Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (13 page)

So Peppe asks Salvatore to do him a favor and take over his shift for a couple of hours, just long enough to go home and have a quickie with Lucia, called Lucy, because it's been a week since he's had a chance to see her in that flimsy negligee that drives him crazy. Sure, he'll have to slip Salvatore a few euros for standing in for him, of course he will, but Salvatore has a son at university and he's always after a few spare pennies. But on a May night, with the flowers and the love songs courting each other in the mild spring air as if it hasn't been a century since the last serenades, it's worth the money.

Peppe enters the apartment on tiptoe because he knows that if he wakes up the twins, so long, surprise, it'll take all night to get them back to sleep, and then no more fun with Lucia, called Lucy, in their nice bedroom, wallpapered in pink just the way she wanted it; just a couple more months and they'll have paid off the furniture, too, at last. Peppe hopes that Lucia, called Lucy, is still awake, because if she isn't she'll be startled to see him so unexpectedly.

Yes, Lucia called Lucy is awake. And she's sitting right on top of Luigi's tool, Luigi, the accountant who lives downstairs, who's divorced and works days so he has his nights free. As he pulls out his pistol, Peppe thinks that sure enough, he was right about night school, it had been an excellent idea, because accountants don't have to work the night shift, which means they have all the time to cultivate rewarding relationships with their neighbors.

It's just too bad about the negligee. That beautiful lace negligee that cost a small fortune and looked so good on Lucia, called Lucy. But now, riddled with holes and smeared with blood as it is, it's no good anymore. Just like Luigi's head: I'd love to see how you account for that, Mr. Accountant, with a nice big bullet hole in your forehead.

Suddenly Peppe is terribly sleepy. Mamma mia, how sleepy.

It must be the May air.

 

Look out for May.

Especially because you don't see it coming, accustomed as you are to winter's toxic residue, its last stubborn chills. Don't fall for it, because that sweet warm air does far worse damage.

 

Silvana is fifteen years old, and she's just had her hair done. It's Friday, she's going out tonight, and all the girls have to be gorgeous.

She's blonde, Silvana is, and her hair is a beautiful color, with copper highlights that emphasize her green eyes. Only her hair is ever so slightly curly, and taming the curls is a mess, especially when it's humid: after three seconds, her hair's wavy again. But these days straight is the look, and the boys look at her so happily when she has this mass of golden hair cascading down past her waist.

Silvana leaves the beauty parlor, waving goodbye to the girls who work there, ciao ciao, I'll let you know how it goes. Between a manicure and a shampoo, she told them all about this guy who's been hanging around, and how she really likes him; so do my hair extra nice today, girls, I'm on the hunt, if he doesn't introduce himself, that's it, I'll get a girlfriend of mine to introduce me to him, I'm not letting him get away.

May doesn't offer any do-overs: May is the perfect time to start something or end it.

Silvana gets on her moped, her helmet hanging off her arm; no way is she going to ruin her hairdo and anyway just feel that air, how wonderful. After all, home's not far. It's late, thinks Silvana: I'll get dressed and go out.

I need to look stunning tonight.

Matteo rolls down his car windows, both windows: Let's get some air in here, just smell that, how glorious. You can say whatever you want about this city, but you can't say that May here isn't spectacular.

Matteo wants a little music to keep him company as he drives to the beach house where he's meeting up with his friends. Even if it's just a short distance, he's really in the mood for some music.

As he drives, he hunts in his car's glove compartment, where he keeps all his music, for a good CD. Not that one, this one's old, this one's not right for this May breeze. There, this one.

This one's perfect.

Matteo's driving downhill, Silvana's driving uphill. Matteo veers toward the center line, reading the CD's label; Silvana veers toward the center line, her hair blowing in the wind, avoiding a pothole.

Matteo and Silvana.

 

Because you shouldn't trust May, you know.

Not even a little.

 

 

T
he prospect of having to go to the forensic squad's interregional office wasn't an agreeable one to Lojacono. His previous experience hadn't left him with a pleasant memory: The hostility of certain of his colleagues there, as soon as they'd heard where he and Aragona, who had accompanied him, came from, had been palpable.

The Pizzofalcone name, for members of that city's police force, was a mark of infamy difficult to erase. The blow that the scandal had dealt to entire corps' image had been a heavy one, and for quite a while those who never missed a chance to run down law enforcement had had an ideal subject to slap onto the front page and lead off with on the evening news. So it was only natural that even those who, through no fault of their own, had been sent to replace those who had caused the whole mess should be looked on with distaste and suspicion.

When he'd had this trouble with the forensic squad, Lojacono, in order to get some leverage, had been forced to ask Piras to throw her weight around; he didn't like to make use of his friendship with the magistrate, but if it meant getting results on the job, he set aside those scruples. And the doors had opened wide. In any case, the lieutenant was pretty sure that the forensics chief, Rosaria Martone, was a serious, competent person, and that Piras's intervention had served not to influence her, but simply to bring the matter to Martone's attention.

On their way over, he told Alex the story; they were both happy to have a case to work that would help take their minds off the thought of the missing boy.

The young woman listened attentively and then said: “You know, this whole Bastards of Pizzofalcone thing is a real pain in the neck. And come to think of it, Ottavia and Giorgio, who worked there when it happened, can't bring themselves to speak ill of their four colleagues, have you noticed? They always say that each of the four, for one reason or another, was more or less forced to start selling drugs. As if there's any way to justify what they did. I think they're disgusting. Period.”

Lojacono was driving slowly, the window open, enjoying the spring air: “I don't know. I mean, if you look at individual cases, each of us, one way and another, is a little bit of a bastard. Take me, for instance: I'm supposed to be a Mafia informant, you know. And then there's Romano: a cop who beats up suspects. It's only if you look at things from the outside that they seem different. That's all.”

“I appreciate the fact that you made no mention of the shot fired in the station house from which I was transferred. That was nice of you. And maybe you're right: Nothing is ever quite what it seems, or at least not everything is. Take this burglary: there's something strange about that couple, and he's not telling us the whole story. If there really was nothing of value in that safe, then you tell me why that's all the thieves stole and why he was so upset about it.”

“Yes, those two are strange. And maybe they'd have been strange even without the burglary, who can say. Now let's hear what our colleagues in forensics have to say; and let's hope that Martone agrees to see us, and that we don't wind up with the same bastard as last time.”

They'd arrived at the old barracks that served as headquarters for the forensic team. They parked in one of the reserved spaces, staring defiantly at the man at the gate before ostentatiously placing their police insignia on the dashboard.

As usual, the place exuded a sense of efficiency. Men and women in plainclothes, in uniforms, or in white lab coats exited and entered the rooms that gave onto the broad hallway, all carrying documents, evidence in folders, or test tubes; no one was engaging in idle chitchat or drinking coffee or wandering aimlessly, hands in pockets, as would have been normal in any other office. This was a place where people worked, and took their jobs seriously.

Lojacono went over to a fellow officer standing behind a counter and identified himself; once the man had found his name on a checklist, he said: “Lieutenant, please go right ahead, Dottoressa Martone is expecting you. Down this hallway, the last door.”

The lesson Piras had administered was proving useful. They'd be meeting with the chief administrator right away.

Lojacono, who already knew the way, strode down the hallway until he reached an office whose door stood ajar; he knocked, calling out as he did so. A woman's voice invited them to come in.

Later, Alex would often look back on that day, and every time she did, a phrase would come to mind, something she'd read in some book: The important encounters of one's life are always unexpected, and generally go unnoticed. From that day forward, she'd have something to say about that.

In her memories, she'd watch Lojacono open the door and take a few steps inside; she'd see him, from behind, duck his head in a gesture of greeting, and she'd hear him say,
Buongiorno
, Dottoressa. Then she'd see him step to one side in order to let her walk past him, introducing her as he did so: This is my partner, Di Nardo; we're here about the burglary at the Parascandolo residence.

She'd remember a large white room, with a large window overlooking the internal courtyard. She'd recall the way her eyes had glanced over the sofa, the coffee table, and the two armchairs arranged in a corner, like a cunning little living room that clashed sharply with the martial ambiance. She'd remember that, once she'd surveyed the space, her eyes had alighted on the person sitting behind the big desk, a pen in her hand and a notebook in front of her, and how her heartbeat had begun to race, contradicting the notion that we cannot clearly perceive the most important meetings in our lives.

Because Alex Di Nardo knew immediately that Rosaria Martone, chief administrator of the inter-regional division of the police forensic squad, the leading authority in her field from Rome to Sicily, would always play an important role in her life. Even if she never saw her again.

As Alex came to an awkward halt behind Lojacono in the doorway, her heart pounding, Martone looked up from her notes and removed her eyeglasses with a graceful gesture that froze in midair when she glimpsed her.

Rosaria was young for her rank, and she looked even younger because of her finely drawn features, her petite frame, and the thick head of dark blond hair that went well with her complexion, which was tan thanks to her natural enthusiasm for fresh air. Her girlish appearance had taken in more than one person, and all had paid dearly for judging that book by its cover: The chief was in fact quite tough, and this toughness was reinforced by a razor-sharp intelligence and a propensity to sarcasm that made her both widely feared and not particularly well liked.

The two women's eyes met and locked. Rosaria, as if lunging toward Alex, stood up from her desk. Lojacono sensed the tension: “Do you know each other?”

Martone approached, curious: “Not in person, but I know the name. It's not every day that we do ballistics tests on a gunshot fired inside the Decumano station house. So you're the girl with the gun.”

Alex blushed, and hated herself for it. But her retort was cutting: “There can be many reasons for firing a gun, Dottoressa. It's hard to understand if you're a cop who works in a laboratory.”

The sharp rejoinder must have confirmed an impression that Martone had already formed. She held out her hand: “Right. In that case, let's just say that we're two halves of one whole. I'm Rosaria.”

“Alessandra Di Nardo, private first class.”

Lojacono was taken aback by the intimacy of her tone; usually Martone was fairly formal.

Rosaria held onto Alex's hand for a fraction of a second too long; the girl felt warm, dry flesh, and the delicate strength of the fingers, and a shiver went down the nape of her neck. Rosaria gestured to the sofa and armchairs: “Please, make yourselves comfortable. I'll get the reports. Parascandolo, you said, right?” Both Lojacono and Alex slid their eyes over Martone's taut and well-rounded derriere, which twitched under the lab coat as she walked. “The weird burglary. That's what we've been calling it here, with the technicians who worked on it. Really odd.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lojacono asked. “Why is that?”

Martone sat down in one of the armchairs, a stack of documents in her hands.

“Well, now. Front entrance and concierge's booth: no signs of forced entry. That's reasonable enough. Second-floor apartment. If someone had been walking downstairs, which many did since the elevator has been out of order for the past month and a half, as documented by the dated sign, he or she would have noted one or more strangers fiddling with the lock. No sign of forced entry there either. According to the Parascandolos' statements, the door was found open: for a burglary in which the thieves had keys and there was no forced entry, that's very rare.”

Alex was struggling to fight a dry throat. She coughed, then asked: “What if their arms were full of loot?”

“Sure, but what loot? Because the really interesting thing is that the burglar, or burglars, turned the apartment upside down, carefully emptying closets, sideboards, and dressers and laying everything out on the floor, and yet, according to the provisional inventory drawn up by the husband and wife, nothing was taken except for the contents of the safe, which is quite small.”