The Fatal Touch (29 page)

“Because there has been staff turnover in this department and tall dynamic Sards like you have taken over from old-school people like Colonel Farinelli,” said Blume.

“Sometimes law enforcement agencies will defend a colleague simply because he is, or was, a colleague, not because he is worth defending,” said Faedda. “The Colonel has long exploited that, but his time is almost up. So I would appreciate it if you could tell me, in total confidence, officer to officer: Did the Colonel offer to cut you in on a deal to sell the paintings found in the home and gallery of the art forger Henry Treacy?”

“What makes you think he is even thinking of doing such a thing? And if he is, why would he offer a piece of the action to me?” said Blume.

“Good. Well, that sounds like a no to me,” said Faedda.

“A ‘no’ sounds like an ‘n’ followed by an ‘o,’ ” said Blume. “That was a question about how you reached such a conclusion.”

“You were there. You saw the paintings. It makes sense. As for the Colonel’s planning to steal the paintings, I’m basing that idea on his past form.”

Blume looked into the unwrinkled and trusting face of the Lieutenant Colonel and said, “You are accusing your commanding officer and me of graft and theft.”

“Him, yes. You, no. On the contrary, I think you agreed to participate in an attempt to corner the Colonel. I want to be part of whatever it is you are planning or, if I can put it better, I want to be able to help.”

“What makes you so sure? What makes you so sure I wasn’t planning something with the Colonel, and that I will leave this office, warn him, and together we will completely fuck you over?”

Faedda frowned slightly. “I asked.”

“You asked what?”

“I asked Panebianco about you. What sort of person you were. He said there was no chance you would be corrupted like that.”

“Panebianco said that?”

“Sure.”

“And that was enough for you?”

“Yes.”

Perhaps, Blume thought, the kid was a recent Christian convert or something. All that faith.

Faedda said, “Well, I ran some background checks, too. And I have a friend who . . . we checked your finances, going back ten years. And I spoke to a few magistrates and reviewed past cases. I am not sure what makes you tick, Commissioner, but it isn’t money. So I thought I would take a risk. Was I right to do so?”

“I . . . I have no idea.”

“Well, I feel confident,” said Faedda. “I hate dishonesty. We Carabinieri are not like that. The force deserves better leaders. The Polizia are lucky . . .”

Blume held up a finger to halt Faedda’s flow. When he was sure no more flattery was forthcoming, he said, “Do you have any idea how much more powerful Farinelli is than you? Forget about his rank, which is higher than yours anyhow. He can do what he wants, and as for those paintings, I doubt the Colonel put all of them in storage. Maybe none of them are there.”

“I hope that is not the case, because it would mean that some men here were accomplices to a fraudulent operation, which . . . Well, these things happen,” said Faedda, opening his palms in a gesture of devout acceptance. “The Colonel is famous for his secrecy. He’s the sort who used to pull the strings of the people who worked behind the scenes. He operates, or used to, two, three levels down. But he’s losing power. His contacts are fading. His former controllers are dying of old age, and some of the men he controlled have moved beyond him, found new masters, got elected to office.”

Faedda squinted his left eye in an attempt to make it look like the thought was just coming to him at that moment. “In this case, he’s being uncharacteristically straightforward. The Colonel bribes you, maybe plans to pay, maybe plans to expose you as the bad guy, the extortionist, maybe both. Pretty simple.”

“I’m a simple kind of guy,” said Blume. “I don’t recall confirming to you that the Colonel offered to cut me in on a deal.”

“But he did, right?”

Blume was not sure what to make of the young man’s mixture of candidness and presumption. “Let’s say for argument’s sake that he did,” he said.

“Like I said, Panebianco vouchsafed for you. That will do for me. But I was wondering, do you have something else the Colonel wants?”

Blume shrugged. “Obviously I do.”

“What?”

“I have no idea.”

“That’s fine. I accept that response,” said Faedda. “But if you really have no idea, let me suggest money. Or something that is worth a lot of money.”

“What about something that gives him power, leverage, or exonerates him. Or something that he wants hidden?”

“Those are all very plausible reasons,” said Faedda. “And it could be any one of them, or all of them. But I still think it’s money.”

Blume, thinking of an interesting section of the memoirs he had read the night before, said, “If it wasn’t money to start with, it soon will be.”

Chapter 24

Before returning to his office, Blume passed by his apartment, showered, changed, and picked up the three notebooks. The idea of their remaining unguarded in there made him uneasy. The damned things were becoming a burden to him. There was a safe in the office, but he was not the only one with keys to it. His best bet was to give them to Paoloni to look after.

The phone on the desk was ringing as he entered his office. The Questore or, rather, his smarmy secretary again. It seemed to Blume the Questore had no one else to talk to apart from him. And he always phoned Blume in his office, as if to check he was there.

“I’ve been having complaints about you,” he announced when they were connected. “A magistrate, Buoncompagno, claims that you have been making unauthorized interventions in his investigation into the art forger. I thought I told you to leave that alone.”

Blume gestured to the gods of the ceiling with the phone, then brought it back to his ear. “Buoncompagno has been told to say that, sir,” said Blume. “It’s just a minor jurisdictional dispute with a Carabiniere. Meanwhile, I have been working with Magistrate Antonello Gestri on a double murder.”

“You mean the hit-and-run on the Indians?”

“The vehicle was the murder weapon.”

“Don’t change the subject,” said the Questore. “I told you to leave the Treacy case alone.”

Blume slid the notebooks into his drawer. “I just had to make sure there was no connection with the muggings, which you said are our priority right now,” he said.

“Are you saying there is a connection between Treacy and the muggings?”

“Oh, just that Treacy was a foreigner like the rest of them.”

“It seems rather flimsy,” said the Questore. “Have you any proof ?”

“No,” said Blume. “Which is why I need to follow it up.”

“Don’t follow it too far—unless you think it might help us stop the muggings, will it?”

“You never know, sir,” said Blume.

“No, I never do know with you,” said the Questore and, finally, hung up.

Panebianco stuck his head around the door. “A Mr. Nightingale, accompanied by Avvocato Feltri, is downstairs. They want to see you.”

“Have them sent up.”

“Right.” Panebianco remained where he was.

“What?” asked Blume in irritation.

“How did your meeting with Faedda go?”

“I don’t see . . .” began Blume, but then he remembered Faedda explaining how Panebianco had vouchsafed for him, and he softened his tone. “It went well, thank you. Enlightening.”

“Good. I am pleased. I’ll have the two men below sent up.”

Five minutes later, Nightingale’s lawyer, a sleek man whose black hair was so shiny it looked wet, slipped into the seat in front of him. Nightingale, dressed in a rumpled linen suit and looking tired, hot, and lordly, sat down next to his lawyer, who turned to him and, speaking mainly for Blume’s benefit, said, “Remember, you are free to stand up and leave the interview at any point. You do not have to answer any questions that you do not want to, and no matter what you say, it cannot be used in evidence against you. A witness may not self-incriminate.”

The lawyer then turned to face Blume. “Since some of his voluntary statements will now become inadmissible as evidence, you will not want to ask him too much to do with whatever you are investigating. We are happy to cooperate inasmuch as we are assured that you have not been appointed to investigate the case, and I have it on good authority that scientific evidence will point overwhelmingly to accidental causes, a fact that you acknowledge in this statement that I have prepared and I’d like you to sign.”

Blume ignored the proffered document, picked up his desk phone, and called in Caterina from her desk. A few seconds later, she came in, crossed the room without looking at him, and took a plastic chair to his left, near the wall. She had gone back into sulk mode, evidently.

“Please explain in what capacity this Inspector is present,” said the lawyer.

“I need to keep an eye on her,” said Blume.

“No, we have no time for humor, Commissioner. This is a serious imposition on my client’s goodwill and time.”

“Inspector Mattiola,” said Blume. “Why do you think I invited you in here?”

“So I could see Nightingale for myself.”

“If the policewoman is here to satisfy an idle curiosity . . .” began the lawyer.

But Caterina, who was indeed looking very closely at Nightingale, continued, “And to tell Mr. Nightingale in person that we know he is Emma Solazzi’s father.”

In the silence that followed the whirr of a laser printer in the room outside became audible, and the four of them sat still until it, too, stopped. Now they seemed to be listening to broken strands of conversations deeper in the office. A sudden burst of noise from a passing
motorino
below presented itself as a possible topic of discussion.

Finally, Nightingale said, “Avvocato, I think you should leave now.”

The lawyer looked affronted. “On the contrary. You need me more than ever. If I have understood this correctly, this implies errors in public records, alimony issues, inheritance . . .”

“Yes, there is a lot to it,” said Nightingale. “But I really would prefer if this sort of thing were not known or spoken about, even to my trusted lawyer. We can talk about it later. For now I want to speak with the Commissioner and the Inspector alone.”

“I advise most strongly against it,” said the lawyer, but he had tightened his lips and was already standing in preparation to leave. The experience of being the one person in the room not to be in the know about something had been a humiliation. Blume almost expected him to announce he was no longer representing his client.

Another silence ensued as they waited for the lawyer to gather his papers and wounded dignity and leave the room.

“He didn’t know that,” said Nightingale, switching into English as soon as the door closed. “I should have told him, but he was Henry’s lawyer, too. I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of client privilege. Priests, doctors, lawyers all claim it for themselves, but they’re not particularly
likable
people, now, are they?”

Blume said, “How did Treacy not get suspicious? Wasn’t there—I don’t know—some way you and Emma interacted, touched, or didn’t touch? Treacy picked none of that up? Emma is your child. It must have been hard, not to plant a kiss on the crown of her head now and then. Something like that. I’m not a parent, but,” he pointed at Caterina, “she is.”

Blume looked over at Caterina. Again, he saw only the side of her face, the rigid outline of her body, her legs out straight, like she was a two-dimensional figure in a three-dimensional space.

She did not answer him or look at him, so he continued alone. “Another thing, you went to great lengths to hide her identity and to keep up the pretence, yet at the same time you didn’t.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Nightingale.

“It took Inspector Mattiola less than half a working day to ascertain Emma’s identity as your daughter. She became suspicious immediately, thought about it for a while, then ran a basic background check beginning with the tax code. We’re talking about a few hours’ work to discover your daughter’s identity. It’s the strange mix of thoroughness and carelessness that has me wondering.”

Nightingale seemed to be studying the swirls on his fingertips. Finally, he said, “Let me address your outrage at my lack of paternal feelings first.” Nightingale turned toward Caterina as he said this, then getting little response, focused on Blume again. “Before Emma came to the gallery to work with us, I had met her exactly five times.”

He held up a fist and splayed his fingers. “I held her in my arms just once, and it was on the day I first saw her. She was three. She was showing me how she could jump higher than anyone, and she landed on a book she had been reading, slipped, and banged her head hard on the side of a low table. I scooped her up and tried to stop her from crying, but she had this huge bruise and Angela, who hadn’t seen the incident, seemed to think it was my fault, and maybe it was. So, you see, Commissioner, we really were strangers. And if I hid her identity carelessly, it’s because it was well enough hidden already. We did not risk a spontaneous outburst of affection. Emma herself only learned my identity a few weeks before she came to work in the gallery.”