The Deliverance of Evil (31 page)

After a few minutes, they followed him in. They were dressed like two Roma women, and no one asked them any questions. The camp was dimly lit by oil lamps in the shanties; few people were outside in the cold. The smell of garbage and sewage was overpowering.

They went further, following Colajacono at an appropriate distance.

“Stick with him—I’ll be behind you,” said Piccolo. “If Colajacono sees me we’ve had it.”

Linda continued on, trying not to lose sight of Colajacono or lose her way in the maze of huts and piles of garbage.

I learned what fear was many years ago. But since then I’ve wiped it out.

Colajacono entered a trailer. “That one belongs to Adrian and Giorgi,” Giulia Piccolo told her.

Linda positioned herself under a half-open window.

“I’ll tear you to pieces with my bare hands!” Colajacono sounded furious.

Linda crouched down, knowing she had to be patient. She prepared the small portable infrared video camera she’d brought.

She heard the first slap, then the second. The two Romanians protested feebly.

“Now tell me the truth or I’ll cut off your balls and stuff them down your throat!”

It was time; she breathed deeply and rose to her feet, ready to film. The scene was perfect: two young men on the floor and a uniformed policeman pointing a gun at them. She filmed for a few seconds before Colajacono saw her. He ran outside, and she threw the camera to Piccolo, who hid behind a nearby shanty.

Colajacono was swearing and waving his gun. “Come here, you little bitch.”

His backhand swipe caught Linda on the cheek, sending her to the ground.

The violent are so predictable. Capture it all, Giulia.

“You gypsy bitch, give me that video camera,” Colajacono said.

“I’m an Italian journalist,” she said. She stood up and wiped the blood trickling from her split lip. He stepped back, confused, then stared at her press card. Recognition flashed in his beady eyes.

“If you don’t hand it over, I’ll have to pat you down,” he said, prodding her with the gun into the trailer where Adrian and Giorgi were still sprawled on the floor.

Piccolo continued to film, torn between her satisfaction over the plan that was working and the desire to intervene. But Linda had been insistent: “Only when I give you the signal.” She moved closer to the trailer.

“Okay, where’s the camera? I’m guessing you’ve shoved it between your tits, and I’m going to have to reach in there and search for it.”

All three men were laughing. Linda shook her head. She was telling Piccolo to wait.

“We all enjoy a good search and seizure every once in a while. When I’m done you’re going to give these two blow jobs for good measure.” He turned to the two men. “Never say I never did anything for you.”

Piccolo kept filming, though she was shaking with rage. Colajacono stripped off Linda’s coat, her sweater, and then her blouse. She stood there in her bra.

Colajacono said, “Should I check between your tits first or between your legs?”

“Wait,” Linda Nardi said. “I’ll tell you where it is.”

This was the signal. Piccolo stashed the video camera under the trailer, took out her gun, and opened the door.

“Hands in the air, all of you,” she said.

Don’t shoot them, Giulia, don’t shoot. We can fuck them over better alive.

Incredulous, Colajacono hesitated a moment, glancing regretfully at the pistol he’d laid on the table. But the look on Piccolo’s face dissuaded him from lunging for it—it was clear she was dying for an excuse to shoot him. The realization that he was in deep shit seemed to sink in, and his face went slack.

“Now lie down on the floor,” Piccolo ordered. Linda pulled on her clothes and left.

Piccolo let several minutes pass, giving the journalist time to get out of the camp with the video camera. In the meantime, she listened in amusement as Colajacono swung from swears to threats and back.

“You’re finished, Colajacono. We’ve got it all on film, including the attempted rape of a journalist.”

“You fucking whore. You filthy dyke.”

Piccolo laughed. “You shouldn’t bother provoking me. I won’t lay a finger on a piece of shit like you. I’ll let your cellmates see to that. Do you know what they do to police officers who end up inside? You’ll spend a few years sucking cock and taking it up the ass. Now get up.”

Colajacono stood. He was trembling with rage.

“The video camera’s outside the camp. In fact, it’s already on its way to the newspaper. You have until midnight tomorrow to tell us who was with Nadia in the Bella Blu private lounge on the night of December 23. If you tell us we’ll check it out, and if it’s true things will end there. Otherwise, you’ll see yourself all over TV and the Internet.”

Colajacono looked at her, sincerely bewildered. “How the fuck should I know who Nadia was with at Bella Blu?”

“Ask your friend Mircea—he knows. He took her out to dinner and handed her over to someone who took her to Bella Blu and then killed her.”

“You’re a fucking moron. It was that shepherd, Vasile.”

Piccolo shook her head. “Give us the name. Otherwise, you’ll be the star of the most watched video on YouTube.”

She left him there to think things over.

Wednesday, January 4, 2006

Morning

T
HANKS TO THE THREE-HOUR
time difference, they were back in Rome before lunchtime.

The night before in Dubai, Balistreri had decided not to go after the SUV. The taxi driver was already terrified, even though he didn’t know exactly what had happened. A car chase along the roads of Dubai wasn’t a good idea. It could have ended in a shooting, which would have turned into a diplomatic incident. He had ordered Corvu to write a report saying only that Belhrouz had had a fatal accident after getting drunk at dinner. No mention of the meeting at his house, the hit-and-run SUV, or the driver who mysteriously picked them up at the airport.

It wasn’t only Belhrouz’s accident that was troubling him. He was also worried about the driver who knew about their arrival and intended destination. We always know where you are, who you’re with, and what you’re talking about. Certainly their conversation with Belhrouz either at the ENT offices or at dinner had been heard. And it had decreed the young lawyer’s fate.

A warning—a card dealt—from someone who feels untouchable. They knew he would recognize the style, because he had practiced it for years. The threat was real, concrete. Whoever entered the circle was at risk. It was essential not to involve others in the game. It was now necessary to choose between his life or finding out the truth.

Once I wouldn’t even have given it a thought. But today I don’t want anymore regrets, any more sins to atone for.

Piccolo met him at Leonardo da Vinci airport with Nadia’s file. She seemed excited about something, which to Balistreri always spelled trouble. As they drove toward the center of Rome, there was none of the usual traffic. Schools were closed, offices were operating with smaller staffs, the well-heeled were skiing in the Alps, and others were vacationing in the Roman hills.

Balistreri gave Piccolo the short version of the Dubai events. Then she reported on what had been happening back in Rome.

“The autopsy indicates that she died quickly on the night of December 24. Sexual intercourse, no signs of violence. Then strangulation. The other shepherd confirms Vasile’s version of events. And now that he knows we’re dealing with a murder, I don’t think he’d lie. Vasile didn’t pick up Nadia on Via di Torricola.”

Corvu said, “Which means someone else picked Nadia up, took her to Vasile, who was drunk, they had sex, and then he strangled her.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” Piccolo said.

“Vasile’s left wrist,” Balistreri said.

Piccolo looked at him in surprise. Corvu said, “Colajacono sprained it, so what.”

Balistreri shook his head. “No, when Colajacono grabbed Vasile’s wrist, he squealed like a stuck pig. Vasile must have already been injured.”

“Maybe he sprained his wrist in the act of strangling Nadia,” Corvu said.

“Unfortunately, that’s not the case,” Piccolo said. “The doctor who examined him said the sprain was at least ten days old—you can tell by what’s left of the swelling. Vasile maintains that he injured himself playing soccer with some friends, and the other shepherd confirms it. He says that during the recent burglaries he had to do the driving and heavy lifting because Vasile couldn’t.”

“That’s not possible,” Corvu burst out. “That means Vasile didn’t kill her. Whoever picked the girl up killed her, too.”

“Yes,” Balistreri agreed.

Corvu was skeptical. “But, Captain, that would mean this hypothetical killer goes to great lengths to get himself a Giulia GT that can’t be traced to him, then he picks up Nadia without being seen. He takes her as a present to the shepherd so he can have sex with her. He waits there until the shepherd’s finished, and then strangles her?”

“Well, before he strangled her, he waited for Vasile to get good and drunk and fall asleep,” Balistreri said. “Does that remind you of anything?”

Piccolo and Corvu stared at him incredulously.

“I know who it was,” Piccolo said.

“Me too,” Corvu said.

“Not me, and I bet you two will come up with different names,” Balistreri concluded.

Our preconceptions, our certainties. Disaster’s taught me to be wary of them.

. . . .

Pasquali was less impeccably dressed than usual. The difference lay in the details. One shirt cuff protruded more than the other from his jacket sleeves. The part in his hair was crooked, as if he’d combed it hurriedly after a night of adulterous sex, thought that could almost certainly be ruled out in Pasquali’s case.

He listened in silence to Balistreri’s report, which omitted being tailed, the driver at the airport, Belhrouz’s promise of help, and the SUV.

“Are you asking to go to the Seychelles now, Balistreri?” He wasn’t sarcastic—just sour.

Balistreri shook his head. “It’s a dead end. We’ll never find out who the real ENT shareholders are.”

“It may not have any bearing on the crimes against Nadia and Camarà anyway,” Pasquali said.

Balistreri refrained from pointing out that there were three crimes. Talking about Samantha Rossi to Pasquali would only create more problems.

He changed the subject. “Pasquali, I know that this evening there’s an important council meeting and that you’ll be seeing the mayor and the chief of police. Could you please explain things to them?”

Pasquali nodded and made a face, as if he’d just bitten his tongue.

“The time frame in politics isn’t the same as the time frame for police work. To move Casilino 900 and the other camps would require a kind of bipartisan agreement that doesn’t exist right now. And the Vatican is opposed to it. Would you prefer us to take the Roma out to the middle of the Mediterranean and drown them?”

“Pasquali, it’s gone okay this time because the victims were a Romanian prostitute and a Senegalese bouncer. If it had been two Italian girls from good families we’d be in deep trouble.”

Pasquali brushed the image away with a brusque gesture, as if to exorcise it.

“That’s what we need men like Colajacono for. No one’s going to be lynching any Roma.”

Balistreri shook his head. Pasquali couldn’t possibly believe what he was saying. Another crime linked to the Roma would become a political football.

“Pasquali, with all due respect, I wouldn’t be too sure. Someone has an interest in stoking the fire of intolerance. And racism in Italy does exist. Take a tour of the schools or the tiers of certain stadiums.”

“Nevertheless,” said Pasquali, cutting him short, “the outcome of this evening’s meeting is truly in the balance. It only needs one vote more or less on one side or another.”

“Listen, Vasile did not kill Camarà. He wasn’t at the Bella Blu on the night of December the 23, he was with his three accomplices emptying the villas whose proprietors had left for the Christmas holidays.”

“And you believe people like that?”

“No one is going to lie for someone like Vasile and run the risk of being charged as an accomplice to murder.”

“But he killed Nadia.”

Balistreri told him about the sprained wrist.

“That doesn’t make a big difference,” Pasquali said. “They’re all in it up to their necks: Roma, Romanians, Casilino 900. You should be investigating those people.”

Balistreri felt a vague sense of unease. Pasquali was pushing the absurd. And when an intelligent person did that, it meant he had a hidden agenda.

Afternoon

The telephone call from Morandi came out of the blue. Hagi wanted to have an informal talk with him. They agreed to meet at Bar Biliardo immediately after lunch.

On the bus to Via Tiburtina, Balistreri realized that it had been less than a week since his first visit. And yet the neighborhood looked different. The Christmas decorations had been taken down, and the political posters had been put up in their place. He saw them from the bus as it drove past. Attacks on the council, the mayor’s labored and heartfelt defense. Everyone blaming each other, everyone saying that the integration model was the wrong one, no one coming up with a solution. They were even prepared to speculate about more deaths.

The strategy of tension was the product of lofty minds. This was a tactic of mediocre ones, a real mixture of the incapable, the profiteers and the common criminal.

He looked around him in the bus and saw only old people and non-EU immigrants. No one suspicious was tailing him. He concluded that they knew who he was going to see and that the trail had no interest for them. It was ENT that was the sensitive issue, certainly not the Bar Biliardo and Hagi and his acolytes.

There was a new bartender. Hagi was waiting for him with Morandi in the billiards room, which was closed to the public. He was coughing more than usual, but he looked happy. He made no mention of Rudi’s disappearance, and he offered Balistreri a coffee. They sat down by a billiard table.

“Do you play?”

“When I was a kid we played in Sunday school, but only with our hands—playing with cues was forbidden.”

“In my country, back in Galati, we thought playing with your hands was for queers.”

Hagi was in no hurry and Balistreri didn’t want to pressure him. Besides, the ENT trail having proved a dead end, they were waiting for the autopsy results and for Ramona Iordanescu to come back to Italy.

Hagi spoke first. “I’m worried about Mircea. You think he may have had a role in Nadia’s death. Can I ask you why you believe that to be the case?”

And can I ask you your motive for asking me? Is it part of your mission as protector of those two delinquents?

“First I want to ask you something. If you answer honestly, I’ll answer your question.”

“Fire away, Balistreri,” Morandi said, stroking his gold Rolex. “I’ll decide whether my client will reply or not.”

Balistreri turned to Hagi. “Mircea and Greg were accused of two murders in Romania the year before you brought them to Italy. Two retired employees of the ministry of the interior.”

Hagi remained silent.

“They were released from prison thanks to the best lawyer in Romania and then acquitted. I was wondering who paid that lawyer.”

Hagi didn’t wait for Morandi’s go-ahead. “Obviously it was me. As I’ve already told you, I owe my life to their parents. And when they asked me to help their sons it was my duty to intervene. It was a debt of honor that I had to pay.”

“Even if it meant helping two murderers?”

“There was no evidence against them. Only a witness who said he’d seen them near the farm and then retracted his statement. They would have been set free anyway, perhaps after ten years in jail. In Romania we don’t have any protection for what you call civil liberties.”

As he was shaken by a cough, Hagi’s eye peered into the soul of the special team’s boss.

Balistreri remembered the last encounter with Linda Nardi and the Romanian’s forbidden subject, so he asked: “Would your wife, Alina, have approved, had she been alive?”

Marius Hagi now wore a tougher expression. “I’ve already told you I don’t want to talk about that.”

“You’re the one who asked to see me. And now we’re no longer dealing with an investigation into a person’s disappearance, Mr. Hagi. There’s at least one murder involved.”

The man squelched of his mocking laughs. “And what does the death of my wife in 1983 have to do with the death of Nadia in 2006?”

There was something in Hagi’s feverish eyes that was difficult to decipher. It certainly wasn’t fear. It seemed more like a mocking threat. Balistreri rose to leave.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Hagi reminded him.

“And you didn’t answer mine.”

“Then I’ll just keep wondering. Good-bye, Balistreri.” He coughed and lit another cigarette.

“I’ll show you out, Balistreri,” Morandi offered.

On the pavement outside the Bar Biliardo, among harmless housewives carrying shopping bags, Balistreri received confirmation of what he had suspected.

Morandi was smiling, almost friendly, as he shook his hand. “It’s freezing here in Rome, Balistreri. You should have taken a vacation and stayed in Dubai a little longer.”

. . . .

Piccolo was waiting for him not far from Bar Biliardo. It was cold and almost dark, but her leather jacket was unzipped.

“I hope you haven’t been down in any basements,” he said.

“I did better than that and worse, sir. If we can step into a café I’ll tell you over a nice hot cup of tea.”

When they were sitting down she pulled out a notebook. “I wanted to double-check a few things.”

“About what?” Balistreri asked, feeling apprehensive.

“About Colajacono and Tatò.”

Balistreri was relieved. The important thing was to keep his deputies away from any risk, and after Morandi’s warning he was sure that those risks were serious. But they had to do with the investigation into ENT, not the world of prostitutes, pimps, Roma, shepherds, and violent, racist policemen. No one tailed them there; they could do what they wanted.

“All right, let’s hear it.”

“So, let’s start with that fateful December 24. Before they finished their shift at nine on the morning of December 24, Colajacono told his men, Marchese and Cutugno, that as a reward they could skip that evening’s shift. They accepted—a little surprised, but happy. Colajacono notified his right-hand man, Tatò, that they’d be standing in together for the two young policemen. Are you with me so far?”

“I have a few questions already, and I need a cigarette, but you can’t smoke in here, so I’ll just listen.”

“Right. But why does he want to take their shift himself? In order to set an example, he says—to show the young policemen that their higher ups make sacrifices for them. True? Let’s say it is—it fits Colajacono’s personality. But why force Tatò, his faithful sidekick, to work on Christmas Eve? Because the two of them are bachelors, he says. And we can go along with this as well. What do you say, Captain?”

Balistreri really wanted to go outside and smoke. He urged her on. “Fine, Piccolo. Let’s try another hypothesis. Colajacono has his own reasons for being on duty that night and also a reason why he wants Tatò there with him. However, we’d have to show that the reasons he’s given aren’t the truth, or find some evidence of the real reason.”