The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (11 page)

“Speak to him now. The notary is on Capri, for a conference. He ought to have been back yesterday, but with the choppy seas the hydrofoils weren't running. So he's stuck there and we don't know when he'll be able to get back. If there's anything we can do to help . . .”

He looked over at his colleague uncertainly, and she dropped her eyes. Something isn't right, thought Lojacono. He tried bluffing.

“Okay, then we can get in touch with the police station there on the island. You must certainly be able to tell me the name and phone number of the hotel. I would imagine that for you the notary must always be available, isn't that right, Signor . . .”

The man opened and shut his mouth a few times, as if he couldn't think of what to say. The young woman threw him a lifeline: “De Lucia, Salvatore De Lucia. As I informed you, he prepares the promissory notes, he's in charge of . . .”

Aragona interrupted her, raising one hand: “You can explain all that later, signorina. Right now we just need to know where we can find the notary. And fast.”

The officer's abrasive tone further frightened the fat man, who stammered: “Actually . . . that's classified information, where the notary is. Top secret.”

He shot Imma a sidelong glance.

Lojacono said: “Not anymore, it isn't. Now you'd better tell me. You have to.”

De Lucia looked down at the floor and murmured: “He's in Sorrento, with . . . on vacation. He'll be back today, later this morning. But please, I beg you, this can't get out. No one can know, especially not his . . . his family.”

He had blushed to a pathetic degree. His coworker glared at him in disgust, and Lojacono wondered whether her reaction was due to the fact that the man had revealed a secret or just that he'd tried to cover up the notary's affair.

“You can rest assured that this information will remain confidential,” Aragona told the two employees. “The notary's wife, Signora Cecilia De Santis, was found dead this morning, in their apartment.”

It was as if someone had unexpectedly fired a gun. The man stared at Aragona in disbelief, as if he'd just heard a very unfunny joke. The woman was the picture of surprise, eyes and mouth wide open like three capital O's. Then she began to tremble, and finally she burst into sobs. De Lucia hesitantly raised his arm and put it around his coworker's shoulders. Lojacono felt sorry for them both.

“I'm sorry to have had to break the news to you like this, but it was to make you understand the urgency of the situation. Now, would you please tell me how to get in touch with the notary?”

T
here seemed to be no way to reach the notary. His cell phone was turned off, and the two employees said they didn't know the name of the hotel where he'd stayed that night and the night before because, according to the answers the police officers managed to wring out of the pair—grudging and monosyllabic though they were—the notary had left Saturday morning, that is, two days ago.

Nothing, clearly, about who was traveling with him: but Lojacono got the impression that the two employees knew perfectly well who it was.

There was nothing to do but wait. In the next hour, the other two employees came in, and they were immediately brought up-to-date on what had happened.

The first was well over fifty years old, a wiry woman with thin lips and a pragmatic air; her name, which she reeled out as if it were some elaborate honorific, was Raffaela Rea, nicknamed Lina, and she ensured legal compliance after a deed had been drafted. After learning that Signora Festa was dead, she turned pale, sank into a chair, and stayed there. She stated that she had no idea of where the notary might be, and when she learned that De Lucia had revealed the truth, she shot him a glare that ought to have incinerated him on the spot.

The second one, who showed up out of breath, was a petite, attractive, hyperactive blonde named Marina; she was in charge, as she explained immediately, of all electronic registrations—by now a major chunk of the work done by every notary office in Italy—and also of certifications. When she learned of the murder, she reacted with absolute astonishment and bewilderment; she shook her head back and forth, with a terribly sad expression, and went to sit gloomily at her desk. She was the first to emerge from her trance, and offered the two police officers a cup of coffee, which she made on a hot plate tucked away in a nook in the office.

Lojacono wanted to keep an eye on them all, to keep anyone from secretly alerting the notary. While he waited, he called the precinct house, to report in and learn what Ottavia had found online.

Calabrese herself answered the phone.

“Oh,
ciao
, Lojacono. I was just about to call you. Palma spoke to the magistrate and let him know that you're there; maybe he'll swing by. The forensic squad is finishing its work and we left a squad car on site; if the notary decides to swing by his apartment before heading for the office, they'll alert us and we'll alert you.”

“Did you find anything interesting online?”

“Characters decidedly out of the ordinary, the signora and the notary. She's mentioned on a huge number of sites—charitable work, involvement in drives, social programs. A true benefactress. From a few references I gathered that she's from money—a lot of money. The notary, on the other hand, is a bit of a social butterfly; he's always on the guest list: party here, party there, inaugurations, receptions. The odd thing is that the two of them are never—and I mean never—mentioned together; he goes his way, and she goes—or used to go—hers. Separate lives, in short. At least as far as I can tell from the Web. And one more thing: on a gossip site, in a fairly recent post, there was mention of the notary's ‘new flame,' and he, I might add, appears to be a very handsome man, at least based on the photos. Now, a new flame presupposes old flames: if you ask me, he's a guy who leapfrogs around.”

Lojacono was pleased with his colleague's efficiency: as a member of the support staff, she was really quite useful.

“Thanks, Ottavia. Will you take care of letting Palma know? We're here, waiting for the notary.”

“Sure, I'll take care of it. Ah, Lojacono, a piece of advice: make sure nobody starts fooling around with the notary's computer, even though we'll have to wait for the magistrate to affix the official seals. We might find something interesting in it.”

“Got it.”

“Ah, did you know that Romano and Di Nardo went out to investigate a complaint? Fingers crossed, the idea of those two together scares me. Take care, see you later.”

 

Lojacono allowed normal office work to proceed, as long as no one left. A few people came in to pay off promissory notes and checks, which Imma took care of; and De Lucia went on arranging his stacks of bills of exchange, but his hands were shaking and every so often he stopped to look off into the distance.

The other two women didn't even try to pretend to work. Lina, the older employee, stared insistently out the window that overlooked the courtyard, expecting to see the notary arrive; the other one, Marina, sat with downcast eyes, her fingers knit on the desktop before her.

Arturo Festa arrived after about an hour, toward eleven o'clock. He seemed to be in an excellent mood. He was a handsome man, just short of sixty, tall, gray-haired, dressed in an elegant, sporty suit, a healthy, natural tan glowing on his face and neck, which had been left uncovered by the open collar of his shirt. The shoulder bag he carried could have contained everything he'd need for a couple of days away. He was alone.

He sensed something was wrong the minute he walked in. Lina started toward him, but Aragona stepped quickly between them.

Lojacono stepped forward and said: “Notary Festa? I'm Lieutenant Lojacono from the Pizzofalcone precinct house, and this is Corporal Aragona. We need to speak to you; can we step into your office?”

The notary furrowed his brow, catching the eyes of his employees. Imma once again burst into tears.

“Certainly. Please, come right this way.”

A large door at the far end of the room led into the notary's office; a single, multipart bookshelf covered the walls floor to ceiling, which gave the place the warm and reassuring ambiance of a library. The desk was large and old; a slab of glass protected the elaborately carved desktop, clearly a valuable antique. Sitting in front of it were two leather chairs. On the other side of the office, an oval table, with eight chairs.

The notary pointed to the chairs with one hand, but neither Lojacono nor Aragona sat down, so he too remained on his feet.

Then Lojacono said: “I'm sorry to have to tell you, but it's my duty to inform you that your wife, Cecilia De Santis, was found dead this morning, in your home, by the housekeeper. It seems that her death was the result of a violent act.”

His words fell into silence. Festa turned pale and staggered, propping himself up against the surface of the desk. He went on staring at the two police officers, as if he were expecting them to tell him that it had all been an absurd, macabre joke. He raised a trembling hand to his throat, then said: “No. No. You've got it all wrong, no. That can't be. It isn't her. I . . . we spoke just last night. No. No, I tell you.”

Lojacono sighed.

“I'm afraid not, notary. There's no mistake. And the death can be timed to late last night.”

Festa turned to look at the closed door. He really was overwrought, thought Lojacono, or else he was a remarkable actor.

“I . . . I need to go to her. I have to see with my own eyes. I need to go home.”

“That would serve no purpose, Notary Festa. Your wife has been taken away. Later, you can identify her body at the morgue, but the young woman, the housekeeper, confirmed that it was her. I'm sorry.”

The man walked around the desk, dragging his feet. Suddenly, he looked like an old man. He let himself drop into the chair and covered his face with his hands. A few seconds went by, then he showed his face again. It seemed filled with an immense grief.

“Who . . . who could have done this? And what kind of violent . . . I mean, what exactly happened?”

Lojacono tried to understand the nature of the notary's reaction. Experience had taught him that no grief seems more real than counterfeit grief.

“Apparently several valuable objects are missing, pieces of fine silver. Neither the apartment door nor the downstairs entrance were forced open, which means that your wife allowed her attacker to come in, or else he had a set of keys. Your wife . . . received a blow to the back of her head, possibly with an object that was found on the floor, stained with blood. We don't believe that she suffered.”

The notary nodded, and his lower lip began to tremble. He was doing his best to keep from crying, but the tears poured out in spite of him, streaking his cheeks.

“Objects, you say. So it was a burglary, is that right? Cecilia was killed during a burglary? And where, in which room? And with what object?”

Lojacono didn't want to reveal too many details, because you could never tell: perhaps the notary might betray knowledge of some detail that he wouldn't otherwise have been able to possess.

“Your wife was found on the floor, in the room where she kept all those snow globes. And as for the object used as the murder weapon, until we've heard back from the forensic squad, we can't really say.”

Festa nodded again, continuing to weep in that strange, silent way. Then he spoke to Lojacono again.

“I'm at your service. How can I help you find out how . . . who did this?”

Lojacono sighed. This was going to be the hard part.

“Before anything else, I have to ask you where you were last night, between 8 PM and midnight. And if there's anyone who can vouch for it.”

The notary shot a glance toward the door that led to the open-plan office where the employees worked. Lojacono did his best to guess what he was thinking: perhaps he was wondering if someone had already revealed to the police that the Capri story was nonsense.

“My wife thought I was on Capri for a conference, and that the reason I didn't return was that the seas were too choppy. Actually, I was in Sorrento.”

Aragona asked: “And just why would you have told this lie?”

The notary looked at him without expression, then answered Lojacono: “I was with . . . with a person. And I didn't want Cecilia to know it.”

Lojacono pulled out his notebook and asked: “In what hotel were you staying? Did you register in the normal fashion?”

“No, we were staying at the home of friends of mine. They're away, and they gave me the keys to their villa.”

“The person you were staying with, notary, you'll have to give me her name. We need to check your story out.”

The notary seemed to awaken from a state of unconsciousness, as if he'd just now noticed that he was in his office.

“I believe I need to talk to a lawyer. Yes, yes: I definitely need to talk to a lawyer. I don't think I ought to answer any more of your questions, lieutenant. I'm going have to ask you to excuse me, but right now I'd prefer to be alone.”

Lojacono tried to regain lost ground: “Notary Festa, our questions are meant strictly to ascertain the direction in which we ought to investigate, nothing more. If you have nothing to worry about . . .”

Festa interrupted him in a low but determined voice: “I understand you, lieutenant. But I need to take my own precautions, precisely because I'm not the one who did it. And I don't want . . . people who had nothing to do with it to be dragged into this.”

“In that case, will you allow us to talk to your employees and check your computer system?”

The notary stood up. He was still grieving, but he was recovering quickly.

“Let me repeat, lieutenant: first I want to talk to my lawyer. I think it's necessary. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go see what's happened at my home. So . . .”