Spring Cleaning

by Antonio Manzini

A convulsive cough shook the CPA. Barbara ran to the kitchen, but by the time she got back with a glass of water, the tempest had subsided. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” he said, wiping his lips with a handkerchief. “I never did like that Corrado. But Tatiana did.”

  The bookseller lowered her eyes.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” he continued. “No, I didn’t like him one bit, but he was important. Because I don’t have long to live. And knowing that Tatiana wouldn’t be left all alone was a source of happiness to me. In other words, when your times comes and you have the luxury to tidy things up, you want to leave things behind you in some sort of order, no?”

  “Please, let’s not talk about this sort of thing, if you don’t mind.”

  De Lullo laughed quietly, keeping his mouth shut. “What else would you expect from an accountant? It’s a depressing subject, but why not talk about it? That’s life.” He looked around the apartment. “I’m leaving her this apartment. Now that the papers are ready, she can receive a small pension. But the thing that keeps me awake at night is this. Can she find anyone to take my place?”

  Barbara didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to answer that question.

  “I mean it. For me, Corrado was a sort of insurance policy on Tatiana’s happiness. She deserves it, you know? She hasn’t had an easy life. All she’s done since she was a little girl is work. All she did was study and work. She brought home money and good grades.” De Lullo looked at his own face reflected in the empty cathode tube. “She deserved something more than an old, dried-out husk. You know something, Barbara? I’m so rotten that they don’t even want my spare parts.”

  “Should I make something for you to eat?”

  “No, I’ll just heat up a 4 Salti in Padella dinner. I have a box of gnocchi alla sorrentina.”

  In the other room, Tatiana had heard every word. Along with the tears she was shedding for Corrado’s death, more tears ran down her face for the CPA. Then the two streams of tears joined together until they dried each other up. She got to her feet. She adjusted her blouse, pulled up the waist of her jeans, put on her slippers, and went into the kitchen to make dinner. If there was one thing her husband hated, it was 4 Salti in Padella.

  ANOTHER SEVEN HOURS ON THE ROAD, FROM ABRUZZO BACK to Aosta, chased the whole way by the night, a healthy carrier of blinding headlights, and sudden surges of sleepiness. Lupa, covered with sand, was sleeping in the back seat. Rocco received five long and intricate phone calls, and he blessed the memory of whatever mysterious engineer had invented Bluetooth, allowing him to speak directly to his car radio and hear the voice from the other end of the line right through his stereo speakers, instead of drilling through his ear out of the earbud. The first, extremely lengthy phone call with the chief of police lasted from the Teramo exit to the Ancona South exit. Costa was bitterly bemoaning the fact that Schiavone hadn’t been able to attend the press conference for the arrests. “The result of the concerted efforts of law enforcement, working together, Schiavone, including you!” Then there were the three phone calls with Baldi. The first lasted from Senigallia to Rimini North, with the judge thanking him for those documents and for the stunning revelation concerning Carlo Cutrì. “Don’t worry,” he had told him. “I won’t mention your name. You won’t be in any news articles tomorrow morning!” The second call lasted from Imola to Modena, and during it Rocco had had to explain to him every detail of what had happened in the prison, in the exercise courtyard, and the matter of the keys to Wing 3, four separate times. The third phone call with Baldi lasted the whole distance from Reggio Emilia to Milan South. In that phone call, the judge made it clear that the problem of arresting Cuntrera’s murderers needed to be solved, and quickly. Now that the masterminds had been put behind bars for other crimes, the operation had to be carried out before the subjects could take fright and flee. Finally, at Pont-Saint-Martin, ravaged by the many miles driven in a single day, at 1:30 in the morning, as his eyelids drooped and his eyes grew puffy with sleepiness, there was the fifth phone call, this time with Anna, a call made up of silences, sniffing and blowing of her nose, lines like “I don’t even know why I called you.” After an initial aggressive onslaught that verged on the hysterical, it had slowly morphed into a confession. Anna was unhappy, she felt a void, both physical and existential, she was afraid that she’d lived her whole life the wrong way around, she no longer felt so much as a crumb of self-esteem. Finally, once Rocco had managed to direct the conversation onto the dead track of the final good-bye, Anna had unleashed a new and ferociously aggressive diatribe that had ended with the words “Go fuck yourself, Rocco!” minced through clenched teeth, and then a sudden end to the call. By the time Rocco parked his Volvo outside the Vieux Aosta hotel at 2:15 a.m., he knew two things: he needed to go to sleep, and he was never going to look at another woman as long as he lived.

  Thursday

  HANDS OVER THE CITY

  Yesterday the officers of the DIA, or Anti-Mafia Investigation Directorate, under the command of Colonel Gabriele Tosti and the forces of the ROS, or Special Operations Group, carried out a roundup, arresting the members of a Mafia-connected profiteering ring that had taken control of numerous local public works contracts and had operated in the shadows, using as fronts a series of Italian-Swiss shell companies. A startling number of prominent local names were involved: Luca Grange and his brother-in-law Daniele Barba, chairman and managing director of Architettura Futura respectively; Dr. Berardo Turrini, head physician at the Aosta hospital, and his wife, Laura, former director of the Vallée Savings Bank; Walter Cremonesi, now a vintner, but also a former terrorist with ties to the Milanese underworld; and last of all, Carlo Cutrì, ostensibly Dr. Turrini’s stable boy but actually a member of the Calabrian ’ndrina of the Mileto clan, tied to the kidnapping of Chiara Berguet, daughter of the well-known local businessman and builder Pietro Berguet, a kidnapping that in not even two weeks was resolved successfully due to the efforts of the officers at Aosta police headquarters. At the center of the investigation is the assignment of public works contracts for construction on the hospital and the regional medical clinics. Architettura Futura had won those contracts, scooping them out from under the nose of Pietro Berguet’s Edil.ber.

  It’s a fine, memorable day for our city, but this cancer that had metastasized in the good and honest part of our society and which has been extracted by the painstaking and heroic work of Judge Baldi of the Aosta prosecutor’s office ought to be a warning to the . . .

  Rocco turned the page. He ought to have gone to sleep, to catch up on the hours of backlog; instead, by six in the morning, he was already on his feet and sitting down at the bar. Ettore’s espresso hadn’t helped him to regain consciousness, and reading the newspaper was even more boring than a dance recital.

  COULD THE CUNTRERA MURDER BE RELATED TO HIGH-LEVEL ARRESTS?

  And while the prosecutor’s office and the DIA carry out high-level arrests throughout our city, harvesting the results of months of investigation and hard work, one is tempted to wonder just what has become of the case of Rue Piave. The murder of Adele Talamonti in the home of Deputy Chief Rocco Schiavone remains shrouded in mystery. No news escapes the black box of police headquarters. That case is being handled by Carlo Pietra, adjunct deputy chief of the Turin mobile squad, who has, however, been absent from Aosta for days now. The only news to emerge is that Schiavone has been sent to Varallo prison to investigate the murder of Domenico Cuntrera, a man with ties to the organized crime ’ndrina of the Mileto clan, responsible for the kidnapping of Chiara Berguet. One cannot help but wonder whether this prison inmate was linked in some way to the Mafia-connected profiteering ring that for some time now had been calling the shots and ruling the roost here in Aosta. At the prosecutor’s office, however, lips are still stitched tight concerning the Talamonti case. That murder, possibly being covered up by the police force itself, is something that we never tire of asking about in the pages of this newspaper, loudly demanding explanations a
nd results. Once again, yesterday, Police Chief Costa made no mention of the case, and in response to our insistent questions he responded evasively or simply chose not to answer at all. What is hidden behind the Talamonti case? What plots are being hatched in the highest offices at police headquarters in order to avoid exposing one of their own men to objective responsibilities and criminal sanctions? What are they waiting for at police headquarters and in the courthouse of this city? Why don’t they begin a serious investigation and try to put a name and surname to the killer of the unfortunate Adele Talamonti?

  —SANDRA BUCCELLATO

  Maybe the time had come to go pay a call on this journalist. The woman wouldn’t stop attacking him. But there was one thing he’d learned in all these years: Never respond. Never dive into the fray. That was exactly what Buccellato wanted. She was seeking a reaction, and if he stumbled into the trap, the woman would dine out on it for another three months. Instead, Schiavone had chosen the silent approach. Remote and unapproachable. Ignore those articles, go high when she went low, and thereby reduce those journalistic cannonades to mere blanks, loud bangs with no projectiles. To an attentive reader who had never seen a response from the deputy chief in the pages of that newspaper, it would be clear that the policeman wasn’t going to waste his time getting into snarling matches, but instead was at his desk, working hard, bringing in results and earning his salary. Still, his fingers were itching. He’d love to get his hands on her. If the journalist had been a man, he would have gone straight up to the newsroom, he’d have grabbed him by the lapels, and he would have given him a sharp, hard head butt right to his nasal septum. But that wasn’t something he could do with Sandra Buccellato. He crumpled up the newspaper and stood up from the little café table. “Let’s go, Lupa!” The dog followed him, her muzzle dirty with pastry crumbs from the sidewalk.

  HE SMOKED THE JOINT ON THE WAY FROM PIAZZA CHANOUX to the courthouse. It wasn’t as nice as sprawling listlessly in his leather office chair, but it was still better than nothing. When he entered the prosecutor’s office, the jolt of adrenaline prompted in the staff by the arrests of the day before hadn’t entirely subsided. Dozens of people were circulating from one office to another, voices chased after each other in the hallways, a couple of Carabinieri in uniform were transporting file folders along with a court clerk. The door to Baldi’s office was wide-open. The judge stood, bent over his desk, checking documents. Lupa lunged at the carpet to continue her labors where she’d left off.

  “Schiavone!” Baldi walked over to greet him with a broad smile on his face—“What a day!”—and shook his hand.

  “Yes, a really beautiful day. The sun is shining and—”

  Baldi burst out laughing. “Who gives a damn about the sunshine! I was talking about the arrests!”

  “Right. But there is still one thing—”

  “Don’t ruin it for me, please. I have some wonderful news for you. The public works contract is back on the table and Pietro Berguet is in the running. Happy?”

  “Delighted. But now listen—”

  “What?”

  “The Cuntrera case.”

  Baldi leafed through dozens of documents until he found the two sheets of paper he was looking for. “Promissio boni viri est obligatio! My word is my bond. Here are the arrest warrants for Daniele Abela and Federico Tolotta.”

  “Fine. But it’s late, considering that news of the link between our investigations in prison and the roundup that you’ve carried out was already in this morning’s newspaper. So there’s someone that’s leaking to the press.”

  “No one in the prosecutor’s office!” As usual Baldi defended himself against such charges with all his body and soul.

  “And no one at police headquarters. I can say that because no one at police headquarters even knew about it. All right, Dottore, it’s the same old story. But like I was telling you on the phone last night, I need to add a third arrest.”

  “A third arrest?”

  “Right. Amelia Abela, an escort by profession. She was the connection between the masterminds and the murderers.”

  “But this Amelia . . . Abela. Any relation to Daniele?”

  “His sister. I checked it out.”

  “And just who are the masterminds behind the murder?”

  Rocco thought it over. “Cutrì, Cremonesi, Turrini . . . all of the people involved in the thing with the public works contracts?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because there’s something that—”

  Baldi interrupted him, throwing both arms wide: “No, Schiavone, do me a favor! Banish all doubts! Don’t rethink it all. Have you come to a conclusion? Well then, let’s close the book on this matter, I say!”

  “Yes, Judge, maybe you’re right. Even though there’s one thing that still doesn’t add up, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Baldi said patiently. Rocco noticed that the photo of his wife had once again disappeared from the judge’s desk.

  “If we arrested Cuntrera and he had some papers with him that allowed you to make all those arrests, then why go to the trouble of eliminating him?”

  Baldi shrugged. “Vengeance? Fear? In any case, Cuntrera was someone who knew too much. Maybe he’d threatened them, maybe he was blackmailing or extorting them: ‘Get me out of jail or I’ll ruin you once and for all . . .’ And who knows what secrets he took with him to the grave. Secrets that it’s going to be our job to uncover, by putting that little gang of sons of bitches that we’ve thrown behind bars to the third degree! What do you think, that when you arrest four people the war has been won? That was only a battle, Schiavone!”

  Rocco looked at the judge. “You think so? Maybe so . . . why not? But I still need to ascertain whether there were contacts between Cuntrera and Cutrì during his detention.”

  “Fine. Check it out. Ascertain to your heart’s content. And smile for once! This is a huge success for us!”

  “One more thing . . . I’d have liked to arrest Cremonesi myself. Showing up after the party is over doesn’t sit well with me, not one little bit.”

  Baldi smiled. “If you like, he’s in there. He’s waiting for his lawyer, that Ferretti. Messina and I are going to start grilling him. Would you care to have a little chat with him? Be my guest. It’s a favor I’m glad to do you in the name of our friendship.”

  “Are you saying that we’re friends?”

  “Yes, at least for today.”

  HE WALKED DOWNSTAIRS WITH BALDI, FOLLOWED A COUPLE of hallways he’d never seen before, and came up to a door where a carabiniere was standing guard. The police officer snapped to attention the minute he saw the judge. “Is my colleague Messina in there?” asked Baldi.

  “No, Dottore. Just Cremonesi.”

  “All by himself?”

  “Yes, but we left his handcuffs on.”

  Baldi opened the door and invited Rocco to go in. “I’ll wait for you upstairs . . .”

  In the room, there were just three chairs and a metal table. Cremonesi was sitting down, shirt rumpled and unbuttoned; he no longer had the same arrogant demeanor as the last time they’d met. Only his eyes were still sharp and jet-black. His square head, reminiscent of the darting head of a venomous serpent, had snapped suddenly toward the door, impatient and on edge. “Well, well, look who’s here,” he said. The chain to the handcuffs that bound him to the table clinked. Rocco took a couple steps toward him. Then he leaned against the wall. He didn’t want to sit down at the same table with that man. He wanted to observe him from a distance. “How’s it going, Schiavone?”

  “I’m fine. I told you that I was going to screw you over again . . .”

  “Let the cyclone tear through, and after the dust settles, everyone will have forgotten about me and I’ll be out again in no time, footloose and fancy-free. Do you want to know a secret? Prisons are literally leaky as sieves. They won’t be able to keep someone like me under lock and key.” And he flashed a smile that highlighted the scar on his
chin. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Why have you come to see me?”

  “Do you have anything to do with the Cuntrera murder?”

  “Again? Do you seriously think that I would bother lifting a finger for a microbe like Mimmo Cuntrera?”

  “Who just happened to have documents in hand that nail you? You, that is, and your fine friends.”

  Cremonesi spat on the floor. “Bullshit! Like I told you, two years, three tops, and I’ll be back out on the street.”

  “That’s what you think, Cremonesi. But you see? That might be true for Turrini, for his wife, for the city commissioner, and even for Grange. They’re members of the upper middle class, they have political connections, they’re still members of the respectable citizenry. But you? Where are your friends from Rome and Milan? They don’t count for shit anymore, otherwise you wouldn’t have come all the way up here to make wine. You’d have stayed in your apartment over near the Colosseum, am I right? Nobody’s got your back anymore, asshole. And you’re going to pay every last cent for that fact.” He stepped closer to the criminal. “Here at the prosecutor’s office they’re a little vicious, you know that? They’ll kick your ass to ribbons. And believe me, you’ll get old in prison.”

  “I’ll get out and I’ll come fuck your wife.”

  “But you have some kind of obsession, Cremonè!”

  “You’re pathetic, Schiavone.”

  “Keep on trying to piss me off, and maybe that way I’ll put my hands on you, now that you’re handcuffed, and you can see what you can do with that before the judge. But here’s the thing, Cremonesi, you’re going down. And you’re staying behind bars this time. And even if you were ever to get back out, I swear to you, I’ll make sure I kick your ass black and blue and then straight back into a cell. By now, you’re at the center of my thoughts.” He opened the door. “And trust me, that’s not a place that you want to be. Because I literally have nothing else to do with my time!”