The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (21 page)

Di Nardo burst out laughing, and her infectious laughter soon had her partner Romano chuckling too: the image of the two of them, barraged by criminal complaints, scampering from one apartment to the other, was surreal.

“Just as well we came out for a little fresh air since there isn't that much to do in the office”

The man grimaced in disgust: “Sure, I get it. We're the new Bastards of Pizzofalcone, aren't we? Other policemen have inherited the right to turn their noses up at us; and because we're still police officers, criminals do too; ordinary civilians do the same, a little bit by right of inheritance and a little because we're still police officers. We turn our own noses up because each of us feels that we've been sent here—with the other rejects—unjustly.”

Alex shot him a glance. “You think? Personally, I hated the place where I was before more. Here at least no one looks down on you when you make a dumb mistake.”

Before Romano had a chance to reply, they'd reached their destination. They left the car in a no parking zone, their police insignia in plain view on the dashboard, and headed for the street entrance. A peal of thunder rumbled past overhead, causing a few pedestrians to turn a worried gaze up to the sky. Before stepping through the large door, which stood ajar, the warrant officer shot a glance at the balcony to see if Donna Amalia was there. She was.

“If you ask me, she has the housekeeper bring her a bedpan, so she doesn't have to give up her vantage point. I'd put her in jail, is what I'd do. God, I hate people who can't mind their own business.”

They climbed up to the fifth floor. The real estate agency was closed. They went over to the other door. Romano rang the bell.

In the silence of the landing, they heard whispering on the other side of the door, then the sound of the peephole being opened. And the same woman's voice as before: “Who is it?”

“This is Di Nardo and Romano, from the police, signora. Open up, please. We have a warrant.”

There was a brief silence, after which they heard a complicated bolt being twisted open.

The door opened just a crack, revealing an eye and the fingers of one hand.

“Could you show me your documents, please?”

Romano extended his ID and the faxed copy of the warrant. The hand took them and the door shut again. Di Nardo puffed out her cheeks, Romano threw his arms wide. The door opened up again.

“Please. Come in.”

They walked into a sort of drawing room. The place looked comfortable, the furniture was new, it had recently been painted, and there were pictures hanging on the walls. Tidy, spotless. Still, Alex felt ill at ease, though at first she couldn't put her finger on why. Then, she understood. It was fake. Everything looked like what you'd expect to see in an interior decorating magazine. It could have been a showroom in a furniture store.

She thought all this in a second; then she looked at the woman who had opened the door.

She was little more than a girl. And she was stunningly beautiful.

Her face betrayed her age. Her skin was luminous and free of flaws, her cheeks just slightly plump; she had large hazel eyes, and a tense, almost fearful expression. But her body, sheathed in a pair of jeans and a white blouse, captured Alex's unalloyed admiration. She was glad she hadn't removed her sunglasses. The girl was tall, even though she wore flats, her breasts were ample and firm, her belly was taut and her legs were long; she tilted her head to one side with unconsidered grace, her lips were full and sensual, she had a tiny beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. She could easily have been an actress or a model.

The policewoman noticed that Romano too had been stunned at the sight. His mouth hung open, his gaze was vacant; understandable. Though certainly her partner wasn't imagining that Alex was thinking how she'd be able to make much better use of that wonderful body than he ever could.

At last, Romano snapped to.

“
Buongiorno
. Do you . . . ma'am, do you live here? With who . . . we've come to check some things out, so . . .”

The girl turned to Alex, clearly confused. The policewoman intervened: “
Buongiorno
, signorina. Could you identify yourself, please?”

Before the girl had a chance to speak, there was a discreet little cough behind them; the two policemen turned with a start and realized that a man had walked into the room.

“I apologize, I must have startled you.
Buongiorno
, officers. I'm Germano Brasco, an architect and the leaseholder of this apartment. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Nunzia, did you ask the officers if they wanted a cup of coffee?”

Romano looked him up and down. The name had rung a bell, though he couldn't remember any specifics. The gentleman looked about sixty, well dressed, tall, with a luxuriant head of white hair and a well-groomed mustache, also white. With an equally well-manicured hand he pointed toward the corner of the living room furnished with a sofa and two leather armchairs.

“Shall I bring espresso for you all, would you like that?” The girl's voice was thick with the accent of the local dialect. “I can bring it on a tray, with the sugar separate, will that be all right?”

Even though the questions were directed toward the two guests, they were spoken with the girl's large eyes fixed on the architect's face; he nodded agreeably. The girl vanished toward the interior of the apartment.

“You'll have to forgive her, Nunzia is so young. She still isn't entirely comfortable playing the role of mistress of the house. Please, make yourselves comfortable: what can we do for you?”

Romano had remained standing, showing no strong inclination to get to know the man; but Alex understood that the longer they stayed, the more information they'd be likely to come away with: she felt certain that there was something strange about that mismatched couple, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.

So she sat down, implicitly accepting the invitation and obliging Romano to follow suit.

The man, too, sat down. He was wearing a light gray suit, a matching striped tie, and a light blue shirt. On his lapel, he wore a pin indicating membership in an exclusive municipal association. He wore a pair of glasses with gold frames; they glittered in the sunlight pouring in from the balcony, where the curtains were wide open. As Romano sat down, he glanced outside and met the angry glare of Donna Amalia, keeping watch from her usual vantage point. He was tempted to wave hello.

“Now then, officers: what fair winds have blown you to our door? What crime have we committed?”

He was making a show of great self-confidence, wanted to appear friendly. Romano felt his hand start to itch: he jammed it in his pocket.

“We're just here checking out a report, architect. We received a complaint, probably based on an erroneous interpretation of entrances into and exits from this apartment, and decided to look into it. That's all.”

“Too bad. This city, as usual, remains true to its nature. No respect for a person's privacy. I understand.”

Alex broke in: “On the other hand, you should know how many crimes, large and small, come to light as a result of this failure to respect other people's privacy, architect. Now, just how long have you lived here?”

The man burst into a hearty laugh: “No, no, officer. I don't live here. I'm the leaseholder, I pay the rent, but I live in Posillipo. For heaven's sake, who could stand to live in the midst of all this chaos?”

Romano squinted to ward off the irritating glare that was reflecting off the man's gold glasses frames, and asked: “But if you live in Posillipo, pardon me, why would you rent an apartment in this neighborhood?”

Brasco assumed an air of innocence: “Well, you see, I like to have lots of different places at my disposal, where I can spend my spare time. Sometimes I just need a change of scene. I'm in charge of major urban renewal projects, my architecture firm works all over the world, we take part in international design competitions. Every so often I like to go into seclusion: it inspires me, helps me to come up with new ideas. Oh, here's our coffee! Nunzia is so good at making coffee. How many sugars?”

The girl had brought in a tray with demitasse cups and saucers, and, after carefully setting down the various objects on the side table, had remained standing, a forced smile on her face.

That smile gave Di Nardo the creeps. It looked like a mask. She asked her: “What about you, signorina, aren't you going to sit down?”

Nunzia turned to look at the architect, as if asking his permission. The man nodded, and the girl took a seat. Alex had the impression she was watching a well-trained pet.

The warrant officer went on: “So you come here only occasionally. How occasionally?”

Brasco's voice grew thick: “Hard to say. Occasionally, like you say. But let me ask you again: is there something wrong? Something I ought to know about?”

Suddenly Alex butted in: “What about you, Signorina? Do you work with the architect?”

The question was met with silence. Nunzia's eyes were those of an animal caught in a trap. Brasco answered for her: “No, no. Nunzia is a friend of mine; actually, the daughter of friends of mine,” the architect hastened to correct himself, as if to cover up some mistake. “She's a young woman, at her age, kids want a little freedom; I don't mind if she stays here whenever she likes. That's all.”

Alex turned again to Nunzia: “So you stay here, signorina. And what is it that you do? Do you work, do you study?”

Romano, who had jotted something down in a notebook, asked: “And by the way, what's your name and where do you live?”

Once again, Brasco replied: “Her name is Annunziata Esposito, and her address is Vico Secondo all'Olivella, 22. She's a . . . she's thinking of enrolling in school to get her high school diploma. I think she finished middle school.”

Di Nardo gave him a cold stare. “Does the young woman have trouble speaking? Some serious problem pronouncing words? Dyslexia? Does she stutter? We'd prefer she answer the questions herself, thanks.”

The words, harsh in themselves, were buttressed by her dry tone. Romano looked up from the notebook and turned toward her. Brasco blinked repeatedly.

“No, no, of course not. It's just that she's very shy. Nunzia, answer the lady. Don't make me do all the talking.”

“And what do you want me to say? I stay here. That's all.”

Her deep, warm voice was trembling with fear. That girl was terrified; Alex was certain of it.

“Well, tell me, signorina: how long have you been here, that is, how long have you been the architect's . . . guest?”

The hesitation had been intentional, and Brasco had recognized the implicit accusation. The central point, the nature of the relationship between the established professional and the young girl, was now on the table. Nunzia once again tried to lock eyes with the man, but this time she was unsuccessful: the architect stared at Alex, putting on a show of self-confidence that he hardly felt inside.

“I . . . it's been seventeen days.”

They waited, as if there was something more; but the girl had nothing to add.

“And what do you do? Do you go out, see the town, visit friends . . .”

Nunzia twisted her hands together in her lap and shot a mute plea for help in Brasco's direction. Then she answered: “No, I . . . I stay here. I don't want to go out. I don't go out. I stay home, and I like it here.”

She sighed, satisfied with the effort she'd made. Brasco spoke up: “Nunzia had a little problem with her nerves. And her folks asked me if I could give her a place to stay for a while, so she could recover. And now you're recovering, aren't you, Nunzia?

The girl nodded forcefully. When she spoke or gesticulated, her youth was fully on display.

“I'd like to see the lease, please,” Romano said. “As well as the IDs, both yours and the young lady's.”

Brasco nodded, getting up from the couch.

“No problem, officer. Even though I don't really understand the reason for all these questions, as if there weren't already criminals enough to catch in this city.”

Romano leapt to his feet, his expression suddenly grim. His voice was flat.

“Sometimes criminals don't look like criminals. Get me those documents now, and skip the commentary. Get moving.”

Everyone stared at him in surprise. Alex, with a shiver, realized that her partner had taken offense at the architect's words and was starting to lose control of himself. She stood up in a hurry: “My partner asked you to do something, architect. I hope you're willing to cooperate.”

The man handed over the IDs with a trembling hand, having gestured for the girl to do likewise. He tried to recover a shred of dignity: “I . . . I know a great many people, you know . . . If I was to ask for an inquiry into this absurd interrogation, perfectly respectable people, at home, bothering no one . . .”

While Alex was checking the IDs, Romano never once stopped staring at the architect, who was unable to hold his gaze. A muscle twitched in the policeman's jaw and his lips were pressed together in a white slit, pale with tension.

“Oh, you do? And exactly what would you tell all these people you know, architect? Would you tell them about your pied-à-terre, and the young girl you keep there? And are you perfectly sure you'd have their unwavering support?”

Di Nardo placed a hand on his arm and spoke to him in a firm voice: “That's enough, Romano. That'll do. The IDs are in order, and they confirm everything we've been told. We can write up a report.”

By now the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Nunzia had taken a step backward toward the wall, as if she wanted to disappear. Brasco was looking at the floor, breathing rapidly.

Alex set the IDs down on the side table and said: “Thanks for your cooperation, we won't inconvenience you any longer. If the young lady's stay should extend much longer, and if she were to choose to transfer her official residence to this address, you'd be required to file the appropriate forms. Have a good day.”