Kill the Father

by Sandrone Dazieri

  “I was born near here,” Colomba said. “And when I come here, I feel at home.”

  “Interesting,” he muttered.

  “Where do you feel at home?”

  “At home. In my apartment, where I can no longer go.”

  “Anywhere else?”

  “The Bar Marani, right near where I live. It has tables outside, protected by steel grates.”

  “I have no more questions.” Colomba looked around.

  “I’m hungry. Should we go back to the hotel? Everything around here is closed.”

  “I know a place,” said Colomba, her face lighting up. She led him to the rolled-down security blind outside a bakery. “Have you ever been here?” she asked.

  “I have bread delivered to my apartment.”

  “Forno la Renella. One of the best bakeries in Rome.”

  “I’m from Cremona. Anyway, it’s closed.”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “A krapfen pastry with marmalade, made without lard. No, make that two. I’ve got the pharmaceutical munchies.”

  “Wait for me here.” Colomba went around the corner and knocked on the half-closed frosted-glass door, from behind which came a wonderful aroma of fresh-baked bread. Through the cracked-open door she glimpsed shelves stacked high with overflowing metal trays. A baker Colomba had never seen before opened the door to her, and she ordered Dante’s two krapfen and a slice of plain focaccia for herself. The man handed them over, piping hot, and she and Dante ate as they walked back to the car.

  Dante burnt his mouth at the first bite. “Ah.”

  “Don’t wolf your food,” Colomba replied with her mouth full.

  “If you haven’t had boiling-hot marmalade slide down your esophagus, you haven’t experienced life. Did you come here when you were a little girl?”

  “Not when I was a little girl. When I worked the night beat.”

  “Cops and whores,” said Dante.

  “And junkies.”

  Dante swallowed the last bite and started on his second krapfen. “So now are you convinced?”

  “That someone kidnapped the Maugeris’ son, yes.”

  “Not someone.”

  Colomba was stuffed. She threw away the last chunk of focaccia, wrapped in the napkin dripping with oil. “If you want me to tell you that I’m positive the Father is behind the identity of Zardoz . . . I’m sorry, but I can’t. The story of the wheat in the movie is a beautiful coincidence but . . . it’s not enough, just like the whistle wasn’t enough.”

  “Go ahead and keep your doubts. Working with a skeptic helps you to keep an open mind.” He threw away the paper bag and washed his hands at a street spigot. “Even if it’s a pain in the ass.”

  Colomba followed suit. The icy water that she splashed on her face wiped the veil of sleep away from her mind for a moment. “That is, if we keep working on this,” she said.

  “What other choice do we have?”

  “Just one: let Rovere take care of it himself. He has a team of investigators. Let him turn them loose to chase down Zardoz, whoever he is. Or let him convince the CIS to get busy.”

  “Do you think they’d believe you?”

  “Rovere needs no more persuading. De Angelis would dismiss everything as a coincidence; he’d request further investigations, additional evidence . . . And in the meantime Zardoz might decide it wasn’t in his best interests to hold onto the boy any longer. And he’d kill him.” Colomba locked arms with him and started walking again. Dante was surprised and delighted by the gesture. “If he hasn’t already made up his mind to do it.”

  “So you want to keep working on it.”

  “The smart thing would be to pull out, but . . .” She shook her head.

  “You can’t do it.”

  “No. I can’t do it.”

  “Because of the burden that you’re carrying with you.”

  “Maybe.”

  He looked at her. “Are you depressed enough to talk to me about it?”

  “Five minutes ago, I might have been. But that focaccia made me feel so much better.”

  “Then I missed my opportunity.”

  They walked in silence for a few more minutes. “I know that I shouldn’t let you be involved in this thing anymore, now that there’s been a murder,” said Colomba.

  “And the most sensible thing for me to do now would be to bow out.” Dante flashed his sarcastic grin. “But I’ve made it a point of honor to live with no regard for common sense.”

  “How much time do you think we have?”

  Dante thought it over for a few more steps. “Every time the Father acts, he increases the likelihood of being caught, especially now that we suspect he’s still in operation. He’s old. He’ll keep the boy to the bitter end.”

  “All the better for us.”

  Dante made a face.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Colomba. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes. But if he, too, thinks that the Maugeris’ son is going to be his last victim . . . He’s not going to wait patiently until we show up to catch him. And I’m afraid of what he might do.”

  10

  The man who called himself Zardoz went back to the apartment building where no one knew what he really did. On the internal handle of the door to his apartment he had stacked a pile of coins in a very specific order. He barely opened the door and reached his hand around to grab the stack of coins before they could fall. He checked to make sure the order was correct, then swung the door all the way open. The system might be simple, but it worked. It wouldn’t have stopped a burglar, but he wasn’t afraid of burglars. He was afraid of intruders and spies.

  Not that he really thought anyone suspected him. Not after all those months spent forging a gray and unexceptional identity. He took off the raincoat and washed his hands. The scalpel that he had used to kill Montanari was at the bottom of the Tiber, snapped in half. He slipped the gloves and the condom into a bottle of bleach. He made himself a cup of tea, then went into his office.

  It was a room ten feet by six, covered with sound-deadening panels, and with lowered wooden roller blinds. At the center stood a small table and a chair, with a computer. No other furniture, except for a chest of drawers. No paintings on the wall, no carpet on the floor. Nothing else. The computer had a microphone and headset and was hooked up to the Internet through an unauthorized connection to a neighbor’s Wi-Fi, by means of a password he’d hacked. He pressed his thumb down on the sensor, and the screen unlocked; then he logged on to the remote server where he kept his data and the program he used for his work. The virus that he’d released into the Web had done its work, deleting all compromising content from Montanari’s virtual hard drive, and was already doing the same with the site where Montanari carried out his commerce. He had in fact infected them both with a lethal program and could pull the trigger whenever he chose; he had pulled that trigger before going out to kill. Montanari’s computer, however, had been taken offline, presumably by the police.

  He thought it over for a few seconds. What could they find out? Certainly not who was behind the name Zardoz or what material he’d purchased. That information was gone for good. In any case, he had eliminated every last trace of Zardoz from the Internet. The identity had ceased to exist and to have a history, while entire sites on the so-called darknet were burned to the ground by his attack. But the fact that Montanari’s computer had been disconnected so quickly meant that the police were already on his trail. The man who had been Zardoz was too cautious to overlook that signal. There were eyes focused in the right direction, and they were growing from mere problems into a genuine danger.

  As dawn brightened the sky, he carefully planned out the next murder.

  11

  When she got back to the suite, Colomba collapsed in a sprawl on the bed, taking off only her police boots. Dante made himself a green-coffee infusion and waited, watching from the balcony as the windows of Rome doused their lights, smoking one cigarette after the other and jotting down
notes. The desk clerk’s call came at six in the morning, when day was already dawning; when he got downstairs, he found Santiago stretched out on one of the little sofas in the lobby, his feet clad in gold sneakers propped up on the glass coffee table.

  Santiago was a young South American with thug tattoos spouting out from under his shirt onto his neck and wrists, the same images that decorated his jacket. There were symbols of the Cuchillos, one of the Latino gangs fighting for control of the streets of Rome, largely unknown to those in the city who weren’t Latinos, with the exception of the police. One arm was wrapped around the waist of a very young girl whose jeans were so tight they, too, looked like tattoos; she wore her hair in dreadlocks: Dante just hoped she wasn’t a minor.

  “Here I am!” shouted Santiago when he saw him. He got up to hug him and kiss him on both cheeks.

  “How are you doing?” asked Dante, sitting across from him on another small sofa.

  “Better and better, like always. You know me, right?” Santiago was a second-generation Roman, born and raised in the city, but he put on a Colombian accent because it gave him an exotic air. He caressed the girl. “This is Luna.”

  Dante sketched a graceful hand-kiss in her direction, and Luna giggled.

  “What’s your room number?” Santiago asked.

  “F,” Dante replied after a slight hesitation.

  Santiago raised an eyebrow. “F?”

  “Hotel suites have letters, not numbers. But I hardly think it’s necessary.”

  Santiago ignored him and caressed Luna again. “You hear that? F. Now go over to the bar.” He pointed to the counter at the far end of the lobby, where a sleepy-looking waiter was waiting for his shift to end. “Have something to drink and put it on my friend’s tab.” Santiago waited for Luna to move off, swinging her hips on her cork wedge pumps; then he turned back to Dante. “Were you afraid I was going to send her up to your room?”

  “I’ll admit that the thought had crossed my mind.”

  “She’s not working right now: she’s with me because she likes me.”

  Dante nodded. “Of course.”

  “What can I do for you, hermano?”

  “A little research on a guy who goes by the name Zardoz on the Web. He buys kiddie stuff.”

  “Is the name all you have?”

  Dante handed him the sheet of paper he’d filled in while he was waiting. “These are the sites he used and the name of a man he’s done business with. I wrote down his email address, too.”

  “And this man?”

  “He’s dead. I also included a list of sites he might have hacked into. See if he did. Be careful; the police are investigating this case.”

  Santiago slipped the piece of paper into his jacket pocket. “The way I operate, they won’t even see the dust I kick up.”

  “Be careful anyway.”

  “It’ll cost you, you know that, right?”

  “How much?”

  “Four grand.”

  “Two. Then we’ll see, depending on what you bring me. How will I pay you?”

  Santiago gave him the number of a Peruvian prepaid card. Dante promised he’d wire him the money that day.

  Santiago nodded. “But first there’s something I want to know, hermano.”

  “Wasn’t the rule always no questions?”

  “If you’re sleeping with a lady cop, the rules don’t apply.”

  Dante sighed. He should have guessed that Santiago would be well informed. “I’m not sleeping with her. We’re staying in the same suite. And she’s on administrative leave.”

  “Yeah, but she’s still a cop, though.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No. You can do whatever you want. You’re my friend, but you’re not one of us.” Dante nodded. “Still, I have to know why you didn’t ask her instead of me.”

  “You said it yourself, that you’re faster.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “And because I don’t trust her channels.”

  Santiago laughed. “Right you are. Never trust cops.”

  “But I trust her, and you might as well know it.”

  “So you’re going to tell her about me?”

  “Yes. But don’t worry, there won’t be any consequences.” Not for you, at least, he added in his mind.

  Santiago stood up, summoning his girlfriend back with a tilt of the head. She set down her umbrella cocktail and hurried over. “I never worry, worrying is for losers,” he said.

  “Lucky you.”

  “I’ll write you soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “I don’t know, hermano. A couple of days.”

  “Santiago . . . I need something fast. Please.”

  Santiago looked hard at Dante’s taut face and nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  After another hug, Santiago left, his arms wrapped around Luna. They looked like a pair of sweethearts.

  Dante dragged himself into his room and fell asleep fully clothed, dead to the world. He slept only three hours because Santiago really had gotten straight to work. He’d sent his first results to the server that Dante used for this kind of thing. Once Dante saw them, he lost any desire to sleep.

  12

  Colomba woke up at two in the afternoon and took a long shower, reviewing in her mind the events of the night before. She thought about Montanari’s murder, Zardoz, and even the long stroll with Dante. She’d felt comfortable in Trastevere by night, comfortable in a way that hadn’t happened to her with another human being in months. She wondered if she wasn’t becoming fond of him. The idea worried her. She wasn’t ready for a relationship with anyone, not since the Disaster. And after all, once this case was finished, she’d probably never see him again.

  She put on the bright white bathrobe with the hotel’s logo and went into the living room, where she found six dirty cups next to the espresso machine. Dante must have been up for quite a while already, and the Hindi music that wafted out of his room told her that he was already at work on something. The Bollywood background music coming from Spotify was his favorite for when he was on the computer, though Colomba couldn’t really tell one song from the next.

  She made a cappuccino and knocked on Dante’s door with the cup in one hand.

  When she opened the door, she was assaulted by the stench of cigarettes. Dante was sitting in the middle of the bed, his laptop balanced on his crossed legs, dressed in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday. The smoke was so thick that she had a hard time seeing. He’d put duct tape over the smoke alarm to keep it from going off. When he saw her, he turned off the music.

  Colomba threw open the French door, though she cautiously left the curtains drawn. “Do you want to suffocate?”

  “You told me that at night I’m supposed to keep the door shut.”

  “It’s not night now.” Colomba analyzed the quantity of cigarette butts in a glass on the table, then looked at his exhausted face and decided rightly that he’d gone all night without sleep, or something close to it. “Don’t you need sleep?”

  “I used to know a guy who never slept,” said Dante.

  “And what became of him?”

  “Someone shot him in the head; now he sleeps all the time.” He smiled, but it was clear to Colomba that he was tense.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

  Dante rummaged in the pack, pulled out the last cigarette, and lit it, in defiance of Colomba’s disapproving look. “I’ve got some information. And it’s useful.”

  “What information?”

  “About Zardoz. I gave everything I knew to an acquaintance and told him to dig around online.”

  Colomba felt the sudden urge to grab Dante, lock him in a trunk, and let him kick and twist. “Who’s this acquaintance of yours?”

  “His name is Santiago Hurtado.”

  “Not the guy from the Cuchillos, surely?”

  Dante nodded yes.

  “Do you have any idea who t
hey are?”

  “CC, that doesn’t matter right now.”

  “Like hell it doesn’t matter. We arrested Hurtado two years ago, with four of his friends, for stabbing a guy. And the only reason he got off is because three witnesses swore that he was snorting coke at a club at the time.”

  “Right.”

  “And now you decide to send him confidential information about a murder and kidnapping investigation?”

  “In his way, he’s a man of his word.”

  “Honor among thieves,” said Colomba sarcastically. “How did you meet him?”

  “Can we skip that part?”

  “No. We can’t.”

  Dante shrugged his shoulders: he didn’t want a fight, and once again Colomba understood that his thoughts were elsewhere. “If you insist. Minutillo was Santiago’s lawyer. I gave him a hand tracking down the witnesses you just mentioned.”

  Colomba seethed with indignation. “Then that means it’s your fault.”

  “Santiago is no longer a Cuchillo in the narrow sense of the word. After what happened, he got out of drug dealing.”

  Colomba folded her arms. “That’s a big consolation . . . No, sorry. I don’t want to interrupt anymore. Go on with your story.”

  “He’s always been something of a geek, and he discovered that he was really good at getting into the computers of people who want to keep others out of them. And now that’s what he sells.”

  “From drug dealer to hacker. Just the fact that we’re using him could send us both to prison, you know that, right?”

  “Luca Maugeri is in the hands of a monster. You do remember that, don’t you?”

  “The Ministry of Justice’s Special Internet Crimes Division . . .” said Colomba without much conviction.

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  “What did he find out about Zardoz?” she asked brusquely.

  “That he’s burning his bridges. All the sites that Montanari used have been burned to the ground.”