The Deliverance of Evil (25 page)
He whose judgment no one escapes
.
The doubt had been growing slowly inside him since 1982, inexorably and against his will. It was the revenge of the Catholic education that he had rejected as an adolescent.
He suddenly found himself in front of her. Linda Nardi’s profound and distant beauty was, as usual, equaled by her total lack of interest. The contrast was as irresistible as it was permanent.
It’s as if she were a nun from a cloistered order temporarily visiting the outside world.
Balistreri had booked a table in a pizzeria popular with young students and families. They ordered. When he ordered himself a beer, she told him she didn’t drink. So those costly wines had served only to teach Colicchia a lesson.
For a while they chatted about Christmas shopping and other inconsequential topics. Then Balistreri began to fill her in on the developments in Nadia’s case. She expressed little interest.
It was very warm in the pizzeria. Linda took off her jacket. Balistreri was unable to resist glancing at her breasts. And then the vertical line appeared down the middle of her forehead.
They were quiet for a long time, until the arrival of the
tiramisù
. Only in front of the dessert did Linda relax again, taste it, and give the waiter a satisfied smile, asking him to pass on her compliments to the chef. After a while the chef came out in person. He was a young Egyptian man.
“You are very kind,” he said humbly.
“And you’re an excellent chef.” She got up and hugged him briefly.
Balistreri watched with some surprise.
Unselfish kindness, tenderness toward the weakest. A distant memory.
When the chef had returned to the kitchen and she sat back down, he said, “Okay, there must be something you wanted to know. What is it?”
“You’re under no obligation to tell me,” she said. She was so unfailingly polite that it was almost irritating.
“I really appreciate your making that phone call to Pasquali. I gave you the information on Colajacono and the Iordanescu woman’s report, and I can guarantee you’ll be the first to hear of anything else that happens.”
“I’m not here to talk about future crimes.” She said it flatly, with no aggression.
You’re not interested in the next crime. You want to speak about the one before. But I don’t.
“All right. What do you want to know?”
“You’re not convinced. I want to know why.”
He was taken aback. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Those three Roma boys and the fourth man they implicated.”
“What makes you think I’m not convinced?”
“Because you can’t stop thinking about it and it shows.”
“Ms. Nardi, there’s been no miscarriage of justice in that case. Those in prison are guilty, without a shadow of a doubt.”
“But maybe not everyone who’s guilty is in prison, right?”
“The case is closed. It’s over.” He heard the doubt in his own voice.
“What about the fourth man?” she asked.
Don’t get yourself involved in this business, Balistreri. This woman has things in her head you don’t fully understand. Things that could cause you a great deal of harm.
“I’ll get the bill,” Balistreri said.
She said softly, “What if he carves up another girl?”
She wasn’t expressing a challenge or an accusation, only a concern, and even appeared apologetic about making him feel embarrassed by the question.
Balistreri, who prided himself on his control, on thinking before he spoke, visibly lost it. He was a little frightened at himself, hearing his own voice before having thought what he was going to say.
“I’m going to figure out who passed information to you, and when I do I’m going to destroy him,” he said, his voice rising.
“Best of luck with that, Captain Balistreri.” There was no challenge or trace of arrogance in her voice.
As if I’d made her a promise, not a threat.
Linda Nardi got up, left money for the bill, and made her way out.
. . . .
An analytical appraisal of the risks and advantages should have put her off, but Giulia Piccolo wasn’t Graziano Corvu. They had nothing at hand to ask for a search warrant of Mircea and Greg’s flat before they were released.
“Don’t worry, we’re going there to pick up your things and take them to my place. Ten minutes at the most.”
“What if someone comes in?”
“Mircea, Greg, and the other two are being held until tomorrow. Don’t worry.”
“Why don’t you call a couple of uniformed guys for backup?” he suggested.
She suddenly realized that Rudi was afraid for her safety as well, because she was a woman among a bunch of beasts.
“Don’t worry, I have my gun for backup.” She smiled and pulled back her jacket to reveal the holster.
The policeman they had put on guard on the street confirmed that plenty of people had come and gone in the building, but not Marius Hagi. Piccolo had wanted to put the officer on the landing outside, but Balistreri had said no.
It was already late and only a few windows were lit up. They used Rudi’s keys to enter. The apartment was completely dark, with no light coming in from the outside.
“Didn’t we leave some of the blinds open yesterday?” asked Rudi.
Piccolo took the gun from her holster and motioned to him to stand close to the door of the first room and stay still. She moved silently along the hall with the gun in her hand. When she came to the third door, the one to Ramona and Nadia’s room, she quickly switched on the light. The room was in chaos: mattresses ripped open, drawers pulled out—even the radiator had been wrenched from the wall.
Slowly, she turned toward Rudi’s room. She stopped in the doorway and switched on the light. This room looked even worse. Rudi’s things had been scattered about. She could hear him breathing quickly behind her. “Stay here in the hall,” she whispered. The doors of the wardrobe were closed. She went into the room and approached it, gun in hand. As she reached to open it she heard Rudi cry out. There was a thump, and then a door slammed shut. She rushed to the door and almost fell over Rudi, who was lying on the ground and moaning, his hands cupping a bloody nose.
She rushed to the window and called down to the officer on the street, “Someone’s coming down—stop him!”
Then she ran down the staircase. The policeman said, “No one’s come out.”
Piccolo went back in followed by the policeman. “The basement,” she said, pointing to the stairs. “You stay here and keep an eye on the front door.”
“But . . .” he objected. She was already on her way down the stairs.
You’re crazy, going into an apartment building full of sleeping families with a gun in your hand. And what if the guy also had a gun? Would you blaze away in there like a “Gunfight at the OK Corral”?
The cellar was a real labyrinth. She switched on the light and followed the passages. Nine floors, four apartments per floor, thirty-six storerooms. Thirty-six locked metal doors. He could be behind any one of them. The light, on a timer, went out, and she couldn’t find the switch. In the dark she felt the sweat trickling down her neck. She performed a breathing exercise her karate teacher had taught her. Her anger was stronger than her fear. The bastard was in here, a few meters away.
She waited in absolute silence. Several minutes went by. The policeman called to her from the top of the stairs. She made no reply. Then a gust of cold air wafted through. Piccolo held her gun with both hands and released the safety. In the dark and total silence she heard rustling. She heard footsteps coming toward her. She aimed her gun in that direction.
“Stop where you are and put your hands up,” she called out, her voice shaking slightly.
“Deputy, it’s me.” The policeman turned the lights on. Piccolo lowered her gun, but she could see that he’d been thinking the same thing she was—another few seconds and she might have shot him.
They went up to the ground floor. Piccolo phoned Balistreri, who was walking back from Trastevere. She told him everything briefly, including the fact that she had been about to shoot a fellow officer. Balistreri listened without interrupting.
When she had finished, he said, “Piccolo, the person driving the car was wearing a hat and sunglasses.” This news shut her up, as he had hoped it would. They hung up, and Rudi came down the stairs holding his nose, his face and his sweater covered in blood.
She put an arm around his shoulders and led him to the car. The uniformed officer returned to his post.
“Get in the car and tilt your head back,” she said to Rudi, handing him a pack of tissues. Then she opened the trunk, took out a canvas bag, and went back into the building.
She said to the policeman, “Check anyone who comes out. Call for backup if you need it.”
Without another word she went back down into the basement of the building. From the bag she pulled out a crowbar and a pair of cutters. It would take a couple of minutes per door.
A half-hour later, Balistreri arrived. By then she was almost halfway done. It was hard work, and she was sweating and cursing.
“Twenty to go,” she said.
“You can stop. He’s not here,” he said.
“Where the fuck is he then?” she hissed.
Balistreri looked up. “In order to have a storeroom, you’d have to have an apartment.”
She dropped the cutters and cursed loudly. Breaking open the doors of thirty-six storerooms was one thing, but searching thirty-six apartments without a warrant was something else entirely.
Balistreri picked up the cutters. “If we’re going to pass this off as a robbery, we’d better open all of them.”
He gave her a little pat on the head and immediately regretted it as being too affectionate.
You’d be a real disaster as a father.
Piccolo then went back to breaking open the storeroom doors. When she had them all open, Balistreri told the policeman to go home and make no report until his boss had spoken to Balistreri.
Balistreri asked Piccolo for a lift back to the office. Rudi was asleep in the passenger seat, so Piccolo gently fastened his seatbelt and Balistreri got in the back.
“I know the captain in this precinct. He’s a good man. I’ll sort things out,” he said to her.
They drove in silence. Before he got out of the car, she mumbled, “Thanks.”
. . . .
He imagined no one would be up on the third floor, it was almost midnight and he was exhausted, but as soon as he entered the corridor he heard giggles.
Then he heard Corvu’s voice coming from his office. “Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”
Balistreri peered around the corner. Corvu and Natalya were at his desk. Two empty pizza boxes sat in front of them. They were staring at the computer monitor with their heads together. Each held a can of beer.
When he tapped on the glass Corvu leaped up and the can fell into his lap, spilling beer onto his crotch.
“We were, we were . . .” he stuttered, trying awkwardly to wipe away the foaming beer.
Natalya began to laugh, then she took out some tissues. “Can you do it, Graziano?”
“Yes, better let Graziano clean himself off, unless we want to see him have an attack of something,” said Balistreri sarcastically.
When Corvu had regained his composure somewhat, Balistreri joined them at the computer. There were several images of a car on the screen.
Corvu explained, “We began by reconstructing the rear of the car that Natalya saw for a few seconds as it drove away. She’s almost certain it was white or gray—anyway, it was a light color.”
Balistreri refrained from asking why they’d accomplished so little in all this time. He was happy for Corvu, even though he didn’t want to admit it.
First of all, he’s not your son. Second, he’ll never be able to pull off a relationship.
All of a sudden he felt very tired and very old.
“I think we should call it a night,” Balistreri said. He quit the application, and his desktop came up. The background was a photo of a young Balistreri posing with a group of other young officers in front of his first police station.
“Look how handsome,” she exclaimed.
Corvu’s face clouded. Natalya moved closer to the screen and pointed her slender finger at the police car in the photo.
“That’s the car. I’m positive. I recognize the long taillights.”
Balistreri and Corvu looked at each other, then back at the screen. The car was an old model, an Alfa Romeo Giulia GT.
Morning
T
HE SEARCH FOR A
light-colored Alfa Romeo Giulia GT 1300 with a broken headlight began immediately, but the night of December 30 nothing turned up.
Corvu slept in Balistreri’s office at his insistence. He hoped Natalya would stay over with him. Then Balistreri went home to get some sleep.
When Balistreri came back at seven, he found his deputy asleep on the worn sofa. Naturally, he was alone.
He went down to the cafeteria and ordered a cappuccino-to-go in a glass and bought a still-warm doughnut. He went back up and put the hot cappuccino under the nose of Corvu, who woke instantly and dragged himself up in embarrassment.
“Sir, I’m sorry, I couldn’t manage it.” Balistreri put the cappuccino and doughnut down for him.
“Mastroianni e-mailed from Romania,” Corvu said, biting into the doughnut. “In 2002, before Hagi brought Mircea and Greg to Italy, they were acquitted of a charge of double homicide on the grounds of insufficient evidence and thanks to the best defense lawyer in Romania. Anyway, Mastroianni’s on his way home now.”
He continued, “I’ve gone through all the vehicle databases. Fortunately, there are only a few of those cars still in circulation, only fifty-two in Rome. Twelve of them are registered to immigrants. Apparently they’re into fast cars.”
“Do you have the names and addresses?”
“Yes. Of course the records might not be up-to-date. They could have been sold off without the registrations changing, and some of them may not be registered at all. With cars that old, there are no guarantees.”
“All right, run them down by phone. But divide up the twelve cars that belong to immigrants between yourself and Piccolo and Coppola and Mastroianni. Work in pairs, not alone. And take care of it today.”
Once he was alone, Balistreri turned on the radio and lit his first cigarette of the day. He took another pill to stave off acid reflux so he could drink at the New Year’s Eve party that night at Angelo Dioguardi’s apartment.
The mail with the press cuttings came in, and contained Linda Nardi’s article. A front-page headline:
SAMANTHA
ROSSI:
IS
THE
CASE
CLOSED
? Below the headline was the girl’s photograph, the one every Italian had known for months. A gleaming smile in front of a sailboat.
Reluctantly, he forced himself to read the article. No hint at all about the carved initial or the fourth man. The main point was all in the question that concluded the piece.
Are we looking at the chaotic fury of someone who lost control or the premeditated barbarity of someone in full control of himself?
The question caught him off guard—which happened only rarely, yet always with this woman.
Fury or premeditation? Linda Nardi’s question brought back a particular unease, something whose roots were sunk in well-hidden depths.
Piccolo came in punctually at seven thirty. Balistreri could sense a new disquiet in her that left him feeling anything but easy. He was hoping she would have calmed down with regard to the previous night, but that wasn’t the case. On top of her anger there was a determination that was too personal, and experience had taught him that in you could a lot of damage in that frame of mind.
“How’s Rudi?” he asked her.
She smiled weakly. “He’s sleeping on my couch.”
He struggled to find the right words. “Piccolo, I don’t want to intrude, but are you involved with Rudi?”
“We’re not having sex, not that it’s any of your business, and he had an HIV test last week that came back negative,” she said flatly.
Balistreri’s phone rang. Relieved, he answered. “Alberto, are you up already? You’re not working today, are you?”
“No, but I’m going on vacation with my family, remember? We leave for the Maldives after lunch. I wanted to wish you a happy new year.”
“That’s right, the big diving trip.”
“Have you read the papers?” Alberto asked. His brother was worried about him.
“I read them. I spoke to Linda Nardi yesterday. I had a feeling she’d write something like that.”
“Really she’s saying you’re right to have doubts.”
“But I don’t. I did before we found the three Roma, but once we did I realized I was wrong.”
They both knew he didn’t believe what he was saying.
“Why are you on antidepressants then? Because you’re positive you didn’t get justice for Samantha Rossi.”
“You’re the religious one, Alberto. You should understand regret and self-flagellation.”
It was a gratuitous, wicked comment dictated by frustration. But his brother pretended to take no notice.
“No antidepressant can treat regret, Michele. You repent, make a confession if you believe, and then atone for your sins if you can.”
“I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work.”
“Mike, not even the truth can close certain wounds. Not on this earth.”
. . . .
At lunchtime, Balistreri called Angelo Dioguardi on his cell phone. They were planning to usher in the new year from his small penthouse on the Janiculum Hill. From up there they’d have a sweeping view of Rome and the midnight fireworks.
“Are we going to play poker after we pop the cork on the champagne?”
“No poker game. Your brother’s away, and Corvu says he’s not available.”
“I bet he’s spending the evening with a woman,” Balistreri said, pleased to hear it.
“I hope so, for his sake. There will be plenty of women at my place tonight, too.”
“I’m a little old to be getting it on at midnight,” Balistreri said.
“Some old-fashioned recreational sex would be good for you.”
“I think you’re the one who needs some old-fashioned recreational sex, no strings attached for once in your life. Might help you to see women a little more realistically.”
“You know, you were more fun when you were a cynical womanizer. A cynic who doesn’t get any action is just sad.”
They bantered for a few more minutes, then said good-bye.
Balistreri called Coppola. “Any news?”
“Actually, there is some interesting news.”
“Did you find out what kind of underwear she wears?”
“No, but I did find out why the investigation took so long. There was a life insurance policy on Sandro Corona.”
“Let me guess—his attractive wife was the beneficiary.”
“Exactly. She got three million euros thanks to that policy.”
“Thanks to an unknown truck driver, you mean.”
“Maybe she was involved in her husband’s death somehow.”
“Where are you now, Coppola?”
“Out with Piccolo. We’ve got eight names on our list. Mastroianni just landed at Fiumicino, and he and Corvu are going to handle the others.”
“Okay, get busy. And keep an eye on Piccolo to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Afternoon
The office was quieter than usual. The year was dragging slowly to a close. Balistreri settled down to the inevitable wait. He was in pain because he couldn’t smoke. He looked at the drawn blinds outside which the rain was pelting down and thought of the stalemate he was in: no brainwave from which to launch a fresh initiative, only the hope that the dragnet would come up with a bigger fish.
The hours passed slowly. Margherita popped in a few times to ask if he wanted a sandwich, a beer, or a coffee.
He politely declined. His mind was full of memories he was trying to resist. They were bouncing off the walls of his brain.
Summer 1967. Summer 1970. Summer 1982. Summer 2005.
Every so often he heard a phone ring somewhere and a voice answer it. Then even those sounds stopped. Everyone was leaving. At six o’clock Margherita stopped by to offer her best wishes. He watched her as she left and wondered who would be taking her out that evening.
Certainly not you, Balistreri, but perhaps someone her own age.
That reminded him of Ramona’s story, relayed to him by Mastroianni, of the client who couldn’t get it up. The bastard with the broken headlight had gotten lucky—he’d gained extra time. Anyway, Nadia had gotten into the car with him without making a scene because she knew him. She was waiting for him.
The room was far too hot. Balistreri opened a window to let in some fresh air. The sound of fireworks mingled with the sound of thunder. In the distance, beyond the Colosseum, a bolt of lightning split the sky. Finally, the year was coming to an end.
Evening
Stores were locking up and everyone was rushing home to get ready for the big night. But Piccolo and Coppola were soaked to the skin, cold, and bone-tired. Piccolo felt like she was getting a fever. Occasionally, she shook with chills. The red taillights of cars reflected off the wet pavement. They sat in their car and studied their crumpled, wet list.
“Finished,” Coppola said. “And we haven’t accomplished a fucking thing, pardon my French.” Coppola didn’t like to swear in front of women, but the many hours he and Piccolo had spent questioning people mystified by their interest in old cars, while all around them the New Year fireworks were starting to go off, had frayed his nerves. He wanted to get home to Lucia and Ciro and help them prepare a celebratory dinner. Instead, they’d wasted time questioning eight people in the rain.
“All right, Coppola, let’s go home. We’ve seen seven vehicles, headlights intact, although lights might have been replaced. All the owners have solid alibis for the evening of December 24. Then there’s the Egyptian guy who sold his car to an Eastern European whose name he doesn’t know without changing the registration. But the headlights were working.”
“A complete waste of time. Let’s go home. And you should take an aspirin and get into bed,” he said.
“I’ll drop you at yours, then go on with the car from the pool.”
When they got to his apartment, Coppola invited her in. “The wife’ll make you a steaming hot mug of milk—you look feverish.”
She shook her head. “There’s something I have to do, but thanks anyway. Give my best to Lucia and Ciro.”
Coppola looked at her suspiciously. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry, I’m going home. Happy New Year.”
At half past eight she pulled up outside the Torre Spaccata police station. There was hardly anyone still there—everyone was at home getting dressed up for the evening. Piccolo let her phone ring the agreed number of times, then hung up and called again straight away.
“Hello?” said Rudi.
“What are you up to?”
“I’m cooking. You said you didn’t want to go out tonight, so I thought I’d make us dinner here.”
“Did you go to the grocery store? I told you not to go out.”
“Just to the supermarket downstairs. And I put on one of your hats and pulled it over my eyes.”
Piccolo felt her own forehead. It was burning.
“Listen, Rudi, don’t go out again, but eat without me. I’ll be back late.”
“No, I’ll wait for you. I bought some sparkling wine, too. With my own money,” he clarified.
She could picture him standing over the stove, stirring and tasting. She wanted to be in the warm kitchen, in the company of this good-looking man. A man who was gay, she reminded herself.
“All right, but I might be pretty late. Promise me you won’t go out.”
“Not until next year,” he said.
Piccolo grinned. “If you do, I’ll arrest you.”
“I’ve got to get back to the lentils,” he said.
Her head and her throat were both sore. She fished around in her pockets and found a hard candy. Then she settled back to keep an eye on the entrance to the police station. She wanted to turn on the heat in the car, but she didn’t want to run the motor. The exhaust would be visible in the cold air, and she didn’t want to be seen.
Colajacono and Tatò, both out of uniform, came out. They got into a car, and Tatò took the wheel.
She followed them at a distance. They went down a long boulevard with high rises, then turned off to an unlit area. The roads became ever more desolate until they came to one with no houses or street lamps, open countryside to the right. The road went up and down following the curves of the hills. Piccolo switched off her headlights and followed Tatò’s tail lights at a distance of a hundred and fifty feet. Every so often on the right, dirt roads wound steeply up the hill. The countryside beyond the city stood out under the lights of fireworks and flashes of lightning, although a couple of kilometers away on the left the illuminated outlines of the outlying high-rises were visible.
At a certain point the red lights slowed down then shifted over to the right and went out. It was a rest area at the top of a slope, totally deserted in the freezing rain.
Piccolo stopped immediately. She couldn’t stay there in the middle of the road. Thirty or so feet back she’d seen a metaled road on the left, so she reversed to it and put herself out of sight. A flash of lightning lit up Tatò’s car parked in the rest area.
Will I see them if they get out in this dark and this rain? Keep calm—they can’t see you.
Piccolo felt for the pistol in its holster. In the silence she could hear only the constant beating of the rain and the intermittent noise of the fireworks. She was stretched out almost flat so as not to be seen. Feeling herself begin to shiver, she was tempted to switch on the heater, but resisted. She zipped up her jacket and tried to breathe through her nose. Every so often she cleaned the condensation off the window with her sleeve. The lightning allowed her to keep an eye on the other car. Two glowing red butts told her that Tatò and Colajacono were having a cigarette in the car. The time passed—ten o’clock, eleven—and she was growing steadily colder.
They’re waiting for someone or something. But who or what? Should I tell Balistreri I’m following two policemen without any reason after what I got myself into last night? First we’ll see what happens, and then I’ll tell him.
She decided to call Rudi again, but there was no signal. She saw the glow of a cigarette as someone got out of the car, and a flash of lightning illuminated Colajacono’s grotesque figure taking a piss in the rain with the cigarette in his mouth.
Her headache was worse, her throat burning. What she needed was to lie down, warm and peaceful, and have some of Rudi’s lentils. In the distance, she saw a motorbike headlight coming toward her.
