Black Run (17 page)

“I hadn't thought of that.
Bravo
, good point. I'll give that some thought.”

“What the fuck is all this junk on my desk?” shouted Rocco as he surveyed the envelopes and packages. It was Leone Miccichè's mail. He remembered that he'd ordered the Champoluc postmaster to forward it all to him. Zealous and terrified, the postmaster had complied. He sat down and started going through it. Bills. A letter from the bank. The monthly bills from Sky TV. A letter from the Italian Alpine Club. He opened it. Membership renewal. Nothing interesting. He tossed it all into the trash can.

He sat down at his desk, pulled the key out from under the framed photograph of Marina, and opened the top drawer. He needed to smoke a fatty, calm and untroubled, to relax his nerves and ward off exhaustion. He grabbed the first big joint, and already his thoughts were racing to Nora. Would he sleep with her tonight? He couldn't say. He didn't like to stay out all night. He liked his bed, his mattress and the way it recognized him every night and embraced him, along with the blankets. He lit the joint and took the first drag. Then Annarita came back into his mind, the woman from the ski shop. The woman who had rejected him with the force of an industrial spring. Sure, he'd mistaken the courtesy of an experienced saleswoman for a different kind of willingness. And sure, that was an unforgivable error. Perhaps, he thought to himself, it was because he was accustomed to the oafish rudeness of Roman shopkeepers. That kind of smile and that sort of courtesy have a very different meaning. In Rome. In Aosta and its surrounding province, on the other hand, it was nothing more than the simple courtesy due to a customer. Nothing more. He was on his second drag when someone knocked at the door.

“No!” shouted the deputy police chief. He took a third, deep drag, then crushed out the joint right on his desktop. A shower of sparks spilled to the floor like a fireworks display. He spat on the butt and dropped it into the trash. He stood up. The first thing he did was go over and throw open the windows. It was already dark outside. A blade of icy cold stabbed him in the chest.

“Jesus fucking Christ it's cold,” he said, then waved his hands in the air as if he were trying to smack a fly and went over to the door of his office. He cracked it open. Officer Casella's face appeared.

“What do you want?”

“Farinelli from the forensics team is here. Shall I show him in?”

Rocco turned around and looked back into his office. He sniffed the air. The smell of weed was still too strong. He turned back around and looked at Casella.

“Does Farinelli have a cold?”

Casella made a face. “A cold? No, I don't think so, but why?”

“Well, then, show him into the passport room.”

“Should I have him fill out the application form?” asked Casella.

“What application form?”

“For a passport.”

“Casella, the only application form I wish you'd fill out is the one for being transferred to the Calabrian hinterland. Now get out of my sight!” he said, shoving him away and shutting the door.

Farinelli was toying with the plastic cup, still full of coffee. When Rocco Schiavone walked into the passport office, he didn't even look him in the face.

“How do you people manage to drink this filth? One of these days I'm going to have to take it in and have the laboratory analyze it.”

“Don't do it,” Rocco replied, sitting down across from his colleague. “There are certain things you'd be better off not knowing. You'll live longer.”

“You can say that loud and clear, no?”

“Yes, I can say that loud and clear. Did you come here to dig into my past, or do you have something truly sensational to show me?”

Farinelli leaned over and picked up the leather bag. He opened it up. So slowly that he seemed like a Japanese Zen monk performing the traditional tea ceremony. Rocco propped his chin on his hand and sat there watching. Farinelli had a big nose, but it looked good on his broad, round face. He had a slight case of prognathism, and thanks to his jutting jaw, there seemed to always be a mocking smile playing on his lips. His quick, dark eyes were intelligent, but with that precise intelligence of an accountant who will split a hair four ways. He didn't remind Rocco of any particular animal. He'd been racking his memory for a resemblance for some time now. And he was searching in particular among the reptiles. Because only reptiles had eyes like that, dark and steady.

“How is your wife?” he asked him.

Farinelli stared at him. “Fine. Why?”

“No reason, just asking. Is she still pretty?”

“I'd prefer it if you didn't give my wife too much thought, frankly.”

Finally, Farinelli pulled out some papers. “Well, then, two very important items. The first has to do with the handkerchief found in the corpse's mouth.”

“Right.”

“Soaked in blood. We examined it.”

“Let me guess: the blood was Leone Miccichè's!”

Farinelli ran his tongue over his teeth. It looked as if he was tempted to spit in the deputy police chief's face. “Of course,” he replied, “but that's not all. You see, we did a simple analysis and found that it belonged to type A negative. Which was Miccichè's blood group. But then, almost by accident, you know what we discovered?”

“That there's another blood group?”

“That's right. Group O. Got that? Group O negative 4.4, to be specific. And it was a man's blood. Which tells us one of two things: either the murderer cut himself, or maybe Leone bit him while he was stuffing the handkerchief into his mouth—if, that is, Miccichè was still alive when that was done—or else it's blood from an old wound. But I think that we have the killer's blood type.”

“Excellent! Now all we have to do is take blood samples from a couple thousand people, analyze them all, find out which of them lacks an alibi, and bang! We've got the murderer.”

“Was that a joke?”

“Forget about it, Farinelli. Excellent work all the same,” he said and slapped him on the back. “That's wonderful news.”

“Yes, but I have another piece of news that's even stranger.”

“I'm all ears.”

“You remember the tobacco that we found at the crime scene?”

“Yes, all crumbled, of course. Well?”

“It's not from a Marlboro.”

Rocco suddenly clapped his hand to his mouth.

“What is it?” asked Farinelli.

“Do you know what kind of tobacco it is?”

“We'd have to do some very lengthy and labor-intensive analyses. But if it would be useful . . .”

“It would be useful as hell. As hell,” said Rocco and, lost in thought, he stood up from his chair. “Tell me something, Luca, did you by any chance find the lighter up there?”

“No. We didn't find it. Why?”

“In that case I think I know why Leone took off both gloves.
Grazie
, Luca . . . great work.” Then, as he strode out of the passport office, he shouted loudly: “Pierron!”

Italo braked to a halt at the foot of the cableway. Darkness had already fallen some time ago, and the skiers had left in their cars. Up high on the slopes, Rocco could see the headlights of the snowcats grooming the snow. The shops were still open, and the bright, cheery lights gave the whole town a Christmassy atmosphere, even if Christmas was long since over.

The temperature was well below freezing. Rocco made the futile effort of fastening the top button of his overcoat, but the chilly hand of winter cold still managed to worm its way under his clothing, sadistically caressing his skin.

“Where should we look for him?” asked Italo, clicking shut the BMW's electronic door locks.

Rocco said nothing. He headed straight over to Mario and Michael's bar, which was where the town's ski instructors met to drink and socialize. Outside was a stand that sold
vin brulé
, and a couple of instructors wearing red down jackets, their faces sunburned, their ski boots still on their feet, were joking and laughing, downing glasses of the mulled wine with several Brits.

“Deputy Police Chief Schiavone. I'm looking for Omar. Where is he?”

The cross-eyed ski instructor turned around, a glass of wine gripped in one hand. He was tipsy. “He's inside. Playing cards.”

“Grazie.”
Rocco went past the
vin brulé
stand and turned to Italo. “Have a glass. I'll be right back.”

The bar's plate-glass windows were fogged up, a sign that the place was packed to the rafters. Rocco pulled open the double doors and walked in, and a wave of heat like a tropical rain forest washed over him, along with a strong smell of alcohol and coffee. There wasn't even standing room. The noise of the steam venting from the Faema espresso machine making punch, cappuccino, and tea, the loud voices, the laughter, and the clinking of glasses was deafening. The deputy police chief shot a look around the place, a full 360-degree observation. He glimpsed Amedeo Gunelli, the young man who had first found Leone, sitting at a small table with a couple of people. There was the chunky female ski instructor, along with her curly-haired younger lover and colleague. Then he glimpsed another patch of red. This was the regulation fleece worn by Omar Borghetti. He was sitting at a table with three other people, cards in hand, playing a round of Scopone Scientifico. He slapped a card down on the table and shouted
“Scopa!”
and his partner shouted in joy. Omar smiled. “Which makes twenty-one for us, no?” It was at that moment that he felt Rocco Schiavone's hand clamp down on his shoulder, as heavy as the scoop of a steam shovel.

Mario had given him two chairs and offered the use of the pantry, where they now sat, crammed in with the crates and cartons. They sat face-to-face, Rocco studying Omar. Omar studying the floor. The deputy police chief said nothing.

He waited. He let the seconds tick past without saying a word.

Omar Borghetti was a little older than forty, but his physique was that of a much younger man. His hair was full and short, flecked with gray. His face was tanned and lined with dozens of fine, light-colored wrinkles, especially around the eyes, where they seemed to highlight the aquamarine hue of the irises.
The man must clean up on the slopes
, thought Rocco. He imagined dozens of women and girls, young and old, exclaiming adoringly, “Teacher! Teacher! How'm I doing?” and carelessly falling into his virile, powerful arms so that he was forced to catch them.

The awkward silence made the skier uncomfortable, and he occasionally ran his hands over the skin of his freshly shaven face. Skin that was dotted with dozens of nicks and cuts, especially on the neck.

“Where have you been till now?” Rocco Schiavone asked suddenly. “I was looking for you. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“I came all the way up to the ski school. You weren't there. Didn't your co-workers tell you?”

“Sure, but I just assumed it was about a fine I hadn't paid last month. You know, there's always time to take care of that kind of thing, no?” He put on a fetching little smile, as if to say, “You and I understand each other, right?”

“A fine?!” the deputy police chief roared, and Omar's little smile vanished like a receding wave on the beach sand. “Do you think for one second that a deputy police chief is going to waste his time chasing after a fucking fine?”

“Then why were you looking for me?”

“Because I've fallen head over heels in love with you,” said Rocco. “You unsightly idiot, when the police come looking for you, you get right in touch, do I make myself clear?”

“Why don't you lower your voice?”

“Because we're not on the ski slopes here, Borghetti, and I could take you in right now if I wanted. In here, I'm a deputy police chief and you're less than shit, and you answer my questions, get it?”

“You're an animal. Address me with respect!”

Rocco leaped to his feet. “If you don't shut that toilet mouth of yours, I'm going to do something to you that'll give your dentist plenty of work to do.”

“You're good at hiding behind your uniform.”

“I'm not wearing a uniform, you piece of shit, I'm wearing a loden overcoat. And I'll wait for you whenever you want and wherever you want and I'll break you down into a steaming pile of chopped meat!”

“Ask me the questions you need to ask and then get the fuck out of my face!” Omar shouted.

The first thing Omar felt was a gust of air, then the impact of the hand slamming into his face and whipping his head around until he almost tumbled out of his chair. Omar's eyes bulged, as if in disbelief at what had just happened to him. Rocco was on his feet, both hands gripping the chair's backrest, looming over him like an onrushing thunderstorm. “You don't understand who you're dealing with yet,” Rocco said.

Omar put his hand up to touch his cheek. His right nostril was smeared with blood.

“Here,” said the deputy police chief, suddenly shifting into the more respectful Italian formal and handing him a paper tissue. The ski instructor mopped blood from his mouth. “Okay, we started off on the wrong foot. I'll try to keep the tone of our conversation to one of mutual respect, Signor Borghetto.”

Clearly bipolar
, thought Omar.
This guy is completely insane.

Rocco lit a cigarette. “Let's talk about us, okay?” He spouted a plume of smoke up into the air, then went back to looking at the ski instructor. “Why were you in the office, up at the pistes, on Thursday evening after closing time?”

“Thursday?”

“The night Leone Miccichè was killed. Why were you still up there?”

“Me? I wasn't up there. I never stay in the office after four thirty.”

His chin was quivering, and his eyes were blinking. Rocco never took his eyes off him. “The office door was open. You're the only one who has a set of keys, besides whoever's turn it is to lock up. Who could have opened the door but you?”