Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (6 page)

Lojacono was motionless, expressionless. That pose, so typical of him when he was thinking, emphasized his quasi-Asian features.

“Excuse me, boss, but if this really did turn out to be a kidnapping, don't you think police headquarters would take the case for itself? They're not likely to leave something like this in our hands.”

Palma made a face: “No, I've already talked to them. They've had the press on their backs for a while now; there must be someone in there who's not only handing out press releases, but also leaking inside information to those jackals. If the investigation was yanked away from us, word would get out to the media right away, and that would be worse for everyone. For now, they'd rather have us work the case and keep them informed about progress. And let's hope we make some.”

“I understand. Well then?”

“So I'm thinking that, when Romano and Aragona get back, I'm going to have them give you all the information and let you take over the case. In fact, I might have you work with Romano, that way we won't waste time.”

Lojacono thought it over. “Listen, boss, I don't think that's a good idea.”

Palma gave him a questioning look. “Why not?”

“As you know, we're a very strange group. We all have our flaws. We all feel as if we're under constant scrutiny, in the crosshairs so to speak. And in a profession like ours, teamwork is fundamental.”

Palma intertwined his fingers and rested his chin on them.

Lojacono went on: “If Romano or Aragona, who by the way are both excellent cops, see someone pull the case out from under them, what are they supposed to think? That you, and therefore we, don't have faith in them. That we consider them unsuited to continue their work merely because this case is high-profile. You'd lose them, in other words. And you'd never get them back.”

The commissario scratched his head.

“I see what you mean, and you're right. But I can't run the risk of entrusting an investigation like this one to a pair like Romano and Aragona: Romano had and may still have serious personal problems, and Aragona's just playing at being a cop; he's only made it this far thanks to some serious nepotism. You can see the problem, can't you?”

“Romano is a good cop, and I'm sure that he'll be able to keep his personal problems separate from his work; as for Aragona, believe me, he's much better than he seems.”

“Not that that's saying much, truth be told.”

Lojacono thought about Aragona's fondness for vulgarity and penchant for saying the wrong thing, and in particular the way he drove: “No, not that that's saying much. But, after all, boss, this whole station house is a little bit crazy, isn't it? Listen to me, let's leave things the way they are. If anything, we can all talk things over, and each of us will get the chance to speak his or her own mind. Don't worry, Romano and Aragona won't do or see anything any different from what the rest of us would do or see.”

Palma sat silent for a while, then added: “All right. And after all, maybe the kid is already back home.”

H
ello?”

“
It's me.”

“
I know. You're half an hour late.”

“
I wait for him to sleeping.”

“
Why, wasn't she there?”

“
She came back late from working. She must go, if not, Signora looking for her.”

“
I get it. Tell her to be careful. To make sure she isn't seen by . . . by anyone.”

“
Yes, told her. All good, anyway. No problem, like telling you.”

“
Yes, I know. I heard.”

“
I thinking, if place have video camera and get picture of face . . .”

“
No, don't worry. There won't be any trouble. I checked. Tell me how it went.”

“
I waiting outside in car. She going in, head covered like you saying. Seeing boy from front door, calling him. He coming, he happy. Everything like you say.”

“
What about him . . . how is he doing, now?”

“
He fine. In storeroom, I bringing water and food. You not worrying nothing. Instead, when you calling?”

“
Like we agreed: The first phone call will be tomorrow afternoon. Keep it short, just the information. Then another call, twenty-four hours later. Always you calling, that's important.”

“
Yes, I knowing. And if . . . if some problem with boy?”

“
What kind of problem? There can't be any problems! Remember that the money . . .”

“
Yes, I knowing: money in advance before, rest of money later. But if boy, for example, not being well, or making noise, or . . .”

“
How many times do I need to tell you? Just make sure that the boy doesn't make any noise. And make very sure he isn't left in complete darkness. Most important: Either you or she have to be there at all times, never leave him alone. If someone went by and he called out, you'd be in big trouble. Got it?”

“
Got it, got it. I knowing. But no one pass by here. No one, never. There is gate with chain, I broke and changed padlock with key, and only I and she having key. But money? You promising that we not doing anything difficult, only keep boy, and you giving money quickly.”

“
You've already been paid the advance, haven't you? When the time is right, you'll get the rest. Stay calm. Now we need to avoid making mistakes: The phone calls are going to be crucial. If you get that wrong, if we get that wrong, there'll be no money for anyone, just lots of trouble. You understand?”

“
You not worrying, we no mistakes. You no mistakes, too, no? Remember: We making our part, you making yours. And if we making mistakes, everyone in trouble. If you making mistakes, just you in trouble. And boy too.”

“
I know, I know! I have to go now. You turn off your cell phone, and turn it on every four hours. If you see that I tried to get in touch with you, call me back.”

“
Okay. I knowing.”

“
And . . . be careful with the boy. Don't hurt him.”

“
No. If you not making mistakes.”

 

 

L
ooking out from the balcony, Marinella Lojacono observed with fascination the slice of the city that teemed at her feet. This place was like Palermo, and yet different, even if she couldn't explain how. Certainly they were both different from Agrigento, worlds apart.

She'd lived in Agrigento until she was thirteen: just long enough to finish eighth grade. There were the friends she'd grown up with; one girl in particular, Irene, with whom she shared her life. They were still in touch on Facebook, but they wrote each other less and less; Irene had a boyfriend . . . Angelo this and Angelo that, what a pain in the ass.

After Papà's problems, she and Mamma had moved to Palermo. Now, as she looked down at the crowds, at people running and shoving each other, Marinella remembered her first days in that new city. Neither she nor her mother had been in the best state of mind, and that certainly hadn't made things easier. Plus, Papà's absence had been an intolerable burden. He'd always been the buffer between her and her mother, the only thing that stopped them from pecking each other to death. Marinella was silent, very reserved, and subject to long spells of brooding; her mother, Sonia, was exuberant and intrusive, always eager to stick her nose into Marinella's business.

Not that she had much business, to tell the truth. She'd had a hard time fitting in; her schoolmates were too different from her, and her grades, which had always been outstanding, had dropped precipitously. When, after extreme effort, she'd finally made a friend, her mother had made sure to chase that friend away by bursting rudely into her room and delivering a long, cringe-inducing sermon on the fact that her girlfriend was smoking a cigarette.

That had been the straw that broke the camel's back. With cold determination, Marinella had checked the ferry schedules; three days later she'd completed her last round of exams so that she wouldn't have to repeat the year; she'd packed her few possessions into a backpack, and she'd left.

A scooter went roaring up the street against traffic, and a car stopped to let it go by. The boy on the moped waved his thanks, and the car tapped its horn in response. She felt like laughing: People sure were strange around there. Strange but nice. The Palermitans had struck her as more cautious, less willing to reach out; but maybe she'd just had a bad attitude. Here on the other hand, whenever she went out shopping or for a walk, she got unasked-for smiles, and now and then some kid her age would greet her as if she were a friend.

She liked taking care of the apartment. Lojacono had selected the place practically at random, believing he'd be living there briefly and alone; he was messy and lazy, and Marinella, who was very exacting, had found a place that more or less needed to be rescued. Her father had told her not to worry about it, to enjoy the time she had here as if it were a holiday. But it wasn't a chore for her. For that matter, it might not even be a vacation.

She went back inside, reluctantly leaving the gentle spring air and the pleasant chaos that rose from the street below to the fifth-floor window.

A couple of nights ago, her father had told her that at first he'd hated the city, but that little by little he'd gotten used to it. Unlike him, she had immediately felt comfortable there. But Papà had been catapulted there from a place he'd never left. She hadn't been. Perhaps that's why they'd reacted to it so differently. Because usually Marinella and her father agreed. It had always been that way: They had a special rapport, they understood each other with a glance of those eyes, so strange and so similar, an unmistakable facial feature that united them the way their personalities did. Being torn away from her father had been traumatic, and the fact that her mother only spoke ill of him had just made her miss him more.

So, Marinella thought to herself, the solution was obvious: She'd stay here and live in the place she preferred, with the person she preferred. To take care of him.

As she was neatly folding and placing the linen in the drawers, her thoughts went to the woman that she'd seen coming home with her father the night she'd arrived. Then and there, the flood of her emotions had been so strong—the desire to throw her arms around him; the fear of his reaction to the fact that she'd run away—that she'd barely even noticed her. What's more, the woman had left almost immediately, very discreetly. But it wasn't so hard to figure out: A magistrate, someone her father worked with, going home with a man who lived alone, after midnight. It could only mean one thing.

Of course her father had assured her that they'd just needed to discuss a few loose ends on an investigation they'd just closed, and that he'd needed to give her a document; that it was all strictly professional. But Marinella and Laura, that was the bitch's name, had exchanged a quick glance, and women only need one glance to know everything they need to know. She would have been happy, the bitch, if Marinella had simply gotten out of her way. Sorry to tell you, thought the girl, but I don't intend to.

Still, that woman must never have actually been inside her father's apartment, because she saw not a trace of her presence: not pair of underwear, not a toothbrush, not a box of tampons. Marinella knew well that women marked their territory, that they planted little flags to testify to their presence; and she'd found nothing of the sort. Just in the nick of time, then, she thought wickedly.

Somewhere, someone switched on a radio and turned the volume up; a neomelodic song filled the air. She liked that too, about this city: There was always music. Someone was always playing an instrument, or singing, or listening to a CD, or the radio, or a TV; or else a cart was going by, the vendor calling his wares. There was always music.

Marinella went over to the mirror to get ready. Perhaps she wasn't traditionally beautiful, but she was well on her way to becoming attractive in a special, distinctive way. Her narrow eyes, high cheekbones, and glossy raven hair all came from her father; her long legs, full lips, and lithe physique were from her mother, who could still make men stop and turn in the street.

She'd gotten into the habit of making her face up a little, just enough to “
fare la femmina
,” or “play the woman,” as her mamma liked to say, but without going overboard. She had another reason now, too, though she wouldn't have admitted it even under torture.

She pressed her lips together to apply the lipstick, concealing a smile. On three separate occasions, on the stairs, she'd run into a guy.

Older than her, he must have been eighteen, maybe twenty; tall, athletic, carrying a bag full of books, and trotting down the stairs, whistling. The first time he'd stopped whistling, as if surprised at the sight of her; the second time he'd given her a long level look; the third time he'd actually breathed a quiet
ciao
. She hadn't replied, she'd lowered her eyes and hurried past; but her heart had done a somersault in her chest.

The time of day was always the same, the bag of books and his apparent age spoke of university classes to be attended, the speed with which he descended the stairs suggested he lived above her, on the sixth floor, say, or at most the seventh; and leaving aside old Signorina Parisi, who lived alone with her cats and dogs, and the Gargiulos, who were an elderly, childless couple, she'd narrowed the list of possibilities down to the D'Amatos and the Rossinis. She was, after all, a policeman's daughter.

And so, sharpening the weapons with which nature had endowed her, she was about to go visit the first of those two families and shamelessly ask if she could borrow two eggs: she'd waited until it was Thursday afternoon, the day that the local grocery stores all closed, for that very reason. She knew that at more or less this time of the day, the mysterious tune-whistler was about to go out; perhaps he would open the door himself.