The Deliverance of Evil (24 page)

“You sold everything you had in Italy?”

“I still have the little house where I live, some apartments, the Bar Biliardo, and the travel agency Marius Travel. I use them to provide employment and a place to stay to my fellow Romanians. I help young people settle into the community, and I give a hand to the Roma that you herd into these camps and treat like animals.”

“Do you know a Deputy Captain Colajacono?” Balistreri asked.

Hagi grimaced and suffered a bout of coughing. He immediately lit another cigarette.

“I know who he is. Everyone in here’s acquainted with him, some of them to their own cost.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“Once, here in the camp. They were carrying out a search and found a working moped in the middle of the scrap heaps of cars, and he wanted to know who’d stolen it. It was Adrian’s moped. He’d bought it with cash from a scrap dealer. That was what he rode before he got the motocross bike that’s parked outside.”

“What happened?”

“I told Adrian to explain that it was his. He and Giorgi went outside. I watched and listened from this window here. Colajacono and another guy brought them into the trailer, and I hid in the back. Colajacono wanted to see the registration, but of course Adrian didn’t have it. Then the other policeman said it was stolen. They threatened to confiscate it and arrest Adrian.”

“Do you remember what this policeman looked like?”

“Short, fat, and balding. He asked Adrian to hand over the keys to the moped and Adrian said ‘Like hell I will,’ and the guy smacked him on the shoulder with a rubber nightstick. Then they beat both of them. They took the keys and confiscated the moped. They never filed charges or anything. Adrian found the moped busted into pieces outside the camp. That’s the closest I’ve come to meeting Colajacono.”

“Colajacono’s the man who took the Iordanescu girl’s missing persons report about Nadia.”

Hagi seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. He said nothing.

“Yesterday I asked you whether you had an opinion about Nadia’s disappearance. Do you think Mircea is capable of doing something stupid?”

A light flashed in Marius Hagi’s eyes. “My employees know not to get out of line like that. They know I’d be furious.”

You happen to be a benefactor of the destitute, but it’s not wise to rub you the wrong way.

“I’d like to ask you one last thing about your wife Alina.”

Hagi stared at him in silence. He said nothing. In the end he got up. The conversation was over.

. . . .

Coppola went by streetcar. He was early for his appointment with Sandro Corona’s widow. He used the time to look in the elegant district’s shop windows and lingered in front of a shoe store. There were several extremely nice pairs with high heels that were well disguised. He looked at the price tags and turned pale. And yet the shop was full of people trying shoes on and making purchases. The most he could have afforded were the heels alone.

The glass reflected a passing face. He had a fleeting feeling of unease. He continued his stroll, stopping in front of other windows. Nothing came to mind. It was only just before he arrived at the front door of Mrs. Corona’s apartment building that he placed the face. It was the boy who had been sitting in a corner of the streetcar.

He sent Balistreri a text message, informing him that he was being followed.

The concierge in Corona’s widow’s building was the suspicious type. Coppola had to show his badge.

“Did her husband live here with her?” he asked the concierge when she was finally satisfied.

“No, she bought the apartment six months ago. Her husband was already dead.”

“Does she live by herself?”

The concierge looked at him askance. “I mind my own business. But yes, she lives by herself.”

Ornella Corona was a deluxe model, just like the costly apartment she’d bought. She was younger than he’d pictured. Her late husband had been nearly sixty. She looked thirty-five at the most. She had manicured nails and her toned legs were discreetly displayed in black leggings. But her eyes were bored and distant. The photos on the wall featured a younger version of her on the catwalk, modeling clothes by Valentino, Yves Saint Laurent, and Dior. She was clearly used to the finer things in life.

She showed Coppola into a living room full of expensive furniture. “Would you like something to drink? An aperitif? Grapefruit juice?”

Coppola went for the juice. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, and he was certain she was aware of it. Luckily she sat down, sipping a grapefruit juice. “What can I do for you, officer?”

“A young man was killed at the Bella Blu, a nightclub run by ENT.”

“I know all about it. I knew Camarà from my gym. I take spinning classes there.”

Coppola was surprised. “You knew Camarà?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly know him. I knew who he was. Then a few days ago I read that he’d been stabbed during a fight outside the Bella Blu.”

“Did you know he worked there?”

Ornella Corona had a way of crossing and uncrossing her legs that was distracting, to say the least. Her wristwatch kept attracting his attention, too—its black face was a winking feminine eye with long eyelashes.

“He wasn’t working when my husband was there. Then in late 2004 I sold my ENT stake. I haven’t had anything to do with the Bella Blu since.”

“You sold the shares to Mr. Ajello?”

She made a face. “Yes, that’s right.”

“And you bought this apartment with that money?”

She was paying attention to Coppola for the first time. She thought about it, then made up her mind. “I suppose it’s pointless to ask you how you know that I just bought this apartment. But what does this have to do with Camarà’s death?”

“To be honest, I don’t think it has anything to do with it. Forget I mentioned it. Would you rule out the possibility that your husband knew Camarà?”

“I absolutely would rule it out,” she said. “Can’t you tell me why you’re asking these questions about me and my husband? Perhaps I could be of help if I knew what was going on.”

I can’t think straight. Come on, Coppola, buck up and don’t make a mess of it.

“We’re just looking into Camarà’s place of work, where the crime took place.”

“But I read that there was a fight with a customer.”

“There was some kind of fight. It might have been a previous employee at the Bella Blu, though. Did your husband ever mention anyone violent there?”

“Well, there was the bartender, Pierre. I think he’s done time,” she admitted readily. She got up to pour herself some more grapefruit juice and Coppola found himself with his eyes inches from her round, tight rear end.

“I think my husband would have left ENT anyway, even if he hadn’t had that accident.” She turned around and caught him staring.

“He would have left ENT anyway, even if he hadn’t had that accident,” Coppola repeated. He was blushing. He felt like a thirteen-year-old who’d been discovered leafing through a
Playboy
.

She continued. “He wasn’t earning enough to make it worth the trouble, including the trouble with the other shareholders.”

“Do you know them?” Coppola asked.

“No. Well, I did hear one of them on the phone once. A call came to the house. The man said my husband’s cell phone was off and asked me to tell him to go to Monte Carlo that evening. He didn’t say please or thank you, only to pass the message on. I objected that it was already five o’clock in the afternoon, and he said that was why they had a private airplane. Then he hung up on me.”

“Was he Italian?”

“Yes, he was Italian. An Italian used to giving orders.”

“Was your husband angry?”

“More than angry, he seemed puzzled about why they’d called our home number. It had never happened before, and from then on he began complaining about the job, saying there was too much pressure.”

“In September 2004 your husband was hit by a truck while he was walking in a crosswalk.”

She didn’t ask what that had to do with anything. “The traffic cop said the driver might not even have realized he’d hit someone. The investigation was endless.”

She sighed dramatically, crossing her legs once more. Then she leaned toward Coppola to pick up a cigarette case from the table. The low neckline of her T-shirt sank even lower. Coppola almost had a stroke.

He took his leave in a hurry. As soon as he was out of the building he contacted Balistreri. He gave a meticulous account of the facts, at the same time omitting any description of Ornella Corona.

“Coppola, the investigation into Corona’s death is fishy. It took twice as long as normal. Any idea why?” Balistreri asked.

“I told you everything I know, sir. I’ll go to the traffic department and ask.”

“What’s Mrs. Corona like?”

Coppola wondered if he’d given himself away.

“Typical widow,” he said. He thought he heard Balistreri laugh.

“Are you sure?” Balistreri asked.

“Uh, yeah. Nothing special.”

“Really? Should I come over myself and verify that?”

“Unbelievably gorgeous,” Coppola admitted.

Balistreri laughed. “Her photo’s in the file. One last thing, Coppola, from a purely investigative standpoint: top or bottom?”

This came from one of Coppola’s vulgar remarks for men only about a very beautiful woman under investigation. Balistreri had redeemed the remark from its vulgar meaning, using it to refer to the character of the woman under investigation and thus giving it true investigative weight.

“Bottom, sir, one hundred percent. She’d let you do whatever you wanted, but she’d just lie there, filing her nails and then applying polish. Even her watch winks at you.”

. . . .

Corvu tidied up his cubicle before Natalya arrived. While he was polishing the glass walls, Margherita approached. They had been friends since she’d first arrived. Margherita leaned against the door.

“Graziano, I’m worried about something.”

Corvu finished polishing the glass and moved on to dusting his computer keyboard. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, but I wanted to speak to you about that witness who’s coming in again.”

Surprised, Corvu stopped cleaning and looked at her. “Natalya? What is it?”

“Well, I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. Are you really interested in a prostitute?”

Corvu explained Natalya’s situation, and that he, too, had been surprised.

“Oh, good. She really likes you,” Margherita said with relief.

Corvu blushed. “How do you know?”

“I’m a woman. And as she was leaving she told you she doesn’t have a boyfriend. She wants you to ask her out. You should go for it.”

“You know I’m terrible at that kind of thing,” Corvu said.

“I’ve got a brilliant idea,” Margherita exclaimed. She hurried off to her own office and returned shortly with a framed photo of a good-looking blonde.

“Isn’t that your sister?” Corvu asked.

“We’ll put this here,” Margherita said, placing it on a corner of Corvu’s desk. She nodded with satisfaction.

“Why would I want to have your sister’s photo on my desk?” Corvu picked it up and handed it back to Margherita, who promptly placed it on his desk again. They went through this routine a few times. Finally, Balistreri came in.

“What’s going on here?”

“Nothing, sir,” Corvu said.

“I’m trying to help him out,” Margherita said. She explained the situation with Natalya.

“Corvu, I order you to leave the photo on your desk,” Balistreri commanded.

“With all due respect, sir, this is a private matter. You can’t order me to do that.”

“You’re right, I can’t order you to put the photo on your desk, but I can assign the questioning of Natalya to someone else. After all, you got nowhere with her before. We need someone with a real grasp of female psychology,” Balistreri said. He turned to Margherita. “What shift is Mastroianni working tomorrow?”

Before Margherita could answer, Natalya knocked on the glass. Balistreri waved her in. Margherita still held the photo in her hand.

“Please sit down,” Balistreri said. “We’re almost finished. Deputy Corvu tells me you’ve been a great help.”

“It’s easy to help when the police are so kind.” Natalya shot a smile at Corvu, who turned red.

“Excuse me, Deputy Corvu,” Margherita said, placing the photo on the desk. “I replaced the broken glass in the frame. I apologize again for my carelessness.” She turned to Natalya and said, “Unfortunately, Deputy Corvu’s fiancée passed away last year.”

Balistreri said to Natalya, “Can you go over for me again everything from the evening when you saw the car with the single headlight?”

Natalya said, “As I told Graziano, I was alone. My cousin was working. It was well past dark, and I thought it was a motorcycle. When it came up to me it slowed down as if to stop and I realized it was a car, and then it sped up and turned the corner in seconds.”

You didn’t tell me, Corvu, that it slowed down so much. And you didn’t wonder why?

“I don’t suppose you got a good look at the driver,” Balistreri said.

“He was wearing a hat and dark glasses,” Natalya replied.

Balistreri looked at Corvu. His face was so mortified that Balistreri could only think of excusing himself from the room to save him from embarrassment.

If I hadn’t popped in here by chance I’d never have known. Look what a disastrous effect a young girl can have on this chump here! Hat and dark glasses in a car in at night.

Evening

Balistreri had almost an hour to spare. It was enough to get him to Trastevere on foot. He felt the need to walk, and all the better through the steady drizzle that seemed determined to last through the end of 2005.

He went down Via Nazionale. The shops were about to close and customers were leaving, while restaurants were opening and filling up. Money was shifting from clothes to food.

While he was crossing the Tiber—from the dark city center lowering its rolling shutters, over to Trastevere lit up by its restaurants—his mood darkened, as it did every time he put the river between himself and the capital’s temporal power and came closer to the Vatican’s spiritual one.