Adam's Rib (7 page)

As soon as he saw the room, he jerked in alarm. “They've been in here too . . .” He went to pull open the drawer of a small side table under the window. Then his eye lit on the blue velvet box that Rocco had set on the tabletop. He looked inside, with a bitter smile. “So they found it.”

“What was in it?”

“It's where we kept our gold.”

“Your gold?”

“Yes. Nothing much. A watch, a few bracelets, my cuff links, and a brooch that my mother had given Esther. A pretty pin, with a peacock. With green and blue stones. It belonged to my grandmother, just think.” He sat down on the bed. Tears poured from his eyes like an open faucet. “Is that all my wife's life was worth?”

“You did all right, my wife's wasn't even worth a euro. Just the price of a nine-millimeter round,” Rocco felt like saying to him, but he said nothing.

“Esther always was unlucky,” Patrizio said, looking at the floor and stroking the bed as if his wife were lying on it, fast asleep. “She always had bellyaches. You know what I used to call her?
Estherichia coli
,” and he started chuckling under his breath. “
Estherichia coli
instead of
Escherichia coli
. . . but all she needed was a massage and she'd get over it. It was a nervous disorder, if you ask me.” He dried his tears. Then he looked up at Rocco. “I'm a believer, Commissario, but I swear to you that right now I just couldn't say. Where was God when someone was killing my wife? Can you tell me where God was?”

There was probably no question that Rocco Schiavone was less suited to answer.

“Please, take me to my mother's place. I just can't take this anymore . . . I can't take it anymore.”

THE DEPUTY POLICE CHIEF HAD BEEN SITTING IN THE
district attorney's waiting room for more than half an hour,
looking at the wood grain on Judge Baldi's door. Funny how he managed to see different shapes in it every time.

On that chilly March day, what popped out of the grain was a dolphin and a rose, though the rose actually looked more like an artichoke than a rose. But if he looked at it the other way around, it became an elephant with just one ear. The door swung open and the imaginary wood-grain fresco disappeared, replaced by Judge Baldi's face. “Well hello there, Schiavone! Have you been waiting long?”

Rocco stood up and shook hands.

“Come in, have a seat.”

Standing next to the bookshelf, a young man in jacket and tie was gathering a series of enormous file folders full of documents. “Let me introduce you to Judge Messina. Aldo, this is Deputy Police Chief Schiavone, who's been working with us for just a few months but has already solved one case brilliantly. Am I right?”

Judge Messina was obliged to set down his armful of folders so he could shake hands with Rocco. “I've heard a lot about you,” he said, with unmistakable emphasis.

“And you still shake my hand?”

Messina smiled. “I wouldn't refuse to shake anyone's hand. If you'll excuse me.” He gathered up his folders again and left the room. The first thing that Rocco Schiavone noticed was that the photograph of the judge's wife was now gone from the desktop. The last time he'd seen it, the picture had been lying facedown. Now he felt certain it was tucked away in one of the desk drawers. That's always a bad sign.
The magistrate's marriage was on its way out. The eve of the final breakup. Baldi swept his blond bangs out of his eyes with a quick flick of the hand and sat down at his desk. “Now then, what news do you have for me about what happened on Via Brocherel?”

“It was a murder. I'm sure of it. Esther Baudo—that's the victim's name—was beaten and then strangled. The hanging seems to me to have been staged. Plus, the room where we found the corpse was dark, with the shutters down. But when I walked in and I turned on the light, there was a short circuit. Which means that the woman hanged herself in the dark . . .”

“Or else, after she hanged herself, someone lowered the blinds. Right?”

“Exactly.”

“So what's your theory?”

“I don't have one, Dottore. I'm still just sniffing around.”

Baldi stretched both arms in the air. “And do you like what you smell?”

“Smells like shit, as usual.”

“The husband?”

“He's a sales representative, works in athletic equipment. Clean record, no run-ins with the law, a traffic ticket or two. But something was stolen.”

The judge nodded, thoughtfully. “Burglars caught in the act who then decided to stage the whole thing?”

Rocco shrugged. “Why not? Maybe they did it just to throw us off the trail. Still, there's something about it I don't like.”

“Do tell.”

“Actually, two things. The first thing, you see, is that we have a kitchen that was turned literally upside down, like there'd been a tornado. A real authentic mess. But the bedroom, where the valuables were hidden—in a small velvet box containing the family gold—was searched scientifically. They might have opened a couple of drawers, at the very most.”

“As if they knew where to look. So what about the mess in the kitchen?”

“Exactly. It doesn't add up. Plus, I think the burglars had been in that apartment before.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There was no sign of breaking and entering on the door or on the windows. If they got in, either it was because Signora Baudo knew them or else because—”

“Because they had the keys,” concluded Judge Baldi, getting to his feet. He was hyperactive: he couldn't sit listening for more than five minutes at a time. He walked over to the window and stood drumming his fingers on the glass. “I'm afraid you're going to have to work solo, Schiavone. I've got some problems on my hands.” Immediately an image flashed into Rocco's mind: the wife's picture dumped into a drawer, if not actually tossed in the trash. Baldi stopped drumming and started whistling softly. Rocco recognized the Toreador song from Bizet's
Carmen
. “We are on the trail of one of the biggest tax evasion cases I've ever worked on, me and the finance police and the Carabinieri. There's just an endless supply of tax evaders, you know that?”

“I can imagine. I can't do a lot of tax evading with my paycheck.”

Baldi turned around and smiled. “If we all just paid our taxes, the tax burden would be much lighter. You know that, I know that. But it seems as if the Italians aren't interested in the fact. This really is a strange country, isn't it?”

Rocco braced himself for another pearl of wisdom from Judge Baldi, who always seemed to have some solution for the nation's political and economic problems on his mind. His notions ranged from drafting cabinet ministers and secretaries from other countries, more or less the way that soccer teams are assembled, in order to have serious, well-trained, honest people running the government, to the elimination of banknotes so that all transactions would have to be conducted through credit cards. This would make all purchases traceable and make it impossible to conceal one's income and evade taxes. “It's a strange, deeply wasteful country,” Rocco said, encouragingly.

Baldi didn't have to be asked twice. “True. Let me give you an example. Public funding of the political parties. Right now, they take the money as an electoral reimbursement, right?”

“Right.”

“And I don't actually disagree with the idea. Better for them to receive public money than get funds from some powerful, manipulative lobbyist or other. But follow me closely here.” He turned away from the window and went back to his seat at his desk. “I say what we do is take parliamentarians, cabinet ministers, and undersecretaries off the state payroll,
because that's clearly a waste of public money. Instead, we should have deputies, senators, and everyone else paid directly by the parties that run them for office. In that case, politicians would get the proper salaries. And just think of how much money the treasury would save. What do you think? Wouldn't it be a great idea?”

“But that would mean finally just giving up and bending over to take it from behind, and admitting that this country is in the hands of the political parties.”

“Well, are you saying it isn't? Deputies and senators, commissioners and outside consultants, none of them are civil servants, Schiavone. They're servants of the parties they belong to. And in that case, let the parties pay them!”

Rocco raised his eyebrows. “I'd have to give that some thought.”

“By all means, Schiavone. Think it over. And please, help me understand what happened to Esther Baudo. I leave that case in your hands. After all, it's clear that I can rely on you.”

Baldi's expression had changed. Now a sinister light glittered in his eyes.

“Of course I can rely on you.”

The magistrate's mouth stretched out in a false, menacing smile. “And since I want to rely on you, look, I'd really like to get your version.”

“My version of what?”

“Of what happened in Rome.”

Oh my God, what a pain in the ass, thought Rocco, but he kept it to himself. “You know everything that happened;
there are reports and documentation. I'm sure you've read them. Why dig into it again?”

“It seems to be an occupational hazard with me. I'd just like to hear your version. You've been here for six months now. You can tell me, can't you?”

“All right then.” Rocco took a deep breath, got comfortable, and began. “Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo, age twenty-nine, had a bad habit: he liked to rape young girls. I followed him, I stopped him, but there was nothing I could do about him. It just so happens that his father, Fernando Borghetti Ansaldo, is the undersecretary for foreign affairs. You may have seen his name in the news.”

Baldi nodded, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Okay. Giorgio didn't shake his bad habit, and he kept it up until one day he practically killed a certain Marta De Cesaris, age sixteen, who lost her sight in one eye; a hundred years of therapy will never turn her back into the pretty, carefree high school student who attended the Liceo Virgilio in Rome. So I finally had my fill, I went to see Giorgio, and I gave him a serious beat-down.”

“Translate beat-down.”

“I beat him up. I beat him up so bad that now the guy has to use a cane to get around. But he's still the undersecretary's son. And the undersecretary made me pay for what I did. There, that's the story.”

Baldi nodded again. Then he looked Rocco Schiavone in the eye. “That's not the kind of law enforcement we're in the business of delivering.”

“I know. And my answer is I don't give a shit.”

“You seem to be overlooking the subtle but undeniable difference between a policeman and a judge.”

“And again, the aforementioned answer.”

“Fine. I thank you for your sincerity. But now let me tell you something. Listen up and listen good, because I'm only going to tell you once. If you go on being a good cop, you're not going to have any problems, neither with me nor with the regional government. But if you start stepping over the line into my jurisdiction, I'll turn your life into a living hell, even if you're all the way up here in the snowy mountains. You'll have a bad case of hemorrhoids from all the kicks in the ass I'll give you.
Arrivederci
.” And he leaned over his documents again. Rocco said good-bye and left the office, deciding as he went that the right position for a manic depressive wasn't in the district attorney's office, but a nice quiet home somewhere, where he could take plenty of medicine and relax by taking long meditative walks.

Outside, night was falling. As Rocco walked he kept getting the distinct sensation he'd forgotten something. Something important, something fundamental. He lit a cigarette and went back over everything that had happened that day. He thought about Esther Baudo, her husband, the apartment turned upside down, Irina, the retired warrant officer. Nothing. He was scorching his neurons to no avail. He decided to stop at the bar in Piazza Chanoux for an espresso. Maybe that would help.

It was nice in there. It was warm, and there were lots of people sitting at the tables and chatting. Chatting in a language that Rocco didn't understand. He shot a glance
at Ugo, who was busy pouring tonic water into a customer's glass of gin. Ugo replied by pointing with his chin to the table by the plate glass window, Rocco's usual place.

The deputy police chief sat down and Ugo came right over. “Sorry, there's a bit of a rush this evening. But then, Fridays are always like that. What can I bring you?”

“A cup of coffee, American-style.”

“If you like, I'd be glad to let you sample a Blanc de Morgex that is out of this world.”

Rocco thought it over. As he watched Ugo's lips moving and smelled the fumes of alcohol spreading through the bar, he decided it was a good idea to try that wine. Ugo, as delighted as if Rocco had done him some great favor, went back to the counter. The deputy police chief looked around. Next to him, on his left, sat two students, deep in an intense conversation in low voices. They kept their hands on their glasses of beer and looked each other in the eyes. On his right were two women. Blond, short hair, fresh from the beautician, already on their third glass of red. They laughed frequently, elegant and carefree. They were both well over fifty. They spoke in Italian and Rocco caught an occasional snatch of their conversation.

The one with blue eyes said: “I'll tell you what I think. You're doing the right thing. He's handsome and he loves you.” Then she raised her glass ever so slightly and took a sip of wine. “Plus, and this is fundamental, he's rich. You know what my mother always used to say?”

“No, what did she say?”

The woman lowered her voice, but Rocco heard her all
the same. “She used to say, when your tits stop pointing at the stars and start pointing at your feet instead, that's the time to make sure you have some very expensive shoes on those feet!” They both burst out laughing and took another gulp of their wine. Rocco too joined in the laughter, and it was at that exact moment that his mind grasped the detail that he sensed he'd overlooked and that he'd been trying to remember so unsuccessfully as he walked: Nora!