Adam's Rib (19 page)

“Tell me how it went.”

“We went straight to the bedroom. I knew they kept the gold there.” Riccardo Biserni listened in silence. He was taking notes, but there'd be no getting this cat back into the bag.

“How did you know that?”

“One time Irina told Hilmi's father that Signor Baudo kept a box in the bedroom and she had told him he should get a safe because leaving valuables around like that was dangerous.”

“And in fact it was. Go on.”

“We found the jewel box with all the gold. We were just leaving when we heard the key turn in the lock.”

“Was it Irina?”

Fabio Righetti nodded. “Hilmi and I didn't know where to hide. We beat it all the way to the back of the apartment, the room with the door closed.”

Rocco looked at the boy: “And what was in there?”

“How'm I supposed to know? It was dark, and I made sure I didn't turn on the light, or else Irina would have seen me.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I heard Irina calling out to the signora. And I knew that the signora wasn't at home, for sure she was out doing her shopping. That's what she always does in the morning. Then I heard Irina running away, and I thought to myself:
shit, she must have noticed something, or she saw us. How could she, though? Irina tripped on the carpet. I heard a noise; it was her screaming and slamming the front door behind her. I waited a little while and then we both snuck out of the apartment.”

“How did you manage to leave the building?”

“We just went out the front door. There wasn't anybody around. We ran for it and hid behind a car. Irina had stopped a man in the middle of the street.”

Rocco stood up from his chair. “Good work, Fabio. You were perfect.”

“I didn't kill anyone. I've never even seen the signora in my life, Commissario Schiavone.”

“Deputy Police Chief Schiavone,” Rocco corrected him. “Did you know what was in that dark room?”

“No . . .”

“Esther Baudo's corpse was in that room, my friend.” Rocco and the lawyer looked at each other.

“Why did Hilmi tell those lies?” asked Fabio.

“Listen to me, Fabio, I already told you this the first time we met. If you want to be a gangster, you have to be born one. And you're no gangster. I just wanted to hear what happened in that apartment, and now I'm going to compare stories and see if you told me the truth. If you did, then all you'll be looking at is a drug dealing charge . . . oh, and burglary . . . and you've got your lawyer right here, and he knows how these things work better than I do. But I'll do what I can to blame the initiative for the burglary on Hilmi,
that it was his idea to pull this inside job and at the very worst, you were an accomplice. You'll do a couple of months behind bars, and then you'll be out on the street.”

“Commissario, that's the truth.”

“Call me commissario one more time and I'll make sure you get life without parole.”

“Yes, Deputy Police Chief,” Fabio promptly corrected himself.

“But if it turns out you lied and you do have something to do with this murder, then things change.” And he looked at the lawyer. “Well, Fabio, we've had a really nice talk. Your cell phone, please?”

“Why?”

“It's important. You told me you received a text message at nine o'clock Friday morning. That's a little piece of evidence in your favor, you know that?”

“It's down in the storeroom,” said Riccardo.

“Let me tell you again, sir: I told the truth. You can ask the guy at the tire repair shop.”

“You can count on it. Thanks, Riccardo,” he said as he walked toward the door. The lawyer caught up with him. Under his breath, he said: “You didn't catch Hilmi at all, tell me the truth.”

“If you already know it, why are you bothering asking me?” He opened the door and left the meeting room.

“WHY DIDN'T YOU GO INTO THE SHOP YESTERDAY?”

“You saw me?”

“I was in the bar across the street.”

Standing on the landing, uncertain whether to go into the apartment or continue to stand there talking, Nora and Rocco looked at each other with tired eyes.

“You put me through a truly miserable birthday, you know that?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“And now you come to see me. Why?”

“To ask you to forgive me.”

“Rocco Schiavone asking for forgiveness.”

“You don't think much of me.”

“Why should I?”

“Are you going to let me in or shall we stay on the landing?”

“Neither one,” Nora replied, and sweetly shut the door in the deputy police chief's face. He stood there, gazing at the knots in the wood. Then he took a deep breath, did an about-face, and left Nora's apartment building.

Outdoors the temperature had plunged along with the setting sun and an icy hand clutched the policeman's chest. “So fucking cold . . .” he muttered bitterly between clenched teeth while buttoning his loden overcoat. Before he could take even two steps down the sidewalk the first solitary snowflake fluttered lightly before his eyes. The streetlamps were already on and in the yellowish light hundreds of flakes flew, like moths, slow and majestic. A flake landed on Rocco's cheek. He rubbed it dry. He raised his eyes to the steel-gray sky and saw them land on him by the dozen. They emerged from the darkness and took shape a few yards above him. He imagined himself as a spaceship traveling at the speed
of light and all those dots hurtling toward him as so many stars and galaxies through which he was moving, into the mysterious depths of the cosmos. The lights were on in Nora's windows. And in the luminous rectangle of the living room window he saw Nora, standing there watching him as he played at letting the snow tickle him. Their eyes met once again. Then a movement in the adjoining window, the one in the bedroom, caught the deputy police chief's attention. A shadow behind the curtains. It had gone by quickly but not fast enough for there to be any doubt about its nature: it was a man. Rocco bit his lip and immediately tried to assign a name and a face to that shadowy guest. He raised his right hand as if to say hello to Nora, then he raised the left hand next to it and mimed the act of opening the window. At first, Nora didn't understand. Rocco repeated the gesture. The woman complied, opening the window and sticking her head out ever so slightly, one hand on her chest to protect herself from the chill. Rocco smiled up at her. “If you ask me, it's the interior decorator Pietro Bucci-something-or-other. Right?”

Nora made a face. “What did you say?”

“I said, if you ask me, it's the interior decorator Pietro Bucci-something-or-other.”

“His name is Pietro Bucci Rivolta.”

“Is that him?”

“Is who him?”

“Whoever it is that's over in the bedroom.”

Nora said nothing. She shut the window and pulled the
curtains, vanishing from Rocco's sight. Not even ten seconds later, she turned off the lights.

Okay, fair enough, thought Rocco: you don't answer rhetorical questions.

Now there were plenty of snowflakes, and they no longer looked like stars he was passing as he explored the cosmos, but just what they were: icy snowflakes that were getting inside the collar of his overcoat, and were bound to turn the road into a dangerous sheet of ice.

It was time to go home.

“WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT, THERE IS A GOD AFTER
all, no?” Marina tells me.

“What are you talking about?” I ask her.

“The guy that rapes little girls.” She's making an herbal tea, I guess, because she's clattering around in the kitchen.

“Excuse me very much, but what does God and His existence have to do with that son of a bitch?”

“Nothing to do with him. It has to do with you.” She comes into the living room and goes over to the table. In one hand she has a mug. Sure enough, an herbal tea.

“I don't understand you, Marì.”

“I'm saying, there's a God because in the end they punished you. If you think about it, they punished you for the dumbest thing you've ever done, that is, beat that guy up.”

She's right.

“Sort of like Al Capone, no? They finally put him in jail
for tax evasion, and not for littering Chicago with corpses. If you make the necessary adjustments, that's more or less what happened to you, Rocco.”

“I didn't litter the city with corpses.”

“No? Think back.”

I don't want to think back. I don't want to think about any of it. “All right,” I say to her, “there's a God. But why are you so glad that I'm exiled up here?”

She laughs prettily and pulls out her notebook. She reads the word of the day. “
Diluculum
. It's a Latin word. You know what it means?”

“No.”

“It's the first light, the light of the new day.”

“Daybreak?”

“Yes. Nice, eh?”

“The word itself, not so much. It's funny-sounding.”

“But the first light is pretty. It brings hope, because sooner or later it's bound to come.” And she disappears again. It's what she always does. After all, I already know what she's saying to me. It's always the same thing, even if she uses complicated phrases, words that she finds in the dictionary but that always talk about the same problem. As if I didn't know it. I just don't have the strength. I probably don't have the will, either. It takes tremendous strength. And a person doesn't necessarily have that strength. A person might not be able to muster it. I'm there, with both shoes. But you just take a look at my shoes on the radiator. Look at the pitiful shape they're in. And it's not even the end of
March yet. I wonder if springtime will ever come here. The day after tomorrow is the twentieth, and springtime arrives at midnight. But around here no one seems to have noticed. But I have. The day after tomorrow is Marina's birthday. And she was born right at midnight. Another minute and it would have been the twenty-first. But to me Marina and springtime have always been the same thing.

T
he snow had gone on falling all night long, covering the streets and piling high atop the cars. A few straggling flakes still fluttered indecisively through the chilly air, uncertain whether to land on a branch or a streetlight. Rocco had left his car double-parked all night long, next to a panel van that had been parked there for six months now without moving. By rights he should have called the traffic division and had them tow that van away, but why give up a convenient place to double-park right downstairs from his apartment? The panel van could stay right where it was.

Taking care where he set his feet, he reached his Volvo and climbed in. His warm, dense breath filled the chilly air inside the vehicle. “Fucking cold as hell,” he snarled. Then he turned the key and the car's 163 horses roared immediately to life under his command. He turned on the heat, rubbing his hands together, hands that his leather gloves just couldn't keep warm. He needed to get to the office for
his realist's morning prayer. But he'd made a mistake. An unforgivable oversight. He'd forgotten to turn off his cell phone, which he normally only turned on after nine. And the damned thing started ringing. Rocco leaped off the seat, in something approaching fear. “Fucking Christ . . .” he swore as he frantically felt in his various pockets. He grabbed it, holding it as if it were a hot potato.

Private number on his display. He'd need to be ready. It could be a sales call, or it could be the chief of police.

“Hello?”

“Beating Palermo two to one on their home field ain't peanuts.”

It was Andrea Corsi, the police chief, who was rejoicing that his soccer team, Genoa CFC, had won an away match in Sicily.

“And so Schiavone, a splendid week stretches out before us. The weather is fine and the sails are proudly bellying!”

“Dottore, your optimism at this hour of the morning is annoying, to say the least,” Rocco replied.

“All right then. Do you have any news for me on the Baudo case? Let me remind you that tomorrow there's going to be a press conference.”

“Which I won't be able to attend. You know how to handle journalists; you have them wrapped around your little finger. I just don't know how to handle these things.”

“Those assholes . . .” said the police chief.

“Believe me, you can hypnotize them. You could tell them the story of Hansel and Gretel and they'd be happy.”

“You're flattering me, Schiavone. But you see, I still
have to have some red meat to toss those hooligans. Give me something.”

“Certainly. Why don't you see if this does the trick. On Friday, in the dead woman's apartment, it was busier than an August day at Rome's Stazione Termini. Not only was the housekeeper there, but a couple of two-bit burglars happened by.”

“What are you telling me?”

“That there was a burglary at the Baudo residence.”

“And are they suspects in the murder?”

“No way. They're just a couple of losers. Shall I explain why they had nothing to do with it?”

“Sure. Is it very complicated?”

“Only slightly.”

“Then let me get a pen.” There was a pause during which Rocco could clearly hear the desk drawers opening and shutting as Corsi frantically searched for a pen. “My pens! Who keeps stealing my pens!” the police chief shouted. “Finally. I'm ready, Dottor Schiavone.”

“All right, the two young men, known respectively as Fabio Righetti and Hilmi Bastiany . . .”

“Hilmi what?”

“Bastiany.”

“Bastiany. Where's he from? Albania?”

“Egypt, Dottore. So the two kids just happen to be there, ransacking the place, or actually, stealing gold that they knew was in the bedroom.”

“How did they know?”

“Hilmi is the son of the man who cohabits with the
housekeeper, and the boy stole her house keys, had them copied, and used them to enter the apartment. Now, according to the findings of our crackerjack medical examiner, Esther Baudo was killed no later than seven thirty. Righetti, Bastiany's accomplice, tells us that they entered the apartment at nine thirty.”

“Maybe he's not telling the truth.”

“I don't think that's it. I checked it out. At nine o'clock he and Hilmi were still getting the moped's flat tire fixed. Now listen. When the housecleaner, Hilmi's stepmother, came in, the two burglars hid and, according to what Fabio Righetti told us, watched the whole thing—Irina running terrified out of the apartment and then meeting a retired warrant officer downstairs, in the street; and he was in fact the man who first called us.”

“So what does that mean?”

“That Irina got there at ten. And at that time of the morning, the kids were in the apartment.”

“The stepmother, whatchamacallit, the housecleaner, could have told them everything afterward, couldn't she?”

“But when? No, I don't think so. Righetti actually told me that she tripped over the carpet and that down in the street she stopped to talk to a man walking a dog on a leash. You see, one thing I've learned is that when a person is in a state of panic, which Irina definitely was, they usually don't tell their stories with an abundance of details. In fact, there are details that they don't even remember. Now I wonder: if Righetti and Hilmi were caught by Esther Baudo at seven thirty that morning and killed her, what the hell reason
could they have had for staying in that apartment for another three hours?”

“What about staging the suicide?”

“Three hours? To hoist up a dead body on a hook from the ceiling? Look, let's even admit the fear, the tension, the outright terror, and even the time it took to come up with the solution. But if you ask me, an hour and a half, tops, is all the time that was needed. Three hours is just too much time. Plus, we have the guy at the tire repair shop who clearly remembers the two idiots on the moped, teeth chattering with cold, who had a flat tire fixed.”

“Mmm, I'm with you. The timing doesn't match up. How did you nail this down?”

“Because Hilmi took me straight to Gregorio Chevax, who's an—”

“I know who he is,” Corsi interrupted. “He's back in hot water? You know, I arrested him the first time.”

“Yes, he's in hot water again. Hilmi took him a batch of stolen goods from the Baudo residence. You see? Now you have something to give to the newspapers. And in any case Inspector Rispoli should be in your office shortly with a complete report. So you'll have it in writing.”

“And this Hilmi? Where's he?”

“This is the one sour note. He got away. We think he made it out of the country. If you take a look at the papers that came in yesterday you'll see that there's already an international arrest warrant and bulletin out on the kid.”

“Oh shit . . . but why did he run?”

“Because he assaulted a cop. Because he owes money
to people who'll stop at nothing, people that gave him the drugs in the first place. And because he knows that sooner or later we'd work our way back to him, since his accomplice is about to be subjected to a special expedited nonjury trial.”

“Do you know where he might be?”

“No. He might have gone to stay with his mother in Egypt. By way of Switzerland, I think. Do we have an extradition treaty with Egypt, Dottore?”

“We'll have to ask the district attorney about that. I'd have to say offhand that they haven't signed any protocol with Italy. But, let me repeat, I'm working on memory. Thanks, Schiavone. So you work Sundays too?”

“When necessary. Because after all, there isn't a lot to do in this city; you have to face it.”

“You should learn to ski. Then you'd definitely fall in love with this place.”

“I'll give it some thought, Dottore.”

“So aren't we going to see you at the press conference?”

“If you could see your way to letting me skip it, I'd be very grateful. I'm actually working on a pretty promising lead.”

“Then stick to your work, Schiavone. And keep me informed. I'll take care of those bastards the news vendors. Ah, and don't forget the governor and his amateur bike race in late April.”

“Certainly, I'm already working on it.”

“Excellent. As far as I can tell those pen pushers don't have anything else on their minds. Goddamn them and blast them to hell.”

A wound in the police chief's heart hadn't healed in all
these year. His wife had abandoned her home and her husband for a reporter for
La Stampa
. It was still a bleeding gash in Andrea Corsi's heart. A cut that might never heal at all.

ROCCO PARKED IN FRONT OF POLICE HEADQUARTERS,
in his reserved spot. Walking gingerly on tiptoes, taking care where he put his feet, he headed for the entrance. Officer Scipioni, who was just leaving the building, smiled when he spotted him. “Dottore, are you afraid you might step on dogshit?”

“Idiot, I'm trying not to get my Clarks wet.”

“When are you going to finally buy yourself a pair of suitable shoes?”

“The day you finally learn to mind your own goddamned business,” Rocco replied, eyes fixed on the snow-covered sidewalk. Whereas Scipioni with his police boots comfortably strolled over the mantle of snow like an icebreaker. “I'm heading for the bar. Want an espresso?”

“No thanks, Scipio'. By the way, about Palermo . . .”

“Let's forget about it and we'll both be happier.”

“No, but first you need to answer a question for me.”

Scipioni stopped and turned to look at the deputy police chief: “Ask freely, Dottore.”

“Are you Sicilian?”

“On my mother's side. But my dad is from Ascoli Piceno.”

“And how do you like being here in Aosta?”

Scipioni thought it over for a few seconds. “I like it in terms of work. I like my colleagues and I even like the brass.”

“Thanks, too kind.”

“I like the weather too. I really like the cold. The one who hates it and wishes she could go live by the water is my wife.”

“Is she Sicilian too?”

“No, she's from Saint-Vincent.”

Rocco stood there looking at Officer Scipioni. “She was born here and she doesn't like it?”

“These things happen . . .”

Schiavone shook his head as he climbed the steps and finally walked into police headquarters. He was moving fast to avoid his morning encounter with Deruta. There was no danger of running into D'Intino; to the best of Rocco's knowledge the man was still in the hospital. He hurried down the long corridor and ducked toward his office.

When he entered the office, he found a note. Probably from Italo:

De Silvestri called from Rome. It's urgent!

Rocco didn't even bother sitting down. He picked up the phone and called the Cristoforo Colombo police station in Rome. It was actually De Silvestri who answered: he was clearly waiting for his call.

“De Silvestri, what's up? What's going on?”

“Dottore . . . he's at it again!”

Rocco slammed the receiver down hard and shouted as loud as he was able: “Italo!”

IT WAS RAINING. THE LIGHTS ON ROME'S BELTWAY,
the Grande Raccordo Anulare, were gleaming off the wet
asphalt. The taxi's windshield wipers were struggling to wipe away the water, while the drops on the car's roof rattled like a crazed drum solo.

“Some weather, eh?” said the cabbie.

“Completely crazy,” Rocco replied.

“So I'm dropping you on Via Poerio, right?”

“What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“Then that's right. The address is number twelve.”

Rocco pulled out his cell phone. He scrolled through his directory looking for Sebastiano's phone number.

“Seba? It's me.”

“Where the fuck are you?”

“In a taxi. I'm in Rome.”

“Mmm. We going to see you?”

“Tonight. At Santa Maria. Tell Brizio and Furio.”

“Got it. Eight o'clock?”

“Done.”

He was back in Rome, his city. But even though he hadn't seen the place in months, he felt nothing. Anger. Just anger.

And plenty of it.

THE DEPUTY POLICE CHIEF OPENED THE FRONT DOOR
of his apartment but didn't go right in. He stood at the threshold and looked in. There was a rumble of distant thunder. Then he turned on the light and made up his mind.

The smell of stale air. The furniture looked mournful and dreary, covered with white sheets. The refrigerator was
open, empty, with dish towels on the floor. Carpets rolled up and hidden behind the sofas. In an ashtray he found a dead cigarette butt. Rocco picked it up. Diana brand smokes. A sign that Dolores, who came to clean the place once a week, had taken a break on his sofa. He went into the bedroom and opened the armoire. There was nothing in there but his summer jackets. And Marina's dresses, wrapped in cellophane. He touched them one by one. Every dress reminded him of something. Furio's wedding. The dinner in celebration of Marina's nephew's promotion. His father-in-law's retirement. The last dress was the red one. The one she wore at their wedding. He smiled. He remembered the ceremony at city hall. Marina in her red dress, him dressed in green trousers with a white shirt. Secular. Patriotic. Italian.

“How drunk was I at our wedding?” he asked aloud. He turned around. But there was nothing but the bed under a plastic slipcover. He left the bedroom and went back to the living room.

The whole apartment was reflected in the large window overlooking the terrace, streaked with raindrops on the outside. Rocco leaned his forehead against the glass. He looked out. A flash of lightning illuminated the cupolas of the churches and the silhouettes of the roofs of Rome. He felt as if he'd brought the clouds now lowering over the city of Rome with him from Aosta. The rainwater being vomited out of the downspouts was transforming the terrace into a swimming pool. He could make out the dark shapes of Marina's plants, clustered in a corner. The lemon tree, wrapped in a canvas cover, stood under the wooden shed roof, along with
the rosebushes. At least the concierge was doing her job. It was crucial that those plants not die. Especially the lemon tree. He felt a stab of sorrow in his heart and a pang at the pit of his stomach. He took an umbrella from the large vase by the front door and exited the apartment, leaving the lights on behind him. Perhaps the time had come to sell that penthouse. There was nothing in it that belonged to him anymore. He was reminded of a movie he'd seen years and years ago, where the wall paintings in a Roman tomb that had just been violated dissolved in contact with the fresh air from outside, melting away entirely while the body of a mysterious handmaiden deflated on the altar, leaving behind nothing but fabric and a couple of rings. He closed the door behind him, without even single-locking it, much less double-locking it. There was nothing left to steal anyway.