Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo had raped seven girls, and one of them even killed herself, until the day his path crossed Rocco Schiavone’s. Schiavone had beaten him practically to death. And because of that ruthless and feral act of vengeance, the deputy police chief had been sentenced to a grim penalty: immediate transfer. In fact, considering how powerful the rapist’s father was, he’d gotten off easy, amazingly easy. More than once, as he was waiting to learn the verdict of the internal investigation, he’d imagined the sound of a cell door slamming in a high-security prison. Instead, he’d just been sent to work in Aosta. All things considered, he’d been lucky.
“What can I do, De Silvestri?”
“I don’t know. We need to give your replacement, Busdon, a bit of a push, but most of all we need to stop that bastard. If you’d only seen the state he left that poor girl’s face in.”
Rocco stood up from the table. He took a quick stroll around the café, watched by De Silvestri and the proprietor, who glanced at him blankly and then went back to reading his copy of Tutto Sport. Then the policeman sat down again. “I’ll have to come to Rome. Would you write down the names of the two girls who were raped for me?”
“Certainly, hard to forget them. The one from the garden is Marta De Cesaris—he’d already raped her once, you ought to remember.”
“Of course I remember. And now he’s raped her again. What, did he think he hadn’t finished the job? What about the other one? The one who identified him?”
The old policeman looked down at the table. “Her name is Paola De Silvestri.”
“De Silvestri? Like you?”
“She’s my niece.”
AS ROCCO DROVE, HE FELT AN INTENSE THIRST FOR blood. He felt angry, frustrated, and helpless. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears like a bass drum.
Thump thump thump.
A muffled and continuous bass drum that not even the volume of the stereo was enough to drown out. Outside the windshield and beyond the strip of asphalt, he glimpsed in the reflections off the windshield the face of Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo, as he recalled it on the last day he’d seen him at the DA’s office. Those protruding teeth, the thin untidy stands of hair on the sides of his cranium, the stupid, lifeless bovine eyes, the cadaverous white hands, and the freckles sprayed across his face like a helpless spurt of diarrhea. He hadn’t even had time to go home and rest up from the injuries the deputy police chief had inflicted on him, and the psychopath was already back at work.
He had to get back to Rome. He had to stop that mental defective, the son of the powerful undersecretary; Rocco remembered one of the few meetings he’d had with the father, when he’d recommended pharmaceuticals for his son and, if that treatment failed, proceeding directly to chemical castration. But the almighty Francesco Borghetti Ansaldo had obviously ignored his advice. He had defended his son and insisted on the innocence of that slow-witted thirty-year-old who spent his days at his PlayStation and his nights between the thighs of screaming helpless minors. He picked up his cell phone, switched it on, punched in the PIN, and inserted his earpiece. He dialed Seba’s phone number—one of his longtime friends, someone he knew he could always count on.
“Seba, it’s Rocco.”
“I know, you old swine, my eyes are still good enough to read the display on my phone. What’s new?”
“Are you in Rome right now?”
“I’m sitting on the can in my apartment right now. Do you want me to tell you exactly what I’m doing?”
“That’s not necessary, thanks. So tell me, what about Furio and Brizio? Are they there too?”
“You’re asking if they’re in my bathroom with me?”
“You idiot, I’m asking if they’re in Rome.”
“I think so. Now, are you going to tell me what’s up? You have some nice little project to offer me?”
“There’s a sour note in Rome,” he said. Seba said nothing. He remained silent and listened. “And it’s irritating, it’s a sound we have to silence.”
“Is it something that’s looking to hurt you?”
“No. But it concerns me, however indirectly.”
“I see. You coming down?”
“I think so. I don’t know when, but I’ll be coming.”
“We’ll be waiting for you. All I need is a couple of hours’ advance notice.”
“Grazie, Seba.”
“Don’t mention it, brother. What’s new up in Aosta?”
“It’s raining.”
“Same thing in Rome, if that’s of any help.”
“It’s no help at all.”
“Just one last thing, before I let you go. I want to be clear on one thing. Are we going to need the little girls?”
Seba was talking about firearms.
“Yes. Without license plates, if you can do that,” Rocco replied.
“Got it. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Me either. Give my best to the others. And a kiss to Adele.”
“We’re not together anymore,” said Seba.
“Ah, no? Since when?”
“Since that slut started going to bed with Robi Gusberti.”
“Er Cravatta? The shylock?”
“That’s right. Crazy shit, don’t you think, eh?”
“Crazy shit. But how old is the guy?”
“Er Cravatta? Seventy.”
“You let a seventy-year-old man take your woman away from you?”
“According to Brizio, Adele saw him as a father figure.”
“But Adele never even knew her father.”
“Exactly, no? Brizio also says that its called transference. That is, she’s projecting the father figure she never had on Er Cravatta and so she’s fallen in love with him.”
“Since when has Brizio become a psychologist?”
“Got me. These are all things that Stella’s been telling him, and she’s always reading magazines like Focus.”
“You believe this thing about the father figure?”
“Rocco, all I know is that I caught them in bed together in my apartment, in the same bed my mother used to sleep in, God rest her soul!”
“You can see that Adele was interested in a threesome.”
“How a threesome?”
“What I’m saying is that she was trying to arrange a transference with both the father figure and the mother figure!”
“Oh go fuck yourself, Rocco.”
“And you take care of yourself, Seba. See you soon. And you just wait, Adele will come back to you soon.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because they used to call Robi Gusberti ‘Pic Indolor,’ the no-hurt needle. And believe me, it wasn’t because he gave kids painless injections.”
Seba burst out laughing. “It’s true. Pic Indolor . . .”
“So you’ll see, she’ll come back to you and she’ll beg your forgiveness.”
“And I won’t forgive her.”
“You will forgive her, and I’ll tell you why. Without Adele you’re nothing but a grouchy old grizzly bear, and you know you’ll wind up in deep trouble. In fact, from now on why don’t you try to be less of an asshole. Aside from all the bullshit about Brizio and the transferences, the truth is that Adele is making you pay; she’s letting you know what life would be like without her. You must have pissed her off again, as usual, and she’s settling accounts with you. A woman who seriously means to break up with a man doesn’t start things up with Er Cravatta of all people, much less in your own apartment, where she could be certain you’d walk in on them. If Adele seriously wanted to break up with you, she’d do it with someone handsome and smart who looks half his actual age.”
“Someone like you?”
“Exactly, someone like me.”
The two friends laughed together.
“Are you sure that’s how it is, Rocco?”
“I’m sure that’s how it is. In fact, if you want, we can put two hundred euros on it. Two hundred euros says in three days, you’ll be telling Adele hello fro
m me. Are we on?”
“Two hundred euros? You’ve got a bet! If I lose, I’d be more than happy to pay!”
“And I’ll be happy to take it. Have a good day.”
As soon as he hung up, the alerts for six voice messages rang out like a burst of machine-gun fire.
“What the fuck . . . ?”
All six voice messages were from the same number. The main switchboard at police headquarters.
“What the fuck just happened?” he said aloud, and then his cell phone rang. Another call, from headquarters.
“Who is this? What’s wrong?”
“Rocco, this is Italo.”
“And?”
“Hilmi . . . he’s disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“He hasn’t been seen since he left home yesterday.”
“I’m there. I’m coming. Let’s meet at the apartment, at Irina’s place.”
THIS TIME THE WOMAN HAD COMPANY: AHMED, Hilmi’s father, the fruit vendor. Ahmed kept twisting at his mustache and his reddened, anxious eyes darted around the room, as if in search of something he’d lost.
“Let me get this straight. Hilmi went out yesterday and never came home?” asked Rocco.
“That’s not exactly right,” Ahmed replied. “He came home, but we weren’t here when he did.”
“How do you know that?”
“He took some of his things and then left again.”
“He took backpack and clothing,” added Irina. “And his wooden box. Not there now. That’s gone too.”
“His wooden box?”
“Yes. I think he kept his money in it,” said his father.
“Did Hilmi have identification papers of any kind?”
“Certainly. Passport, why?”
“And is it here?”
Ahmed looked at Irina. Suddenly he rushed to the little piece of furniture by the front door. He pulled opened the top drawer. He pulled out his passport, and then Irina’s. But there was no sign of Hilmi’s. He went on rummaging through the door, muttering something under his breath in Arabic, then with both hands still in the drawer, he looked disconsolately at the policemen. “It’s not here. This is where we keep them.”
Rocco looked at Italo. “What do you think?”
“Me? I think it’s simple. A train to Switzerland, and from there a nice fast airplane. Where to? Who can say?”
Rocco nodded. “We need to put out an international alert. What a pain in the ass!”
“But what has he done? Why would he run away?” asked Ahmed, stepping closer to the deputy police chief.
“Burglary, and assault on a police officer.”
“Burglary? Where did he steal?” asked Irina.
“At the Baudos’, Signora. The morning of the murder.”
Irina and Ahmed exchanged a glance. The father put both hands up to his face and burst into tears. “No . . . no . . . Hilmi no . . .” Irina wrapped her arms around him. The fruit vendor let his head drop onto the woman’s breast, like an overwrought child. And he sobbed brokenhearted, wailing so loud that he drowned out the noise from the street, car horns and all. Irina rocked him soothingly, her eyes wet. She looked at the two policemen. There were dozens of questions in her eyes, but she didn’t ask even one. The two officers of the law couldn’t have given a straight yes-or-no answer to any of her questions, and Irina knew it.
“. . . at his mother’s . . .” Ahmed murmured, once his tears were no longer shaking his body.
“At his mother’s?” Rocco asked. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m saying that he went back to his mother’s house. In Egypt. In Alexandria.”
“How many years could he get?” asked Irina, displaying a surprisingly pragmatic point of view.
“I don’t know. At least a couple, for burglary, and assault and battery.”
“But there’s murder, no?” asked Irina. Ahmed was staring Rocco right in the eyes.
“That I don’t know. It’s why we wanted to take him in for questioning.”
“My son a killer? My son a killer . . .” Ahmed broke away from Irina’s embrace and slowly, head down, without another word, trudged into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.
“What can be done?” Irina asked at that point.
“Put out an international alert and warrant for his arrest, an all-points bulletin for airports and train stations. That’ll bring Interpol in on this, Signora. And that’s outside my jurisdiction.”
“And if they find him?”
“And if they find him, as we say in Rome, so’ cazzi amari—it’s bitter dicks all around.”
HE’D WASTED AN HOUR ON THE PHONE, FIRST FRUITLESSLY trying to track down the chief of police, who was up on the slopes at Courmayeur skiing, and then talking to Judge Baldi. Baldi, as was to be expected, had turned over Hilmi’s case to a colleague. Only an earthquake could get the man out of his apartment on a Sunday.
He needed to meet with Patrizio Baudo, but he wasn’t at his mother’s house in Charvensod. His mother had suggested Rocco try at Sant’Orso, the late Gothic church, one of Aosta’s main tourist attractions.
It was the first time Rocco Schiavone had ever set foot in the place. He stopped, lost in a reverie as he gazed at the lovely church nave. It was intensely cold in there, and his breath tinged the air. He heard a creaking sound and at last he glimpsed Patrizio Baudo. The man was on his knees, eyes shut, forehead resting on his begloved hands, which were clasped in prayer. Rocco sat down five pews behind him, determined to wait and not to ruin that intimate, transcendent moment. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, admiring the forest of columns that were intertwined high above. Then he looked at the triple-arched Baroque chancel screen that separated the nave and the choir. But it was clear that the stone partition had been added in some more recent period. It had nothing in common with the late Gothic style of the rest of the church.
While he was engaged in those idle thoughts, he heard a rustle behind his back. He turned around. A priest had appeared. The priest smiled at him. Rocco smiled back. The prelate sat down next to him.
“You’re the deputy police chief, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Do you know me?”
“From the newspapers.” He had a goatee, and his hair was close cut. His eyes were clear and untroubled. “You’re here to talk to Patrizio, aren’t you?” He jutted his chin toward the man absorbed in prayer five pews away.
“Yes, but I didn’t want to bother him. I’m actually only looking for a piece of information.”
“Perhaps I can give it to you.”
“No. You can’t,” said Rocco. And he gave the priest a level stare.
“We’re going to hold Esther’s funeral service here. Are you in charge of the investigation?”
“You could say that.”
“Is there any news?”
“No. There isn’t.”
The priest gave him a half smile. “You’re a vault.”
“Considering that it’s the priest who’ll hold the funeral service saying it, I’m not sure I should take that as a compliment.”
Just then Patrizio Baudo stood up. He crossed himself and stepped out of the pew. As soon as he saw Rocco talking to the priest, he scowled. He slowly walked over to them.
“Buongiorno, Signor Baudo,” said Rocco without getting to his feet. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Buongiorno, Commissario.”
“It’s deputy police chief, actually. They eliminated the title of commissario a few years ago, Patrizio,” said the priest. Patrizio nodded.
“That’s true. Ah, by the way, Patrizio, best wishes for yesterday. It was your name day, wasn’t it? St. Patrick’s Day? San Patrizio?”
“Yes . . . grazie, Dottore.”
“I just wanted to show you something.” Rocco pulled out a photograph of the peacock-shaped brooch. “Do you recognize it?”
Patrizio’s eyes opened wide. “Of course I do. That’s my mother’s brooch, and I gave it to
Esther.” He handed it over to the priest, who was clearly dying of curiosity.
“Where did you find it?”
“A fence had it!”
“Find out who brought it to him right away!” Patrizio Baudo shouted, and his voice echoed off the vaults overhead.
“We already know who it was,” Rocco replied in an exaggeratedly low voice, hoping to restore peace and quiet to the house of the Lord.
“Then that’s who murdered Esther. That’s got to be the one!” Patrizio was having difficulty controlling himself.
The priest looked at him. “Calm down, Patrizio!”
“What do you mean, calm down? You caught him. Who is it? Who is it? I want to know.”
“Please, calm down, Signor Baudo. I was only interested in the brooch.”
“I can’t believe it. This is the evidence that nails him. I demand to know who it is.”
“We’ll tell you, Signor Baudo, don’t worry about that. Right now we’re in the midst of the investigation, and I’m sorry but that’s strictly confidential information.”
“My wife’s murder is strictly confidential information too, but everyone in town is talking about it.”
“Now that’s enough, Patrizio!” the priest broke in. “I’m sure that Dottor Schiavone is doing his best to catch the murderer.”
At the sound of the pastoral voice, Patrizio seemed to calm down a little. His breathing was labored and he kept looking down at his hands, encased in brown leather gloves. “I’m sorry, Dottor Schiavone. I’m sorry . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Rocco. “It’s over. I’m in the middle of an investigation, Signor Baudo, and it’s an investigation that involves you. Please, now, stop insisting and stay out of it. If you have no objections, I’ll get back to my job.”
“I haven’t been able to sleep since Friday. And if I do get to sleep, I always have the same dream.” Patrizio sat down in the pew. “Two men break into my home, two burglars, my wife sees them, they kill her, and then they string her up like a side of beef. From the lamp hook.” He put both hands over his eyes. “Is that what happened?”
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