Adam's Rib (17 page)

Immersed in that fanciful bestiary, Rocco pulled into the town of Ciriè and parked his car in front of the bar on Via Rossetti.

De Silvestri was already there, seated at a table all the way in the back with two glasses filled to the brim with some orange liquid and a small bowl of peanuts in front of him. He had his eyes glued to the front door and the minute he saw Deputy Police Chief Schiavone walk in, he took three long strides and met his old superior officer, embracing him like a long-lost brother. As he wrapped his arms around Officer De Silvestri's shoulders, Rocco realized that after working side by side with him for all those years, this was the first time he'd ever seen him in civilian garb. They broke out of the clinch. De Silvestri's eyes were glistening.

“You're looking well.”

“You too, De Silvestri; you're in fighting trim.”

“Come this way, sir. I ventured to order a couple of Aperols . . .”

“Alfre', why the ‘sir'? Can't we just be on a first-name basis?”

“I can't bring myself to do it, sir. After all these years, I just can't do it.”

The two men sat down and clinked glasses. Rocco downed half his glass at a single gulp. “Ahhh, I needed that . . . have you seen this lousy weather?”

“We're up north, what did you expect?”

“How's my replacement?”

“He's a good guy. He's young and he doesn't know Rome. He'll have the time he needs to get accustomed. Just think, he's only been there seven months and he already curses in Roman dialect:
mortacci vostri
and
'sticazzi
! No question, he still needs to work on his accent, but he's coming along fine.”

They both laughed.

“How is my favorite protégé, Elena Dobbrilla?”

“She's getting married next month. If you ask me, she'll have lots and lots of kids and quit the police department.”

“You think?”

“Her husband is an architect. That guy makes more than enough money for the two of them.”

“To Elena!” They clinked glasses again.

It was only then that De Silvestri's expression changed. “I'm sorry to bother you, but there's something that's not right, down in Rome.”

Rocco shifted slightly in his chair and moved several inches closer to De Silvestri, so the officer could speak a little more quietly. “What's this about, Alfredo?”

Rocco's old colleague spoke a name, “Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo,” and Schiavone's face became a mask of creases and hatred. “What's he done?”

“Same old thing. He raped two girls. One outside Vivona high school, the other one in the eucalyptus grove, near the Fonte San Paolo.”

Rocco's hand gripped the little wooden table until his knuckles whitened.

“Deputy Police Chief Busdon says that we have no proof it was him. But that's not true. I'd never have taken this step if I wasn't one hundred percent positive, Dottor Schiavone.”

“Just how can you be so sure?”

“The high school student from the Liceo Vivona got a good look at his face. And when I showed her an array of photographs, she immediately picked out the son of the undersecretary for foreign affairs. Plus this guy walked with a limp and wore a pair of glasses with one dark lens. Dottor Schiavone, it's him.”

Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo had raped seven girls, and one of them even killed herself, until the day his path crossed Rocco Schiavone's. Schiavone had beaten him practically to death. And because of that ruthless and feral act of vengeance, the deputy police chief had been sentenced to a grim penalty: immediate transfer. In fact, considering how powerful the rapist's father was, he'd gotten off easy, amazingly easy. More than once, as he was waiting to learn the verdict of the internal investigation, he'd imagined the sound of a cell door slamming in a high-security prison. Instead,
he'd just been sent to work in Aosta. All things considered, he'd been lucky.

“What can I do, De Silvestri?”

“I don't know. We need to give your replacement, Busdon, a bit of a push, but most of all we need to stop that bastard. If you'd only seen the state he left that poor girl's face in.”

Rocco stood up from the table. He took a quick stroll around the café, watched by De Silvestri and the proprietor, who glanced at him blankly and then went back to reading his copy of
Tutto Sport
. Then the policeman sat down again. “I'll have to come to Rome. Would you write down the names of the two girls who were raped for me?”

“Certainly, hard to forget them. The one from the garden is Marta De Cesaris—he'd already raped her once, you ought to remember.”

“Of course I remember. And now he's raped her again. What, did he think he hadn't finished the job? What about the other one? The one who identified him?”

The old policeman looked down at the table. “Her name is Paola De Silvestri.”

“De Silvestri? Like you?”

“She's my niece.”

AS ROCCO DROVE, HE FELT AN INTENSE THIRST FOR
blood. He felt angry, frustrated, and helpless. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears like a bass drum.

Thump thump thump.

A muffled and continuous bass drum that not even the volume of the stereo was enough to drown out. Outside the windshield and beyond the strip of asphalt, he glimpsed in the reflections off the windshield the face of Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo, as he recalled it on the last day he'd seen him at the DA's office. Those protruding teeth, the thin untidy stands of hair on the sides of his cranium, the stupid, lifeless bovine eyes, the cadaverous white hands, and the freckles sprayed across his face like a helpless spurt of diarrhea. He hadn't even had time to go home and rest up from the injuries the deputy police chief had inflicted on him, and the psychopath was already back at work.

He had to get back to Rome. He had to stop that mental defective, the son of the powerful undersecretary; Rocco remembered one of the few meetings he'd had with the father, when he'd recommended pharmaceuticals for his son and, if that treatment failed, proceeding directly to chemical castration. But the almighty Francesco Borghetti Ansaldo had obviously ignored his advice. He had defended his son and insisted on the innocence of that slow-witted thirty-year-old who spent his days at his PlayStation and his nights between the thighs of screaming helpless minors. He picked up his cell phone, switched it on, punched in the PIN, and inserted his earpiece. He dialed Seba's phone number—one of his longtime friends, someone he knew he could always count on.

“Seba, it's Rocco.”

“I know, you old swine, my eyes are still good enough to read the display on my phone. What's new?”

“Are you in Rome right now?”

“I'm sitting on the can in my apartment right now. Do you want me to tell you exactly what I'm doing?”

“That's not necessary, thanks. So tell me, what about Furio and Brizio? Are they there too?”

“You're asking if they're in my bathroom with me?”

“You idiot, I'm asking if they're in Rome.”

“I think so. Now, are you going to tell me what's up? You have some nice little project to offer me?”

“There's a sour note in Rome,” he said. Seba said nothing. He remained silent and listened. “And it's irritating, it's a sound we have to silence.”

“Is it something that's looking to hurt you?”

“No. But it concerns me, however indirectly.”

“I see. You coming down?”

“I think so. I don't know when, but I'll be coming.”

“We'll be waiting for you. All I need is a couple of hours' advance notice.”

“
Grazie
, Seba.”

“Don't mention it, brother. What's new up in Aosta?”

“It's raining.”

“Same thing in Rome, if that's of any help.”

“It's no help at all.”

“Just one last thing, before I let you go. I want to be clear on one thing. Are we going to need the little girls?”

Seba was talking about firearms.

“Yes. Without license plates, if you can do that,” Rocco replied.

“Got it. I can't wait to see you.”

“Me either. Give my best to the others. And a kiss to Adele.”

“We're not together anymore,” said Seba.

“Ah, no? Since when?”

“Since that slut started going to bed with Robi Gusberti.”

“Er Cravatta? The shylock?”

“That's right. Crazy shit, don't you think, eh?”

“Crazy shit. But how old is the guy?”

“Er Cravatta? Seventy.”

“You let a seventy-year-old man take your woman away from you?”

“According to Brizio, Adele saw him as a father figure.”

“But Adele never even knew her father.”

“Exactly, no? Brizio also says that its called transference. That is, she's projecting the father figure she never had on Er Cravatta and so she's fallen in love with him.”

“Since when has Brizio become a psychologist?”

“Got me. These are all things that Stella's been telling him, and she's always reading magazines like
Focus
.”

“You believe this thing about the father figure?”

“Rocco, all I know is that I caught them in bed together in my apartment, in the same bed my mother used to sleep in, God rest her soul!”

“You can see that Adele was interested in a threesome.”

“How a threesome?”

“What I'm saying is that she was trying to arrange a transference with both the father figure and the mother figure!”

“Oh go fuck yourself, Rocco.”

“And you take care of yourself, Seba. See you soon. And you just wait, Adele will come back to you soon.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because they used to call Robi Gusberti ‘Pic Indolor,' the no-hurt needle. And believe me, it wasn't because he gave kids painless injections.”

Seba burst out laughing. “It's true. Pic Indolor . . .”

“So you'll see, she'll come back to you and she'll beg your forgiveness.”

“And I won't forgive her.”

“You
will
forgive her, and I'll tell you why. Without Adele you're nothing but a grouchy old grizzly bear, and you know you'll wind up in deep trouble. In fact, from now on why don't you try to be less of an asshole. Aside from all the bullshit about Brizio and the transferences, the truth is that Adele is making you pay; she's letting you know what life would be like without her. You must have pissed her off again, as usual, and she's settling accounts with you. A woman who seriously means to break up with a man doesn't start things up with Er Cravatta of all people, much less in your own apartment, where she could be certain you'd walk in on them. If Adele seriously wanted to break up with you, she'd do it with someone handsome and smart who looks half his actual age.”

“Someone like you?”

“Exactly, someone like me.”

The two friends laughed together.

“Are you sure that's how it is, Rocco?”

“I'm sure that's how it is. In fact, if you want, we can put
two hundred euros on it. Two hundred euros says in three days, you'll be telling Adele hello from me. Are we on?”

“Two hundred euros? You've got a bet! If I lose, I'd be more than happy to pay!”

“And I'll be happy to take it. Have a good day.”

As soon as he hung up, the alerts for six voice messages rang out like a burst of machine-gun fire.

“What the fuck . . . ?”

All six voice messages were from the same number. The main switchboard at police headquarters.

“What the fuck just happened?” he said aloud, and then his cell phone rang. Another call, from headquarters.

“Who is this? What's wrong?”

“Rocco, this is Italo.”

“And?”

“Hilmi . . . he's disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn't been seen since he left home yesterday.”

“I'm there. I'm coming. Let's meet at the apartment, at Irina's place.”

THIS TIME THE WOMAN HAD COMPANY: AHMED,
Hilmi's father, the fruit vendor. Ahmed kept twisting at his mustache and his reddened, anxious eyes darted around the room, as if in search of something he'd lost.

“Let me get this straight. Hilmi went out yesterday and never came home?” asked Rocco.

“That's not exactly right,” Ahmed replied. “He came home, but we weren't here when he did.”

“How do you know that?”

“He took some of his things and then left again.”

“He took backpack and clothing,” added Irina. “And his wooden box. Not there now. That's gone too.”

“His wooden box?”

“Yes. I think he kept his money in it,” said his father.

“Did Hilmi have identification papers of any kind?”

“Certainly. Passport, why?”

“And is it here?”

Ahmed looked at Irina. Suddenly he rushed to the little piece of furniture by the front door. He pulled opened the top drawer. He pulled out his passport, and then Irina's. But there was no sign of Hilmi's. He went on rummaging through the door, muttering something under his breath in Arabic, then with both hands still in the drawer, he looked disconsolately at the policemen. “It's not here. This is where we keep them.”

Rocco looked at Italo. “What do you think?”

“Me? I think it's simple. A train to Switzerland, and from there a nice fast airplane. Where to? Who can say?”

Rocco nodded. “We need to put out an international alert. What a pain in the ass!”

“But what has he done? Why would he run away?” asked Ahmed, stepping closer to the deputy police chief.

“Burglary, and assault on a police officer.”

“Burglary? Where did he steal?” asked Irina.

“At the Baudos', Signora. The morning of the murder.”

Irina and Ahmed exchanged a glance. The father put both hands up to his face and burst into tears. “No . . . no . . . Hilmi no . . .” Irina wrapped her arms around him. The fruit vendor let his head drop onto the woman's breast, like an overwrought child. And he sobbed brokenhearted, wailing so loud that he drowned out the noise from the street, car horns and all. Irina rocked him soothingly, her eyes wet. She looked at the two policemen. There were dozens of questions in her eyes, but she didn't ask even one. The two officers of the law couldn't have given a straight yes-or-no answer to any of her questions, and Irina knew it.