The old man stared at her in astonishment. “I don’t understand,” he stammered.
Colomba dragged Dante toward the door. “You should have just brought him outside first thing.”
“But why? He’s not my father.”
“So who is?”
They’d reached the door, but clearly the fat man could move fast when he needed to, because he was there on the threshold, monumentally blocking the way. He aimed one of his canes at Colomba’s face. “Madame, you’re quite rude!” he roared. “I wasn’t done talking to you!”
Colomba got ready to knock him to the ground with a shoulder butt, but Dante, guessing her intentions, reached his bad hand out to restrain her. “He is,” he said, pointing at the man filling the door. “But I see you two have already met.”
15
Dante’s birth father was named Annibale Valle, he was seventy years old, and he had emphysema and a bum heart. He got into his pickup, and Dante and Colomba followed him in Santiago’s car, keeping an eye peeled in case anyone was following them. Apparently no one was; traffic was light, and they would have noticed.
During the drive, Colomba tried to recover from her shock. She hadn’t expected Valle to look like his son, but she hadn’t expected an ogre three times Dante’s size either. The only thing they had in common was the color of their eyes and the conviction that they knew more than anyone else about everything.
Valle took them through Cremona until they reached a small single-family house in the Boschetto quarter, on a street with twenty other identical houses that could be told apart only by the color of their garage doors. The small enclosed garden boasted magnificent cyclamen bushes and numerous garden gnomes. Colomba pulled the car into the garage and covered it with a tarp. Valle parked behind them.
Valle asked the two of them to give him a couple of minutes to talk to the lady of the house; then they were welcomed by a woman in her sixties with dyed hair, bedecked with bracelets and dainty necklaces. She ushered them into a living room that was furnished like a Swiss chalet in a TV commercial. Over the fireplace with a gas log was an oil painting of her, a few years younger, standing next to a man dressed as a hunter. Wanda immediately hugged Dante, who had prudently stayed close to the window, concealing his discomfort at being in that strange place. He sensed it was a friendly place, though, and that had made it possible for him to enter; still, his thermometer was rising.
“Here he is, Annibale’s son,” said the woman in an accent and dialect so thick that Colomba barely understood a thing. “Let me take a look at you.”
“Pleased to meet you, signora,” Dante replied, embarrassed and stiff.
“You don’t have to be formal with me. You can’t imagine how I’ve been longing to meet you.” Then she caressed his face, which Dante accepted, tilting his head to one side like a cat being petted. It occurred to Colomba that Dante hadn’t had a lot of petting in his lifetime.
“Signora . . .” Colomba began.
The woman turned to look at her. Her eyeshadow was the same light blue as her pendant earrings. “Call me Wanda.”
“Wanda, did Signor Valle explain the situation to you?”
“Yes. That I can’t tell anyone that you’re here.”
“We’ll try to be out of here as quick as we can,” Colomba went on. “But you ought to be aware that, if they find us, you’ll be in serious trouble for having helped us.”
“But you haven’t done anything, have you?” asked Wanda.
“No. We haven’t done anything wrong. But that doesn’t change the way things stand. You’ll be the accomplice of a woman on the run, facing a murder charge.”
A forced smile appeared on Wanda’s face. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“No. I just wanted you to know the risks you’re facing.”
Wanda turned to look at Valle, who was slumped in an armchair with a glass of whisky in his hand. “Annibale vouches for you.”
“Only for my son!” he muttered. “I’ve never met the policewoman. But for the moment it seems impossible to separate them.”
Wanda sighed. “Then I’ll just have to take them both.”
“Thank you, Wanda,” said Colomba, sincerely appreciative. In the not-too-distant past, she’d have merely considered the woman a criminal for sheltering fugitives from the law.
“I’ll show you where the bathroom is, so you can get freshened up if you like.”
Colomba was the first in, and she stayed in the shower until her fingertips were thoroughly pruned up, with a shower cap on her head to protect her newly dyed hair. Wanda had given her fresh underwear and a T-shirt that fit her nicely, and when she walked out of the bathroom she felt almost human.
She found Dante in the living room with his father, with a discontented look on his face. It didn’t take a sleuthing genius to deduce that the two of them had fought; maybe that was why Wanda had retreated to the kitchen.
“Did you leave me any hot water?” asked Dante.
“Sure, go right ahead.”
He slipped away, moving as if every corner of the house might conceal some unwelcome surprise. Colomba and Valle sat staring at each other in silence for several seconds.
“Are you the one who put those things into his head?” Valle asked suddenly, from the armchair he was sprawled out in.
“What things?”
“That he needs to hunt down the one who kidnapped him. That he needs to turn into a vigilante.”
Colomba pulled up a chair, placed it across from Valle’s armchair, and sat down with the back rest in front. “He doesn’t need to turn into a vigilante; I’m just asking him to help me keep children from being harmed. As for which of us talked the other one into this, I don’t even know anymore. It was a team effort.”
“If Dante just reported you to the police, all his problems would go away,” said Valle.
“Have you tried to talk him into doing that?”
“What do you think?”
“I think that Dante might not have any more problems with the police if he did listen to you. But that only takes care of his problems with the police.”
“And who else would he have problems with?”
Colomba narrowed her eyes, which now glittered cobalt green. “You know exactly who.”
Valle took a gulp of whisky. “Are you two sleeping together?”
Colomba felt herself blushing, and her irritation sharpened. “It wouldn’t be any of your business if we were.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“So that’s a you can mind your own business.”
“He’s my son. This is my business.”
“He’s old enough to take care of himself.”
“Really?” Valle snorted. “I bet you’re the only person on Earth who thinks that. And what you’re doing is only going to make his condition worse. That is, if he doesn’t wind up going to prison with you.”
Colomba studied the man, but the expression on his fat face was inscrutable. He looked like a large mangy cat or a ragtag Buddha. “Do you truly not care that whoever tortured your son is still out there, at large, and free?”
“Even if that were true . . .”
“It is true,” said Colomba tersely.
“I don’t think that hunting for him is the best thing for my son. Maybe he should just try to forget and go far away. And you could go with him.”
“From the way you’re saying it, it sounds more like a suggestion than a theory.”
Valle drained his glass and poured himself more liquor from a bottle he picked up off a glass side table. “I’m a rich man, Signora Caselli. The money I was paid by the Italian state—what I didn’t give to my son, anyway—I invested very well, when that was still possible, and I’ve been lucky. I’m willing to offer you everything I have, except for a small sum I’ll need to live on for the few years still left to me. Buy yourselves tickets for wherever you want to go, buy yourselves a fucking island for all I care. You’re a policewoman, you can surely figure out a way
to leave the country.”
“Is that what you want for your son? To spend the rest of his life on the run?”
Valle drained the second glass as well. He poured himself a third. “I wept over his death for a long, long time. I don’t want to do it again.”
“Right now there are other parents weeping over children they think are dead.”
“They’re not my children. They don’t matter to me.”
“I’m guessing you made the same proposal to him. What did he say to you?”
“He told me to go hang myself. And you know what I said to him? That I’d do it if I thought it would give him a happy life.”
“And I’d suggest the same thing. Only I doubt there’s a rope thick enough to hold you.”
Unexpectedly, Valle burst into laughter that soon turned into a racking cough. “Think it over,” he said as soon as he’d recovered, mopping his face with a handkerchief. “By the time they arrest you, it’ll be too late for you to accept.”
Wanda emerged from the kitchen. “Annibale told me that Dante doesn’t eat meat. But you do, don’t you, Colomba?”
Colomba stood up. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to stay. We have to see a person, and the sooner we do it the better. Do you have Internet access or a city map? I just need to get my bearings.”
“I have a map, anyway,” Wanda replied. “I’ll go get it for you.”
Just then Dante emerged from the bathroom. He was barefoot, and he was wearing a clean T-shirt with the logo of a local hunting club; it hung on him like a circus tent.
“Get dressed, we have to go,” said Colomba.
“So I imagined.” He looked at his father, who sat motionless with his chin on his chest. “We need your pickup truck,” he told him.
“Well, what if I refuse to give it to you? Would you take the keys from me by force?”
“Papà . . .”
Valle tossed him the keys, then turned to Wanda. “Give him your cell phone.”
“I couldn’t possibly . . .” Dante replied.
“Oh, yes, you could. Wanda never uses it, and I’ve certainly never called her on that phone. If they’re tapping it, it means the cops have suddenly turned into geniuses. And I don’t believe that’s happened.”
Colomba nodded, and Dante put the cell phone into his pocket.
“This thing’s going to end badly, Dante,” Valle said again.
“The question is, badly for whom?” said Colomba.
16
De Angelis had subjected Santiago to the regulation first interview the night of his arrest and then grilled him again the following evening. The suspect had refused to answer all questions, and the magistrate had had a hard time maintaining control of his temper. Now, as he returned to his office in the district attorney’s office, he threw a full-blown tantrum for a good solid five minutes, until Santini knocked at the door and walked in, accompanied by a man De Angelis had never met.
“Here he is, the genius,” De Angelis said sarcastically. “Any news?”
“None, Judge,” Santini replied.
“If you’d conducted the operation the way you should’ve, we wouldn’t be here playing hide-and-seek right now.” Then he suddenly seemed to remember the man who had entered with Santini and who was waiting patiently. He was in his early sixties, with a thick reddish mustache speckled with gray and hair the same color. The judge held out his hand. “De Angelis.”
“Maurizio Curcio,” said the other man.
“I’m sorry, I thought you’d already met,” Santini broke in. “Maurizio Curcio is the new chief of the Mobile Squad. He was the chief of the marshals service, in Reggio Calabria.”
“Congratulations on your promotion,” said De Angelis. “Though it certainly came about in unfortunate circumstances.”
Curcio sat down. He was a calm man who chose his words carefully. “That’s why I’ve ventured to bother you, to ask for some updates on the investigation now under way.”
De Angelis looked at Santini; then he cleared his throat.
“Torre made an ATM withdrawal two hours after Caselli’s flight from the building in Via del Redentore, in the Tor Bella Monaca quarter, where we believe that both she and Torre were being harbored by the ex-convict Santiago Hurtado,” said Santini. “We believe the cash withdrawal was used to finance their illegal flight from the law.”
“Hurtado is a member of some sort of South American gang, if I’m not mistaken?” asked Curcio.
“Yes,” Santini replied. “He used to belong to the Cuchillos, but now he’s gone out on his own.”
“And just why would this person help Caselli? It’s hard to imagine they have any shared interests.”
“That we can’t say,” De Angelis said brusquely, cutting off that line of inquiry. “But maybe Caselli can tell us that when we catch her.”
“Her relationship with Torre is a mystery, too. At least according to what I’ve read.”
Santini and De Angelis exchanged a glance. “As far as we know, Caselli has involved Torre in some kind of unauthorized investigation of the kidnapping of Luca Maugeri.”
“Is the boy’s father still under arrest?” Curcio asked.
“Yes,” De Angelis replied. “Because we think he’s the guilty party.”
“But Caselli doesn’t agree.”
“Frankly, it’s hard to figure out what Caselli thinks.”
Curcio stroked his mustache; a gesture that for some reason grated on De Angelis’s nerves.
“Unless there’s something else . . .” said the judge. “I’ve had a grueling day, and it’s time for dinner.”
“I was just wondering why you’re so sure that Deputy Captain Caselli is guilty.”
“Have you forgotten about the traces of explosive in her apartment?” De Angelis asked.
“I haven’t forgotten and I don’t have any explanation, but I remain puzzled. She was a good cop until the bombing in Paris. Did she suddenly turn into a terrorist?”
De Angelis slid back in his chair and stared at him hard, eyes narrowed. “Have you read the psychiatric report on her hospital stay?”
Curcio nodded. “Yes. PTSD, pretty normal after what happened to her.”
“Did you know that she stopped her psychotherapy sessions after she was released from the hospital?”
“That happens.”
“A person in her condition, with no medical attention . . . Who can say what goes on inside her head?” De Angelis tapped his temple.
“I had two encounters with her after her stay in the hospital,” said Santini. “The first time she attacked me verbally for trivial reasons. The second time she hit me, without the slightest provocation. I filed a report on the incident.”
“In my opinion,” De Angelis continued, “she should have been dismissed from the service, not just given extended leave. I’m sorry to say this, but Rovere is partly responsible for what’s happened. He was protecting her.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Curcio, but De Angelis understood that he meant the exact opposite. “And how does the man who tried to kill Caselli fit into the picture? Ferrari.”
De Angelis arched an eyebrow. “That he tried to kill her is what she told a colleague over the phone. We don’t know what actually happened.”
“It’s hard to imagine that it was Caselli who lured Ferrari to the hospital so she could kill him by injecting him with poison.”
“According to the forensic squad, it wasn’t ordinary poison,” explained Santini, “but rather a mix of pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride. Substances that cause immediate paralysis and cardiac arrest. And that are very easy to get your hands on in a hospital.”
“And just how do you think Caselli was planning to dispose of the corpse?” asked Curcio in an exaggeratedly courteous tone. “Or do you think that going on the run was part of her plan?”
De Angelis concealed his annoyance by fiddling with his cuff links. “We still don’t have all the answers,” he said. “But she might have been forc
ed to act in order to keep Ferrari from reporting what he knew to the police.”
“We believe that Ferrari was her accomplice in the bombing,” Santini broke in. “Ferrari had no prior convictions, but no one seems to know how he made his living. Especially given that he had no visible means of support, no job, and his parents were dirt poor. We are therefore looking for any connections he might have had in the criminal underworld.”
“Did you know about Ferrari’s links to Bellomo?” Curcio asked.
De Angelis and Santini both stared at him.
“There’s a report from the carabinieri dated October 1998,” Curcio went on. “From what we know, Bellomo seems to have used a car registered under Ferrari’s ownership to make his escape. Ferrari was questioned, but he stated that the car had been stolen, and all charges were subsequently dismissed.”
“Did you happen to know anything about that?” De Angelis asked Santini, glaring daggers at him.
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Santini replied.
“I’ve only just received the report from the cousins,” said Curcio with an apologetic smile. “I haven’t had time to pass it on to the Central Investigative Service. Certainly, it might just be a coincidence, but there’s a good chance that Bellomo and Ferrari were in contact.”
“For what purpose?” De Angelis asked.
“I don’t know,” Curcio candidly admitted. “It’s as if this whole case has too many pieces that don’t fit together. It doesn’t add up to me.”
De Angelis gave him a hard look. “I don’t like having to remind you, but it doesn’t have to add up to you. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”
“Why of course, Judge, your honor,” Curcio replied, standing up and shaking De Angelis’s hand. “Thanks for the time you’ve taken.”
Curcio turned to shake Santini’s hand and then left.
“This one’s going to turn out to be a pain in the ass, I can just tell,” De Angelis told Santini. “He’s going to be a royal pain in the ass.”
“He’s just trying to prove he’s the first in the class. Do you have any instructions for me?”
De Angelis nodded. “Let’s investigate Torre’s friends and relatives, too. If Colomba’s with him, he might be helping her to hide. Nut jobs tend to get along.”
Kill the Father Page 37
