I Will Have Vengeance (21 page)

Examining the embroidery she had completed on the front of the garment she smiled to herself, thinking that her parents were right: ever since she was a child they had been telling her that she was pig-headed. She reached out for the scissors, there on the table.

Across the windswept street, in the darkness of his room, Ricciardi watched Enrica sew. As always, he imagined that sooner or later he would talk to her and tell her how seeing her embroider made him feel at peace. He would ask her to embroider for him and she would smile, tilt her head to the side and say yes, in that voice that he had never heard; and he would sit there and watch her.

Meanwhile, across the way, her work was done. Enrica put down her embroidery, lifted the scissors from the table with her right hand, passed them to her left and snipped the end of the thread.

And Ricciardi saw it all clearly.

The ribbon with the scissors, which were missing; someone who worked with her left hand; the significance of what the doctor had said two days before; the smock that was too big. And, most importantly, he understood that look that had lasted just a moment.

He also thought, looking across the street, that a momentary look can mean a great deal: it can mean everything.

 

He had just hung up his coat in the office, when Vice Questore Garzo rushed in like a fury; behind him, extremely agitated, came Ponte, his clerk.

“Ricciardi, is what I heard this morning true? That you've arrested a suspect in the Vezzi homicide? Is it true?”

Ricciardi closed the armoire door, sighed and turned to his superior.

“Yes, it's true. Last night.”

Garzo was beside himself: red blotches had appeared on his usually smiling, composed face, his tie was loosened and his hair looked rumpled.

“And why wasn't I notified? I told you clearly, more than once, that any developments, no matter how minimal, were to be reported to me at once. And you arrest the perpetrator without informing me? If it weren't for my friend, the managing editor at
Il Mattino
, who phoned me this morning to congratulate me, I wouldn't have known anything about it! Who am I? Nobody?”

Ricciardi looked at him coldly, his hands in his pockets.

‘You are in my office shouting and I don't think that's the proper way to ask me for information. I couldn't have informed you yesterday, because it was eleven o'clock at night and you had been gone for over two hours. What's more, the man is a suspect, not a perpetrator. I communicate with you the way I should communicate, that is through official channels. What your friends tell you doesn't interest me.”

He had spoken softly, almost in a whisper, and the contrast with Garzo's yelling was enormous. Just outside the door, Ponte lowered his head as if he had taken a punch. Maione, who had come running, smiled broadly, covering his grin with one hand while holding the newspaper in the other.

Garzo stood there as if embalmed. He blinked two or three times and finally took a deep breath. He looked around and seemed surprised to find himself in Ricciardi's office. When he spoke again, his tone seemed subdued, but there was a fierce quaver in his voice.

“Of course . . . of course. I apologize. Forgive me, Ricciardi. Well then . . . can you kindly tell me something about the arrest you made yesterday so I can report to the Questore? You know, so he won't find himself unprepared when they call from Rome.”

He was almost spelling it out, containing his anger. Ricciardi even felt some pity for him.

“Yes, of course. So then: certain elements that emerged from the investigation made us focus our suspicions on Michele Nespoli, a professional singer, a baritone, at the Royal Theater of San Carlo. When interrogated at the scene by myself and Brigadier Maione, to whom most of the credit for the arrest is due, he confessed to the crime. But several other elements must be verified in order to consider the theory of potential accomplices or motives not currently known to us. For this reason, I would not issue any official statements at the present time.”

Garzo opened and closed his mouth: what popped into Ricciardi's mind was an image of a big codfish in a suit and tie. When he was able to speak again, he said: “I'm not sure I understand. Didn't you tell me that this Nespoli confessed to killing Vezzi?”

“Yes, but—”

Garzo held up a hand.

“No! No buts! If we have a confession, and we have one, I don't see any reason for uncertainty. I ask you to understand, once and for all: it's one thing to discover the killer two days after the murder, another thing to go on investigating after a confession. If you continue investigating despite having a confession in hand, it means that the solution came out of the blue without us uncovering it and, therefore, there's no merit to solving the case. Now, I believe I am expressing the Questore's opinion by decidedly choosing the first theory, that Nespoli acted alone. And so, my dear Ricciardi, on the one hand,”—and here he indicated the number one by gripping the thumb of his left hand with the index finger and thumb of his right—“I offer you my most heartfelt congratulations for your brilliant work in solving the case; on the other,”—and with the same fingers he grasped his left index finger—“I urge you to refrain from continuing the investigation as well as from communicating any of your concerns to anyone. Do we agree?”

Ricciardi hadn't moved a muscle.

“No. I don't agree by any means. There's the risk of letting one or more guilty parties go free, and you know it. Not to mention remaining in the dark about various aspects of this case that cannot currently be explained.”

There was a moment's silence. Maione and Ponte, in the doorway, looked like two statues. Garzo roused himself.

“I have no intention of reconsidering the matter, Ricciardi. That was an order. And another thing: we both know how many times you came and intervened with me, to support the positions of your closest co-workers, and how much you care about them. I would therefore remind you that any disobedience will be attributed not just to you, but also to them. So that Brigadier Maione here, for example, would go from a commendation and a more than likely cash bonus to a severe disciplinary action. Be advised.”

At that he turned and walked out with military bearing. Ponte stepped aside to let him pass and followed after him, feigning a look of distress. Maione entered Ricciardi's office, his face flushed. “What a shitty bastard he is!” he said as he closed the door behind him.

R
icciardi slumped into the chair behind the desk. He looked glumly at Maione sitting in front of him.
“You hear that? So, either you're a hero or you too are a criminal. No middle ground.”

Maione looked at him in silence. Ricciardi sighed.

“I have to take you off the case, Brigadier. From this point on, you will no longer be involved with the investigation. You deserve a nice bonus for the work you've done.”

Maione went on looking at him.

“So, Maione. You can go.”

“
Commissa'
, I'm not going anywhere. Aside from the fact that I don't take orders from that guy,” he nodded toward the door, “but from my immediate supervisor, namely you, I know you by now: and I know when a job is finished and when it isn't. And as I see it, we haven't finished here yet. I realized it last night already and I was sure of it this morning when I saw your face. Besides, the urge to prove to that man and his little dog Ponte that he's wrong is too strong for me to resist. Plus, I really don't give a damn about the bonus: my kids aren't used to having a lot of money. Those kids with too much money turn out bad. Finally,” he concluded, mimicking the Vice Questore and holding the tip of his left pinkie with two fingers of his right hand, “only one thing bothers me more than seeing a guilty party go free: seeing an innocent man go to prison.”

Ricciardi shook his head and sighed again.

“I knew you were a stubborn old man. One of these days remind me that I should make you retire. You're right though: we haven't finished here yet. There are some things that aren't clear to me, that must be brought to light, then we can rest.'

Maione put the newspaper on the desk.

“As far as the paper is concerned, we're already heroes. Listen to this: ‘The police, after only two days of tireless investigation, discover and bring to justice the brutal murderer of the tenor Vezzi. See the news section for details.' If we're tireless, we must continue slogging away. That's what the word means, doesn't it?”

“Right. However, we have to be wary of Garzo and his people, so here's what we'll do: you take a nice one-day leave, which I'll approve, ostensibly to take your child to the doctor. Instead, see what you can do. Are you still in touch with that guy who lives above the Quartieri, what was his name . . . Bambinella? The one who has a finger in every pie, who knows everybody's business.”

“The transvestite? Sure I am. Whenever we pick up a few hookers, that guy is always among them, dressed as a woman and, forgive me
Commissa'
, but he looks better than the real ones. He's
simpatico
though, a million laughs.”

“That's the one. Track him down right away, this morning. And ask him about this name.”

Ricciardi took a sheet of paper, and after dipping his pen in the inkwell, wrote a name and handed the note to the Brigadier.

“Everything you can find out.
Everything
. Then come to me and report.”

Maione read the name, nodded and smiled.

“So she's the one, huh? I noticed that he looked at her strangely. I was sure you hadn't missed it either. Okay,
Commissa'
. Don't give it another thought.”

“One last thing, then you can go. Have them bring in Nespoli.”

*

It was obvious that Nespoli hadn't slept a wink. He appeared with deep shadows under his eyes and dark stubble on his face, his thick head of hair in disarray. The spectre of his life's failure had begun to dance around him again and this time, he knew, it would never stop. In the cell, his father and mother, siblings and fellow villagers had passed before his mind's eye: all those who had given up a little or a lot to enable him to study, for the joy of seeing him sing at the San Carlo. And now that he had made it there, he had thrown it all away.

Yet he could not have done otherwise, and he knew this too. He had acted as he should, as was proper. And so he felt serene as he stared into the Commissario's limpid green eyes, blinking in the strong morning light that came through the window. He thought that the investigator, despite the abominable work he did and the situation in which he found himself, was an honest man, worthy of respect. In the first place, he looked directly at you, looked you in the eye, and it was uncommon to meet people who did that. Then too, he felt that he had suffered, like him. And finally, he had called him back. Instead of being satisfied with the confession, he wanted to get to the bottom of it, to understand. And that meant that he was intelligent. An intelligent, honest cop: a rare and dangerous thing.

Ricciardi looked at Nespoli in silence. With a nod he had dismissed the policeman who had brought him in and had remained seated, hands clasped in front of his mouth, elbows leaning on the desk. Nespoli held his gaze, standing with his hands cuffed in front of him. After a long moment, Ricciardi spoke.

“Nespoli, I know everything. I figured it out. I realized it last night. I don't know if you're aware of what you're doing, what's in store for you. You'll go to jail for thirty years, you'll be an old man when you get out, that's if you get out. A man like you isn't capable of spending thirty years in the company of criminals.”

Nespoli stared at him. Not so much as a breath escaped him.

“You didn't kill him. I know it. And I also know who did kill him.”

The singer blinked, but didn't say a word.

“Think about those who love you: you must have a mother, brothers and sisters. I can't believe you don't have a reason, even just one, to want to live, to be free. Even if it were only to sing. You're gifted; I heard you yesterday.”

Nespoli didn't move a muscle. A tear ran from his right eye and began trickling down his cheek. He seemed not to be aware of it.

“Is your relationship with this woman that compelling? What has she done for you, to deserve this sacrifice? Why are you giving her your life?”

The man in handcuffs went on staring boldly into Ricciardi's eyes; in the heat of the argument the Commissario leaned forwards.

“If you don't help me, how can I help you? I can't continue working on the case if you don't retract your confession. Let me at least try. Don't let me be the one to send an innocent man to prison. Please. Retract it.”

Nespoli gave a faint, sad smile and said nothing. After another long moment, Ricciardi sighed deeply.

“As you wish. I thought you would react this way.” He called the guard and said: “Take him away.”

On the way out, Nespoli paused in the doorway, turned and said softly: “Thank you, Commissario. If you've ever been in love, you understand me.”

I understand you, Ricciardi thought.

After a few minutes, Ponte knocked at the door.

“Excuse me, Commissario. The Vice Questore would like to speak with you in his office.”

Sighing wearily, Ricciardi got up and walked to the spacious office at the end of the hall. Even before he reached the partly open door he perceived the wild pungent scent of spices; by now he recognized it. Garzo had someone with him.

“Ah, my dear Ricciardi! Please, come in. Have a seat. You've already met Signora Vezzi, haven't you?”

Sitting in front of the Vice Questore was Livia, legs crossed, dressed as usual in a sober yet sensual dark suit. The little veil on her hat was raised; she was smoking. Her splendid dark eyes gazed steadily at Ricciardi and her mouth bore the hint of a smile. She looked like a panther, ready to fall asleep or attack her prey, not caring which.