“Thursday night.”
“Anything odd?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. The usual conversation. I wanted to take her with me to do Pilates.”
Rocco drank his coffee. It tasted like dishwater. He left the cup half-full and set it down in the saucer. “Let’s get to the point. What wasn’t right about Esther’s life?”
Adalgisa smiled, stretching her mouth at both sides in a sort of grimace. “Aside from the fact that she was dissatisfied with her life and her marriage? That she didn’t want to have children, but Patrizio was insisting on it? Nothing; everything was fine.”
“Things with her husband weren’t going well?”
“Things with her husband weren’t going at all. Patrizio is an asshole.”
There we go, thought Rocco.
“Why?” he asked.
“Jealous, possessive, he made her quit her job. Then, you want to know the thing that just made me stop speaking to him entirely? He made up his mind that I was a bad influence on her.”
“In what way?”
“I’m no longer married. Let’s just say that I lead my life the way I like.”
“And what does that mean?”
“When I couldn’t stand living with my husband anymore, I asked for a divorce and we each went our own way. Now I live as I please, free to spend time with anyone I like. My leisure belongs to me and, believe me, it’s a beautiful sensation. And I’ve even been able to get a couple of cats, something I couldn’t do with that pain-in-the-neck of a husband of mine. I love animals, books, and movies. I don’t care about cars, soccer, or the newest-model cell phones.”
“So Patrizio was convinced that you were trying to break up Esther’s marriage?”
“You could put it that way. And if I had succeeded, then you and I wouldn’t be here talking today, would we?”
“No. Maybe we’d be in the bookshop talking about books.”
Adalgisa bit into a sugar cube. “Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“And do you love your wife?”
“More than I love myself.”
The woman popped the other half of the sugar cube into her mouth. “I envy you.”
“Believe me, you shouldn’t.”
“Why not? You love your wife, you’re happy with her, no?”
Rocco smiled, nodded quickly a few times. Then he shot a look around the store, as if making sure nobody could overhear him. But then he said nothing. In the creases around Rocco’s eyes, or in his gaze, or even in his somber smile, Adalgisa glimpsed a black and bottomless well of sorrow. Her heart began to race and she decided to ask the deputy police chief no more questions. Silently she took his hand. “How did Esther die? Tell me the truth.”
“Hanged, like the newspaper says.”
“It was bound to happen, sooner or later.”
A single tear ran quickly down Adalgisa’s face. She didn’t wipe it away. She let it run until it vanished over the line of her jaw.
“My poor sweet friend . . .”
“She didn’t kill herself. Someone else took care of that for her.”
Adalgisa’s eyes opened wide. “What? Someone killed her?”
“Right.”
The woman stood there, openmouthed. “I don’t understand . . . by hanging her?”
“Someone staged it to cover up the murder.”
“But who could have . . .”
“That’s what I have to find out.”
“No . . .” The word slipped out of Adalgisa’s lips like a hiss. “No, no, no. Not like this. It’s too horrible.” And she covered her eyes with both hands.
Rocco said nothing and waited for Adalgisa to run out of tears. The barista who had brought the two espressos to their table gave the policeman a disapproving look. Rocco felt like shouting out that he was completely innocent. It wasn’t his fault that she was crying. But the old man shook his head and stared at him coldly. Finally the deputy police chief waved his hand, with a gesture that suggested the old man could go to hell and mind his own business. At last, the woman got a grip on herself. She wiped her eyes one last time: they’d become two glistening black spheres. “Oh Lord, I probably look like a raccoon . . .” she said, with forced cheerfulness.
“A little bit,” said Rocco. “What if I need to get in touch with you again?”
“Eh?” asked the woman, emerging from her thoughts.
“I said, if I need to get in touch with you again?”
“You can always find me in the bookshop. I’m always there, from opening time to closing. In the mornings, though, I get there at eleven. I have to go to the hospital.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“No. My mother. Her hip is in pretty bad shape. I keep her company.”
“Good luck,” said Rocco. Then he picked up the check, read the total, and left a five-euro bill on the table. “Adalgisa, you aren’t hiding anything from me, are you?”
“How on earth could I?” she replied, sniffing. “You’re no fool, Dottor Schiavone, I can see that, and people find things out in this city. And I could never hide anything from you, believe me.”
But Rocco continued looking down at her, without saying a word.
“Dottor Schiavone, do I seem to you like someone who hides things? In less than five minutes I’ve told you details of my life that are so personal not even my mother knows them.”
“What does that have to do with anything? She’s your mother. I’m just a stranger. It’s much easier to open up to strangers, didn’t you know that?”
HE WAS WALKING CLOSE TO THE BUILDINGS IN THE center of town, like a stray cat doing its best to shelter from the rain that had begun falling again. There were no taxis in sight; he’d have to walk all the way to police headquarters.
The Sinhalese standing under the portico appeared like a heaven-sent angel.
“How much?”
“Five euro one umbrella, seven euro two umbrellas.”
“What am I supposed to do with two umbrellas?” Rocco paid and picked the least flashy one, red with black polka dots. He opened it and continued on his way to the office. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
“Hey, Farinelli? Schiavone.”
“Ah, you’re exactly who I wanted to talk to. Listen . . .” The assistant chief of the forensic squad was speaking in a strange voice, usually a sign that he was about to give the deputy police chief an angry dressing-down. “You guys left quite a mess here in the Baudos’ apartment.”
“I know, I know, but I need to ask you something urgent.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Can you send Fumagalli all the belts and neckties you find in the Baudo residence?”
“Mind if I ask why?”
Now this, thought Rocco. “Because I have to examine them. Likely murder weapons.”
Farinelli laughed wholeheartedly. It was the first time Schiavone had ever heard him laugh. “I don’t see the joke, Farine’!”
“So you’re saying the murderer left the murder weapon in the apartment?”
“And you’re saying I shouldn’t even try?”
The laughter audibly caught in the throat of the deputy chief of the forensic squad. “No, certainly not, you’re perfectly right.”
“Do it fast. The medical examiner is expecting them. And you know what a temper he has.”
“Him? The best thing for him to do would be take early retirement, take it from me. Now, listen carefully . . .”
“Tra . . . falgar . . . pea soup . . . grab bag in springtime?” asked Rocco.
“What?”
“No . . . tell . . . doesn’t . . . anymore! Hello? Hell?” and he snapped his phone shut. With a smile he started walking faster.
THE DROPS OF RAIN WERE SMEARING LIKE TEARS across the window glass. If nothing else, they were bound to melt all the snow piled up on sidewalks and roofs. As he watched the rain pelt the asphalt, raising tiny jets of water, the phone on his desk rang, startling him.
>
“Who is it?”
“Dottore? This is De Silvestri.”
De Silvestri. The old cop from the police station on the Via Cristoforo Colombo in the EUR district of Rome. The man he could always count on, the one who did things before he was told to, a crucial piece of the life he’d once had, a piece whose loss he felt keenly. “De Silvestri? It’s good to hear your voice!”
“How are things going up there in Aosta?”
Rocco looked around his office, looked at the rain on the window glass. “Any other questions?”
“Dottore, I’d never have bothered you if it wasn’t for something very important. Unfortunately, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Your retirement?” asked Rocco with a smile. From the other end of the line came De Silvestri’s companionable, booming belly laugh, reverberating as if in a grotto. “No, Dotto’, I’ve still got to wait for that. A few more years. But it’s clear to me by now, I’ll start taking my pension the day they put me into a casket.”
“Now, don’t say that.”
“But there’s something else I need to tell you. Your replacement here, Mario Busdon, is from Rovigo.”
“I’m happy to hear it.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t understand a thing. He doesn’t know how things work down here. There’s a problem that needs to be taken care of.”
Rocco sat down. De Silvestri’s voice had suddenly turned serious. “Do you want to talk about it over the phone?”
“No. That’s not a good idea. Tomorrow is Sunday. I’m taking my son to the stadium. Juve’s playing Lazio.”
“Why would you take him to see a bloodbath? You’re just cruel, De Silvestri.”
“Not necessarily, Dottore.”
“Necessarily, necessarily, take it from me . . . you’ll get three referee’s whistles and be heading back to Formello with your tails between your legs.”
“Like the three penalty whistles you all got yesterday in Milan?”
“Don’t start getting snappy, De Silvestri. Even if I’m up in Aosta, I’m still your superior officer. So anyway, you’re going to Turin and . . . ?”
“And I’ll make a side trip. You want to meet halfway?”
“Fine. You have any suggestion about where?”
“We’re flying up. Do you know Ciriè?”
“Who the fuck is Ciriè?”
“Not who, where. It’s a small town near Turin. Let’s meet there. I’ll drive down with a rental car from the airport.”
“You want to tell me why Ciriè of all places?”
“Because I’m going to pay a visit on a close personal relation, and round-trip from the airport is just twenty kilometers. I wouldn’t even have to refill the tank on the rental car.”
“Do you have a place in mind?”
“Certainly. There’s a bar on Via Rossetti. We’ll see you there.”
“At what time?”
“Let’s say noon. I’ll wait for you inside.”
“De Silvestri, I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me the name of the close personal relation you’re going to visit in this small town outside of Turin.”
“Why would you want to know that, Dottore?”
“I just do. A lover?”
De Silvestri laughed once again, boisterously. “Sure, my eighty-four-year-old lover. It’s my aunt, the sister of my mother, God rest her soul. The only living relative that remains to me.”
“You’re a man with a heart the size of a bull’s.”
“No, Dottor Schiavone, very simply my aunt just got remarried and she wants to introduce me to her new husband.”
“She remarried at eighty-four?”
“Her husband is ninety-two.”
Rocco thought it over. “Find out what it is they eat in Ciriè. It strikes me they’ve found the right diet for longevity.”
“You can be sure of it. See you tomorrow.”
“Till tomorrow.”
WHAT COULD THIS PROBLEM BE? SOMETHING TO DO with old cases in Rome, maybe a friend of his was in trouble? But in that case it wouldn’t be De Silvestri getting in touch with him. He would have received a phone call from Seba or Furio. Something to do with him? But he hadn’t left any outstanding matters behind. He’d settled all his debts and collected anything that was owed him, and if there was something wrong with his bank account he’d have gotten a call from Daniele, his lawyer and accountant, certainly not from De Silvestri. He’d have to wait until noon tomorrow to find out the truth. The afternoon light was dying and with it the lights in Schiavone’s office. He wanted to go home and turn up the heat, dropping by a rosticceria to get some dish of unappetizing prepared food or other, and then take a bath and watch a little television.
He’d completely forgotten about Italo Pierron; they hadn’t talked since two that afternoon, when he sent him off to tail Hilmi, Irina’s Egyptian son.
He was thinking about that as he walked out of the pizzeria where he’d just bought six euros’ worth of rancid mozzarella pizza. The rain had stopped, giving the city a bit of respite, but the sidewalks were a filthy morass of water and mud. He almost plowed straight into a woman walking in his direction.
“Excuse me . . .”
“Dottor Schiavone!”
It was Adalgisa. She looked good in jeans and boots, bundled up in a Moncler down coat that stretched all the way down to her knees. The bookseller glanced at the packet with the slice of pizza. Rocco turned it awkwardly over in his hands, and for some reason he felt an urge to hide that evidence of his solitude.
“I was just heading home,” the woman said. “But don’t think for a minute that my dinner’s going to be any better than what you’re holding in your hand. I imagine . . . there’s no news, right?”
“You imagine right. How are you, Adalgisa?”
“I miss her. I can’t even bring myself to erase her name from the contacts on my cell phone,” said Adalgisa. “I’d have called her today. It’s our book club tonight. Did you know? We have reading nights at the bookshop. At first Esther never missed a session; with her notebook, she’d jot things down, ask questions, argue points. Then she stopped coming. Patrizio wouldn’t let her. He was certain that there was someone in the book club who was more interested in his wife than in Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Why Edgar Allan Poe?”
“We like him. Don’t you?”
“Well now, tell me. Was there someone more interested in Esther than in literature?”
“Sure. A seventy-two-year-old CPA who’s recovering from a recent stroke and Federico, a thirty-five-year-old tango dancer, who’s been living with Raul for seven years.”
“Then we’re done with the book club.”
Adalgisa walked forward a couple of steps, her eyes on the ground. “That’s right. Done with the book club. Esther wanted to write. That was her dream. To tell the truth, it was both of ours, ever since high school. She’d start a short story, but she’d always quit halfway through. Her creative drive was manic-depressive. That is, either she was inspired or she was depressed. There wasn’t room for both at the same time.”
“What about you, Adalgisa? Do you write?”
“Yes, since I started living alone. They may publish a novel of mine.”
“Autobiographical?”
“I’m not that interesting. No, it’s a detective novel. I like detective novels. Maybe, I was just thinking, if I give you my novel you might be able to give me some advice. You must have seen plenty of things in your line of work, no?”
Adalgisa smiled. Only with her mouth, though. Her eyes remained sad, veiled, as if a highlighter had run over them, leaving a patina of gray.
“Yes. I’ve seen plenty of things.”
“My book is about a perfect crime.”
“There’s no such thing as a perfect crime. You know why? Because it was committed in the first place. And that’s enough. If anything, there are some very lucky criminals.”
Adalgisa nodded. “Do you read much?”
“I’d like to. I don’t have time. Sometimes at night. The one who used to read was my wife,” Rocco said.
“I don’t like that past tense.”
“Neither do I, believe me.”
“You, sir, are a man full of regrets. How do you live with them?”
“Uncomfortably. Don’t you have any regrets of your own?”
The woman did nothing but shrug, then pointed to a building entrance. “This is my place. Can I call you by your first name?”
“Sure. I started calling you Adalgisa already without even asking.”
“Now you know where I live. You’ve been in town six months already. I hope you’ll consider me a friend.”
Rocco looked at the building. It was a two-story building, very nice. “How do you know that I’ve been here for six months?”
Adalgisa smiled again and started walking toward her front entrance, escorted by the deputy police chief. “Because I read the papers. I followed that whole case up at Champoluc, in February. I told you that I like detective novels and true crime, no? You were very good. Maybe someday you’ll tell me how you wound up here, in Aosta.”
“A special reward vacation.”
They laughed together. Once again, Adalgisa laughed with her mouth. Never with her eyes.
“Seeing that you know so much about me, you must know where I live too.”
“No. That’s your private life. All I know are things about your public life. Life on the street. The things I’ve read in the papers. I told you, I read a lot. And I keep my eyes open.”
“So do you have a book club or a hairdresser?”
“All aspiring writers, in the final analysis, are tremendous gossips.”
“We have another word for people like that in Rome.”
“Busybodies?”
Rocco smiled. “There was nothing you could have done for Esther. Don’t feel guilty. And above all, don’t feel tortured by remorse.”
“It’s much more complicated than that, Rocco.”
“Then why don’t you tell me how it is?”
“It’s not worth it. It’s a long and complicated story. Maybe someday, when we’re better friends . . .” Then she pulled out her house keys. “See you soon, Rocco Schiavone.”
“I hope I’ll have better news for you.”
“Find out who did it. Please.”
Adam's Rib Page 11
