The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (14 page)

Lojacono, observing the tightly compressed lips, the small eyes behind the thick lenses, and the harsh creases at the corners of the mouth, perceived—above and beyond the words that she spoke—the woman's slavish devotion to Festa. He knew that he'd never get anything out of her that might prove even slightly damaging to the notary.

He decided to see if he could use jealousy for leverage.

“Sometimes, a man with energy, full of life and passion, can feel alone if those who share his life neglect him. It happens. And when it does, that man might go looking for company, so to speak.”

Lina snorted: “Company for the passing moment. That's not what counts: what counts is who's there for the long run, lieutenant. And asks for nothing in return.”

“Like his wife, no?”

“Yes, like the signora. Poor, poor signora.”

“Where was the notary, late last night? And where were you?”

Her eyes flashed from behind her lenses.

“Not together, lieutenant. I was at home, with my mother and my sister, watching TV. You can check that with them whenever you like. The notary . . . you'd have to ask him.”

“But where do you think he was?”

“He's a man who's full of life, lieutenant. But he'd never hurt anyone. Least of all his wife. I'm sure of that.”

 

Before ushering in the next person, Aragona spoke to Lojacono. Aragona's irritating habit of slowly taking off and then putting back on his blue-tinted aviators, a move no doubt perfected thanks to hours of study before American cop shows, had reached new heights of implausibility.

“This one, if you ask me, is an old maid who, in the middle of the night, in her single bed, fills her mind with filthy fantasies, all of them involving the notary. I doubt we're going to pry any information out of her about where he was last night, or who he was with.”

“Yes, she strikes me as a tough nut. Anyway, you take notes on everything, that way we can check out the alibis afterward. Now send in the next one.”

 

Imma Arace, the young woman who had met them when they first entered the office, still hadn't stopped crying. In one hand she clutched a damp handkerchief, and her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. She sniffled continuously, and from time to time she blew her nose loudly.

Aragona looked at her in disgust: “Signori', you need to quit your crying. Were you that fond of the signora?”

“No, what gives you that idea? I only ever saw her once, at a surprise party we threw for the notary's birthday, two years ago. I didn't even know her!”

The officer looked at her, puzzled: “Well, in that case, why are you crying like this?”

“I just get emotional when I hear these things. Plus, I feel sorry for the notary, poor thing. Even though . . .”

Lojacono perked up. “Even though?”

The woman made a face. “The notary, well, he's a man. And men always are quick to console themselves.”

Aragona swept his glasses off with a broad gesture, and focused his untanned eye sockets on Imma's face; he looked like the negative of a photo of a panda, but the woman seemed quite struck by him.

“Are you trying to say: with another woman?”

Arace blinked rapidly, surprised: “What do you think, with another man? Let me tell you, the notary definitely wasn't playing for the other team.”

“And how would you know that?”

“How would I know that . . . I know. I can see. I mean, if a guy is gay, you can tell, can't you? From the way he moves, the way he talks . . .”

Lojacono decided to put an end to that droll skirmish out of a comic opera: “Signorina, do you know of any relations the notary might have had with other women?”

The question was greeted with total silence. After a lengthy hesitation, the young woman replied: “No. Honestly, I have no idea if he's been having an affair. But that he likes women, yes, that I can tell you.”

She refused to say more. When she left, Aragona whispered: “This is another one who knows something, Loja'. But she's not talking either, is she?”

“In fact, I don't expect us to get anything from these sessions. Still, we've got to do our best, because by the time the notary gets himself organized no one's going to be talking anymore, and that's a fact.”

Aragona called in Rino De Lucia.

The man in charge of promissory notes was the only male in the office save for the notary himself, but he couldn't have been any more unlike his boss. He kept nervously fussing with the few strands of hair that remained atop his bald, gleaming head, arranging them in a pathetic comb-over, and the lenses of his Coke-bottle glasses magnified his myopic eyes.

“I can't think about her, lieutenant, the poor signora. And the poor notary, his heart is bound to break. They've been married for so many years . . .”

Lojacono nodded wearily.

“Tell me, De Lucia, did you know her, the notary's wife?”

“Know the notary's wife? Of course I did, lieutenant. I've been working here for more than twenty years, plus the notary used me as his driver: I'm in charge of promissory notes and bills of exchange, and there's never much to do in the afternoon. The signora doesn't drive . . . didn't drive, so I sometimes took the notary's car out and drove her when she went shopping or to one of her charity events. A wonderful woman, lieutenant. A saint! And always so kind to everyone.”

Aragona did his little act with the sunglasses: “Did she ever tell you about anyone who might have it in for her for any reason? Did she seem to have any problems, any worries, recently?”

“Any worries, recently? No, none. We didn't talk much, to tell the truth. I'd wait for her in front of the building, she'd get in, she'd say good morning or good evening and then tell me where she wanted to go, and I'd drive her there. That's all.”

In fact, Lojacono decided, no one would have confided in someone with the terrible habit of repeating the last phrase spoken to him.

“When we first came, you knew that the notary was in Sorrento and not on Capri, as he had told his wife. How did you know?”

“How did I know? I knew because, no matter what, we always have to be able to get in touch with the notary, because he has to be available to sign any certificates of protest. These documents must be filed by a certain date, and there has to be someone who's responsible. Since I'm in charge, I have to know how to reach him wherever he is.”

“So then you also knew who he was with?”

The man started sweating; beads of perspiration were forming across his broad forehead.

“Knew who he was with? No, I didn't know who he was with, lieutenant. I said that I had to know how to reach him, not that I went to see him. There was no need.”

“De Lucia, you know that you're endangering yourself by withholding information. Perhaps some day in the not too distant future, if we find that you've covered up for the notary, and that he's committed a crime, you, too, could find yourself in very hot water.”

“Find myself in very hot water. Why, the very idea that I wouldn't tell you if I knew something that important, lieutenant. I was very fond of the signora, and to think that, poor woman, she was . . . I don't even want to say it, all alone in that apartment, the windows and doors shut tight against this windstorm, her husband gone . . . I really don't know anything about it. Not a thing.”

Aragona looked at Lojacono disconsolately, before putting his glasses back on.

 

The only one left was the little blonde with the efficient demeanor who was in charge of the computer system, Marina Lanza. She was the most recent hire; the notary, as she explained to the two policemen, had finally admitted to himself that Signora Rea was entirely incapable of learning how to manage the office's computers.

“And it's not as if it would take a computer engineer, let's be clear. All it takes is a little logic and an open mind, which the good woman simply lacks.”

Lojacono noted the clear fault line running through the notary's office. Maybe there was a ray of hope, after all.

“Tell me, signora: can you guess where the notary was last night, and with whom?”

The woman smirked sarcastically.

“He was in Sorrento, or someplace like that. He certainly wasn't at home.”

Lojacono nodded.

“Yes, so we've been told. But I was actually interested in hearing your opinion.”

“My opinion, you say. Well, my opinion is that the notary is someone who enjoys life, lieutenant. But this is where I work and where I want to keep on working: it's a good job and, all in all, the pay is good considering how much effort I'm required to put in. Sure, the work environment isn't ideal, but I mind my own business and, since nobody understands a thing about the work I do, they pretty much leave me alone.”

Aragona broke in, brandishing his aviators: “No one's going to repeat a word of what you say, let me assure you. You can speak freely, signorina. It
is signorina
, right?”

From Aragona's moronic expression, Lojacono realized that his partner was actually courting the young blonde, and he feared the young woman was about to flee; instead, to his surprise, she seemed to be flattered, and actually blushed.

“That's right,
signorina
. And I'm not afraid of anyone, least of all that old harridan, Rea; and the other two don't matter at all, they're both idiots. But, if you can assure me of your utmost discretion, especially where the notary is concerned . . .”

Aragona tilted his head theatrically to one side; he looked at Lojacono and placed one of the arms of his glasses between his lips. The lieutenant had to struggle to keep from laughing out loud, but he nodded conspiratorially.

“My dear, go right ahead,” Aragona—who was by this point doing the questioning—said reassuringly. “As I told you, none of this leaves the room.”

Marina said: “Last week a very pretty young woman strode into the office like a Greek fury; she didn't say a word to anyone and went straight to the notary's office, slamming the door behind her. You could hear her shouting, but not clearly enough to make out the words. The others exchanged glances as if they knew who she was, but I'd never seen her in my time here. Then she emerged and left the same way she'd arrived, without a word to anyone.”

Aragona and Lojacono waited, but as far as they could tell, the girl had nothing more to say. The lieutenant asked: “And no one commented on what had happened? Did any of the other employees say anything?”

The young woman looked at Aragona, as if awaiting his authorization to answer. After the officer nodded, she looked toward the door and whispered: “That old maid, Rea, said: ‘That bitch.' Under her breath, as if to herself. And Arace started laughing. De Lucia, as usual, just hunkered down over his promissory notes and said nothing at all.”

Lojacono asked: “And you don't have any idea what this woman's name might be?”

“Of course I do. Her name is Russo, Iolanda Russo. Arace told me so, that same day. She told me that she's an accountant, and that the notary met her when they were working for the same client, once, on a deed. And that they'd been dating for the past year. She said that at first she was always here in the office, but that no one had seen her for a few months.”

“And you think that the notary was with this Iolanda Russo, last night?”

Marina nodded with conviction.

“Yes. After she'd left, the notary came out of his office, pale as a sheet, and said that he'd be gone that weekend, but that we should tell everyone that he was going to be on Capri for a conference.”

Aragona and Lojacono pondered that piece of information. Then the lieutenant asked: “How does the office computer network operate, signorina? Does everyone have his own, independent computer, his own email, or . . .”

“The computers are on a network. There's an office email account and the notary has a personal account as well. Rea and De Lucia, who might have urgent work to attend to while the notary is away, have permission to use his computer. But not to go into his personal email, at least I don't think so.”

“So, if the notary had had any private correspondence, it would only be accessible from his computer, right?”

“Definitely. Certainly not from any one else's. And he's not much good when it comes to computers, he once told me that at home he doesn't even have a computer, much less a laptop.”

Lojacono made a mental note to have the technician from police headquarters remove the notary's computer; he was curious to see what they could find. He said farewell to the young blonde, thanking her.

Aragona, putting his glasses back on, asked: “Could I have your phone number, signorina? Just in case we need to ask you more questions . . .”

A
lessandra Di Nardo, better known as Alex, would have liked to eat dinner with the television off.

Not that she really cared about dinner-table conversation, but at that volume—too low to hear anything clearly and too loud to be ignored—the television bothered her. Not that there was anything that could be done about it, if that's the way the general wanted it.

Ever since he'd retired, Alex's father had noticeably reinforced his already intrusive status as the absolute center of familial life. His needs and his demands had always been of fundamental importance, but now that he necessarily spent a much larger portion of his time at home, he was, whatever the topic, almost inevitably consulted. And when the general was consulted, there was only ever one possible conclusion: he was right.

Alex, eating in silence, shot a glance at her mother, a neat, quiet woman, who looked over at her husband at least once every minute, in order to anticipate any eventual wishes or needs. Her entire life had been spent serving that man. It was sad.

For his part, the general, though he showed absolutely no appreciation for the food, was shoveling forkful after forkful into his mouth; this would continue until his plate was clean. Alex couldn't say how many times she'd heard his accounts of epic hardships in distant lands, drills or secret missions during which there was nothing to eat for days, and how important it was, therefore, to respect the fact that there was a plate of hot food on the table. What a pain in the ass.