‘How is Piero?’
Caterina hugged her knees tighter, her knuckles whitening. Her voice stayed calm, but there was something wobbly behind it.
‘He never really came to terms with it. His life was shattered that day. He went through alcohol, drugs, rehab, therapists. He’s not even forty and he looks sixty. But recently he does seem to have found some peace. He’s on a Taizé Community farm in Provence.’ She noticed Canessa’s expression, and pre-empted him. ‘No, we haven’t seen him. That’s how he wanted it. I last heard from him two years ago, and he said he was doing well, that he’d finally discovered the best therapy for him. He had to leave here, so he’d never see any place or person who’d remind him of the past. A clean slate and a new language too. We haven’t been in touch since, and he hasn’t called, though we do check in with one of the community leaders. Apparently he’s doing really well, seems a lot lighter.’
Caterina fell silent for a few minutes, as if the brief recollection of her brother’s situation had cost her something. She shifted, letting her eyes wander along with her mind, and then looked back at Canessa. Curious, examining him as she had been ever since he’d walked in. She had questions, no doubt, but was waiting for him to ask his first.
‘What about you?’
‘Nothing, no aftermath for me. What did you call me? Super tough. I wanted to be a Carabiniere until my last year of school, but then I signed up for architecture. I graduated, I travelled to Germany, South Africa, Australia. When Piero tried committing suicide again, I came back here to live with him. Our grandparents on Mum’s side left us quite a sum. Whatever Piero got, he split and gave half to the Taizé Community, half to me. I am,’ she smiled, ‘what you might call a good catch. I work as a freelance interior designer. Do you want to know if I’m single?’ She looked at him with her mother’s eyes.
For a second, Canessa considered letting her go on, entranced by her life story and the strangeness of talking to someone he’d met when she was only five years old. But then the real reason for his being there took over.
‘Listen, Caterina, I’m about to ask you some questions that may seem very strange. Is your father still buried in the Famedio, at the Monumentale? You said your mother and brother aren’t in Milan, but do you ever go to your father’s grave?’
‘You know, I’d thought of various reasons for why you might be here. But not that. This is a surprise.’ Caterina seemed sincere. ‘This is about your brother and Petri’s murder, isn’t it? Are you back in action?’
He couldn’t lie, not to her.
‘It is, and I am.’
‘I go to see Dad maybe once a month. Mum comes along sometimes too. She comes up to Milan just for that. Yes, it’s the Famedio.’
Canessa nodded. ‘The third question may seem even stranger, but have you noticed anything out of the ordinary on the tomb? Flowers, candles, something else you couldn’t explain?’
Caterina couldn’t hold back her surprise. ‘You know, for several months after his death, people brought all sorts of things to Dad’s tombstone. They were all so shocked by how brutal, how ruthless it had been, with the two of us kids there… And also because Dad wasn’t an obvious target like all the more prominent judges. It really was one of the most cruel attacks during the Years of Lead. But then it all just faded, as these things do. So Mum and I were both surprised when we found a bunch of irises and two white candles. One was still burning. How did you know? What’s this about?’
Canessa leaned over and gave her arm a paternal squeeze. Then he stood up.
‘You’d be a good Carabiniere. You’ve got what it takes.’
Caterina remained on the sofa. ‘But won’t you tell me what the flowers were for?’
‘Not yet. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’ Carla’s sarcasm didn’t bode well.
He usually didn’t mind that side of her. He’d noticed it the first time they’d had sex, and he’d said, ‘Like there’s no tomorrow.’ She’d laughed, and mimicked him. ‘That’s a quote from one of the 007 films with Pierce Brosnan. He says it to Halle Berry.’
‘I missed that one,’ Canessa replied, kissing her. But she pulled away, teasing him some more.
They’d made plans to meet at Porta Genova after his visit to Caterina Lazzarini, and then they’d gone to eat seafood in a pricey restaurant. Canessa wondered if the other customers actually appreciated the excellent dishes, or if they merely went there because it was famous. Its most annoying feature was that it was impossible to have a conversation there, since it was unbearably noisy. Carla’s mood had soured because she was expecting updates from Annibale and she’d been under pressure for a couple of days now, with Strozzi breathing down her neck. She’d have to turn in something soon or lose the piece to a vulture.
‘I do trust you, but for your own safety, I’d rather you didn’t know where I live,’ Canessa replied.
Carla, however, was nervous. She didn’t want to hear his reasons. ‘You’re just being paranoid. I don’t think you trust me enough, or you think I might let something slip. I thought you’d be different…’
She turned her back to him and disappeared into the night.
Shortly after, Repetto appeared at Annibale’s side. Despite the trench coat hiding his MP5, he wasn’t suffering from the heat.
‘Trouble in paradise?’
‘Our first fight.’
‘You want to run after her?’
‘I do, but it wouldn’t help.’
So now you understand women? Well, you really have grown!’
Canessa allowed himself to smile.
‘Come on, let’s go. We need to make some discoveries if we can.’
3
Repetto had made himself a plate of spaghetti with garlic, pepper and olive oil.
When Canessa caught a whiff of the garlic frying in the pan, he realised he was still hungry. ‘Add some for me too, will you?’
They ended up eating outside the loft, protected by tall walls and an arbour. ‘This is a nice place,’ Repetto said. ‘A bit out of the way, but nice.’
There were two sleeping areas in the loft, essentially screened-off corners of the large living area. Sharing the space proved no issue; it was as if the past thirty years hadn’t happened. How many times had they eaten pasta together in the evenings?
Repetto had shown up at the door with two large boxes of groceries. He’d put them in the large fridge, which was empty apart from five or six bottles of good wine, a couple of champagne, and a half-eaten can of tuna.
‘Canessa and tuna: an old pairing makes a comeback. The bottles aren’t your doing though, are they?’
‘A house-warming gift from Rossi. He has a secret cellar downstairs.’
Repetto had always been a drinker, but only the good stuff. ‘See? It was a good idea for me to come here!’
Annibale was still upset by his fight with Carla. But after he’d polished off half a pack of spaghetti and a bottle of Alsatian Gewürztraminer he was feeling much better, at least physically.
‘I still think this is at least a couple of hundred retail,’ Repetto said, draining his glass. He cleared the table and came back with two shots of grappa and two cigars.
‘To old times,’ Canessa said.
His friend raised his glass. ‘To brainstorming, or should that be fried brains?’ They were recapping the investigation.
Canessa began. ‘He went to visit Lazzarini’s tomb, too.’
‘But why?’ Repetto was surprised. ‘Was he making amends for other people’s murders too?’
Canessa drew on his cigar. He wasn’t really a smoker, but enjoying a cigar with an old friend was a good way of clearing his mind.
‘Or maybe he was behind Lazzarini’s murder too, and we got everything wrong.’
A long silence foll
owed.
Repetto suddenly slammed his hand on the table. ‘No!’ he said, ‘We weren’t wrong. The one with the scar was Esposito…’
Canessa interrupted. ‘There’s no doubt about him. Caterina recognised him too. But remember, we never really got confirmation about the other one.’
‘The supergrass…’ Repetto’s voice rose.
‘Supergrasses are criminals who snitch. The absolute worst. We’ve all used them – in droves – but I’ve never fully trusted them. Especially if there’s no tangible, external proof. And in this case, there isn’t. They said the other man was Federzoni. Do we believe them? Okay, let’s. Maybe they didn’t intentionally lie, but they knew nothing, and proceeded by deduction. Federzoni was protecting Esposito because he saw him as a promising asset. They were always together, in life as in death.’ His thoughts went back to via Gaeta and his mood turned dark.
Repetto poured out another shot of grappa. ‘So what if Petri was there with Esposito that day? What does that change? Did we cause everything that’s happened in the past two weeks by pinning a judge’s murder on the wrong guy?’
Canessa offered him a wry smile. ‘Yes.’
‘If that’s the case, it means that all these murders – Petri’s, your brother’s, Alfridi’s – have happened to hide the fact that Petri was involved in the attack on Lazzarini. But why?’
Canessa stood up, strangely calm. ‘I don’t know, but what I do know is that it’s not about one killer instead of another. Clearly all this revolves around Lazzarini. Nothing else comes into it. Petri was part of the hit squad, Petri pulled the trigger. Then the murder was pinned on Federzoni and Esposito, and I shot them in via Gaeta…’ He went on, sarcastically. ‘Petri never said a thing. He never collaborated, never disavowed his actions, never claimed them, never said a word. He kept quiet from the moment we got him. Then, a few months ago, something happens, and he’s handing out flowers and candles, as if begging forgiveness. That change of heart isn’t relevant right now, but it might be later. All that matters now is that he was trying to tell me something, and it must have had to do with that murder. He was looking for my brother because he needed to get to me, and he didn’t trust anyone else. And it can only be about Lazzarini, the only anomaly.’
‘You have no proof though.’
‘Not yet. It’ll come.’
‘When?’
‘When they try to get rid of me. Because whoever they are, they don’t want the truth to emerge. They’ve made that clear over and over. And to make sure the past stays buried, they’ll have to kill me.’
Repetto pulled the MP5 from under the table.
‘They’ll have to kill me too.’
4
At any other moment in time, even just a couple of days earlier, the view of prosecutor Marta Bossini’s back would’ve excited him. Right now, though, Astroni was too troubled by other problems. The last text he’d received had pushed him right over the edge.
He’d hoped that Marta and the gym rat they’d assigned her would find something – anything – but no, their investigation had hit a dead end and he had no other choice but to yield to that phone, to the call that brought him so much pain.
Marta also seemed distracted, even annoyed. They’d had sex without any real passion, and she’d faked her orgasm. Noticeably. The whole thing had been pathetic.
‘What’s up?’ he asked before she could explore his feelings.
Marta turned to face him. ‘We’re stuck. There are no leads. I was really happy to be working on this case – something special – but now…’
‘What about the murder of the gay guy? That can’t be a coincidence.’
‘True, but we don’t have anything on that either, other than the fact that he worked in the same office as Petri. They maybe had three conversations out of office hours in five months. They weren’t close. That’s it.’
Astroni reflected. ‘Maybe it’s just that he knew something about Petri, and whoever killed Petri wanted to silence him too.’
Marta agreed. ‘That’s the most probable scenario. But what did he know?’
Astroni was quiet for a second. ‘What about Canessa, our former Rambo? From what you told me, he visited Petri’s office as well. Maybe he met Alfridi. Maybe he questioned him.’
Still naked, Marta stood up and went over to open a window. She’d hoped someone might see her, but all the windows on the opposite building were shut. Damn Saturday!
She sat on the windowsill. ‘He’s still around, running his own investigation, but he’ll come across us eventually, and we’ll have to deal with him then.’
Unless, Astroni thought, someone else deals with him first.
*
‘Lazzarini, Lazzarini…’
Calandra was fidgeting with the light blue folder his man had handed him. He spoke the name a third time. ‘Lazzarini. It does ring a bell.’
Even if it hadn’t, Canessa had definitely got to the crux of the matter. If he’d stopped on that particular square, it had to be the right one. That Carabiniere was a real force of nature. He was born with it, and exile – no matter how long – would never take it out of him. He just needed to loosen up.
He’d done well to bet on him. Canessa would end up being the winning horse.
Calandra opened up the file and quickly read through a couple of pages. He looked quizzically at his collaborator. ‘I don’t see anything out of the ordinary here.’
‘Because there isn’t,’ he confirmed. ‘Murder solved, killers buried. Literally. The end.’
‘No, it can’t be. If Canessa is looking into it, it means something’s up. Maybe the truth was buried with the killers, so you need to focus on the Lazzarini murder. You need to rummage through everything, and pull out any story on this Lazzarini guy that doesn’t appear in official records: gossip, a cutting that ended up in the wrong file, any relevant notes. If Canessa is betting on him, we need to stack up our poker chips too.’
‘Place your bets,’ said the man. He left.
Calandra noticed that he’d changed to his summer outfit. He also realised that if he’d asked anyone else to look into a thirty-year-old case, they would have objected. Youths and their impatience. And yet his mouse hadn’t squeaked once.
Invaluable. Calandra lit up a Montecristo. Fuck the bans.
5
Nando Panattoni had decided that if he survived (and he was seriously doubting that right now), he would leave Milan, Italy, maybe even Europe the very same day. Whenever he emerged from the situation. The money in his Zurich account (under the name of a ga-ga Swiss eighty-year-old) wasn’t exactly the amount he’d hoped to retire on. The Salemmes never paid until the job was done, and after this one, he was out. Job done or not, what mattered was getting out alive. Those two were worse than a mafia clan. He wondered how Rocco would take it if they offered him a contract to kill him, Nando, after all this time.
On the other hand, the money he’d made after twenty years of dirty tricks would be more than enough to disappear to Santo Domingo with his girlfriend, leaving no trace and living pretty comfortably for the rest of his life. Her family over there would protect them. Put an end to all this shit.
If he made it out alive. Because those two sons of bitches had just told him he was about to take on the hardest job in his life. And to prove just how much of a suicide mission it was, they’d even arranged to meet him in person, at a famous restaurant in the San Siro area. A personal farewell.
Of course, it wasn’t an invitation to lunch. They’d be eating: he was supposed to come in, make himself known, go to the bathroom and they’d meet him there in their own sweet time. Then he’d disappear.
‘Nando, Nando, you seem tense! Is your stomach cramped? You got your period?!’
Mr Big – Nando’s name for Salemme senior, though only with Rocco – was
still trying to squeeze himself into suits that were definitely too small, no matter how cool they might have been. Did he really think he scored women with his looks? At his age, power and money were the only pull.
Standing in the small bathroom with the Salemmes, the warm air ramping up the stench of piss, Panattoni felt his anxiety spiking through the roof. Father and son were dissecting him visually and reading his fears, as if they knew about his plan to flee: car to Zurich, withdraw money, train to Munich, plane to Miami, three or four days in the Keys getting used to time zone and climate, boat to Santo Domingo. Four vehicles, three passports. All ready.
Claudio’s eyes were full of contempt. The young bastard was just like all rich, spoiled brats. But his father… he looked like he could actually read Nando’s mind. He was truly dangerous.
Nando Panattoni was waiting.
‘So, Nando, you’ve always been a good worker.’
‘Yes, really good,’ Claudio chimed in.
‘So what we’re asking of you now is the final test.’
‘A love token.’
Mr Big laughed. ‘Good one! A love token. I like it.’
Nando decided to play along. He laughed too, but his laughter soon turned to whimpering when he heard what that love token entailed.
‘You need to kill Canessa and that pesky marshal of his.’
Panattoni had been expecting something more like Petri, or Alfridi, a job with some chance of success.
‘Canessa…’ he sputtered, the sweat spreading under his arms.
Mr Big slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come on, don’t tell me you’re scared?’
‘I’d be a fool not to be!’
Salemme senior laughed again. ‘Good point, good point. You’re a wise man, and that’s a good start.’
‘Canessa is who he is, and you have two targets,’ Salemme junior cut in. ‘So you’ll receive double the usual fee, and we’re allowing you to bring in reinforcements. What about that associate of yours?’
The Second Life of Inspector Canessa Page 25
