Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (4 page)

The young nun took a deep breath, sniffed loudly, and dried her eyes: “You're right, Dottore. Forgive me. I was just scared, I'm sure you can understand. I could imagine anything, except for this thing happening. But the Lord is merciful, and He'll assist me. Perhaps the best thing would be for you to ask me one thing at a time, that way maybe I won't leave out any details.”

Romano nodded, glad to take the suggestion.

“Perfect. All right then, let's start with the little boy. His name is Edoardo Cerchia, you said?”

“Yes, we call him Dodo. Mine is a fifth grade class, those are the oldest kids we have, next year they'll go to middle school. Dodo's been with me since first grade, like almost all the other children you see here; they're his classmates. Dodo is a very sweet boy, no trouble at all, an excellent student with perfect behavior. Perhaps he's still a little childish in one or two ways . . . he's very attached to his toys, and I've had to scold him for bringing them to school. But he's sociable, polite, maybe a little introverted.”

Aragona was champing at the bit: “Okay, fine, that's the report card, but, Sister, let's get to the point. What happened this morning?”

Sister Beatrice dropped her eyes, making an effort to get her memories straight while Romano glared grimly at his ill-mannered partner.

“We'd organized this field trip a few months ago. The museum opens early just to let school groups in. Of course, for kids this age it's not the greatest, they'd rather go to a theme park, someplace they can play now that it's springtime and it's warmer out, but the Mother . . . Sister Angela believes all the older kids should get an artistic education, so every year we bring the fifth grade here.”

Aragona looked around, baffled.

“Poor guys. They must have been bored out of their damn skulls. Oh well, Sister, let's continue.”

Sister Beatrice seemed not to have noticed Aragona's vulgar language.

“We assemble them as a group at 7:45 in the morning, before school would usually start, and then we bring them here with the bus that also takes them to school in the morning and back home again at night. Once we've called roll and made sure everyone's here, we leave.”

Romano asked: “Is that the only time you check to make sure they're all there?”

“Oh, no! That's practically all I do all day. The museum's docent tells them all about the paintings while I look after the kids.”

“So you realized right away that the little Cerchia boy wasn't there? We were told that one of his classmates saw him leave with a blonde woman: Could you confirm that for us? What's that child's name? And how could the boy have gotten away from you if you're so careful?”

The woman began crying again: “One of his classmates, yes . . . Christian Datola. He was with Dodo when . . . when they took him, and I . . .”

Sister Angela had come over again, unable to restrain herself when she saw that the two policemen were leaning heavily on Sister Beatrice. She broke in with a harsh voice: “Listen, if you're ready to press charges, just say it clearly and we'll call our lawyer. We're the victims here, certainly not the guilty parties. We have our responsibilities to the families, and as a school we're renowned for the care and attention we give to our students. For that matter, and this may be something you're not aware of, our children come from some of the wealthiest and most prominent families in the city, and . . .”

Aragona took off his glasses: “Are you saying that the reason you take such good care is that the families are well-to-do, and that if instead they were poor, you'd go ahead and let the kids murder each other? Congratulations on your charitable approach.”

Sister Angela leaned in menacingly close, her finger in Aragona's face: “Listen here, officer: I'm not about to stand here and take your insults. Now you give me your rank, badge number, and first and last name, and I'm going to . . .”

Sister Beatrice interrupted her, tugging on her sleeve and looking wide-eyed toward the front doors of the museum. A woman was just coming through them at a run, followed by a man.

“Mother Superior, this is Signora Cerchia. Dodo's mother.”

T
he living room too had been thoroughly ransacked: It really was a dispiriting sight.

It was as if someone in the middle of moving had simply forgotten to put things into boxes. The shelves, the countertops, and the side tables all stood empty; the floor, by contrast, was littered with an assortment of items that wouldn't have been out of place in a deluxe bazaar of some kind: centerpieces, books, paintings, dishes, glasses, and fine silver.

To Lojacono something didn't add up, and at first he couldn't say what it was; the jumble of colors, fabrics, and textures distracted him. Then he realized that, somehow, it all had been done very carefully, even tidily. Though objects made of fine crystal and breakable pottery were among those on the floor and carpet, nothing was broken. It was as if the thieves had laid everything out and then been interrupted just before they could make off with their loot.

In the midst of all the chaos, perched on the edge of a sofa also occupied by two paintings and a coffee service arranged, incongruously, in order of cup size, as if on display, sat a couple.

The woman was noteworthy; Alex's first thought was that it was impossible to tell her age. The skin on her bare arms and neck bespoke a fiftieth birthday celebrated some time ago, but the energetic interventions of a plastic surgeon had endowed her face and body, sheathered in a flashy dress a couple of sizes smaller than was advisable, with eternal, if synthetic, youth. She was sobbing wholeheartedly, dabbing with a drenched handkerchief at reddened eyes that had been blepharoplastically reconstructed; as she wept, she turned her head this way and that, theatrically, as if she were watching a tennis match.

The man, on the other hand, with his ample triple chin, his bulging gut, and his grim, bulldog-like expression, showed every one of his seventy-plus years. He was upset, his hands clenching and unclenching as if they'd taken on a life of their own, his lips trembling. The scene, however, lost much of its dramatic impact thanks to the red, white, and blue flower-print shirt the man was wearing.

Lojacono introduced himself: “I'm Lieutenant Lojacono, and my partner here is Corporal Di Nardo. We're from the Pizzofalcone station house. Do you own this apartment?”

The man replied without getting up off the sofa. He had a strangely high-pitched voice, completely at odds with the body that produced it: He sounded like a little girl with a sore throat.

“We own what's left, yes. I'm Salvatore Parascandolo.”

He made no attempt to introduce the woman sitting beside him.

Alex gave him a blank look and then turned to her: “And you're the lady of the house?”

With a visible effort, the woman forced herself to stop moving her head, briefly interrupting both her sobs and the tennis match: “Yes, Susy Parascandolo. What a tragedy this is, miss. What a tragedy.”

Lojacono swept his arm wide to take in the mayhem all around them: “So tell me, when did you realize what had happened?”

Parascandolo replied, gazing out at some vague point in the middle distance: “This morning at eight o'clock, when we got back from Ischia. A person goes away for a pleasant weekend, thinking he'll be able to relax, get some rest, and breathe some fresh salt air. Then he comes home, to the place he's certain is the safest of all havens, and finds . . . and finds this.”

The thin high voice that came out of that grim face would have been ridiculous, if not for the intense pain that resonated in the man's words.

Alex looked up at the security camera in the corner of the living room: “What about the surveillance system? It looks to me as if the cameras are off. Did the burglars deactivate them?”

That question prompted strange reactions from husband and wife. The man turned slowly toward the woman, as if she herself had been the burglar: “No. My wife here simply forgot to turn them on. After all, who cares about all the stuff in our home? I'm the one who broke my back paying for it, she never contributed a dime. So why bother to turn on the alarm system when we go out? All she needed to do was type in a code, four stupid little numbers, but she didn't bother.”

The woman began sobbing even harder: “You can't expect me to remember everything, you know! It's new, we had it installed less than a year ago, I just didn't think of it. And after all, I was late, so many things to do, the suitcase, the things to bring with us, you were waiting for me down at the harbor, the taxi downstairs was honking its horn because it couldn't stay too long in the middle of the street. I just didn't think of it, that's all.”

You didn't have to be an expert reader of facial expressions to sense that the Parascandolos detested each other.

“Do you have any idea how they got in?” Lojacono asked.

“Aren't you the ones who should be telling us how they got in?” the man replied nastily. “I was down at the port, waiting for this moron. How do I know, the damn fool may well have also left the door hanging open. The windows are intact and have shutters, which I shut myself. So, given the fact that there's no sign of the door having been forced open, they must have had a set of keys.”

“Oh, now you're a detective,” Susy hissed through lips that resembled those of a talking porpoise. “Before you were a judge, and now you're a cop.”

Alex tried to bring the conversation back around to the burglary: “Do you have any idea what they might have taken? At least at first glance, can you tell whether there's anything missing?”

The man stood up, and it became clear that he was no taller than 5' 3”. “Come with me,” he said.

Alex and Lojacono followed him down the hallway, doing their best to avoid treading on the clothing and household objects that were scattered everywhere. They paused at the open bedroom door. Here, too, was the same orderly disorder, with objects of every sort pulled out of armoires and dresser drawers and left in piles on the floor. On the side table, on the side of the bed opposite the window, there was even a red leather wallet, with credit cards and business cards fanned out as if in a shopwindow. On the wall to the right, less than five feet off the floor, there was a safe, wide open and empty. Beneath it, leaning neatly against the wall, a landscape painting. Lojacono went over and saw that the safe door, which was operated both by key and by combination, was blackened and had been cut through in more than one place. Oxyacetylene torch, he thought to himself.

He turned to speak to Parascandolo: “What did you have in the safe?”

The man hesitated.

“Nothing much: a watch, a few worthless personal documents. A little cash, at most a couple thousand euros. Nothing to speak of, in other words.”

Alex and Lojacono exchanged a glance. The man was lying, and badly. But why?

“What about the rest of the place?” the female officer asked. “Is there anything missing?”

His wife, who had caught up with him and was still whimpering, replied: “No, luckily there doesn't seem to be. I mean, who knows with all this mess, but I think that everything we had is still here. They didn't even take the silver.”

“Shut your mouth, stupid,” Parascandolo squeaked. “How do you know that they haven't taken anything? For all the time you spend at home, they could have taken who knows what and you wouldn't even be aware of it.”

Alex broke in, point-blank: “Are you insured against theft, Signor Parascandolo?”

“No. I'd simply assumed that with an alarm system like this one, and with the maid at home most of the time, there was no reason to lay out any more money on insurance. If the police did their jobs and made sure that taxpaying citizens were safe in their homes, those bloodsucking insurance companies would all be starving.”

Lojacono cut the diatribe short: “Fine. For now, there's nothing we can do. Our colleagues from the forensics team are on their way; for the moment touch nothing, if you don't mind. The policeman at the door will stay here with you. We'll speak again as soon as we have the results of their investigation. Signor Parascandolo, what line of business are you in? Would we be able to get in touch with you at your office, or . . .”

“I own a gym with a fitness center, a café, and a restaurant. We have a little swimming pool too, up on the hill, on Via Mastriani. You can reach me there, if I'm not here.”

“And your wife?”

“Her too. In fact, she spends more time there than I do. She's in charge of the fitness center.”

 

On the way back, Lojacono asked Alex: “Well? What do you think of that? Pretty strange, no?”

The young woman walked along, lost in thought: “More than one thing about it was strange. First of all, the fact that they didn't take anything. The paintings are valuable; I know a little something about art because my father's a passionate collector, and all of them were watercolors from the late nineteenth century, small format, easy to sell. The silver, too, heavy items, and then there was her jewelry: I saw the various pieces on the big dresser, lined up as if they'd been considered and rejected.”

The lieutenant nodded in agreement: “That's right. And then, the place was so tidy: that strange orderly mess, all the objects arranged on the floor as if someone wanted to put them on display. Never seen anything like it. Leaving aside the fact that the door wasn't forced open and that the alarm system hadn't been activated. Incomprehensible.”

Di Nardo pursed her lips before speaking: “You know, I'd almost come to the conclusion that the two of them had staged the whole thing, it was done so badly—which is why I asked about the insurance. But given the facts, that wouldn't make any sense.”

“No, no sense at all. And I expect that they would have done a better job faking a burglary, even if the two of them don't strike me as rocket scientists. It's baffling.”