The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (29 page)

Inside the precinct house, optimism was certainly not reigning supreme.

Ottavia hadn't looked away from her computer screen once, the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth between pinched lips, her brow furrowed; she was working nonstop to keep from having to think, to avoid having to reckon with herself.

Pisanelli, aside from his frequent bathroom breaks, which in any case went unremarked by the others, leafed through old case files comparing Xeroxes of the suicide notes in which a dozen or so different people had bid the world adieu.

Di Nardo and Romano were getting ready to check things out at the home of Annunziata Esposito, in Vico Secondo all'Olivella, 22. Alex watched her partner's face, which seemed carved in granite; it was devoid of all expression and had the grayish complexion of someone who hadn't got a wink of sleep. Romano hadn't uttered a single word since he'd gotten to the office at 7:30 that morning.

Aragona and Lojacono were drafting reports on the interrogations they'd conducted yesterday: the housekeeper and the doorman of the victim's apartment building. They'd reached a dead end, and they knew it. They hadn't even succeeded in ruling out any of the original conjectures: the theory that this had simply been a burglary gone wrong still held water, as did others—that the murder had been a crime of passion or property. “If only the door had been forced, at least,” Aragona had said. “I'm tempted to force it myself, after the fact. That way at least,” he'd added, “I could throw that Romanian clown, the housekeeper's boyfriend, in jail.”

For his part, Lojacono was also distracted by worries of a more personal nature. The night before, while he was eating dinner at Letizia's trattoria and telling her how lucky he was to still be alive, having barely survived being driven around town at breakneck speed by that lunatic partner of his, he'd received a phone call from Marinella, much later at night than usual.

The girl, in tears, had told him all about a furious fight she'd had with her mother.

“That bitch,” she'd said to him through her sobs, “that stupid bitch, after doing exactly as she fucking pleases, now she thinks she can lock me up, can you believe it?”

Lojacono had tried to calm her down: “Honey, don't talk like that, she's your mother. And the things she's telling you are for your own good, aren't they?”

He found it paradoxical that he of all people was being forced to defend Sonia from their daughter's accusations, which he actually endorsed wholeheartedly; but from where he was there was really nothing else he could do.

“I'm telling you, she's a bitch! I was in my bedroom, with a girlfriend of mine, and she, SHE!, was smoking a cigarette.
She
was, I wasn't! And she came busting in like a maniac, shouting at the top of her lungs, and she embarrassed me; my girlfriend was staring at me, she almost started laughing! Fuck it, I'm not a little girl anymore. You understand it and you're miles away, but she doesn't and she lives with me!”

It took Lojacono a solid fifteen minutes to get her to stop sobbing and shouting. And he'd also gotten her to promise that she would stay at home that night, though with her bedroom door closed, rather than go out and sleep at one of her friends' houses just to stick it to her mother.

When he walked back into the trattoria, Letizia had arranged for him to be served a new bowl of rigatoni; the one he'd been eating earlier had gone cold. He'd told her about the phone call, and she had tried to console him, doing her best to minimize the gravity of the situation: “From a distance, things always seem more serious than they are,” she'd told him, “especially fights between two women. And as far as that goes, Marinella is right, she's a woman now, not a child anymore; parents are always the last ones to realize it.”

She was wearing a light-blue angora pullover with a plunging neckline that showed off her magnificent breasts; that sweater had caused more than one quarrel among the couples dining there that night. Unconsciously, or at least less than fully consciously, she was trying to put her best qualities on display in order to capture the policeman's interest. That night, though, he seemed so caught up in his own problems that he probably wouldn't have noticed her even if she'd danced naked on his table.

Lojacono had added, disconsolately: “At least she'll talk to me. That's something, anyway. If this had happened, I don't know, six months ago, she would have had to get over it on her own, and who knows what might have happened. I'm really worried about all this.”

Letizia had laughed; and then she'd said: “You know, right by here there's a high school, and sometimes groups of kids come here for lunch; I give them special deals so they can enjoy a nice hot meal when they have somewhere to be in the afternoon and don't have time to get home to eat. I watch them, and I listen to them talk. They're better than we think they are. Sweeter, more caring, real idealists. They might seem cynical to us, apathetic. But they know what they want, and they want to live good lives in a better world. With a few exceptions—fewer exceptions than among us adults—they're not criminals, they're just kids. They're just the way we were when we were their age. If I were you I wouldn't worry so much, it's perfectly normal for a young girl to fight with her mother. The stories I could tell you about what I was like when I was her age.”

She had caressed his hand, on the tabletop. And he had smiled at her.

But now, after a sleepless night, the thought of Marinella, who had no one to talk to, who walked to school with a heavy heart, still filled him with sadness; and that wasn't helping him do his job. Nor was the atmosphere, which was once again grim, doing much to encourage a sense of optimism.

But, in fact, the bomb was about to explode.

 

The bomb stepped out of a dark-blue official car that had rolled silently into the courtyard of the precinct house.

Dressed in a dark and somewhat severe skirt suit that was, however, incapable of entirely concealing her shapely curves, she was, as usual, out of the door before the driver could hurry back to open it for her. She headed off, striding briskly, toward the front door. Guida half rose to ask her who she was but she sped past him and headed straight up the stairs, attacking the steps with urgency.

She burst into the detectives' open-plan office. Though she was petite, as always, she immediately filled the room with her presence, catching the attention of everyone there. Her dark eyes rested ever so briefly on the women, Ottavia and Alex; Alex returned her glance, with unmistakable appreciation for the fine physique of this new arrival. At last, she spotted Lojacono and said, with a strong Sardinian accent: “There you are, Lojacono. Let's go, come with me to the commissario's office, we need to talk to him.”

When he saw her, Palma stood up cheerfully from his seat, but his eyes betrayed his worry: “Dottoressa Piras, what a surprise! We talked just yesterday, I hardly expected . . .”

Laura asked him to take a seat, and sat down herself. Lojacono remained standing.

“Hi there, Palma. I thought it was best to come in person; I have news. It's safe to talk in here, right?”

“Certainly, Dottoressa. Go ahead, tell me all about it.”

“I asked Lojacono to be here, because as we know he's working on the Cecilia De Santis murder case, isn't he?”

Palma nodded. “Yes, that's right, along with Corporal Aragona. Shall I ask him to come in, too?”

Piras raised one hand in warning: “Oh, good lord, no. If necessary, Lojacono can brief him. Well, where are we?”

Palma gestured to Lojacono, who began to explain: “At a dead end, I'm afraid. We've talked to everyone, the housekeeper, the doorman, the employees at the notary's firm, even a close personal friend of the victim, on an informal basis, thanks to the good offices of our colleague Pisanelli. Aside from the hypothesis of a burglary gone wrong, which can't be ruled out despite the discovery of the loot, the theory that it might all hinge on something to do with her husband's behavior, with the fact that he cheated on her constantly, still strikes me as the most plausible. But, given the fact that we can't talk to him or to the young lady . . .”

Piras nodded. “Right. All this lines up with the impression I'd developed. Well, half an hour ago I received a phone call. It was from the notary's lawyer, an old criminal specialist with quite a reputation here in town, one of the most persnickety, troublemaking, hypocritical sons of bitches I've ever had the misfortune to deal with.”

Palma sighed; rich people always have the best defense lawyers. But Piras had a bomb and she was there to detonate it: “In short: the notary is willing to be questioned.”

Lojacono and Palma couldn't believe their ears. What could this mean? Laura continued, pleased with the effect her news had had on the two men.

“He unspooled a long tale of woe, and told me how he'd tried to talk his client out of it; how he'd implored him right up until the very end, for the usual reasons: the possible misunderstandings that might arise, our well-known ability to put the worst spin on things, etc. But it seems that the notary wouldn't budge: he says that he has nothing to hide, that he's innocent, that he has nothing to fear, and so on. That's not all: on a completely confidential basis, with the proviso that it doesn't constitute an admission of any kind, it seems that the guy also discussed it with his girlfriend, and she also thinks they should talk.”

Lojacono was surprised: “What do you think this means, Laura? Why this sudden reversal?”

Palma replied: “It might mean that they really don't have anything to hide, but that they can't prove it. So they're hoping that, if they help us in our investigation, we can somehow prove their innocence for them.”

Piras smirked: “Or else, maybe, in the past few days they've managed to arrange things so that in fact they
can
prove the two of them had nothing to do with it. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened.”

Lojacono put his hands in his pockets.

“Well, still, at least we can talk to them. And we can finally lay eyes on this notorious redhead, the one our friend the notary even dared to take to the yacht club, making himself the talk of the town for a few days.”

Before Piras had time to reply, Ottavia stuck her head in the door: “Commissario, Di Nardo and Romano are on their way to check out that one thing. Do you want me to tell them anything?”

“No, thanks, Ottavia. Just tell them to let me know as soon as they have something.”

The magistrate caught the glance that the two of them exchanged. The woman was pretty and clearly infatuated with the commissario, and the attraction seemed to run both ways. Fun, and better that way. She wondered why she felt relieved and decided not to answer her own question. Instead, she went on: “The lawyer asked that his client not be forced to come into police headquarters or to the district attorney's office, to avoid giving the press, which is on his trail, an opportunity to embellish. And, with great sadness, he informed me that the notary doesn't want him, the lawyer, to accompany him; and I believe it, I can't even imagine how much the guy charges to be present for a police interrogation.”

“Well then, Dottoressa,” Palma asked, “would you prefer to question him here in the station house? Or do you want to go call on him at home?”

“No, that's exactly why I came here directly. I believe that the best thing, at this point, is for Lojacono and Aragona to go to the notary's office, and alone. My presence would seem too official and our friend might very well go back on the defensive. Instead, if he's in his own office, with the same two men who came to see him the first time, he might feel safer and decide to open up. And after all, there's still this other matter.”

Lojacono and Palma exchanged a quizzical glance. Piras sighed: “You know very well that the future of this precinct is still up in the air. If there are results to be achieved, better for them to be the work of the staff of Pizzofalcone. If I'm there, it's not the same thing.”

Palma answered her gratefully: “Dottoressa, that's very, very kind of you. I only hope that . . .”

Laura waved her hand dismissively: “Let's forget about that, and in any case I have the utmost faith in Lojacono, we've already discussed the matter; I'm sure that he'll pursue this case with the necessary expertise. No, if anything, try to keep Aragona from making a mess, as he seems all too inclined to do.”

Lojacono walked Laura to her car, in the courtyard. As they went past, Guida snapped to attention, shooting the lieutenant a frightened glance. Piras stifled a laugh.

“I have to admit, the place has changed pretty drastically since I was last here. Are you liking it?”

Lojacono shrugged: “You know, work is work. All things considered, everyone seems pretty sharp, and they all want to do their best. But it hasn't even been a week yet.”

“Same old Lojacono, optimism itself. You could at least show a little gratitude, no? But the important thing is, let's hope we can manage to keep the place open. That's still not a given, at this point.”

It occurred to the lieutenant that the way she emphasized her consonants and the dimple in her chin were causing him to think thoughts that were hardly in keeping with the respect due to a prosecuting magistrate.

“We'll do our best, I promise you that. As always.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dark and piercing.

“As always. And try to remember to live a little, every now and then.”

She climbed into the car and waved for the driver to go. Leaving Lojacono to wonder what the hell that was supposed to mean.

I
t was certainly no simple matter, to get to Vico Secondo all'Olivella, 22.

It lay at the center of a maze of narrow lanes, all identical, one perpendicular to the next, uphill and downhill; and the walk was made all the more challenging thanks to the Innocenti scaffoldings and buttresses that had proliferated in an attempt to shore up precarious buildings, though no one ever seemed to be working on them, and to the shops selling seafood and fruit and vegetables presumptuously invading the already narrow roadway, and to the chairs set out in the street to discourage cars from parking. And to the endless parade of motor scooters zipping past, expelling clouds of exhaust in the faces of children scampering from one
basso
to the next, the stray dogs sleeping in the middle of the street, and the delivery vans loading and unloading, indifferent to the growing lines of honking cars behind them.