Poisonville (23 page)

“Discreet investigations are also slow investigations,” I commented.

“It’s been more than a month and a half since the murder. Another day or two won’t change a thing,” he replied. “The important thing is to catch the killer.”

The sergeant did his best to repair the shutter that I had forced open, and we left the house.

“I don’t need to tell you not to speak to anyone about all this. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I find out something,” said Mele. Then he pulled the digital camera out of his jacket pocket and extended it to me. “We don’t need to include this in the official evidence. At least for the moment.”

I smiled in gratitude and got into my car.

* * *

Antonio Visentin wasn’t very happy with Selvaggia’s latest maneuver. They weren’t handling their children right at all. Professor Moroncini’s report laid out a clinical picture that made Filippo out to be little more than an idiot with no independent judgment, a danger to himself and therefore to society at large.

The appointment with the local magistrate who would order the interdiction if he found just cause was set for the following morning, and Visentin had decided to make a last attempt with Filippo, even though he knew it would spur Selvaggia’s wrath. But in Visentin’s eyes, their children offered the sole possibility of living on after one’s own death, and continuing through them into the future. To have Filippo interdicted would mean chopping off the deepest roots, breaking off the continuity through family inheritance that had allowed their families to rule and flourish through all the twists and turns of history, through all the political regimes. Every political and social transformation in the history of the Northeast had been guided and controlled by their families. And Selvaggia could not fully understand this. For the first time, he had sensed the depth of the difference between them. An ocean as vast as the dozens of generations that had resulted in Antonio Visentin. Selvaggia was violating the only true taboo: the hereditary taboo. And Visentin felt obliged to prevent her from breaking it. For all the transformations sweeping the Northeast, the power of the families must remain intact. Otherwise, it would be the beginning of the end for all of them.

When he saw him come into his studio, Filippo hastily threw a white sheet over the sculpture he was working on. Visentin discussed the topic tactfully, explaining the legal and psychological consequences of interdiction, the mark of shame that this legal act would stamp on the name of the Calchi Renier family. They were the same arguments that he had attempted to use on Selvaggia, but to no effect. He was surprised and disappointed to see Filippo’s obedient, even passive attitude.

“I’ve always done what my mother told me to do,” he had answered. “If this is what my mother wants, so be it. All things considered, I don’t really care either way.”

The venerable old lawyer had insisted, he’d spoken to him like a father, but Filippo had closed down, shutting himself up in a mute obstinacy that had persuaded the lawyer that Selvaggia might well be right. With Filippo, sole heir to the Calchi Renier fortune, the dynasty was on the verge of extinction. Selvaggia had told him about Filippo’s latest act of folly. The Contessa had arranged for a date between her son and Isabella Beghin, a girl of unusual beauty and a tractable personality, the daughter of the Beghin family that owned the tanneries. You might say that Selvaggia had selected her genetically. But during their first date, Filippo had convinced her that he had barely a year left to live. The girl had fled without a backward glance, after earnestly advising Filippo to seek medical help overseas. By now, Filippo lived in an isolation that bordered on the autistic. How could she entrust her son with business responsibilities if he accused his mother of being an accomplice to murder? And, in the end, Visentin had left that gloomy studio persuaded that, after all, interdiction was the only reasonable solution.

Visentin was growing confused about everything, about what was right and what was wrong. Maybe Selvaggia had been right when, during their last argument about Filippo, she had called him the biggest hypocrite in the land of the hypocrites, and had then added: “You and I are a perfect pair of carnivores: a lioness and a jackal, and what he have in common is our love for gazelles.”

The only difference between them was that Selvaggia had no hesitation in saying it, while it frightened him even to think it.

* * *

Inspector Mele had nothing to report for three long days. Three days of intolerable anxiety. Then he showed up late on the third night. It had been snowing for a few hours. Fresh wet snow that didn’t stick to the ground. When I was a little boy, the snow lasted for a whole week.

“That hair came from Giovanna’s head and body,” he announced, removing his wet heavy jacket. “And we found traces of the same bath salts that were found in her lungs. There’s no doubt about it: she was killed in that house.”

“Any information about who owns it?”

“A company headquartered in the Principality of Monaco,” he replied disappointedly.

“And what would a company in Monaco want with a house here in town?”

“The company is nothing more than a front for tax evasion and moving money around without interference. The right question to ask is who, here in town, can make use of such a complex network of shell companies?”

“The Torrefranchi Foundation,” I whispered.

“The house belongs to the Foundation, Francesco. And that points back to the Contessa, once again. I went back to question Lucio again, and I’m convinced that, if nothing else, he really did see her car that night.”

“Do you think she’s involved in the murder?”

“I couldn’t say. But I did wonder how Giovanna’s dead body was moved from the little suburban villa to her house. At first, I assumed that the murderer must have used Giovanna’s Mazda, but the forensic examinations rule that out.”

“He must have used his own car. Or else the Contessa’s Mercedes,” I responded.

“The Contessa’s car was one of the hypotheses, based on Lucio’s testimony. I decided to check it out, and I discovered that after the murder she got a new car. And a new chauffeur.” The inspector stood up, walked over to the liquor tray, and poured himself a shot of vintage marsala. “At that point, I got curious, and I found out that the chauffeur was a Romanian, a certain Toader Tomusa who had been in an Italian prison. The day after he was released from prison, he was hired by the Contessa.”

“Everyone knows that Selvaggia has been underwriting a project to reintegrate ex-convicts into civilian society.”

“What a philanthropist she is,” he commented sarcastically. “And don’t you find it odd that, at every turn in this case, a Romanian pops up? Constantin Deaconescu, his employees at the Club Diana, and the employees of the Eco T.D.W. were all Romanians.”

“Mafia?” I guessed.

He nodded. “Like all the other organizations, it has operations here in the Northeast. This is the perfect place to launder money, by investing in legal activities. Go into any bar and you’ll find plenty of entrepreneurs ready to do a little business, without worrying about their partners’ criminal records.”

I nodded back. Things were becoming very clear. “The Torrefranchi Group is about to move its operations to Romania,” I confided. “They’ve built a new industrial site on the outskirts of Timisoara.”

From the surprised expression on his face, I understood that the inspector knew nothing about the Foundation’s plans. He gulped down his marsala and pulled on his heavy jacket.

“What do you plan to do now?”

“Without some new piece of evidence, my investigation ends here.”

“Are you joking? If you don’t trust Zan, go to the chief prosecutor: he’ll listen to you.”

“It would mean flushing what little we’ve uncovered down the toilet,” he answered brusquely. “Zan and the district attorney are both respectable people, it’s just that . . .” He broke and tried to find the right words. “They both have a natural inclination to be both benevolent and secretive when it comes to the Foundation. I can’t go to them and say that I suspect the Contessa of being an accomplice to murder. They’d take me for a madman and she’d know all about it two minutes later.”

“Then let’s unleash a scandal. We’ll contact the national press.”

“The Foundation is the most important industrial group in the area. The various member companies spend a fortune on newspaper advertising. I’m afraid the business considerations involved will outweigh Giovanna’s death.”

“I’m not going to just stand by and watch,” I announced in a bellicose tone of voice.

“I couldn’t agree with you more. But you have more of a chance of finding the truth than I do.”

“But how?”

“Your father. I have no doubt that he is deeply involved in Foundation business, but I remember him coming into Giovanna’s house after her body was found. He was overwhelmed with grief; I can’t believe he’s willing to look the other way.”

Mele slipped out the door soundlessly. He had a point. Papa would never allow Giovanna’s murderer to go unpunished, but at the same time he would never willingly lift a finger against his own class. We had to put his back to the wall so that he’d be forced to act. There could be only one explanation for the presence of the Contessa at the little house: the killer was Filippo. I had never mentioned it to the inspector because of the reciprocal alibi that Filippo and I had provided for one another. That was a mistake, and I would have to rectify it at my earliest opportunity. I had eliminated Filippo from the list of suspects because I didn’t want to believe that Giovanna had resumed making love with him. But now that I thought about it, the phrase “I became the slut of the man who ruined my life” could still make sense with reference to Filippo. He had nearly killed himself after she left him to be with me. Giovanna had been wracked by guilt over the car crash, and he had never tired of tormenting her and fanning the flames of that guilt. When he came to the Club Diana to talk to me, he must already have murdered her. He had made sure people saw him so that he could construct an alibi while his mother and the chauffeur moved the body and set up the false murder scene.

The next morning I couldn’t shave. My hands were shaking too badly. I had spent the night trying to figure out the best way to approach my father about this, but I had only been able to string together an endless series of tangled ideas. For my entire life, I had considered Papa to be the finest man alive. I had always considered myself lucky to have him as a mentor, in life and in my profession. After Giovanna’s death, day by day, that image had been shattered into smithereens. Once justice had been served and Filippo and Selvaggia were indicted for Giovanna’s murder, I would make a clean and lasting break from him and from his corrupt world. The thing that made me especially sad was my awareness that it would be a relief for him as well. I wasn’t the son he wanted. He wanted a son who was willing to sacrifice himself and his ideals on the altar of success and business interests without turning a hair. I was all too familiar with Papa’s moral justifications. Antonio Visentin, the great lawyer, the finest of them all, only advised his clients in their own best interests. If, after that, his clients chose to break the law, it was none of his concern. His objective was only to safeguard the interests of his client. But a client like the Foundation had ties to the Romanian Mafia, was polluting the environment, and had committed who could say how many other crimes—and he couldn’t ignore that. That was why I was breaking off my relationship with Papa. He had always shown me the clean and rigorous aspect of the profession; he must have assumed that, with the passage of time and the disenchantment that comes with experience, I would accept the dirty side of the law as well. But that’s not what happened. We had disappointed one another, we had judged one another badly. I left my house determined to outdo the great lawyer, to outsmart him and force him to the bargaining table. Words like “father” and “son” no longer had any meaning.

For the first time, when I walked into the law office, I felt like a stranger, despite the fondness and sympathy of the secretaries. My father gave me a chilly greeting. I was grateful to him for that. An affectionate gesture would have undermined my determination.

I was brief and to the point. I told him about the suburban house, the evidence, Filippo, and the Contessa, and I waited for him to react. At first, he turned ashen, but then he recovered, and at the end he sneered, a hostile lawyer ready to demolish a witness.

“So you’re suggesting that Filippo is the murderer, and Selvaggia is actually his accomplice,” he began, sarcastically. “I never realized you had such a lively imagination and such a faulty memory. Allow me to remind you that Filippo is your alibi . . .”

The time had come to administer the fatal blow. “There is an eyewitness who saw the Contessa’s Mercedes leave the little suburban house at four-thirty in the morning.” Of course, I neglected to tell him that the eyewitness was Lucio, or he’d have simply enjoyed a hearty laugh at my expense and then asked me to leave his office.

He was speechless. Only for an instant, the time it took to turn the news over in his mind. “And all this witness saw was Selvaggia’s car?” he asked in an icy voice.

“That’s right.”

“Has he already made a statement?”

“Not yet. First I wanted to come to terms with you.”

“What do you want?”

“Filippo’s confession.”

He ran a hand over his face and then stared me right in the eye, thinking. “As we speak, Filippo is in court,” he said after a while, in a neutral tone of voice. “He is being interviewed by the magistrate, who is deliberating whether or not to accept Selvaggia’s request to have him declared incompetent. There is no doubt that the request will be accepted.”

“Well, well, what a remarkable coincidence,” I interrupted.

He ignored my words. “Even if he really is guilty, which I do not believe, you need to keep in mind that, once he has been declared incompetent, Filippo will never be sent to prison. It will be a walk in the park to have him declared temporarily insane at the time of the commission of the murder.”