Spring Cleaning

by Antonio Manzini

“Which guard is it? The old one? The young one?”

  “At first, I thought it might be the old guard, Marini. Because whoever killed Cuntrera knew that that point wasn’t being covered by the security cameras, and Marini knows this prison like the back of his hand. Then I stopped and thought it over. You see? A longtime inmate, Mozzicarelli, knows something. He wanted to talk to me, and I went and had a conversation with him in the cafeteria. And as soon as he saw me, he changed his mind. He was terrified, he was wetting his pants. He did everything he could to shout right in my face that he knew nothing about the case, and he did it in the dining hall. In front of everyone. To make sure he was heard. Right then, the guards in the dining hall were Biranson, Abela, and Tolotta . . . On the day of Cuntrera’s murder Biranson wasn’t on duty. So who’s left? Those two guards killed Cuntrera. Abela committed the actual murder, Tolotta was his accomplice for the keys.”

  “And why do you think they did it?”

  “There has to have been a mastermind, someone who ordered the murder. First, because Abela has only recently started working at the prison. Second, because Cuntrera didn’t know anyone in the prison and had only even been there for three days. What I have to find out is who paid them, where they got the urethane, which certainly isn’t the kind of thing that could have been found in a prison infirmary. Who benefits from this murder?”

  Costa smiled. “My dear Schiavone, thank you. It’s a pleasure to have you back in our midst.”

  “I never left. Now I’m just going to have to ask you to maintain the utmost confidence.”

  “What the fuck, Schiavone!” Costa shouted. “I’m a police chief, not a goddamned gossiping concierge!”

  “Excuse me, sir, you’re right.”

  As quickly as he’d flared up, the police chief calmed back down. “So do you have an idea?”

  “A vague one, a very, very vague one. But most likely it has something to do with the public works contract and what happened with the Berguets. That’s where we’re going to have to do our digging.”

  Costa made a face. “Maybe you’d better drop that lead.”

  “Why, Dottore?”

  “Well, while you were away, some things have happened that . . . Well, anyway, you’d better forget about it.”

  “Are you referring to the presence of the ROS in the prosecutor’s office and the Carabinieri who are keeping Cremonesi and company under surveillance?”

  Costa looked him in the eye. “How on earth do you know these things?”

  “I keep my eyes open, I ask around, I observe, I catch whiffs, I look at details . . .”

  “. . . and you bust balls,” added the police chief in a mocking singsong. “Just drop the case of the hospital-construction contract. We have people working on that, trust me.”

  “I’ll try. But I have the feeling that I’m going to wind up wallowing in it up to my ears.”

  “No, just keep your ears clean, and you’ll be happier, believe me. So you aren’t taking the apartment on Via Cerise after all?”

  “No, I found a fantastic place on Via Croix de Ville.”

  “Nice! In the middle of town!”

  “And far from the courts building.”

  IT HADN’T REQUIRED A VERY LONG TREATMENT. GUAN HAD folded the minute he set eyes on the scissors that Brizio had pointed right under his left eye. The name of the second armed robber in Cinecittà had popped right out of his mouth. “Paoletto Buglioni,” he’d said. They’d released him from the chair and then they’d stepped out onto the street.

  “What do we do now?” asked Brizio as he looked out at the city under a sudden driving downpour. Sebastiano said nothing. The only sound was the scraping of the windshield wipers and an odor of stale smoke in the car.

  “Shall we go see him tonight?”

  “What time does he get off work at the discotheque?”

  “Five in the morning.”

  “Let’s go get something to eat.”

  “I’m going to text Rocco.” And Brizio reached for his cell phone.

  “No!” shouted Sebastiano. “This is my job. Not Rocco’s. Leave him out of it.”

  “But Seba . . . he said . . .”

  “This is the way it’s going,” the big man shouted. “I have to find whoever shot Adele. We only need to tell Rocco about it when it’s all said and done. You feel like a bowl of pasta cacio e pepe?”

  “Sure, I guess. Where? Roma Sparita?”

  “Why, is there anyplace else knows how to make it?”

  “WHAT ARE ALL THESE PAPERS ON MY DESK?” SCHIAVONE shouted as soon as he stepped into the office. Deputy Inspector Caterina Rispoli hurried in from the hallway. “Welcome back . . .”

  “What a mess . . . And where’s Lupa?”

  “Lupa is at my cousin’s house. She has a garden, so Lupa’s happy there. These papers are from Deruta and D’Intino. They wouldn’t tell me what they’re about, apparently they’re only allowed to report to you.”

  “Of course not, the last thing they would do is tell you about it . . . but what is it?” He took the first sheet of paper off the top of the pile. It was a list of the guests in the city’s hotels for the ninth and tenth of May. A lightbulb lit up in the folds of his memory. The two policemen, loyal and conscientious, were tracking down all the hotel guests in Aosta and surrounding areas during the two nights of the murder in the apartment on Rue Piave, the killing of Adele.

  “But that’s a huge job!” Caterina said.

  “It certainly is. But just think how many days we’ve had them out from underfoot, right?”

  Caterina smiled. “Is this work good for anything, though?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Rocco, tossing the sheets of paper back on his desktop. “All right, now. Why don’t you update me on the latest developments while we go over to the Berguets’.”

  “To the Berguets’? To do what?”

  “I have to keep a promise. And if she sees a woman there, too, Chiara might just relax and put her trust in us. Come on! The quicker we get there the sooner we can leave.”

  IT HAD BEEN TWO DAYS NOW. SPENDING HER TIME BEHIND THE counter serving coffee and pastries just made her feel as if she were wasting her time. She hadn’t given up, though, and since Sunday she hadn’t stopped calling Corrado’s cell phone. But the answer never varied: “The customer you’re trying to reach isn’t accepting calls at this time.” That morning, Tatiana had also gone back to Via Treviso, in hopes that she could speak to another neighbor, but aside from the two Iezzi sisters, who just kept bickering and trading insults, she hadn’t found anyone else. Corrado’s shutters were still shut tight. Then she’d taken the CPA De Lullo’s old bicycle and she’d ridden up and down every street in Francavilla in search of Corrado’s Fiat Multipla.

  Nothing.

  “But do you at least remember the license plate number?” Barbara the bookseller asked her as she sipped the last tea of the day. Since the day Pizzuti had disappeared, there had been a new light in Barbara’s eyes. She seemed almost happy to be able to plunge into that mystery worthy of her favorite novels.

  “No . . . Wait!” And she ran over to the cash register and flipped through a notebook tucked away underneath it. She found an auto insurance bill and two receipts for premiums paid. “Here we go!” the Russian cried, beaming with satisfaction. She read them.

  “Let’s take this to the constables. To Ciro and Luca. If the car has been abandoned somewhere, then they’d have a record of it, right?” said Barbara.

  “Good idea!” said Tatiana. Then, like a short sharp punch to the solar plexus, she was struck by a sudden gust of fear. What if they had found the car? Abandoned who knows where? What would that have meant? That Corrado . . . She shook her head to drive away those horrible thoughts. She rushed to the telephone to call the office of the municipal constables. But even before she could dial the number, the constables’ Fiat Punto pulled up in front of the café and parked. Ciro and Luca got out, beaming. They walked in and said hello to Tatiana. “Buonase
ra, lovely ladies!”

  “Buonasera!” the two women replied.

  “So, what’s new?” Ciro asked. “Any news about Corrado?”

  Tatiana shook her head.

  “Could you make us two nice shots of Sambuca?”

  Tatiana went behind the counter. “I was just about to call you . . .”

  “Why, did you change your mind? Have you decided to go out to dinner with me?” Luca unfurled the most dazzling smile in his repertory.

  “We thought it might be best,” Barbara now weighed in authoritatively, well aware that she enjoyed the two officers’ full and unalloyed respect, “if we gave you his license plate number, seeing that the car has vanished, too.”

  “Excellent idea, right, Ciro?”

  “Excellent idea.” And the two constables stepped close to the bar to take their glasses of Sambuca. Ciro drained his in a single gulp. Luca nursed his, taking tiny sips. “Let’s issue this criminal complaint, then. Tatiana, will you come into the office to fill out the forms?”

  “I’ll come!” said Barbara, who was starting to be fed up with the constable’s insolence. But he just smiled and took another small sip of the liqueur.

  “Worst case, you could go on that missing-persons program on TV, right? What’s it called again . . .”

  “So you think this is something to crack a joke about?” Tatiana snapped. “Huh? This is serious business!” And the town constable blushed. “Corrado is missing! And so is his car. And he’s not answering his cell phone. And he wasn’t alone at home. Corrado has been in trouble in the past, serious trouble, and he’s even been in prison. That’s why you shouldn’t be laughing, you should be taking this seriously, seeing that you’re wearing a uniform!”

  “Calm down, Tatiana,” the bookseller broke in. “Luca was just kidding around. Right, Luca?”

  “That’s right . . .”

  “Do us this favor, go to the office, and issue this report.”

  “Happy to do it!” Ciro reiterated. “We love you, Tatià, and we feel the same about that loser Corrado. Now, let Luca finish his Sambuca, then we’ll head over to the office and take care of everything . . .”

  Luca drained off his glass and then reached for his wallet to settle up.

  “No, Luca, it’s on the house,” Tatiana said, calmer now and sorry for the outburst she’d just unleashed. “And excuse me. I’m just a little bit on edge.”

  Luca took the insurance receipt and with his partner walked out of the bar.

  Tatiana crossed her arms and leaned against the espresso machine. In silence, Barbara finished her tea. Only then did she realize that the Russian woman was weeping. “Tatiana!” And she ran around behind the counter. “No, Tatiana, no.”

  Instead of calming her down, the bookseller’s embrace had the opposite effect. Tatiana released the brakes and subsided into a river of tears. Her knees gave way beneath her and she fell to the floor. She hung there, supported by her friend’s arms, like a rag tossed by the wind.

  “My friend . . . you’ll see, we’ll find him. You’ll see.”

  “No, Barbara, no,” she replied through her sobs. “I know it. I can feel it. Corrado is dead. He’s dead!”

  CHIARA AND ROCCO WERE SITTING ON THE BED. CATERINA was sitting in a swivel chair at the girl’s desk, which was covered with photographs and CDs. At the door, Giuliana was looking at her daughter with such intensity that seemed to be trying to transmit nothing but positive thoughts and a lust for life to her. But Chiara instead was distracted by the landscape outside the window. Pale and serious, she had her knees pulled up to her chest, her chin resting atop them. Night had fallen, and the only light illuminating the bedroom was the lamp on the nightstand, shaped like a hot-air balloon.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Chiara started clutching at her knees with an obsessive rhythm.

  “No, Signora, grazie,” Rocco replied. But Giuliana wouldn’t leave.

  “A cup of tea?” the woman asked the deputy inspector.

  “Grazie, Signora, nothing, really.”

  “Mamma, they don’t want anything, please!” Chiara said in a faint voice. Giuliana lowered her head and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Jesus, what a pain in the ass!” Chiara blurted.

  Rocco looked at Caterina. Then at the girl again. “You’re a bit of a wreck . . .”

  Chiara didn’t answer. She kept looking out the window.

  “It’s normal for your mother to worry, you know that, right?”

  “She just keeps hassling me! It’s all she knows how to do.”

  “That’s her job,” said Rocco.

  Chiara smiled. “Right.”

  There was a book in French on the bed. A book of fairy tales. Rocco picked it up. “Are you reading this?”

  “French homework. It’s a fairy tale by Anatole France . . .”

  Rocco picked it up. “Abeille . . . what does that mean?”

  “‘Bee’ . . . ‘little bee’ . . . It’s a fairy tale, like I told you. But I don’t know why, I can’t seem to concentrate. I read a line and then . . .”

  “And then?”

  “And then my mind starts to wander. I’m back in that garage in the midst of all that snow.”

  Rocco set the book down. “A girl all alone in the woods, a captive of the evil ogre, and then Prince Charming comes along and saves her.”

  Finally Chiara looked at the deputy chief. “And are you supposed to be Prince Charming?”

  “In the fairy tale, sure. In reality, not so much. I’m just a policeman.”

  “Right, and in fact, I imagine Prince Charming a little different from you.”

  “I know. He looks a little more like Max Turrini, right?”

  Chiara bit her lip. “Right. Max keeps coming over. But I don’t know. Tell me the truth, Dottor Schiavone. They raped me, didn’t they?”

  Caterina tried to catch her boss’s eye, but instead, he just answered without paying the slightest attention to her. “Yes, Chiara. They did.”

  Chiara sniffed loudly, then wiped away a tear. “Thanks. You’re the only person who tells me the truth.”

  “In many cases, that’s a benefit. Other times, it’s best to say nothing. But I think it’s best if you know what really happened. Anyway, the two sons of bitches are dead.”

  “They are. But what about the person who sent them?”

  “So is he. Murdered in prison.”

  “Good, I’m not ashamed to say that I’m happy to hear it.”

  “Do you know what I’d do if I were you?”

  “No.”

  “I wouldn’t go back to school this year. I’d take a sabbatical. And I’d travel. I’d go out and see the world. London, Paris, Amsterdam . . . just between you and me, they have marijuana in Amsterdam that’s unbelievable. Have you ever tried the Grand Mix?”

  Chiara smiled. “To hear this from a policeman . . .”

  “Look.” Rocco stuck his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a big joint, ready rolled. Caterina’s eyes bugged out. So did Chiara’s. Rocco lit it. He took a long drag.

  “Ahhh . . . I feel better already.” And he handed the joint to Chiara, who sat there, on her bed, both arms wrapped around her knees. The girl looked over at the deputy inspector as if asking permission. Caterina, frozen in place on the leather swivel chair, didn’t move a muscle. Slowly, the girl reached out her hand, took the joint, lifted it to her mouth, and inhaled. She shut her eyes. Then she slowly exhaled. “Nice,” she said.

  “It is, isn’t it? This comes from Amsterdam, just to give you an idea.”

  Chiara finally burst out laughing. “I can’t believe it. A deputy chief of police handing me a joint.”

  “Right? This is reality, too. That is, a Prince Charming who does drugs really doesn’t strike me as believable.”

  Chiara took another drag and shyly passed it to Caterina, who shook her head.

  “Caterì, just a drag never killed anyone.”

  “But I don’
t . . . I haven’t since I was in high school . . .”

  “Exactly.”

  Caterina took the joint. She eyed it. “It certainly smells good,” she said. Rocco gave her a wink. The deputy inspector raised the joint to her mouth, holding it between thumb and forefinger, as if she were afraid of getting her fingers dirty. She rounded her lips into an O, and then took a long drag. She swallowed the smoke. She didn’t cough. “Thanks,” she said, turning red. Then she handed it back to Rocco.

  “So a sabbatical year, is that what you’re suggesting?” Chiara asked.

  “Why not? You’re doing fine at school, I know that you have excellent grades. You can afford it. Put off university for a year. What’s so bad about that? Think about Max, he’s twenty-one years old, and even this year he’s not going to be graduating.”

  “Yeah, if his parents don’t grease his teachers adequately, he’ll be graduating from high school with his children.”

  All three of them laughed. Rocco passed the joint back around to Chiara, and this time she took a drag without much hesitation. “I realize that this is something I can tell you.” She stood up. She grabbed the crutch that leaned against the nightstand, hobbled over to the armoire, and opened it.

  When she got back to the bed, she was carrying a ream of paper.

  “Have you written a book?” Rocco asked her, frightened now.

  “No, don’t worry. These are photocopies that Max made.” She sat down with her legs crossed, the paper in her lap. “These are things he found in his father’s office. Because for some time now, he’s thought things aren’t really adding up.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “His parents . . . he hates them. He hates that bitch of a mother and that whoremonger of a father. The Turrinis are nasty people. And they hang out with nasty people.”

  “I know that from personal experience,” Rocco said.

  “They have some strange frequentations. Max xeroxed the documents that his father had in his safe, and he brought them to me because he doesn’t understand a word of it.”

  “And what did you understand?”

  “Not much. But . . .” And she started leafing through. “There’s one thing that’s pretty clear. His father owns a dozen or so companies, half of them in Switzerland. And it’s not clear what they’re for. Moreover”—and she handed a sheet of paper to Rocco—“you see this document? It’s a contract with a building company . . . the one that screwed Papà out of the project.”