“She’s not my wife. And anyway, since when is it a defect to ask questions?”
“No, Italo, it’s a defect not to mind your own fucking business. What’s up?”
“Apparently there have been dozens of phone calls for you. But why don’t you turn on your cell phone?”
“To avoid receiving dozens of phone calls. And I can see that you persist in the error of your ways, failing to do what I just instructed you to do.”
“Namely, to mind my own fucking business?”
“Exactly!”
“Okay, but still, call the judge back. Otherwise, he’s going to ruin my life.”
Rocco let himself drop into his chair. “Are you afraid of being transferred? It’s not so bad. After all, take a look at me: a new police headquarters with lots of interesting people to spend your days with, cheerful folk, likable, extremely stimulating. I’d never have met a D’Intino or, say, Deruta, to say nothing of Casella. Who wouldn’t want to work with people like that? And then there’s this city! Warm, welcoming, lively, full of vim and vigor and sunshine! Let me say it to you with my hand on my heart: I wouldn’t trade it for any other city on earth!”
Italo looked at him for a couple of seconds in silence. “Are you making fun of me?”
The deputy chief didn’t answer.
“You’re wrong, Rocco. Just think how much worse it could have gone.”
“Oh, really?”
“You could have wound up in Sacile del Friuli!”
“Which is where I could suggest Baldi send you! Okay, I’ll call him later, and that’s a promise.”
Italo leaned on the desk. “But aren’t you afraid, Rocco?”
“Of what?”
“The way that guy tried once, he could try again.”
Rocco pulled out a cigarette. He lit it. “No, Italo. Not right away. It’s too hot right now. Later, maybe, when the waters have subsided, he’ll give it another try. But I’m going to catch him before he gets a second chance.” He took a puff and exhaled the smoke in a plume toward the ceiling. “Instead, why don’t you tell me something. How are we going to catalogue this new case in Varallo? This is a tenth degree, because it means I still have to investigate the Mimmo Cuntrera murder, but it’s something more. Because it’s inside a prison.”
“A ten, summa cum laude?”
“We’ve used that before. Let’s try a ten, ne plus ultra, this time. Add it to the chart.”
“I’ll make sure I do. By the way . . . there’s a person waiting for you, out in the hall.”
Rocco rolled his eyes. “Who is it?”
“Giuliana Berguet, remember her?”
“Of course I remember her. What does she want now? Her daughter’s back home, isn’t she? Please, I just don’t have the strength. Tell her I’m not here. Tell her I imploded, that I tumbled into a space-time wormhole, that—”
“Rocco, do you want some advice? Talk to her for a few minutes. It’s worth it.”
“Why?”
Italo smiled slyly. “Judge Baldi really wants you to.” And he left the room without closing the door behind him. Sure enough, just a few seconds later, Giuliana Berguet came through it. Rocco stood up and walked toward her to shake hands with her. “Signora Berguet, I’m delighted to see you!”
The woman’s face was more relaxed than the last time he had seen her; the bags under her eyes were gone now, but a dark light poured from her veiled eyes. She smiled only with her mouth, and she blinked slowly as she did. “Dottor Schiavone, please forgive me . . . I hope you’ll forgive me for intruding upon you in your office.”
“What can I do for you, Signora?”
“You’ve already done so much.” Giuliana Berguet sat down across the desk from him. Rocco sniffed the air quickly. The cigarette had covered the penetrating odor of grass that so often wafted through the air between those walls. “I just came to thank you. You’ve given me back my daughter.”
“How is Francesca?” Rocco asked, taking a seat.
“Chiara,” the woman corrected him.
“Excuse me, of course, Chiara. How is she?”
“I don’t really know . . .” she said, drawing a deep sorrowful breath and emitting a groan, the kind that only a mother thinking of her children’s fate can expel. “She won’t go back to school, she hardly speaks, she eats even less. She doesn’t want any psychological counseling. My husband claims that time is the best medicine.”
“Don’t believe him,” retorted the deputy chief. “All time will do for you is make you get older.”
“There’s a real desire to meet you and thank you in person. But there’s not the level of strength required to leave the house.”
“Excuse me, but are you talking about Chiara or your husband?”
“Chiara. My husband . . .” And here she emitted a second groan. Different, sharper. This one was a wifely groan. “My husband, I’m not sure about. He isn’t the same person anymore, hasn’t been for a few days now. They expelled him from the competition for the bid, and now he spends most of his time out and about, who knows where. He doesn’t go to the office, he seems to have lost all interest in the company’s future.”
Rocco wasn’t much when it came to marriage counseling. He limited himself to nodding, with the expression of someone who understands and empathizes.
“He snaps at the slightest thing,” Giuliana continued. “He seems to have lost his mind. I even tried talking to his brother Marcello about it . . .”
“How is Marcello?”
“He seems to have reacted better. But Pietro . . . I’m really very worried. In any case, I won’t take any more of your time. I just wanted to say hello. By the way, that horrible thing I read about in the newspaper, the murder in your home. How terrible!”
“Right. I’m working on it.”
“Are you thinking this might be part of a vendetta?”
“It most assuredly is, Signora. But not on the part of the people who were trying to extort your husband. It’s something else, and eventually I’ll figure out what.”
Giuliana nodded. The deputy chief assumed that the two of them had nothing else to say to each other, and so he extended his hand to the woman. “Let me thank you again, then, and please give my best regards to your husband and your daughter.” But Giuliana didn’t stand up. She looked at him, her eyes puffy with tears. She barely opened her mouth and in a faint voice said: “Help me.”
Rocco furrowed his brow. He didn’t understand. “How can I help you, Signora Berguet?”
“I’m losing everything. My daughter, the company, my husband. Please. I know that Pietro is seeing another woman. He’s chilly and distant. He’s no longer himself. I’m begging you.”
“Signora, that’s the kind of work that private detectives do, not the state police.”
“Can I hire you?”
“No. I’d say that you can’t.”
Giuliana looked at the floor. “Chiara, her at least. She won’t talk to me anymore. She only told me that she really wished she could thank you, but she doesn’t have the courage to come in to police headquarters. I’m begging you, go see her. Just once.”
“I’ll try . . .”
“No. Trying’s not enough. You need to promise me!”
IT HAD BEEN SERGIO MOZZICARELLI’S SHIFT IN THE INFIRMARY. He’d been sent out to bring a meal to Omar Ben Taleb, the Tunisian who’d been beaten badly a few days earlier by the Professor and his friends. He made his way through the armored doors that the guards opened for him, one by one, without a word of greeting. It wasn’t that they had any bad feelings about him, either way; it was just that they couldn’t remember his name, in spite of the fact that Mozzicarelli had been an inmate of that house of detention for seven long years. Sergio was an invisible man. A face in the crowd, of ordinary height and stature, an undistinguished gaze. He was a fleeting shadow, a breath of wind. In the past, this quality had come in handy when he wanted to hide or avoid arousing suspicion. And even in prison, never being at the center
of attention was, all things considered, a distinct advantage. Being an anonymous character, a mere cameo in the lives of others, had come naturally to him. He was at his ease in that transparent body that no one ever took aim at, of which no one ever asked a favor. But now, he thought, that very same transparency was dragging him into real trouble because it had allowed him to see everything, to know everything. Shadows don’t have consciences, he kept telling himself, but somehow he couldn’t master that anxiety; he couldn’t manage to keep to himself the nugget of information that could pin down a killer, bring him to justice. He got to the last barred gate, the one that gave onto the infirmary ward. Officer Tolotta, tall and imposing, smiled as he opened the door for him. This guard, like all the others, couldn’t remember his name. “Is this for Omar? Let me take a look.” He studied the tray. Next to the bowl of minestrone was a slice of light-colored meat. “What is it?”
“I don’t know . . . beef . . . pork.”
“Pork? Have they lost their minds in the kitchen? He can’t eat pork. Well, anyway . . . you tell him that it’s beef . . .”
Sergio smiled as Federico Tolotta snapped the lock open.
The only patient in the six-bed ward of the infirmary was Omar. Mozzicarelli walked over to him. The young man lay there with his eyes shut. His face was swollen. His lips were split, his nose was bandaged, and he had two black eyes. One hand was wrapped in gauze dressings. In the other arm was a needle and an IV tube.
“Time to eat!” said Sergio. He set the tray down on the nightstand. “Are you strong enough, or do you need me to call a nurse for you?”
Omar barely opened an eye. He looked at the other inmate. “Sergio . . . you’re Sergio, right?” he said.
Sergio was astonished. “Yes, that’s me. Why?”
“Mind your own business, Sergio. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep to yourself the things that you’ve seen . . . and . . .” But he didn’t finish the sentence. He shut his eyes again. Sergio stood, frozen to the spot. How could Omar know? How had he heard about it? he wondered. Then, suddenly, he knew. Sergio had mentioned it to his cell mate Karim, and sure enough Karim had then informed Omar. Everyone knows that prison radio, as they called it, could be as slow as a sloth or as fast as a cheetah. But the idea that two people knew now left a bad taste in his mouth. He went back to the door. Federico was waiting for him to come out so he could relock the door. “Sergio! That’s your name!”
“We’ve known each other for years and you only just now remembered my name? Ah, so you were eavesdropping, weren’t you?”
Tolotta smiled at him. “Did you tell him it’s beef?”
“Federico, that guy can barely even drink water. Send him a nurse to feed him, take it from me.”
Instead, Tolotta slammed the barred door shut with determination. “Have you lost your mind? Do you want to talk to the unions? Go on, Sergio, go on back to your wing. And take care of yourself.”
Sergio stuck a cigarette in his mouth and walked away from the ward.
“And don’t you dare light that thing until you’re outside!” the guard shouted after him.
The inmate lifted a thumb and replied: “Got it. My last name’s Mozzicarelli, by the way.”
“DON’T EVER TELL ME FRIENDS AREN’T ANY USE TO YOU,” said Officer Italo Pierron, tossing a small-format newspaper filled with photographs onto Rocco’s desk.
“What’s all this?”
“Take a look on page twelve.”
Rocco leafed through the newspaper. It was a publication of an Aosta real estate agency. “Page twelve. So?”
“Look right here.” Italo stepped close. “Bedroom, living room, bathroom, kitchen, and office. Top floor in the city center for just six hundred fifty euros a month. Via Croix de Ville! It’s yours!”
The deputy chief lowered the newspaper. “Do you get a kickback?”
Italo turned pale. “Have you lost your mind?”
“So what you’re telling me is that you decided to find me an apartment?”
“Exactly.”
Rocco looked at the newspaper again. “All right. Do me a favor. Hold on . . .” And he pulled out his wallet. He extracted his checkbook from the wallet and signed one check. He detached it and handed it to Italo. “Here. It’s for the rent, the security deposit, or whatever else you need. Oh, Italo, that’s a blank check, do your best not to lose it.”
Italo nodded. “What if you don’t like the place, though?”
“Take Lupa. If she barks, the place is fine. If she won’t go in, forget about it.”
“I don’t really get along with Lupa.”
“Then let Caterina handle it.”
Italo made a face. “Caterina, actually . . .”
“What?”
“We have some problems. In fact, I don’t know if you can give me some advice . . .”
“Oh my God, what a pain in the ass! What is this? Have you all taken me for a marriage counselor?”
“Why?”
“Signora Berguet tells me that her husband is seeing other women, that he has various lovers.”
“Well, is it true?”
“How would I know?”
“Before I forget . . . Judge Baldi wants to know if—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I know. I have to go to Varallo. Call Antonio and Caterina. We need to have a chat.”
Italo snapped to attention and started to leave the office. But the instant he opened the door he froze to the spot. “Rocco . . .”
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t you think it might be dangerous?”
“What? Going into the prison?”
“Right . . . What if the guy who broke into your apartment knows someone who’s in prison?”
“That’s just a risk I’m going to have to take. By the way, have there been any calls from Rome for me?”
“No, nothing.”
“Then I’m going to give you an important assignment. I want you to answer all phone calls that might come in to me from Rome. Specifically, from the Cristoforo Colombo police station, in EUR, from Officer Alfredo De Silvestri.”
“Got it.” And Italo finally left the office.
The deputy chief opened the drawer. He saw the Ruger pistol that Furio had given him the night before. He didn’t even touch it. Instead, he picked up an already rolled joint and put it in his pocket. Then he locked the drawer back up.
Antonio Scipioni, Caterina Rispoli, and Italo entered the room. Lupa barked and ran straight toward the deputy inspector. She seemed to remember that this was the woman who had saved her from the snow. Lupa licked Rispoli’s hands while the policewoman took the puppy in her arms.
“Now listen carefully. Italo has already told you that I’m going to have to be away for a while . . .”
The blank looks on Caterina’s and Antonio’s faces clearly said that Italo hadn’t. “Again?”
“Yeah, it’s just that I have to go to the prison to get things straight concerning Cuntrera’s death. What I want you to do while I’m gone is this: stay in touch with Baldi. He’s taking a look at the papers of some guy called Luca Grange, the one who landed the public works contract that the Berguets thought they were going to get. The thing smells, and nobody thinks it adds up. Italo and Caterina, you need to do whatever Baldi tells you.”
“All right . . .” said Rispoli, with her wrist clamped between Lupa’s jaws. “Do you want me to look after your dog?”
“That would be great. I don’t think I can take her with me.”
Italo made a face. Which escaped the notice of neither Rocco nor Italo’s girlfriend.
“Any particular problem, Italo?”
“I don’t like dogs!”
“What do you care? After all, she’s sleeping at my place, not at your place.”
“With a dog but not with me?”
“Oh, God, you’re relentless!”
“That’s enough!” the deputy chief interrupted them, clapping his hands. “That’s enough, listen to me carefully. Now we’re mo
ving on to the hard part. There’s a man, Walter Cremonesi . . . he’s a former terrorist whom our nation’s correctional system seems unwilling to keep safely separate from the rest of society. Now he owns a vineyard just outside of Aosta, called Vini Primot.”
“Do I need to keep an eye on him?” asked Antonio.
Rocco nodded. “But be careful. He’s a vicious beast. Before tailing him, read up on his record. I’ll just say this: when you were still sucking on your mother’s tit, Cremonesi was already shooting people.” Rocco stood up. “One last thing. Give me the DVDs from the closed-circuit surveillance cameras. I’ll take them with me.”
“I’ll make sure you have them,” said Antonio. “How long are you going to be away?”
“I hope not long. It’s not as if they list Varallo prison as a Club Med vacation spot.”
TATIANA RANG THE BUZZER BY THE FRONT GATE FOR THE third time. She waited for ten seconds or so.
Nothing. Corrado wasn’t answering. Sitting behind the windowpane was the second-story neighbor, a little old lady with an enormous pair of eyeglasses whom Tatiana had never seen out on the streets of Francavilla al Mare. She waved to her to open her window. The woman seemed not to understand.
“Open the window!” she shouted. The woman got up out of her chair, slowly turned the handle, and pulled the window open.
“What is it?”
“Do you know Corrado Pizzuti? The guy who lives on the mezzanine floor?” And she pointed up at the closed windows.
The woman barely smiled. “Yes.”
“Do you know where he is? Have you seen him?”
“No.”
“Could you open the gate for me, please? That way I can cross the courtyard and go over to his staircase and call some other neighbor?”
“No.”
“There she is, the slut!” A high-pitched voice echoed across the courtyard behind Tatiana. She turned around. Another old woman had appeared in the second-story window of the apartment building facing the first, Staircase B. This woman’s hair color verged unexpectedly on pale green. “What are you doing sticking your face out the window, you slut!”
She had it in for the woman on the second floor of Staircase A. “Go back inside, you disgusting slut, you and your cats!”
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