Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (22 page)

“And the fact that they didn't bother to take the silver. It's likely that the thief knew what was in the safe, and that . . .”

“. . . and that whatever was in the safe came from her husband's actual line of work. In other words, the noose tightens. Among other things, any woman who dares to wear a bodysuit like that one must necessarily have the mind of a criminal.”

Alex laughed: “Good work, Loja'. Now we know that Aragona isn't Pizzofalcone's only stand-up comedian.”

G
iorgio Pisanelli had by now figured out that, at least in terms of its outward manifestations, the tumor's progression wasn't linear. At least not in his case. And that, he thought, was really very lucky.

He would have expected, as the disease progressed, that every day would be worse than the one before but better than the one that followed. Instead, there were times when all the symptoms disappeared, like an unwelcome guest who realizes that he's intruding. And at times like that, a new euphoria swelled in his heart, which on that day was already intoxicated by the sweet air of spring with its promise of summer.

Once he'd finished his round of phone calls and learned all he could about the Borrelli family's finances, Giorgio decided to pay a call on his friend, the director of a local branch of a major bank. There were things that couldn't be shared over the phone, and the understanding between the two of them was that not only would the source of the information never be revealed, but that the information itself would only be described in the vaguest of terms—as mere hints.

Pisanelli was a much-loved figure in the neighborhood. He was never reluctant to lend a hand when needed, and he was honest and upright: The thin line that separated understanding and collusion was to him inviolable. This earned him the respect of the many small-time criminals that infested the district, and even a few of their big-time counterparts. And so when crime attacked the most defenseless members of the community—children, for example, or the elderly—there were many who were suddenly willing and able to help.

As usual, Giorgio and his friend arranged to meet at a café with outdoor tables not far from the branch where the latter worked: better to be careful, and to avoid meeting in either's office. They sat talking for half an hour, discussing the state of the economy, the recession's effect on business, and the fall of real estate prices. Reading between the lines, Giorgio learned all there was to know about Dodo's family, things that couldn't be read in any file available on his computer. Now the deputy captain really did have something to report at the meeting scheduled in the communal office in half an hour.

He decided to use the free time to check in from afar on Signora Maria Musella, the woman he had identified as a potential victim for “the Dead-End Killer” which was the name he had given to the murderer he was trying to track down. At that hour, the woman would be at home making lunch, having just reemerged from the haze induced by the psychotropic drugs she took to help her sleep: The pharmacist had walked him through the dosage and effects of the medication, and his explanation had given Giorgio a schedule of the woman's waking and sleeping hours. A shudder of anguish had forked through Giorgio as he recognized the details of a lengthy phase in the last months of Carmen's life.

After setting himself up in the front entrance of the building across the way from the woman's own, he looked at his watch; the investigation into the disappearance of the little boy had turned the entire investigative squad's routine inside out, and he hadn't had a chance to swing back by the parish of Santissima Annunziata for his usual chat with Leonardo. He wanted to tell him all about the new path his investigation was taking, about the woman he was following and his line of reasoning: Talking to the friar helped him organize his thoughts; it always helped. And Leonardo had texted him; they'd have to skip their usual lunch at Il Gobbo, too. Maybe it was for the best, he thought to himself; he'd be able to savor all the more the monk's surprise at learning that Giorgio had seen someone pay this woman, who was completely alone in the world, a visit. And that the odds were strong that this visitor was the long sought-after murderer.

Because Giorgio was certain that Maria Musella was going to be the next victim, and that he, Deputy Captain Pisanelli, was going to catch the killer of the depressed red-handed.

Then, and only then, could he give in to his illness. And look forward to the moment when he'd be able to kiss Carmen again.

 

Brother Leonardo was in a hurry, his short legs pumping up and down as he climbed the hill toward Maria Musella's place. He was terribly behind schedule.

It's no easy matter, he would have said, if he could. You have to wait for just the right moment, when the time is ripe for the transition.

The angel-to-be must be weary, empty of all desire, not merely anguished and dismayed; those are momentary, transitory states of mind, which can be preludes to a recovery, a renewed attachment to life and the world. The angel-to-be must be in such a state that later, everyone will say: There, it happened, I'd been expecting it, I knew it, it was clear she couldn't go on any longer.

Sometimes, and in fact this had happened at least three times that he could remember, the body wasn't even found right away. Those were cases in which he congratulated himself for having clearly identified not only someone who was lonely, but also someone who had been separated out from the community. The suicide was thus abandoning a life that had long ago abandoned him or her.

Letting a person live so long in such conditions was the real crime, Leonardo thought to himself. Letting a heart that had been deserted go on beating, allowing the flesh to act as ballast, holding down a soul ready to rejoin the Heavenly Father who had created it.

By now, Signora Musella no longer even went to church. The pills she took resulted in an all-but-endless state of partial unconsciousness, and the few hours of lucidity afforded her were nothing more than further steps toward the abyss. Still, Leonardo wanted to speak to her, to understand whether her mental state was caused by her dependence on the medication, or by a genuine, deep-seated loss of her will to live: He needed to dispel that last doubt before proceeding.

Otherwise, he was well prepared. He knew how many pills were necessary to induce a deep sleep, followed by death, without causing convulsions and atrocious pain the subject would feel even if she were unconscious. He knew what room it would be best to do it in, depending on the time of day, to avoid arousing suspicions. He knew and could perfectly imitate the woman's handwriting, so he'd be able to write a suicide note that would leave no doubts about the victim's intentions.

The only thing missing was complete certainty that she was ready. One last visit, before the decisive one.

He needed to hurry if he was going to get there before lunch, otherwise he'd find her asleep again. As he walked he greeted the faithful, who smiled at the sight of the little monk hurrying to bring comfort to those in need.

Which was, in fact, exactly what Leonardo cared about most.

 

While he stood waiting, happy that he wasn't experiencing the same acute need to urinate that had plagued him the last time, Giorgio reflected on the instinct that had led him here: He couldn't have explained just why he was so certain that it was Musella who was the designated victim. He had read once that intuition is nothing more than the rapid application of accumulated knowledge; that the brain, on a subconscious level, compares and contrasts, associates and separates, until in the end it chooses, in a flash, the best hypothesis among many. If that was true, he thought, then it was the years and years of investigation, years of mistakes, years of butting my head against brick walls that have afforded me this certainty. You, murderer, are going to strike again and you're going to strike here, right at the front entrance across the street, in the apartment on the third floor. I'll see you go in, climb the stairs, knock. Through the window, I'll see Maria Musella drag her feet over to the door.

And after that, I'll come upstairs, too, and I'll see your face.

Just as he felt the adrenaline rushing through his veins, as he rejoiced in the complete harmony of mind, body, and heart, as he savored the taste of a hunt nearing its conclusion, he felt his left pocket vibrate. Palma's voice, tense and worried, informed him that the meeting had been moved up: He needed Pisanelli to return immediately to the precinct house.

It doesn't matter, the deputy captain murmured to the third-floor window. It's just a matter of time.

And he headed off.

At the very same instant, from the opposite direction, Brother Leonardo's minuscule, exhausted silhouette heaved into view.

L
ojacono had promised Marinella that he'd take her to Letizia's for lunch, and he was worried that the interview at the Parascandolos' gym, which had gone longer than he'd expected, would interfere with that plan. Having to forgo a pleasure in order to give precedence to his work would be nothing new.

His daughter was more understanding than her mother, who could pout for days because he'd had to cancel, but that was precisely why he hated to disappoint her. And so, taking advantage of the fact that Palma had left them free until after lunch, when there would be a briefing session on the Borrelli case, he'd dashed over to the trattoria, where the girl was waiting for him outside the entrance.

Letizia's restaurant had been the first he'd set foot in in that strange new city, and in nearly two years he hadn't found a place where you could eat any better.

He clearly remembered the rainy night when his loneliness had pushed him out into the streets like a wolf. He'd been at his lowest then, marginalized at the precinct house of San Gaetano, where he'd been reassigned; he'd had no friends, or even acquaintances, and no desire to strike up conversations or put food in his fridge. Letizia's neon sign was the only one glowing on that stormy night, and he'd walked in through the front door more in search of haven than of food.

He'd been hit over the head by the celestial aroma of the ragù, which had immediately made him aware of a gurgling emptiness in his stomach. He'd sat down at the one unoccupied table, the one by the front door, a table that would in time become his alone, and he'd eaten in a way he'd never have believed himself capable of: head down, wet hair dripping onto the tablecloth, not stopping until he felt ready to pop.

Since that night, at least three or four times a week, he'd become one of the trattoria's regulars. It took him a long time to figure out that the place was quite fashionable. To eat dinner there, reservations were required, and there was always a long waiting list. But, though he didn't know it, Lojacono had an in; the little table by the door was always waiting for him.

And that was because Letizia, the restaurant's owner, chef, singer, and emcee, had a crush on him.

To be clear, it wasn't as if she were looking for a man; nor, attractive as she was, did she lack for suitors. She was just over forty, the age at which a woman attains the fullness of perfection and finally becomes aware of her own beauty. A buxom brunette with an infectious laugh, outgoing and welcoming but never intrusive, she was the restaurant's second most popular attraction, after the cooking, which she saw to herself in hours of happy hard work before the restaurant opened. After that, she left everything in the skilled hands of her two sous chefs, who saw to the construction of the individual dishes while she looked after the main dining room.

The men watched her move gently from one table to the other, dazed before the subtle swaying of her form and substance; the women didn't see her as a rival, sensing the absence of all coquetry in her frank cordiality. And everyone was captivated by the charms of the traditional dishes, rigorously interpreted according to old recipes and original ingredients, and by the serenades that she could conjure from the strings of her guitar when, at end of the evening, she'd take a break and become just another of the many guests.

Emotionally she was, or seemed to be, impervious. It was known that she was a widow, but she was reluctant to speak of the past and she'd had no children; but no one knew of any relationships or boyfriends, though it seemed impossible, to the sharp-tongued neighborhood gossips, that such a sensual woman should allow no one to share her bed. Advances were received with a laugh and a pat on the cheek, but she made no dates. So it had been for the ten years of the trattoria's steady rise, until the night that the door had swung open and the pouring rain had pushed in Giuseppe Lojacono of Montallegro, in the province of Agrigento, known to his friends as Peppuccio.

Letizia couldn't have said what he had triggered in her. The sensation had been a physical one, like a levee breaking or a landslide. The fact remained that from that moment on, the Chinaman's almond-shaped eyes, his high cheekbones, and his shiny, black, perpetually tousled hair, had taken their place at the center of her fantasies, reawakening erotic feelings she'd assumed were forever dormant.

Instinctively, she'd approached him, and, instinctively, he'd confided in her. For months, she'd been the only person Lojacono talked to about his hometown, his family, his work, and the city, which seemed hostile and savage to him, a place where he was imprisoned in the open air. She'd listened to him then and still listened to him now, absorbing and then guarding him from his malaise.

More than anything else, Peppuccio—as she'd called him from the moment she'd learned what pet name his mother had used—had talked to her about his daughter. Evening after evening, she'd reconstructed, from his weary words, the girl's features, her traits and idiosyncrasies, imagining her as if she were there, in the restaurant; and in the support she gave a man she made a point of thinking of as a new friend—she lacked the courage to admit to herself the feelings she was developing—there beat the heart of the mother that circumstance alone had kept her from becoming.