Big Italy (35 page)

“Why kill you, commissario?”

“Because with time I would get to the truth.”

“What truth?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I haven’t gotten there.”

“You can’t accuse the Questore like that.”

“He committed suicide, Magagna. The act of a desperate man. The act of somebody who sees there’s no alternative.”

“Alternative to what, commissario?” Magagna asked. “The Questore left no note. You’re merely surmising.”

“He’s connected with Bassi’s murder—and possibly Turellini’s.”

“Why?”

“No idea.”

“Then how can you accuse him of murder?”

“The Questore didn’t murder anybody with his own hands. Other than himself. But he was there at Bassi’s place. Within a few hours of the body being found.”

“He’d probably been informed.”

“Of course he’d been informed. Magagna, the Questore was not a detective. I’d never seen him out on an inquiry. He’d have gotten his fine clothes dirty. Freezing his balls off in a stakeout?” Trotti shook his head. “There was something he wanted in Bassi’s apartment. He was frightened Pisa and I had found it. He knew Pisa had taken the tape from the answering machine.”

“What did he want the tape for?”

“It wasn’t the tape. There was nothing on it apart from some message, probably from Signora Viscontini, that had never been wiped off.”

“What was the Questore looking for?”

“Something that could incriminate him.”

“Commissario, a Questore’s not a murderer. Not in the real world.”

“Since when has Italy been the real world?” Trotti laughed but there was no amusement. “In the real world, politicians aren’t on the take. There’s no Tangentopoli in the real world. In the real world, there’s no collusion between the secret services and the Mafia. Between the terrorists and the Freemasons and the politicians. In the real world, there are no Giulio Andreottis, there are no Bettino Craxis. But we’re not in the real world.” Trotti raised his glass. “Welcome to Italy, Magagna.”

“There’s no case against him.”

“Of course there is.”

“What?”

“Pisanelli and I were driven off the road after going down to see the journalist Maluccio in Alessandria.”

“Organized crime.” Magagna raised his shoulders. “Nothing to do with the Questore.”

Trotti banged his hand against the Formica tabletop. “When are you going to understand that the Socialist Party
is
organized crime? The Socialists and the Christian Democrats—they’ve had this country sewn up the way the Cosa Nostra has Little Italy sewn up in New York. Only this isn’t Little Italy. This isn’t New York. It’s Big Italy—and the politicians’ cut is a damned sight higher.”

Magagna leaned forward and took hold of the bottle. He raised
it towards Anna Maria who simply shook her head without taking her eyes from her cousin.

“Look, Magagna. You’re not stupid. Can’t you see Maluccio was framed? Somebody wanted him out of the way—possibly because of the article in
Vissuto
.”

“Who?”

A gesture of irritation. “I don’t know who and I don’t know why. The cocaine found in Maluccio’s car was a setup. The man neither drinks nor smokes. A family man—and you’re telling me that with two little girls and a loving wife at home he was suddenly going to get involved in the drug trade? In Alessandria? In a place that’s been the private property of the Calabrians and the Pugliesi for the last decade?”

“Who framed Maluccio?”

“No idea. But I do know it’s not easy to throw an innocent person into prison. Suppose you or I wanted some innocent bastard put away for a few weeks. Not easy, Gabriele.”

“Gabriele?”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“You’ve never used it before.”

“I never called Pisa Pierangelo,” Trotti said. He took another gulp of wine.

“Sangue di Giuda makes you maudlin, commissario.”

Trotti clicked his tongue in irritation. “It stops me from screaming.”

“Why scream?”

“Because Pisanelli’s going to die and it’s my fault.”

“You didn’t push him off the road.”

Trotti said, “You know he intended to leave the police? Anna told me Pisa was thinking of going back to his medical studies.”

“Then he can specialise in intensive care.”

“You’re an unfeeling bastard, Magagna.”

Anna Maria stood up. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” She carefully set her chair under the table and went towards the kitchen door. “I’m sleeping on a mattress on the floor. If Anna Ermagni comes, put her in the big bed. Tell her not to trip over me.” She closed the door silently behind her.

“An old maid,” Trotti whispered. “A sour old maid. She hates it when anybody starts to appreciate a good wine.”

“Very kind to me.”

“Her fiancé was killed by the Germans and she subsequently
married a man she never loved. A Dutchman.” Trotti added, “When I was a boy, I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.”

“I prefer your Signora Scola.”

The smile vanished. “You’re a married man, Magagna.”

“You can call me Gabriele.”

“You’re married. So is Signora Scola.”

“That doesn’t stop her from holding your arm, commissario.”

“I’m a married man as well,” Trotti said, and standing up went to the sink. He ran water on to his hands and then rinsed his face. His eyes burned. He felt tired, worn out, but he knew he would not be able to sleep.

Trotti filled a saucepan with water and set it on the rear burner. “But she’s an interesting woman.” The blue flame jumped to life. “Your cousin?”

“Simona Scola’s intelligent.”

Magagna smiled. “Attractive, too.”

“Got a degree in child psychology.”

“Commissario, when you hear the word psychology, you pull out your gun.”

“I’d heard about Scola from various people. At the time of the Barnardi child. Somebody told me to contact her and amazingly, she managed to get the little Alessio Barnardi to reveal who had been molesting him.” Trotti took a jar of loose chamomile from the cupboard over the sink.

“That’s no justification for holding her arm.”

“With the Viscontini woman—she saw I was being aggressive and she spontaneously fell into the friendly, understanding big sister role. Sweet and sour. I swear, Magagna, it’s a technique I’ve used with a thousand men. But it’s the first time I’ve worked as a team with a woman. Instead of clamming up, the Viscontini woman told us what she knew about Bassi.”

“What did she tell you?”

“It’s a shame Simona’s not a cop.”

“You could always set up a detective agency together.”

“FBI? Like Fabrizio Bassi?”

Together the two men began to laugh while the water started to boil and dance in the saucepan. “Christ!”

A pale face had appeared at the kitchen window, to the left of the sink. A pale face deformed by the mist of the glass.

A hand tapped lightly at the pane.

“D
OES THE
P
RONTUARIO
mean anything to you?”

“Is this
Lascia o raddoppia
? Another Mike Bongiorno quiz?”

“I was told you were difficult, commissario. Difficult but honest.”

“I was told you were from the South.”

Judge Abete laughed. “You don’t expect Southerners to be honest?” There was hardly any light other than the green dials of the dashboard but Trotti caught the movement of white teeth.

“I don’t expect Italians to be honest.”

It was a Fiat Argenta. The engine ran quietly, keeping the car heating effective.

Trotti had no idea where they were. Probably fifteen kilometers out of the city. They had driven northwards. When he pulled back the curtains, there was an amber glow against the sky.

Milan. Moral capital of the Republic.

“You’re lucky to be alive, Trotti.”

“What Prontuario, Signor Giudice?”

The voice came out of the darkness. “Firstly, I must apologize. All this secrecy. Coming to fetch you in the middle of the night. But I feel it’s the least I owe you. It’s the least I owe Bassi.”

“Bassi?”

“Not necessarily the most intelligent of men. But I suspect that like you he was honest.”

“Or unimaginative.”

Abete laughed in the dark. “You denigrate yourself. You should know in Milan there are people who have respect for you, Trotti. For you and the people like you who’ve worked away these last
thirty years and more. Keeping their faith in a Republic that’s a republic only in name.” A slight movement on the rear seat beside Trotti. “That’s what I was afraid of. Secrecy that allows collusion and connivance. Secrecy that’s the bedfellow of the corrupt and the corruptible.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about.”

Again the laugh. “I’m a lawyer by training.”

“You astound me, Signor Giudice.”

“I’ve taken a certain risk in coming to see you. Not for myself. Personal risk’s something you try to put out of your head. Anyway, Milan isn’t Palermo and I’m not Falcone. Just a second-rate judge buried away on the third floor of the Palazzo di Giustizia.”

“What risk?”

“The inquiry.”

“The inquiry into Turellini’s murder?”

“I can’t frighten you off, Trotti, in the same way I did Bassi. You do realize there never was an injunction. That was simply an act of bile on Bassi’s part—or perhaps
Vissuto
hoped to increase their readership by denigrating the Palazzo di Giustizia. No injunction—but it’s true I had to frighten Bassi.”

“You want to frighten me?”

“You’re a professional. I hope you’re more intelligent.”

“Everybody keeps telling me Bassi was a fool.”

“He got himself killed, didn’t he?”

“Falcone and Borsellino in Sicily were fools?”

“They were fools if they wanted to live out their lives and die in their slippers.” Abete paused. “Fools die young.”

“At least they achieve something.”

“Let me tell you a little anecdote, Trotti. It might help you understand what I’m up against. What di Pietro and the other judges both in and out of the investigative pool at Mani Pulite are up against.”

“You wouldn’t have a sweet, by any chance?”

“Trotti’s rhubarb? No, I’m afraid not. But perhaps my driver has some chewing gum.” Silently, without seeming to move, the driver handed a packet over his shoulder—Trotti saw his hand against the light of the dashboard. Trotti took it and the movement of his arm set off the pain in his shoulder. Brooklyn chewing gum, banana-flavored.

“A couple of months ago I was in my office with a Calabrian. A Calabrian like me—but who’d landed up on the other side of the bars
at San Vittore. A career within the ‘Ndrangheta and one of the first people to opt for the government witness program. Un pentito. An intelligent man, but scarcely repentant. A man who, with a different background, could have gone far. Shrewd, with a sense of humor and a good understanding of human nature.”

“Why San Vittore?”

“The man’s already doing seven years for kidnapping. At the same time, he was on appeal against a life sentence for murder. I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that although we’re different, he and I, in other ways we could be Siamese twins. We are, I believe, all of us, victims of destiny.”

“Some of us are more victims than others.”

“This Calabrian was in my office and he seemed in a particularly good mood. I asked him why. He leaned forward and speaking in dialect—he’s from Brancaleone—‘You’ll see, Dr. Abete,’ he told me in his hoarse whisper, ‘my appeal will be upheld. Somebody’s already had a word with the judges.’ I of course laughed. There was absolutely no possibility of the man’s winning the appeal.”

“And?”

“Two weeks later the appeal went before the court. My fellow Calabrian got off.”

“How?”

“People seem to think our Palazzo di Giustizia’s hermetically sealed so that we can get on as we please. That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point?”

“We can’t afford the leaks, Trotti. We can’t afford having fellow magistrates being suborned. After all these years, at last we’re getting the support we should’ve had when this First Republic was created.”

“After forty years of sitting on your hands?”

“Little choice, Trotti. You know that.”

“I know nothing.”

Judge Abete sighed before continuing. “Things are changing, thank God. That’s why I’ve come to see you like a thief in the night. That’s why I had to scare Bassi off. That’s why we told the Carabinieri at Segrate we were temporarily shelving the Turellini dossier.”

“Why?”

“Does the Prontuario farmaceutico mean anything to you?”

“We’re still playing at double or quits, Signor Giudice? Another quiz program for Berlusconi?”

“W
E
’
RE
I
TALIANS
—
THE EASY
victims of our own rhetoric. If we say something often enough, we begin to believe it.”

“What do we believe?”

“Go into a court throughout this country. The law is equal for all. Written in big letters for everyone to see. For everyone to believe. And it’s true we do have good laws, Trotti. Just, equitable laws. In many ways, ours could be such a civilized country. Capital punishment we gave up years ago, while the Americans, who have no doubts concerning their moral superiority, still fry their compatriots—preferably the black ones and the poor ones—to death in the electric chair. Or with a syringe.”

“The Americans are no less victims of rhetoric than us?”

“There’s a big difference between them and us. When an American court decrees you’ll serve time in prison, no matter who you are, no matter how much you spend on your lawyer, that decision will be enforced.”

“And?”

“Without enforcement, there’s no law. Or rather, without enforcement, the law—so equitable in concept—exists not for your benefit but for the benefit of those who are more powerful than you, who can apply that law when it suits them. And who can forget about it when it ceases to serve their own interests.” Again the laugh and Trotti could feel Abete changing his position on the seat. “Let me give you an example.”

“Thanks.”

“Trotti, you only play at being the dull policeman.”