Black Run (27 page)

“Listen here, you and your questions!” broke in Police Chief Corsi. “This isn't the first time you've made a special effort to trip up the findings of my office.”

“But all I—”

“And that's
not
all. Just pipe down. Let us hear what the deputy police chief has to say. Maybe then we'd finally have a chance to read something sensible in your newspaper, too.”

“That's sheer insanity,” blurted the reporter. The other members of the press snickered. There was no mistaking the fact that the big-nosed reporter and the chief of police had grudges that went back even further than any of the others.

“Pardon me,” Rocco Schiavone broke in, “could I ask what paper you work for?”

“La Stampa.”

Now Rocco smiled too. It was all as plain as day. It wasn't the reporter who got on Corsi's nerves; it was the paper.
La Stampa
. The same paper where the man who had stolen the police chief's wife so many years ago had worked.

“Let's get back to Luigi Bionaz.” Rocco resumed the thread of his story. Then, to make sure he wasn't annoying his boss, he asked, “If I may, Dottore?”

Corsi nodded seriously.

“There's another reason we have Luigi Bionaz dead to rights. He's the head snowcat operator. He decides who goes out and where. Which pistes need grooming, what shortcuts to take. Most important of all, he buries Leone Miccichè, still alive, right in the middle of one of those mountain lanes that those treaded monsters use to head back to town. And in fact, at his earliest opportunity, he sends poor Amedeo Gunelli up there. And Amedeo, unsuspecting, runs his snowcat right over Leone's living body, lying under a foot and a half of snow, and shreds him into a thousand pieces.”

“Maybe he was already dead,” ventured the schnozzola from
La Stampa
.

“No. Leone was still alive. Our medical examiner, Fumagalli, is positive.”

“In that case, it's a murder without a murder weapon!” concluded the bald-headed reporter.

“Exactly. But the real murder weapon is the knowledge that Luigi Bionaz had of the schedules and routes of the snowcats. He was the one who directed all that traffic. And that night, he insisted that Amedeo leave the work he was in the middle of doing and head back down to town. So Leone was buried and half-frozen, but he still could have dug his way out of his hiding place. That could have become dangerous for Luigi, no? Think it over. If a monster of that size runs you over, what are the odds of tracking down the weapon, the object that clubbed Leone over the head when he was still alive, knocking him out? Well, I can tell you. The odds are zero! That was Luigi Bionaz's stroke of genius.”

“How did he steal Omar Borghetti's handkerchief?”

“That's a whole different matter. Luigi has access to Luisa's chalet when and however he wants. Omar Borghetti, as Pec's ex and longtime friend, would go to see Luisa almost every night after work. Among the things that bound them together, aside from their friendship, was a matter of money. Luisa owes a large sum of money to the head of the ski instructors. Stealing Omar's house keys was child's play for Luigi.”

“But what proof do you have?” asked the blonde with the thighs. Her fellow journalists nodded collectively. Police Chief Corsi felt called upon to intervene. “The proof is the tobacco, Luigi Bionaz's absolute lack of an alibi for five o'clock, when the killer knocked Miccichè out, and eventually the child that will be born. And DNA evidence is stronger than fingerprints.”

“What do Luisa Pec and Luigi Bionaz have to say for themselves?” asked the bald reporter as he jotted down notes on his pad.

“Luisa Pec has already offered a spontaneous confession. Luigi Bionaz, on the other hand, insists he's innocent.”

Only then did Rocco notice that standing behind the journalists was Magistrate Baldi. He was smiling. Rocco returned his silent greeting.

“Bravo,
Dottor Schiavone. Excellent work. Fast and precise,” said Baldi, giving him a slap on the back as the journalists filed out of the conference room.

“Grazie,
Dottore.”

Baldi looked at him seriously. He nodded. “I asked and you provided.”

“Provided what?”

“The murderer. Better yet, the murderers. You kept your promise.”

“Very true, Dottor Baldi. Now how about you? Are you going to keep your promise, too?”

The judge smiled. He looked over at the chief of police, who had stopped to talk to a woman. “Sure. I'll keep my promise. I'm a man of my word, you know? But can I just ask you one thing?”

“Go ahead.”

“Where were they from?”

Rocco nodded. “Sri Lanka. There were eighty-seven of them. And they had an appointment with someone who had jobs for them. I couldn't bring myself to round them up as if they were weapons themselves.”

“Sri Lankans,” murmured Maurizio Baldi. “Excellent work, Schiavone. But don't forget: you owe me a favor.”

Rocco nodded.

“Maybe in the end, you and I really will find a way of becoming friends,” said the judge, flashing him a radiant smile. “Tomorrow morning, come by and see me in my office. I want to hear your opinion. I told you about it, no? I've got a nice big pile of tax evaders on my desk. I'd really like to know what you think.”

Rocco heaved a sigh. “Certainly, Dottore. I'll be there tomorrow morning. But could I give you a piece of advice? The less you're seen with me, the better it will be for you. I'm just saying—for your career and for your future.”

“Future? What future, Schiavone? We're in Italy, hadn't you noticed?” And he left the deputy police chief standing there. Rocco put a hand in his pocket and pulled out his pack of Camels. It was empty. He cursed through clenched teeth and glared at the cameramen, who were stowing their video cameras in their canvas cases and aluminum suitcases. He looked around for the blonde with the thighs and the eyes of an Asian cat. But she was gone, without a trace.

When the car driven by Italo reached Brissogne, it was past nine. The exterior lights of the prison were all on. The other windows seemed like dead, menacing eyes. An icy wind was blowing, whipping whirlwinds of snow off the asphalt in the glow of the headlights.

“Is this going to take long, Rocco?”

“No more than a few minutes.”

There Luisa sat, her arms resting on the table, a water bottle beside her. Rocco walked into the room and looked the woman in the eyes. Her eyes were weary and bloodshot, clearly hoping for nothing better than sleep, and an end to that shitty day. Luisa's head slumped onto her chest as if she'd suddenly fallen asleep.

Rocco placed his forefinger under her chin and lifted her face. “Why?” he asked.

Luisa dropped her gaze. “For a while now, things between me and Luigi . . . had been a little out of control. Leone was jealous. Life with him was just hellish.”

“But you kept telling yourself,
We have debts; this guy owns property down in Sicily . . .
No?”

“I didn't want it to end like this. Luigi had promised that he'd just talk to him.”

“Luigi had already made up his mind to kill him. He had a very specific plan. Didn't you know that?”

“He was only supposed to talk to him, to see if he could settle things peacefully. That was the understanding. Luigi took the initiative.”

“That's a technique as ancient as Rome, you know that? The idea of dribbling the ball back and forth between the two of you.”

“You don't believe me?”

“No. I say that the two of you planned it out together. You may now be sorry that you did it, but Luisa, you did it. Listen to me. You're nailed on this one. And you know perfectly well what it is that nails you: the evidence that you're carrying in your belly. Right?”

Luisa touched her midriff.

“Get it off your chest now, and then we won't have to talk about it again. At least try to get out of this situation with a shred of dignity—that is, if you ever had any to start with.”

Luisa Pec was crying now. “If I tell you one important thing that pins this on Luigi, then will you give me a hand?”

“What kind of a hand?”

“I mean, will you talk to the judge?”

“We'll see. What are we talking about?”

“Thursday evening, at five fifteen, Luigi called me on his cell phone. He was freaked out. He told me to go up to the Crest shortcut. He said that something disastrous had happened.”

Rocco remained silent.

“I was there, too, that night. I got there afterward. Luigi had already buried Leone.” Her tears started pouring out, as if someone had left the faucet open. “And he told me that it was too late, there was nothing he could do now. That he was dead. And that the only thing left to do was to try to protect each other as best we could.”

“Leone was still alive, under the snow—do you know that?”

Luisa looked the deputy police chief in the eyes. “Leone . . . ?”

“That's right. He died two hours later. Run over by Amedeo Gunelli, in a snowcat that ripped him up into eighteen thousand pieces.”

Luisa hid her face in her hands, and her chest heaved in an explosive series of sobs. Rocco waited for the woman to calm down. Then he pulled her hands away from her face. “Who was there, besides you and Luigi?”

“No one else. Just the two of us. And . . . Leone.”

“Where was Omar Borghetti?”

“I don't know. He'd come to see me half an hour earlier. I owe him money.”

“Yes. I know about that. But what is this supposed crushing proof you have against Luigi?”

“Get my cell phone—the prison guards have it.”

“What would I find on it?”

“Search through the pictures. There's one that leaves no doubt.”

“What's in this photograph?”

“It's Luigi, standing in front of the pile of snow where Leone was buried. He has a shovel in his hand and he's looking down at the ground.”

“Did you take the picture?”

Luisa nodded her head.

“That meant you had him by the balls, didn't it?”

“I don't know. It was an awful thing, just terrible. I didn't know what to do. I hadn't wanted to kill him, and it just seemed that if something went wrong, that photo might help me out, no?”

Rocco lost it. “Fuck you, Luisa Pec, you and your son-of-a-bitch eyes. I never want to speak to you again. I'll take a look at your cell phone, I'll enter it as an exhibit, but I'll do everything I can to make sure you do time behind bars.”

“I didn't want to—”

“Again? There are at least two reasons that I'm pissed at you. First, you've made my life a sequence of pains in the ass over the past few days that I just can't believe. Second, you force me to shove my hands into this shit right up to my elbows, and believe me, that's something I'd gladly do without.”

He took two more steps. Then he looked Luisa straight in the eyes. “You know something a great English poet once wrote? ‘I know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.' ”

“Why, what are you, a saint, Dottor Schiavone?”

“No, I'm the worst son of a bitch there is, Luisa. But let me tell you, I face that reckoning with myself every blessed day. When I look at myself in the mirror, or a body of water, or when I drive, when I eat, when I go to the bathroom. Even when I look up at this fucking gray sky you have around here. Always. And sooner or later, I'll have to settle my account. But there are no innocent corpses on my conscience. And if you don't think that's enough, let me promise, I couldn't give a flying fuck about it.” He started to leave, but stopped when he reached the door. “All the same, there is a compliment you deserve. You look like two great actresses, did you know that? And the performance you put on that first day at police headquarters, when you found out that the body was your husband's, well, I fell for it. You just picked the wrong profession. You should have tried out at Cinecittà.”

And he stormed out, slamming the interview-room door behind him.

“Should I take you home, Rocco?” asked Italo.

Rocco nodded. He didn't feel like seeing Nora, he didn't feel like going out to eat . . . He didn't feel like feeling like anything. All he wanted was a shower, a fried egg, some hypnotic channel surfing, and then falling asleep on the sofa, in hopes of a long, dreamless sleep.

“Why did they kill him?”

“For the money. Because they were lovers. Because they were expecting a child and Leone had found out it wasn't his. Because they're cowards. Because they're a pair of shitheads.”

Italo touched his lip, where a scab had formed. “Listen, Rocco. That thing we did with Sebastiano.”

“Right.”

“Do you think we'll do it again?”

“Are you sorry you did it?”

“No. I just want to know.”

“If a good opportunity rolls around, sure. We can try. Why? Did you have something in mind?”

Italo heaved a deep sigh. “Yeah, I have something in mind. But we'd have to talk it over.”

“Not tonight.”

“No, we've done enough for tonight.”

“Perhaps you don't understand what I'm trying to tell you . . . If the Confindustria axiom holds true, then . . .”

“Cut the potatoes into thin strips, along with the red and yellow peppers.”

“Still, even playing with a 4-4-2 formation can be risky against a team as powerful as . . .”

“All the major stock market indexes have dropped, pointing to a . . .”

“Is Robin Hood, prince of thieves, capable of love?”

I wonder if it's possible to change channels so fast that you still get some complete sense out of what you hear. Or at least something no worse than what they're actually broadcasting. It's started snowing again. Hard. Look at how the flakes are hitting the window. They say that no snowflake is identical to any other. But who did they have check them? That is, did someone sit down and sort through twelve million snowflakes before they could melt? Or maybe not. Maybe snowflakes aren't like fingerprints. Everyone has a fingerprint. Every snowflake is different. My eyelids are starting to droop. I need some sleep. Here on the couch? In front of the television set like an old drunk? But what if I close my eyes and I see the pictures?