Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (24 page)

Pisanelli pulled out a new sheet of paper. “What's particularly interesting is the fact that Scarano recently went to the bank with Peluso, Borrelli's secretary. The woman delivered a lecture to the director in the presence of poor Manuel, who stood there, head down, like a dog who was used to being beaten: She said that the cavalier, now that he'd covered the last check, was going to stop meeting the family painter's needs, so to speak, and that from now on he'd have to get by on his own.”

Piras was quickly jotting down notes on a sheet of paper. “So now we're starting to develop a profile. Scarano was familiar with the child's routines and schedules, knew all about Borrelli's personal resources, had his various phone numbers, and he also needed money. That seems sufficient to start doing a little digging on him, no?”

Pisanelli turned to another sheet of paper.

“Slow down, slow down, Dottoressa. There's a little something else. Scarano's not the only one to have secretly benefitted, shall we say, from Borrelli's money.”

“Who else?

“Peluso. As far as I've been able to determine, the old man trusts her implicitly and, especially now that he can no longer walk, he relies on her to handle all administrative issues. The lady has complete power of attorney in all matters.”

“So? In and of itself that doesn't mean anything.”

“No, that's true. Only that for the past year or so, Peluso has started draining off a little cash here and there. It's been done very adroitly, over at the bank they almost overlooked it entirely, especially because the payouts were always mixed in with other transactions: payroll checks, utility bills, taxes, and so on. But to quote the comedian Totò, it's the sum that makes the total, and at a certain point the overall amount siphoned off became pretty sizable; the director asked the woman for an explanation.”

“And what did she say?”

“She gave him a glare that would freeze ice . . .”

“Yes, I can just see her,” Aragona piled on enthusiastically, “the spitting image of Frau Blücher in
Young Frankenstein
.”

Piras looked daggers at him.

“The dottoressa here isn't kidding around either,” the young officer said in a stage whisper, “when it comes to glares that would freeze ice.”

“. . . and she told him,” Pisanelli continued, “you know, sir, it's up to me where we do our banking. Do we understand each other? At that point he raised his hands in the air and walked away.”

“But shouldn't he have reported her?” Piras asked. “And wait, where is this money going?”

“No, Dottoressa, he couldn't file a criminal complaint because every transaction was executed through a legally issued power of attorney; there was nothing to object to. Peluso signed the orders, and she had every right to do so. The money went to a checking account in a branch office in Salerno, where Peluso is originally from. Substantial sums, on the order of a couple hundred thousand euros a year. After their discussion, though, the transfers stopped, and Borrelli's companies worked a great deal less with that bank. In other words, the signora found other channels.”

Pisanelli fell silent; he relaxed in his chair, visibly satisfied.

Ottavia coughed and took the floor: “I've done a little research of my own. Carmela Peluso, born in Serre, province of Salerno, in 1951, has been working for Borrelli since 1973, when she was still just a girl. She's served in a number of roles, from secretary at one of Borrelli's companies to the old man's right-hand woman and special legal representative, that last position for at least the past ten years. She has always shown an absolute devotion to her boss, and she's acted as a buffer between father and daughter since his wife died, more or less to protect him from a new source of grief. She doesn't much like children, and when little Dodo, before starting school, used to spend his days at his grandfather's house, the old man had to hire a number of nannies and babysitters to look after the boy because she wasn't cut out for it. She's extremely reserved, but recently she confessed her concerns about the old man's health: She's afraid she might be cut out of the will when he dies, since she doesn't rely much on his daughter's gratitude; she's described Eva as a selfish bitch.”

Everyone turned to look at her in surprise. Palma was the first to find his tongue: “You found that on the Internet, too?”

Ottavia laughed: “No, of course not. That is, there's her personal information and a few pictures. But the signora did give in to the temptations of new technology and set up a Facebook profile so she could track down a couple of old girlfriends from her hometown. It isn't hard to get around privacy restrictions, you know.”

Aragona put his glasses back on: “So the old witch has set aside a nice fat payout at the old cripple's expense. Interesting. But what does that have to do with the boy? I like Scarano better: the unsuccessful painter and unrepentant gambler who can't cover his debts. Those people will cut your throat if you try to stiff them, and fear is always an excellent motive.”

Palma scratched his head: “I don't know. It's also true that one last payout would mean the lady was set for the foreseeable future.”

Piras stood up: “My congratulations, I don't think that any other investigative team could have come close. Guys, you've earned yourselves another day; I'll talk to the chief of police. Keep your guard up, and in particular keep an eye on any communications between the kidnappers and old Borrelli. I don't want any ransom being paid.”

 

Lojacono went over to Pisanelli: “Giorgio, I wanted to compliment you: You manage to find out more by going for a walk and buying someone a cup of coffee than would ten undercover agents infiltrating Cosa Nostra—and trust me, I've seen them work. I'm truly impressed.”

“Don't mention it, Loja'. This is my neighborhood, my city: I know them well, and if you were back home, you'd do the same.”

“No, I don't think so. People trust you, and they're right to do so: you wouldn't have revealed the name of your friend under torture, and he knows it, and that's why he'll talk to you. You really are something.”

Pisanelli slapped him on the back: “We're all really something, we Bastards of Pizzofalcone. We should trademark the nickname. It's been years since I've had so much fun coming in to the office. Though I'd love it if we could get this kid out of the kidnappers' clutches.”

“You're right, it's such a nasty story that the burglary that Di Nardo and I are investigating looks like a joke in comparison. You should have seen the wife of the victim in the gym this morning; we caught her with a tattooed idiot who, by the way, actually did time for burglary. Now we need to do a little cross-referencing, but we think that this half-baked burglary might actually have been concocted up by the signora with her young lover's help.”

Pisanelli suddenly looked interested: “Excuse me, but what's the name of the guy who got robbed? You said he owns a gym?”

“Parascandolo is the name. He has a gym right down the hill from . . .”

“. . . from Corso Vittorio Emanuele, right. Tore. Tore Parascandolo, you mean. A guy with a face like a bulldog and a voice like a little girl's. And his wife is all silicone and plastic surgery.”

“How do you know?”

“I know because everyone in this city knows Tore the Bulldog. He's notorious.”

“Why?”

“He's a loan shark, Loja'. A huge bastard of a loan shark. And the gym is his cover. We've been after him for a lifetime, but he's clever. We've never been able to pin anything on him.”

O
nce the meeting was over, as soon as Piras had left, Palma signaled to Romano and Aragona to follow him into his office. He was reacting with unusual haste.

He closed his door and gestured for them to sit down.

“Well? What do you think of this new information? Do you have any ideas?”

“Boss,” Romano replied, “can I tell you in complete frankness what I think? Even if I don't have the evidence to support it?”

“Certainly.”

“It's clear that there's someone behind the kidnapper, or the kidnappers—some kind of inside man or client. Someone who is intimately acquainted with the intricate Borrelli family dynamics, who knows that the boy lives with his mother and her boyfriend, and that they don't keep a close eye on him.”

Aragona broke in: “And it's clear that the people holding him prisoner are foreigners. All of them, not just the one who phoned.”

Palma and Romano turned to look at him: “Why is that?”

“Otherwise they wouldn't have had someone with such a recognizable voice make the phone call. They'd have chosen an Italian, and that would have forced us to widen our investigation.”

Romano was impressed in spite of himself. “There's a certain logic to that.”

Palma agreed. “Yes, there is a certain logic.”

Romano went on: “The research that Ottavia and Pisanelli have done points to two likely suspects, though I think one of them has a stronger motive than the other. Scarano really could be in deep trouble if it's true that Borrelli has turned off the tap. That might help explain why he agreed to give the old man the news: Maybe he was hoping to get in good with him by showing how conscientious he was.”

Aragona broke in again: “I wouldn't underestimate the witch. Maybe she wanted to take revenge for all the years spent slaving away for him without him showing the slightest gratitude in return. I'll remind you that he treated her like crap even in front of us. Plus she didn't like the child, she wouldn't take care of him even when he was little. Not to mention the fact that she considers Eva . . . what did Ottavia say? . . . a selfish bitch. In other words, she strikes me as a good candidate, too.”

“Yes, we can't rule her out,” Romano admitted. “In any case, time is tight and we need to follow whatever slender thread presents itself. Continuing to investigate haphazardly, as we have been, would amount to searching for a needle in a haystack. And in any case, we've delved into the boy's daily life, and we know that he hasn't been in recent contact with anyone unusual. His life is fairly circumscribed, at school they run a pretty tight ship and, from the descriptions everyone gives of him, he's not the kind of kid to talk to strangers. They took him at the one possible moment, and Dodo knew the person with whom he left the museum.”

“We've already said these things, and I agree that we need to focus on the inside man. Let's do this: We'll call them all together at the old man's place, since he can't get around, we tell them the way things stand, and we see how they react. Sometimes, when you throw a rock in the pond, something surfaces.”

“It strikes me as a desperation move, boss,” Romano said, trying to set aside his doubts. “But I can't think of anything else.”

Aragona massaged his temples: “If we had more time to work, we could put them all under surveillance and wait for one of them to slip up. But given the way things are, I'm with you on the family meeting.”

Palma stood up: “All right then. Make some phone calls and get a little rest. We'll head over there tonight.”

 

Laura lingered in the courtyard and told her driver to wait for her. Then she went over to Guida, who was the guard on duty at the front door: “Would you do me a favor and call up to Lieutenant Lojacono?”

Guida snapped to attention, surprising Laura, and, after quickly punching in a number, handed her the receiver.

“I'm waiting for you out in the car,” Piras said tersely. “Hurry up.”

And she moved off.

A minute later, Guida saw Lojacono come downstairs, and decided to venture a knowing reference: “Lieutenant, the dottoressa drove the car around to the right, you'll find her there.”

Lojacono stopped and looked at him with no expression. The officer, increasingly uneasy, snapped to attention and fixed his gaze on a point in space out in the courtyard. Then the Chinaman said: “Guida, when I need directions from you, I'll ask for them. More importantly: When I need your help in my personal life, which I imagine will be never, I'll give you written instructions. In the meanwhile, to put it very briefly, mind your own fucking business.”

“Yessir, Lieutenant.”

 

Laura opened the door for him and told him to get in. There was no driver.

“I told him to go get himself a cup of coffee. Weak, or he won't be able to get to sleep tonight. He's better behind the wheel than Aragona, but absolutely everyone who drives in this city, whatever the reason, seems crazy.”

“Agreed; today I had to drive and I still feel shaken up. Well, what's up?”

Piras crossed her legs: “Why, now I need a specific reason to talk with you? Anyway, I wanted to hear your impression of this case, face-to-face, in private.”

“Well, time is tight: They've been holding the boy for three days, though I don't think they're interested in hurting him. I'd focus on the family; what Ottavia and Pisanelli have found looks like good stuff to me.”

Piras nodded.

“I admire the fact that Palma resisted the temptation to hand you the case; by doing that, he keeps morale high. Still, I wish it was you running the investigation; I would feel better about it.”

“Don't worry, Romano is a tough nut, and even Aragona, you know, is much better than you'd think. He's rough and rude, but he pays attention, and he has good hunches. Plus, like you saw, we all talk things over together. That's the real strength of this precinct, the way we collaborate. And credit for that goes to Palma.”

“Yes, I know. You're all doing excellent work. But work isn't the only thing there is.”

Lojacono burst out laughing: “Wait, seriously? I can't believe I'm hearing this from you, with the reputation for being a workaholic. You're notorious for all but worshipping at the altar of the justice system, for having the penal code where your heart should be!”