“I want a lawyer,” said Omar Borghetti, in a flat, toneless voice, as if someone else were dubbing him.
“You’ve watched too many TV shows, Borghetti. I’m just asking you—”
“You’re just busting my balls, Commissario, so if you’ve got it in for me, you might as well say so. And whatever you have in mind, I want a lawyer!”
Once again, Rocco raised his voice. “I just asked you to help me keep this conversation on an acceptable level of civility. But you’re starting to twist my balls counterclockwise, and let me promise you, that’s not something I enjoy. All I’m doing here is asking you what you were doing up there the night of the murder!”
“And I’m telling you that I want a lawyer.”
“Fine. Then here’s what let’s do. I’ll officially serve you with a notification that you’re a person of interest in this case, and I can get that to you by tomorrow morning. Then you’ll have to go in and see the judge, with your lawyer, and I have all the elements I need to keep you behind bars for a while. And let me assure you that, if by any chance you were to get off, I’ll be delighted to spend three-quarters of my every working day making your life a living hell. I just got to Aosta, Borghetti, and I don’t have a fucking thing to do in the office. You’ll curse the day you refused to answer my questions in a civil manner. Take good care of yourself.”
Just as Rocco turned to leave, Omar spoke. “I was at the Belle Cuneaz. With Luisa.”
Rocco came back and stared at Omar. “Why?”
“I wanted to talk to her.”
“You hated Leone Miccichè. He’d stolen Luisa from you, as well as your plan to renovate the hut above the slopes. Tell the truth.”
“How do you know these things?”
But Rocco didn’t answer.
Omar continued. “Luisa and I were—in fact, we still are—close friends.”
“Still, the whole thing didn’t sit well with you, did it? Then, when you found out that she was pregnant, you just saw red.”
“Luisa loved Leone, and there was no room for me; I knew it then and I still know it, even now that Leone’s gone. Luisa and I are like a brother and sister these days.”
“So what did you want to talk to her about that night?”
“What did I want to talk to her about?”
“Eh, bravo. What did you want to talk to her about?”
Omar ran a hand over his face. “It’s a sensitive subject.”
“I’m a sensitive person.”
Omar smirked sarcastically. Rocco responded with a smile. “I know that I might not seem that way, right? But have you ever read Pirandello? Everyone plays a role in this life, and then there’s the mask, and blah blah blah?”
At last Omar spoke. “Luisa owes me money.”
“How much?”
“Almost a hundred.”
“A hundred thousand? Why on earth?”
“Last season was a disaster. Plus Leone had done some extra renovation work: he’d insisted on installing Jacuzzi tubs in every room and a hot tub outside. But they didn’t have the money to cover it. So I helped her out. It was my life savings. I wanted that money back, you know, it’s not like you can become a millionaire as a ski instructor.”
“Or as a policeman, for that matter. Did you argue? Did you fight?”
“No. Very simply, she asked me to wait for a month at the very most, because this season was going great and she promised to pay me back in full.”
“After that?”
“After that I left. I put on my skis and I went back down to town.”
“What time was it?”
“I don’t know. It was dark out. The snowcats were grooming the runs.”
“Do you know how to ski in the dark?”
Omar flashed him his very brightest smile. “Mr. Deputy Police Chief, I took bronze at the Italian championships of 1982 and I was a member of the national team. I could ski backward along the edge of a crevasse blindfolded. I learned to ski before I learned to walk.”
“Did you see anyone on your way back to town?”
“No. No one.”
“Do you and Luisa see each other often?”
“Practically every day. Every so often she comes to see me. We talk, we have a cup of tea. Or else I go up to the hut. I told you, we’re like brother and sister.”
“And if I asked Luisa Pec to confirm this version of events, what would she tell me?”
“The same thing I just told you. The truth.”
Rocco paced back and forth in the oversize broom closet. He looked at the painted Coke-brand mirrors, the ice cream deep freeze that was in storage until summer, a wine rack loaded with bottles of red, and the crates of gin. “So what do you think? Who could have been in the office at that time of day?”
“I have no idea.”
“Is there anything in that office that could tempt anybody?”
“No, absolutely not. There’s a big closet where we keep all sorts of things for any eventuality. Crap, really. Extra sweaters, goggles. Never cash or anything of any real value. Except maybe a twenty-year-old television set that as far as I know doesn’t even work.”
“What if I need to get back in touch with you?”
“Call the ski school. I’ll check in with them every day to see if you were looking for me. I’ll give you my home address, in any case.”
“I’m not going to have to come looking for you, right?”
“No, you’re not.”
Rocco opened the pack of cigarettes and offered one to Omar Borghetti. “Do you smoke?”
The ski instructor shook his head brusquely. “No, grazie, I’ve never been a smoker.”
Rocco took in that information. “Sorry about smacking you.”
“No, I’m sorry. I behaved like an idiot.”
Omar extended his hand, but Rocco wouldn’t shake it. “If you don’t mind,” said the policeman, “I’ll shake hands when this is all over.”
“Are you saying that you still think that I—”
“When this is over,” Rocco repeated, leaning hard on each individual word.
Italo was already on his second glass of vin brulé when Rocco left Mario and Michael’s bar.
“This stuff goes down like honey. Did you find him?”
“All taken care of. Let’s go home.” Rocco gave him a look. “Are you okay to drive? You’re not drunk or anything?”
“When it’s as cold as this, it would take six glasses to get someone drunk.”
“As long as you understand I don’t want to wind up wrapped around a tree.”
“It’s all under control.”
They started walking toward the car. “Should I take you home, sir?”
“We’re not at headquarters. You can drop the formalities.”
“Ah, right, that’s true, I’d forgotten. So—are you going home?”
“First to the laboratory. I have to give something to Fumagalli.”
“What?”
“A piece of tissue.”
They got in the car. Six seconds later, the BMW, with Italo at the wheel, took off for Aosta, splattering mud and snow in all directions.
Scalding hot, I scrape away the skin. I want to hear it scream with the heat. I like to train the spray on the top of my head and shut my eyes. Only there’s always something behind the eyelids that makes me open them again. There’s some kind of photo album behind my eyelids. And they’re all photographs that I never want to look at again. Still, there they are. Someone pasted them in. So I open my eyes again. The bathroom has turned into a steam room. I can barely even see my feet. The toenails have turned purple. I step out of the shower. There’s steam billowing everywhere. Milky white, as if a cloud had floated into the bathroom. Nice. Warm.
“What are you doing?” It’s Marina’s voice. I can’t see her. She’s hidden in the steam.
“I have to go out, my love. Sebastiano’s expecting me. In fact, I’m running late.”
“Are you two going to do something stupid?�
��
I feel like laughing. The stupid things we do, as my wife calls them, though she doesn’t know it yet, are going to make it possible for us to live in Provence someday. “Yes. We’re going to do something stupid.”
“Be careful. Don’t get yourself in a jam.”
“All right, my love. Where are you? I can’t see you.”
“Over here, by the door.”
I wipe the fog off the mirror with my hand. My face appears. My whiskers have grown out. And just look at those bags under my eyes. “I look like a raccoon, don’t I?”
Marina laughs. She laughs silently. You notice it only because little regular jets of air come out of her nose. Tchk-tchk-tchk-tchk . . . Like a sprinkler watering the grass. “Do you want to know the word of the day?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Jactitation. When someone performs senseless actions because of a state of anxiety.”
I start to apply shaving cream to my face. Jactitation. “Now who is it that’s performing senseless actions because of a state of anxiety?” I ask her.
“That’s something you ought to be able to figure out for yourself, Rocco.”
“Me? What sort of actions are you talking about?”
“Sooner or later, we ought to address the issue, don’t you think?”
I know. I just want to close my eyes. But then the photo album of horror could come back and see me, pay me a visit behind my eyelids. I open my eyes again. The steam in the bathroom is gone now. All that’s left on the mirror is the outline of a handprint. That must have been mine.
But he didn’t remember drawing a heart there. Rocco leaned his forehead against it. Then he went back to smearing shaving cream on his face.
Sebastiano Cecchetti was at the same table as the night before. When he saw Rocco come into the restaurant, he raised his hand and waved. There was a streak of sweat along his hairline, and a few drops of perspiration right under his nose. And it wasn’t the temperature in the restaurant that was making him perspire. Seba was tense and nervous. You only had to look him in the eye to get that.
“What’s up, Seba?”
“I’m waiting on a phone call. The truck might be coming early. Tomorrow at lunchtime.”
“On a Sunday?”
“On a Sunday.”
“Tomorrow A.S. Roma is playing Udinese. That’s not a game I want to miss.”
“Rocco, it looks to me like you’re going to miss it.” Sebastiano shot a glance at his cell phone. He was making sure he had enough bars. “Have you talked to the uniform?”
“All set. He’s with us. He’s just waiting for me to call him. I’d told him tomorrow night, but there’s no problem.”
Sebastiano rubbed his belly. “My stomach’s tied in knots. I don’t know. I smell something fishy . . . I’m afraid something’s gotten screwed up.”
“Right. So what should we do?”
“I’m not going to have anything except maybe some cheese.”
Rocco shook his head. “I mean tomorrow. Are we going ahead with this?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as I get the phone call.”
“Ciao, Rocco!”
He hadn’t even heard her creep up behind him. She just appeared from around the pillar. Nora munching on a breadstick, languidly leaning against the wall. Her hair in a ponytail, revealing her long neck and the delicate hollow of her throat, adorned with a pearl necklace.
“Ciao, Nora.”
Sebastiano turned to look at the woman.
“You dropped off the face of the earth,” she said. “Have you been busy?”
“Busy as hell. This is my friend Sebastiano. He’s up from Rome.”
Sebastiano stood up and bowed elegantly, planting a kiss on her hand. “Such a pleasure.”
“Are you alone?” Rocco asked her.
Nora pointed to a table where a well-dressed man and woman in their early fifties were sitting and laughing, their gleaming teeth on display, shining even brighter than the glasses and silverware on the table.
“Who are they?” asked Rocco.
Nora chewed on a bit of breadstick. “Friends. Jealous?”
“No,” Rocco replied as Sebastiano swept her with a gaze that ranged from head to foot, as relentless as a scanner at the airport. Nora stood there against the wall in her charcoal gray skirt suit. She felt Sebastiano’s eyes on her, and it seemed to give her a subtle thrill of pleasure.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday. What do you want to do? Should we get together?”
“Look, Nora, this isn’t a good time. If you want, I’ll call you later.”
“Later on is too late.”
“Then let’s talk tomorrow and I’ll tell you what we can do.”
Nora winked at Rocco, flashed Sebastiano a smile, and headed back to her table. Sebastiano kept both eyes on her until she sat down.
“Nice piece of ass. Who is she?”
“A girl.”
“You treat her like shit.”
“You think? I treat her the way we treat each other in bed. Nothing more and nothing less.”
“The two of you look good together.”
“You think so?” Rocco asked.
“I do. You going to see her tonight?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“Take her home, no?”
“The thought never crossed my mind, Seba. I don’t take any women home.”
Sebastiano poured himself a glass of water. “Someday you’re going to have to get over this thing, Rocco.”
Rocco said nothing. He looked at the tablecloth, flicking away imaginary bread crumbs.
“You can’t keep this up. It’s been four years. When are you going to . . .”
Rocco looked up at his friend. “Sebastiano, you know I love you. But stop talking about this one thing, please. Stop giving me advice about things I already know. I can’t take it. Period.”
“Rocco, Marina is—”
“That’s enough, Seba! Would you please stop,” shouted Rocco, his eyes red and glistening, his mouth twisted into a shout that was choked into silence by the despair paralyzing his limbs and constricting his throat, to the point that he practically couldn’t breathe.
Sebastiano patted the hand that was lying on the table. “Sorry, Rocco. Forgive me.”
Rocco blinked a couple of times. He brushed away a tear, sniffed, and then smiled. “It’s nothing, Seba. I love you, man.”
The clouds had moved on, and the birdies were once again tweeting happily. Sebastiano regained his smile and pointed at Nora at the other table. “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”
“Wasn’t the Ukrainian girl enough for you?”
“You’re right. She sucked me inside out.”
They both burst out laughing, and at that exact moment, Sebastiano’s cell phone vibrated. In one fast move, the big man’s paw shot out and grabbed the BlackBerry. He held it to his ear without saying a word. He sat there listening, paying close attention to what the person on the other end of the line was saying. Rocco couldn’t hear; Sebastiano betrayed no emotion. Then the big man lowered his head, accompanying the act with a couple of grunts: “Mmm. Mmmm.” Then he started squeezing a piece of bread into a white ball. More grunts. Finally he said a word with a clear meaning all its own—“Fuck!”—and hung up.
He looked Rocco in the eye. “It’s not for lunchtime tomorrow.”
“That’s a relief.”
“It’s for tonight, Rocco!”
SATURDAY NIGHT
Exactly half an hour after Rocco’s phone call, Italo Pierron appeared on Corso Ivrea, in uniform, pressed and neatly shaved. He slid behind the wheel of the deputy police chief’s Volvo. Rocco pulled out the flasher and placed it on the car’s roof. As Italo was gunning it toward the highway, Rocco made the introductions.
“Seba, meet Italo. Italo, meet Sebastiano.”
“It’s a pleasure,” said Italo. Seba, on the other hand, said nothing. He was looking out the window at the lights of the other cars and the dark, looming
shapes of the mountains.
For half an hour, no one spoke.
Then Sebastiano started up. “All right, then, here’s the plan. The truck is easy to spot. It’s orange, and on the side of the cargo body is painted the name Kooning N.V. Is that clear?”
“Do we know what route it’s going to take?” asked Rocco.
“The truck will leave the highway after coming through the tunnel at about eleven, and then it’ll take State Road 26. It’s scheduled to make a stop at Morgex, but we need to pull it over before there.”
“At Chenoz?” suggested Italo, taking a guess.
“Bravo!” said Sebastiano, in astonishment.
“He’s a native,” Rocco put in. “Once they’ve stopped, we show our badges, we make them open up the truck—and what about you, Seba?”
“You’ll drop me off before Morgex, at Chez Borgne. I have a van there. I’ll catch up with you where you pull the truck over, we’ll load the van, and then we’ll get going.”
“Aren’t we supposed to take them in to police headquarters?” asked Italo.
Rocco replied, “That depends. If they accept our proposal, we’ll let them go after lightening their load. But if they decide to give us a hard time, then yes, we’ll have to take them in to headquarters.”
“And our share?” asked Italo, who seemed to be as comfortable as if he’d been pulling off heists his whole life.
“We’ll take it after we confiscate the drugs,” said Rocco.
A powerful, insistent wind twisted the tops of the trees, which bent over almost double, as if they were trying to retrieve the pinecones they’d just lost. The shredded heaps of snow lining the street were dirty black. Italo was stationed around a curve in the middle of the road with the police traffic paddle in one hand, stamping his feet to ward off the chill. Rocco, on the other hand, was smoking a cigarette, stretched out against the car roof, illuminated intermittently by the blue police flasher. The high clouds went racing overhead and every so often revealed a glimpse of starry night sky. A single streetlamp two hundred yards away colored the snow and the road with a sickly yellow light. The few cars that went by slowed suddenly the instant the driver glimpsed the police officer by the road. But each time, Italo waved them on with the traffic paddle and they vanished into the night. It was 11:30 P.M. It wouldn’t be long now.
Black Run Page 15
