Big Italy (39 page)

Signora Lucchi shook her head. “You’re merely surmising.”

“Bassi saw you were going to turn off the tap and he went into overdrive. Afraid of having to go back to doing divorces. He’d always seen himself as an American detective. He’d hoped this case would make him rich and famous. Famous for succeeding where the police had failed. And rich because you’d offered him good money to find Carlo Turellini’s killer. But with the threat of your dropping him, Bassi started looking into the possibility not of a
crime passionnel
but a murder among the medical community.”

She nodded authoritatively. “I once believed my husband was killed because of professional jealousies.”

Trotti laughed sardonically. “It was Bassi—not Carlo Turellini—who was killed because of the professional jealousies between your husband and Quarenghi.”

She said nothing.

“Finally Bassi reached the same conclusion as the Carabinieri. It was precisely because Quarenghi believed Bassi was on to him that Bassi was murdered. Murdered with a bullet through the head, signora.”

“A professional killing,” she nodded.

“Bassi’s was a professional killing. Turellini was murdered by a woman.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Signora, you killed your ex-husband.”

“What on earth makes you say a thing like that?” She turned, seeking moral support from Magagna who sat in silence, watching her from behind his dark glasses.

“A professional gunman would never use a piece of equipment dating from the war in Spain.”

“You really believe I shot Carlo Turellini, commissario?”

“You’d grown up together. You’d had a daughter together, and although Turellini had divorced you, you weren’t particularly upset. Divorced, but Turellini still loved you in his way. There was still something between you. You told me he’d ring you regularly whenever there was a problem. It was always to you he’d turn in time of need. He made you feel wanted. Appreciated.”

Her voice was unexpectedly soft with reminiscence. “We should never’ve broken up. It was his fault. Carlo just didn’t know how to be happy with the present.”

“You loved him?”

“Of course I loved him. I still do.”

“As long as Turellini was with Signora Quarenghi, you weren’t apprehensive. The friendship between you and your ex-husband remained. Even when Turellini started living with the Englishwoman, you weren’t particularly concerned. A younger body than yours. As you wittily observed, Mary Coddrington wouldn’t know how to heat water. She wouldn’t even know how to shit straight. You felt she couldn’t give him what you’d always been able to give him.”

“Why on earth then should I kill the only man I’d ever loved?”

The cat suddenly leaped on to Magagna’s lap. Magagna sat back in surprise, then started stroking the animal. The cat purred with gratification. Magagna asked, “You saw your ex-husband just before his death?”

Signora Lucchi glanced at Magagna before turning back to Trotti. “Tell me why I should want to harm the one man I loved.”

“She was going to be pregnant.”

“She?”

Trotti said, “Your ex-husband was always in such a hurry. Always running after things.”

“So?”

“Suddenly he was learning to slow down. I don’t suppose he’d been much of a father to your daughter Carla. At the time I imagine he was concerned about his career. That’s the way we men are. But here, nearly twenty years later, he was going to have another child. And that you couldn’t bear.”

“What proof can you possibly have?” She tilted her head as she looked at Commissario Trotti.

“What was it you’d always told him? Something about seizing the day. For once he was following your advice. Carlo Turellini was learning to enjoy life. The simple pleasures of the family.”

“What makes you think I’d be jealous of that silly Englishwoman?”

“There was also the question of money.”

“Commissario, I have enough money.”

“Money for Carla until she was twenty-one. But she’d soon be twenty-one and with a child on the way, you realized there’d be a new will. No reason for your husband not to change his will now he was starting a new life.”

Signora Lucchi hesitated before shaking her head. “Carlo married me because of my money. I didn’t need anything from him.”

“Signora Lucchi, you told me it was important Carla should get her fair share of Turellini’s wealth.”

“I said that? You must have an amazing memory.”

“Didn’t you tell me it was for your daughter Carla’s sake you decided to hire Signor Bassi?”

A wry smile moved the narrow lips. “You’re trying to suggest I was responsible for Carlo’s murder?”

“You killed him, signora. It was premeditated. You got up early one morning and you went to his place at Segrate. You waited for him to drive through the gates of his villa. I imagine when he saw you, Carlo Turellini was surprised. He stopped and you shot him. The first bullet jammed. The second went wide. Then you forced yourself to concentrate on his cowardice—and how he was doing your daughter out of her inheritance. The third bullet killed him.”

“I did that?”

It was suddenly very silent in the house in the via Montenapoleone. Just the gentle purring of the cat.

Trotti looked at her sharply. “Of course you killed him. And Bassi was either too incompetent or too greedy ever to consider you as the culprit.”

“You can’t possibly have any proof.”

“I don’t need proof.”

A hesitation. “You don’t want to send me to prison?”

“Not necessarily. It all depends upon you.”

Signora Lucchi looked at Trotti carefully. Magagna was also looking at him.

“I imagine you have watertight alibis, Signora Lucchi.”

“I was with Avvocato Regni the morning my ex-husband was shot down.”

“Of course. An interesting man, Avvocato Regni.”

“You really think I was jealous of the Englishwoman to the point of killing Carlo? A blonde idiot and that’s why my husband lived with her. Carlo needed to be surrounded by young and beautiful and worshipping women. By pretty idiots.” She gave a brief cackle. “And now you want to arrest me for murdering the man I loved?” The cat jumped from Magagna’s lap to the floor.

“Well, commissario?”

“I’m sure we could come to an agreement, Signora Lucchi. Some form of compromise. We are both reasonable people.”

S
IGNORA
L
UCCHI GOT
up and went to the window, then she turned to look at Trotti. “An agreement, commissario?” Amusement hovered along the thin lips.

For a few moments Trotti and the rich woman stared at each other without speaking.

(The old, moneyed class of Milan, more bourgeois than aristocratic. And very rich.)

She turned back to the window and stared down at the silent traffic and the crowds in via Montenapoleone. (Impervious to Mani Pulite.)

“You met Tenente Pisanelli, signora. He was with me when I first came to see you.”

“A charming man.”

“He’s now in a deep coma.”

“Ah.”

“A coma from which he may never awake.”

“I’m truly sorry to hear that.” Signora Luciana Lucchi faced Trotti. She placed her hands behind her back and leaned against the sill. “He didn’t behave like other policemen.”

“I really don’t know how other policemen behave.”

“He certainly seemed charming.”

Trotti said nothing.

She coughed. “An agreement, commissario?” She hesitated, then, taking a step forward, she said, “I haven’t been totally honest with you.”

“You haven’t been at all honest.”

“It’s true I asked Avvocato Regni to contact you. Which he did. He consequently informed me you’re intending to retire.”

A nod. “In September.”

“He also informed me you may be having difficulties with a house you share in the OltrePò.”

“Avvocato Regni’s very well-informed.”

“I was wondering whether I could in any way be of aid to you.”

“Pierangelo Pisanelli’s a friend. As much a friend as a commissario in the Polizia di Stato can hope to have friends. We’ve known each other, Pisa and I, for a long time. We’ve done some useful work together. His fiancée is my goddaughter. We know each other well. Our respective qualities as much as our failings.”

“I got the impression he understood women.”

“The evening Tenente Pisanelli and I were driven off the road—that very evening he took me to task. He couldn’t understand why I was allowing myself to get involved with Bassi. With Bassi and his inquiry into your ex-husband’s death.” Trotti replaced the cup back on its thin saucer and slipped a licorice sweet into his mouth. “He seemed to think I was attracted by your money.”

Signora Luciana Lucchi returned to the seat. “I have money,” she said simply. “That’s a fact of life I learned to live with a long time ago. A fact of life that can have both positive and negative aspects. Now tell me, commissario. In what way can I be of use?”

“I was surprised by Pisanelli’s attitude.” There was no amusement in the brief laughter. “Surprised and hurt. I can remember blushing in his cold little French car. At that moment, I felt I was losing an old friend. Or even a son. The accusation …” Trotti glanced at Magagna. “Silly, isn’t it? Pisanelli’s lying in the hospital now in Rianimazione. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to speak to him again. Not sure I’ll be able to tell him he was one of the best. That he’d come to be a surrogate son to me. That’s why I was so often harsh and demanding. Because in so many ways Pisa’s just like me.” Magagna was smiling as he mechanically stroked the cat. He had taken his sunglasses off and his eyes were on Trotti’s face. “Self-doubt, commissario?”

“The way Pisanelli judged me on Saturday night as we were driving back from Alessandria in the snow, the way he attributed the motives to me was like a knife in the back.”

There was an uneasy silence. Signora Lucchi turned away and again stared down on to the street.

The cat purred beneath Magagna’s strokes.

“Tell me how I can help you, commissario.”

“We all like to think we’re above money, that we have values other than those of wealth. But once you’ve got used to a comfortable existence—it’s hard to return to the bad old days.”

“What precisely is it you want?”

Trotti took a deep breath. “Dr. Turellini was a specialist in clinical medicine?”

She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Carlo Turellini held his specialty in obstetrics from your university. Dr. Quarenghi’s the specialist in clinical medicine. Tell me, Commissario Trotti, what do you want?”

“There’d be no point in helping them in Rianimazione. The big pharmaceutical companies and the people who manufacture the scanners and the ECGS have already sponsored those places. High profile and that’s the way Tangentopoli’s always worked. A meretricious society based on the meretricious values of advertising and public relations. A Berlusconi society.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

Trotti folded his arms. He sucked at the sweet. “I see no reason for your going to prison.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The woman gave a chuckle but her eyes remained watchful, not leaving Trotti’s face.

“Prison’s not going to bring back anybody. Not Turellini and not Fabrizio Bassi. If for one moment I felt it would help Pisanelli, I’d happily throw you into prison. Or into the polluted Lambro where Bassi died. But Pisanelli’s being on a bed with pipes running in and out of him has got little to do with you. More to do with my peasant stubbornness.”

Magagna glanced sharply at Trotti.

Trotti continued. “You tell me your ex-husband wasn’t a broad-minded man. I’d like to think he was a good man.”

“A very good man.”

“A good man who was above corruption. A good man who resisted the siren calls of Tangentopoli, of our partitocrazia, of this hobbling First Republic.”

“You understand Carlo Turellini.”

“Pisa’s fiancee is with him at the hospital, Signora Lucchi. Thanks no doubt to the generosity of the pharmaceutical companies,
there’s a bedroom where she can sleep. She’s there at his bedside, holding his hand. Praying and hoping. She’s always loved Pisa—ever since she was a little girl and Pisanelli was new to the police.”

“I’m sure your young man will pull through.”

“Modern medicine’s holistic—I believe that’s the right word. Excuse me, I’m an ignorant old man from the hills.” A gesture of modesty. “Doctors now say that the battle has to be won emotionally. The battle has to be won in the the patient’s head, with his desire to survive. By being surrounded by people who love and care for him.”

“That was my husband’s first concern. Carlo was a marvelous doctor. A man who cared. Which explains the tremendous success of the Clinica Cisalpina.”

“What better legacy, signora, than a gift of this sort?”

She frowned.

“Not a legacy to the high-profile university clinics. Your husband was of humble origins. I can imagine nothing more befitting his humility and his devotion to the alleviation of human suffering than a gift to our Pediatria.”

The birdlike mouth had fallen open.

“At last a decent place for all the victims of child abuse. All those hurt children who without the intervention of doctors and the caring professions are doomed to carry their suffering on their backs. Like snails carrying their shells. I can’t imagine a better, more worthy homage to your husband than the Turellini Child Abuse Institute. With a couple of bedrooms for the mothers and families to stay close by the children.”

I
T WAS ALREADY
getting dark by the time they reached the Questura.

The place seemed empty.

Magagna and Trotti got into the lift and stepped out on the third floor.

The blonde woman raised her head. She gave a perfunctory smile of her thick red lips.

“News of Pisanelli?”

She shook her head. “Everybody’s at the memorial service. I thought you’d gone too, Commissario Trotti.” She took a large envelope from under the telephone console. “Commissario Maiocchi left you this. Said he’d be back by six at the latest.”

The two men went down the corridor into Trotti’s office.