Bella Italia (18 page)

He stayed in the same position. With just a little imagination, the man they had just picked up could easily pass as him. So they had his description. That meant that the streets were crawling with police officers in uniform and probably undercover detectives too. Yes, he needed to conclude that for now, the streets were a no-go area.

The sound of the doorbell shocked him to his core. He remained quiet as a mouse. Opening the door was not an option. Family or friends never showed up at his place unannounced; he had made it clear to them that they always needed to make an appointment. He hated unexpected visitors, and everyone respected that.

His heart was pounding in his throat. He was clearly not himself yet. But who could be at his door now, during this situation? He had just been hunted down by a raging bull in the streets. His knowledge of the city and a little bit of luck had saved him. It had to be the police at his door; who else could it be?

He remained in the same position for well over thirty minutes before he stretched out and returned to his desk. Much to his relief, his heartbeat had lowered and he could think clearly again.

He had to come up with a strategy quickly. Something had to happen; he couldn’t just sit around and wait for them to find him and bring him to the slaughterhouse like a meek little lamb. He was no law expert, but he thought it to be highly unlikely that the police would break down every single unanswered door in Peschiera. But he also couldn’t stay here. What if his neighbors recognized him in the sketch? Then the police would definitely be back.

They probably wouldn’t limit themselves to this neighborhood alone, but they would probably also check traffic. He sniffled. It all seemed a little surreal. Something like this must cost the city truckloads of money. Besides, they might finger him for the crime, but they’d have no proof. But still, he had to consider all options. The only one who could identify him properly was the boy. The boy was the key. He had to figure out how he could get close to him. He could only succeed in doing so if he could somehow avoid all of his opponents.

A year ago he had made the mistake of letting the boy live. He had to correct that mistake now. The boy was their key witness; without him they would be powerless. They would have nothing. So, the boy had to die. He had no other choice.

As they had agreed upon with Carlo Martuccia, the Kolwijns came to the Verona police station promptly at six o’clock in the evening. They were met this time by a desk clerk who escorted them straight to a room. Tonight, there would be a lineup, and everyone was a little bit nervous. Martuccia, Tardelli, and Karin greeted them warmly. They were in a room much larger than any of the offices they had seen so far. They sat at a long table with two microphones on a stand. Martuccia sat behind a panel with an impressive number of buttons. This made him seem more like a sound technician than a detective.

Straight ahead of them was a large, rectangular two-way mirror. The space behind it was lit and about as large as the space in which they found themselves now. On the floor were two white
X
s made with tape, one in line with the only entrance’s doorway and the other right in front of the two-way mirror. Besides the fluorescent lights on the ceiling and some track lighting in the wall, the room was completely empty.

Tardelli pointed to the mirror. “This is a mirror that you can only see through from one side. From here, we can see exactly what’s happening in the other room. But from the other room you can only see a black wall.”

Niels nodded; he understood after Karin’s fast translation. “Yes, I’ve seen it on TV lots of times,” he said.

Tardelli and Martuccia laughed.

“See, some of the things you see in those police shows are real!” the younger of the two detectives said, chuckling.

Tardelli nodded to Karin. “Will you take Niels and his parents there?”

A moment later, the four of them were in the other room. The description was accurate. They were looking right at a black wall.

“Niels, don’t bite your nails,” they heard someone say in English, probably Martuccia. The sound came from the speakers, which were hanging up high.

Niels stopped biting down on his cuticle and grinned at the black wall.

“That’s better,” sounded from the speakers.

Moments later, they were back in the other room. Tardelli turned to Karin. “Yesterday and today, we arrested a total of twenty-four men who matched the profile based on Niels’s description. We’re going to bring them out in groups of four and will pick each one of them out individually. Niels should take his time when he looks at these men. I know he is a smart kid, but please reiterate to him that the men in the other room absolutely cannot see him. When he is done, you can signal Inspector Baldone to send in the next group.”

Karin did exactly what she was asked to do and the first group of men appeared a few minutes after she had left the room. Apparently they were instructed in advance, because they were all standing side by side neatly with their faces toward the black wall.

Tardelli pushed the microphone button. “Number one, please stand on the X.”

The man did what he was asked right away. Petra could see from the corner of her eye that Niels was taking the man in slowly and that he was concentrating very hard. No sign of any recognition whatsoever. The night before, she had only caught a quick glimpse of the man. She had tried today to remember more details but without any results.

“Move your head slowly to the left and then to the right,” Tardelli said. After the man had done so, Martuccia placed his hands on the panel that was on the table in front of him.

“Now, pay close attention, Niels. We are going to try to recreate the circumstances of last year. Go back in your mind and return to that night at Lake Garda when you first saw the man you recognized last night.”

Karin translated rapidly. In anticipation of what was about to happen, Niels squinted, which made it seem as if he was concentrating even harder.

The fluorescent lights on the ceiling went out. While Martuccia was busy pushing all kinds of buttons, the room slowly lit up before them. Because some of the side spotlights lit up more, the man was being lit up from all different angles. Much like the moonlight coming through the branches, but with enough light to still see.

“Once again, move your head from left to right,” Tardelli said.

The man on the X had black hair and a normal build, and wore a red T-shirt and blue jeans. Petra estimated him to be about thirty years old. He could certainly pass for the man in the drawing Niels had helped create.

Martuccia looked at Niels questioningly.

“It’s not him,” Niels answered resolutely.

“Yes, I don’t think it’s him either,” Hans added.

Martuccia lit the room up again. Tardelli pushed the microphone button. “Number one, walk back to your spot in line and stay there. Number two, stand on the X.”

Petra looked at this number two. Her first impression was that he looked much like the predecessor in his face and build. But when she looked closer, she could see that this man had a broader face, and she estimated him to be a few years younger than number one. He wore a white shirt, gray pants, and black leather shoes.

“That’s not him either,” Niels said a moment later.

Hans shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately,” he said, sighing.

The last group of four men left the room at a quarter to eight. None of them was fingered as the killer, but they didn’t know that yet. They would be informed later that evening individually, and could then leave the police station.

Martuccia made a broad arm gesture and looked at Niels. “Too bad. Better luck next time!”

“When will the next time be?”

“That I cannot say for sure right now. Especially now that this first group has not resulted in anything. We just have to keep looking. I’m going to consult with your parents if it is possible for you to stay a few more days. It is possible that after we have that conversation, we may also have to change our approach somewhat.”

Niels looked at Karin for the translation. “But what is going to happen now?” he asked. “That man wasn’t with them. So he is still out there somewhere. Maybe he will come to our hotel!”

“The hotel is still heavily guarded, Niels. The moment we feel that we have to move you somewhere else then we will,” Tardelli said in a very reassuring tone. “The policemen will stay at your hotel. If that man shows up there, he will be arrested on the spot.”

A taxi stopped in front of the Hotel La Ninfa around eleven o’clock in the evening. The man who got out walked straight to the entrance. He had black hair, was thin, wore an ill-fitting suit, and held a cheerfully wrapped box with a blue bow on top. He opened the door to the hotel and walked at a steady pace through the lobby up to the front desk.

“I have a package for the Kolwijn family, room 38, third floor. Is that correct?”

The receptionist looked up somewhat bored by his television program, which he found far more interesting than a deliveryman who needed him to check something. He had worked as a receptionist for well over twenty years at this hotel and had seen more than enough weirdos come through the door. A quick glance at the composite drawing confirmed that the deliveryman wasn’t the guy they were looking for. Should the guy take longer than the usual amount of time for his delivery, he could always contact the police. He knew they were nearby, because they had told him so.

He found the name followed by the room number on his computer screen. “Correct,” he answered curtly and focused all of his attention back on his television program.

“Thanks,” said the deliveryman, and continued on to the elevator and pressed the button. The display above the elevator door indicated that the elevator was on the fourth floor. Patiently, he waited for the elevator door to come back down and open its doors for him.

“Package for our room, coming up in the elevator,” Luca Mandelli whispered in the microphone attached to the lapel of his suit jacket. “He resembles our suspect somewhat and is carrying a brightly colored box with a blue blow on top.”

Out of the three detectives guarding the hotel and, more importantly, the room belonging to the Kolwijn family, he was the oldest and the one who was the least physically fit. But there was nothing wrong with his ability to observe and to fully take in his surroundings. The two detectives posted on the third floor, however, were much younger and in top physical condition.

Roberto Parolo and Antonio Ranocchia made eye contact quickly. Parolo stood directly across from room 34 and Ranocchia was in the stairwell on the far side of the third floor. They had made an airtight plan and decided which position was strategically best. Parolo would always remain in the area of room 38, and Ranocchia would block the only available escape route. If the suspect wanted to take the elevator, he would have to pass Parolo first. He was six foot two, very muscled, and a champion kickboxer in his weight class. Antonio Ranocchia was of a smaller stature and not nearly as muscled as his colleague. He was a quiet thirty-four-year-old man and got on well with most of his colleagues. However, he had quite an unexpected temper. If things didn’t quite go his way during an arrest, the suspect could sometimes suffer some quick and unforeseen hits, ones they never saw coming from a detective of his size and posture.

The elevator door opened. The deliveryman took no note of Parolo, who faced him with his back and was patting himself down, pretending to be looking for his room key. The man held the box in front of him and walked straight to room 38. When he stood in front of the door, he placed the package under his left arm and raised his right arm to knock on the door.

Ranocchia came out of the stairwell with his gun drawn and pointed his weapon at the deliveryman. “Don’t move.”

The man froze. Parolo was next to the man in just a few quick steps.

“What are you delivering?” the broad-shouldered detective asked him.

The deliveryman didn’t know where to look first. At the barrel of the gun pointed at him or at the face of the man with the body of a professional wrestler.

“I don’t know,” he answered, his eyes remaining fixed on Ranocchia, who walked toward him with his gun still drawn.

“How come you don’t know? The person who sends it has to tell your company what it is ahead of time, don’t they?”

The deliveryman shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not with a company. Someone asked me to deliver this package to this room.”

Ranocchia gauged the situation again and withdrew his gun. He stood next to the man, who was now closed in between the two detectives. He showed his badge to the deliveryman, who nodded in response. Even though he was clearly surprised, it was obviously he had already understood that these men questioning him were police officers.

“Follow me,” Ranocchia said. As the three of them walked toward the stairs, Petra looked up from the television. They were watching an Italian show from bed, while Niels dosed off in his own bed. She knew from experience that it would only be a matter of a few minutes before he would fall asleep.

“What is going on in the hallway?” she whispered to Hans.

“I have no idea, but I don’t hear anything anymore, and I don’t want to wake up Niels.”

Petra nodded and dropped her head back down on to the pillow. “You’re right. If they need anything from us, I’m sure they will let us know.”

“Exactly!”

With the deliveryman between them, Ranocchia and Parolo walked into the lounge, where Luca Mandelli was waiting for them. The experienced detective looked at the box and carefully inspected the suspect.
What a strange sight
, he thought, but said nothing.

“What should we do?” Parolo asked. “Call it in to the bomb squad?”

Ranocchia bit his lip and slowly shook his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t hear anything ticking, and I don’t smell any recognizable odor—of Semtex or any other type of explosive, for example.”

“Explosives?” the deliveryman said surprised. “Why would I have to deliver those? I’m just here to drop off a box, not to blow anything up.”