, or maybe it’s something else I’ll find out about tomorrow. But it struck him as the expression you’d see on the face of someone about to give up and surrender. Someone about to throw in the towel.
“I want to get out,” Sebastiano went on, “but now is still too soon. What about you?”
“For now I’m here. I’m waiting. It’ll be a while yet. But if nothing shakes loose, maybe we’re going to have to start doing the shaking ourselves.”
“At least this is a nice, quiet little city, isn’t it?”
“That’s what it looked like. But just now, a corpse popped out of nowhere. A Sicilian. Someone killed him up on the ski slopes.”
“Was it an accident?”
“Not on your life. Murder.”
“Well, that’s a pain in the ass.”
“A first-class pain,” Rocco agreed. “You staying at my place?”
“No. I reserved a hotel. I’ll just be here for a couple of days.”
Rocco didn’t ask. He already knew that as soon as Sebastiano was done pouring the wine, he’d talk.
And in fact his friend started telling the story.
“All right, Rocco, it’s all pretty simple. It’s a truck that crosses the border. It’s transporting exotic furniture. It comes from Rotterdam and it’s heading for Turin.”
“When?”
“At night, the day after tomorrow. There’s going to be a crate in the truck. I have the measurements. On it is written CHANT NUMBER 4. That’s very close to the name of a song by Spandau Ballet.”
“So what’s inside this crate?”
“Mary Jane.”
“How much marijuana?”
“A few kilos.”
&n
bsp; Rocco added some numbers in his head. “Where did you get the information?”
“From Ernst.”
“And you trust the German?”
“Not much. But what do we have to lose?”
“So how’s this going to go? What do you have in mind?”
“Simple. Let’s say we stop the truck, we check the cargo, we discover the shit, and you take the guy in. And a certain amount of it makes it to police headquarters. It’s not like they’re going to stand there and weigh it, right?”
“Where are we going to put the leftovers?”
“I’ll take care of that. I’ll take it down to Rome.”
“How much would come to me?”
“Thirty thousand euros.”
“Net?”
“Net. Like always. I’ll give the money to the lawyer and he’ll take care of it.”
Rocco nodded. “Sure, sure. I’d gladly skip all this shit, but . . . fine. You and me?”
“You and me. In plain clothes,” Sebastiano replied.
“How many drivers?”
“I don’t know, Rocco.”
“If it’s coming from Rotterdam, there’s a chance that there’ll be two of them. On long trips, they drive in shifts.”
The waiter came to the table and Rocco and Sebastiano fell silent. With a smile, the young man removed the cutting board, now empty, on which he’d brought the salumi. “Have you gentlemen made up your minds?”
“Yes,” said Sebastiano, who’d studied the menu and memorized it. “Two Valdostana veal chops and a polenta concia, which we’re going to do in two.”
The waiter gave him a blank look. Sebastiano clarified the point: “We’re going to do in two—that means we’re going to split it.”
“Ah. Very good.”
“For the wine, bring us a relaxed red. But dry. Otherwise, what with the fontina, the butter, and the eggs, it’ll never cut through the flavors.”
“Understood,” said the attentive waiter. “I’ll bring you an Enfer d’Arvier.”
“Excellent!” said Sebastiano with a smile. With a slight bow, the waiter disappeared. “If the way they cook is as good as the salumi and the wine, then this place is heaven on earth.”
Black Run Page 9
