Adam's Rib (18 page)

“. . . at his mother's . . .” Ahmed murmured, once his tears were no longer shaking his body.

“At his mother's?” Rocco asked. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I'm saying that he went back to his mother's house. In Egypt. In Alexandria.”

“How many years could he get?” asked Irina, displaying a surprisingly pragmatic point of view.

“I don't know. At least a couple, for burglary, and assault and battery.”

“But there's murder, no?” asked Irina. Ahmed was staring Rocco right in the eyes.

“That I don't know. It's why we wanted to take him in for questioning.”

“My son a killer? My son a killer . . .” Ahmed broke away from Irina's embrace and slowly, head down, without another word, trudged into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

“What can be done?” Irina asked at that point.

“Put out an international alert and warrant for his arrest, an all-points bulletin for airports and train stations. That'll bring Interpol in on this, Signora. And that's outside my jurisdiction.”

“And if they find him?”

“And if they find him, as we say in Rome,
so' cazzi amari
—it's bitter dicks all around.”

HE'D WASTED AN HOUR ON THE PHONE, FIRST FRUITLESSLY
trying to track down the chief of police, who was up on the slopes at Courmayeur skiing, and then talking to Judge Baldi. Baldi, as was to be expected, had turned over Hilmi's case to a colleague. Only an earthquake could get the man out of his apartment on a Sunday.

He needed to meet with Patrizio Baudo, but he wasn't at his mother's house in Charvensod. His mother had suggested Rocco try at Sant'Orso, the late Gothic church, one of Aosta's main tourist attractions.

It was the first time Rocco Schiavone had ever set foot in the place. He stopped, lost in a reverie as he gazed at the lovely church nave. It was intensely cold in there, and his breath tinged the air. He heard a creaking sound and at last he glimpsed Patrizio Baudo. The man was on his knees, eyes shut, forehead resting on his begloved hands, which were clasped in prayer. Rocco sat down five pews behind him, determined to wait and not to ruin that intimate, transcendent moment. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, admiring the
forest of columns that were intertwined high above. Then he looked at the triple-arched Baroque chancel screen that separated the nave and the choir. But it was clear that the stone partition had been added in some more recent period. It had nothing in common with the late Gothic style of the rest of the church.

While he was engaged in those idle thoughts, he heard a rustle behind his back. He turned around. A priest had appeared. The priest smiled at him. Rocco smiled back. The prelate sat down next to him.

“You're the deputy police chief, aren't you?” he asked.

“Do you know me?”

“From the newspapers.” He had a goatee, and his hair was close cut. His eyes were clear and untroubled. “You're here to talk to Patrizio, aren't you?” He jutted his chin toward the man absorbed in prayer five pews away.

“Yes, but I didn't want to bother him. I'm actually only looking for a piece of information.”

“Perhaps I can give it to you.”

“No. You can't,” said Rocco. And he gave the priest a level stare.

“We're going to hold Esther's funeral service here. Are you in charge of the investigation?”

“You could say that.”

“Is there any news?”

“No. There isn't.”

The priest gave him a half smile. “You're a vault.”

“Considering that it's the priest who'll hold the funeral
service saying it, I'm not sure I should take that as a compliment.”

Just then Patrizio Baudo stood up. He crossed himself and stepped out of the pew. As soon as he saw Rocco talking to the priest, he scowled. He slowly walked over to them.

“
Buongiorno
, Signor Baudo,” said Rocco without getting to his feet. “I didn't want to bother you.”

“
Buongiorno
, Commissario.”

“It's deputy police chief, actually. They eliminated the title of commissario a few years ago, Patrizio,” said the priest. Patrizio nodded.

“That's true. Ah, by the way, Patrizio, best wishes for yesterday. It was your name day, wasn't it? St. Patrick's Day? San Patrizio?”

“Yes . . .
grazie
, Dottore.”

“I just wanted to show you something.” Rocco pulled out a photograph of the peacock-shaped brooch. “Do you recognize it?”

Patrizio's eyes opened wide. “Of course I do. That's my mother's brooch, and I gave it to Esther.” He handed it over to the priest, who was clearly dying of curiosity.

“Where did you find it?”

“A fence had it!”

“Find out who brought it to him right away!” Patrizio Baudo shouted, and his voice echoed off the vaults overhead.

“We already know who it was,” Rocco replied in an exaggeratedly low voice, hoping to restore peace and quiet to the house of the Lord.

“Then that's who murdered Esther. That's got to be the one!” Patrizio was having difficulty controlling himself.

The priest looked at him. “Calm down, Patrizio!”

“What do you mean, calm down? You caught him. Who is it? Who is it? I want to know.”

“Please, calm down, Signor Baudo. I was only interested in the brooch.”

“I can't believe it. This is the evidence that nails him. I demand to know who it is.”

“We'll tell you, Signor Baudo, don't worry about that. Right now we're in the midst of the investigation, and I'm sorry but that's strictly confidential information.”

“My wife's murder is strictly confidential information too, but everyone in town is talking about it.”

“Now that's enough, Patrizio!” the priest broke in. “I'm sure that Dottor Schiavone is doing his best to catch the murderer.”

At the sound of the pastoral voice, Patrizio seemed to calm down a little. His breathing was labored and he kept looking down at his hands, encased in brown leather gloves. “I'm sorry, Dottor Schiavone. I'm sorry . . .”

“Don't worry about it,” said Rocco. “It's over. I'm in the middle of an investigation, Signor Baudo, and it's an investigation that involves you. Please, now, stop insisting and stay out of it. If you have no objections, I'll get back to my job.”

“I haven't been able to sleep since Friday. And if I do get to sleep, I always have the same dream.” Patrizio sat down in the pew. “Two men break into my home, two burglars, my
wife sees them, they kill her, and then they string her up like a side of beef. From the lamp hook.” He put both hands over his eyes. “Is that what happened?”

“I really can't say, Signor Baudo. But it strikes me as a reasonable reconstruction.”

“If you've caught the thief, then this story is over,” the priest put in.

“Not exactly. There's one little problem. But those are internal matters. I really have to go,” Rocco said brusquely. “There are some grueling days ahead of me. Thanks for your help, Signor Baudo. And thank you too, Padre . . .”

THE WIND WAS NO LONGER BLOWING IN THE VALLEY
and the temperature had risen slightly. He had the impression that it was warmer outside than inside the cathedral.

He left the church and looked around at the lovely piazza, with its bell tower and a linden tree that was said to be more than five hundred years old. That tree must have seen things. Five hundred years. A human being would certainly lose his mind if he lived even half that long, Rocco mused, his hands in the pockets of his loden overcoat, as he strolled through the ancient streets of Aosta.

THE VISITING ROOM AT THE HOUSE OF DETENTION OF
Brissogne had four damp patches, one in each corner. Looking at each other across a table, Rocco Schiavone and Fabio Righetti sat in the light cast by the one small, high window,
in absolute silence. The kid was pale and his Mohawk had started to wilt. He sat there, wordlessly watching the deputy police chief, and every so often staring at the floor. Someone in the distance opened a gate. Rocco seemed to be writing notes on a sheet of paper with a pen. Actually, though, he was just scribbling a series of psychotic doodles. The pen shot along, designing spirals, letters, and names without any logical sequence. And the Bic ballpoint on the paper was the only sound in the room. Then Rocco jotted a single sharp period—full stop—and raised his eyes to look into Fabio's. The young man had been observing him. He was about to chomp down on his gum when a light glinted in his eyes. He raised one hand to his mouth and spat out the gum; then he stuck it to the bottom of the table.

“You keeping that for later?” asked Rocco.

The boy nodded.

At last the door swung open and Riccardo Biserni, Righetti's lawyer, came in. Suit and tie, about thirty-five, a ruddy, healthy face, intelligent blue eyes. He immediately smiled at the deputy police chief. “Sorry I'm late, Rocco, but in-laws will be in-laws . . .”

They shook hands. “Don't think twice, Ricca', don't worry. On the other hand, you're the one who wanted to get married.”

“Me? You crazy? She bear-trapped me.”

“That's the first time anyone ever caught a lawyer in a trap, instead of the other way around.”

“Well, if you want to know the truth, it didn't hurt a bit. Now then . . .” The lawyer sat down next to his client.
“How are you doing, Fabio? Everything okay?” he asked as he pulled a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. “These are things I'll need you to sign.” Fabio nodded. Rocco yawned and stretched and sat back down.

“How are they treating you? All right?”

“Fine. I have a cell all to myself, and I never have to deal with the others.”

Riccardo glanced at the deputy police chief. “Is that your doing?”

Rocco nodded. “I didn't think he needed to familiarize with certain people.”

“In that case, I usually record my conversations, but I can skip it this time. After all, it's a friendly conversation, isn't it?” the lawyer said. Rocco nodded.

“We caught Hilmi Bastiany, Fabio,” he said suddenly, scrutinizing Righetti's face. “Your accomplice.”

The boy lowered his gaze.

“And he had a few things to tell us. Tell me when I go astray here, eh? The two of you sold off some jewelry to get the money to give your dealer so you could peddle drugs in the gardens outside the train station. Sound about right?”

Fabio looked over at his lawyer, who slowly nodded his head yes. “We got the coke without having to pay, at least not yet. If we did well, they were going to give us more.”

Rocco didn't ask who'd given them the coke. Right now, he had a very different target. He needed to go on bluffing. So he went all in and played his ace in the hole. “What time did you enter the Baudo apartment?”

Fabio snickered. “The Baudo apartment?” he asked back.

“Hilmi told me you were there at seven thirty. Can you confirm that?”

“I've never been in the Baudos' apartment. I don't even know where it is.”

“I'll tell you where it is. It's the place you burgled and stole gold and jewelry that you fenced to Gregorio Chevax to get the money for the drugs you sold.”

“I already told you. We got the coke without paying a cent. We didn't need money.”

“Then why did you burglarize the Baudos' apartment?”

“I've never burglarized anyone's apartment.”

He could still try out the final full-on assault. “Listen, asshole . . .”

“Rocco . . .” Riccardo intervened with an avuncular tone.

“Listen, asshole,” Rocco insisted, “you and Hilmi went into the Baudos' apartment, you took the gold, the lady walked in on you, and you killed her. You strangled her! Then you staged the hanging.”

“Rocco, what the fuck are you talking about?” the lawyer snapped. “Are you accusing Fabio of murder?”

“I'm not, Hilmi is. He told me that it was Fabio's idea to stage the hanging.”

“I never killed anyone! What are you talking about?”

“Rocco, if you're planning to charge my client with anything of the sort, I'm afraid I'm going to have to interrupt this informal conversation and elevate it to a different level.”

“Riccardo, I'm just trying to help Fabio out here, because Hilmi is trying to sell him down the river.”

“Don't force me to go to the judge. If I have to leave this room . . .”

“Hilmi took a picture of your client inside the apartment, Riccardo. While he was rummaging through an armoire. You realize what that means? I'm just trying to save him from a homicide charge, for Christ's sake!”

“It was nine thirty!” Fabio Righetti shouted, freezing his lawyer and Rocco too, in mid-dispute.

“Fabio, if you want to remain silent, go ahead; you and I should have a talk first.”

“No, I don't have anything to hide. It was nine thirty. Not seven thirty.”

Rocco leaned back in his chair. “So you're saying Hilmi is lying?”

“Of course he's lying,” said Fabio. “We were supposed to go in right after seven because Signor Baudo left on his bicycle. Only that fucking moped of Hilmi's had a flat tire and we were running late.”

“Did you get a new tire?”

“Yes. At the tire repair shop in front of police headquarters. He can tell you about it; his name is Fabrizio.”

“Nice, Fabio. So go on.”

The lawyer was breathing heavily. He was like a panther ready to pounce, but the situation was already tangled beyond repair. Rocco thought he could practically see the lawyer's brain chugging away, trying to put things back together. “It was past nine by the time we got to the Baudo place. I know because I got a text message on my phone.”

“When did you make copies of the keys to the Baudo apartment?”

Fabio looked up. “Three days ago. It was Hilmi who stole them from Irina.”