The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (16 page)

“Now then, the De Santis murder is on the front page of every newspaper in the city. Some idiot, one of the officers from headquarters who arrived in squad cars, or maybe the Bulgarian housekeeper, let slip that there are pieces of fine silver missing: as a result we have an avalanche of commentary on public safety, on the fact that burglars no longer show any restraint, etc. As you know, a crime of passion is one thing; a burglary that results in murder is quite another.”

“No one's worried about the fact that a woman was murdered,” Lojacono commented bitterly, “whoever it is that did it. Instead everyone's just wondering whether the same thing could happen to them, or whether this all happened because of an affair. Just as usual.”

Palma conceded the point: “Unfortunately, we not only have to be mindful of public opinion, but also of our superior officers. Yesterday the chief of police himself called me up, asking whether we thought we were up to it, whether we needed some help, or whether, believe it or not, we wanted to hand the case over to headquarters.”

Lojacono looked at him, his face expressionless: “So what did you tell him, commissario?”

“What do you think I told him? That the situation was under control, that we don't need any help, and that we'll be able to handle it all on our own. That's what I told him. But now we know that we don't have much time to work.”

Aragona broke in: “Still, the fact remains that the silver is gone. Not many items, according to the housekeeper, but definitely a few.”

“Are there any signs of forced entry on the downstairs door or on any of the windows?” Romano asked. “Broken glass, a hinge unscrewed . . .”

The corporal began his routine: slowly, he removed the blue-tinted aviators; then, just to change things up, he furrowed his brow and dropped his voice by an octave: “No, nothing. Evidently the woman knew whoever killed her and opened the door to him herself.”

Ottavia and Pisanelli concealed their laughter behind, respectively, a hand and a newspaper. “Or else the murderer had a key. Which takes us back to the notary: where he was, who he was with, etc. The silver might be nothing more than a red herring.”

Di Nardo asked a question: “What kind of woman was she, the notary's wife? Could someone have had it in for her?”

Palma was pleased: the fact that everyone was absorbed in the discussion was an excellent sign. “Pisanelli, you know everyone in the neighborhood, can you answer the question?”

“Thanks for the compliment, Palma; I do know a lot of people around here, that's true, and over the years I've also figured out where to go to find things out. I asked around, supplementing that information with what I already knew and remembered.” He sorted through a few sheets of paper, put on his glasses, and began: “All right: Cecilia De Santis, fifty-seven. She comes from a prominent family of builders and hoteliers, very wealthy and highly respected: Rotary Club, other associations, everything you need to be at the center of society's upper crust. Cecilia, well educated and wealthy, wasn't beautiful: average height, a bit plump; but she was well read and very intelligent, though not especially outgoing. She fell in love with the notary when they were in university together—they're the same age; he's from Luca, his family's humble, he even worked as a waiter to support himself while he was studying.”

As he put his glasses back on, Aragona commented: “I can just picture him as a waiter—he's so arrogant. I'll bet they ran him ragged.”

“Maybe he wasn't so arrogant back then. Long story short, they meet and they fall in love. Her family, I'm told, was opposed: it took him time to bring them around, and apparently it was ten or so years before a couple of cousins would even invite him into their homes. She practically supported him until he passed the civil service exam. But he was a sharp young man, and he passed the test with flying colors the first time he took it.”

Romano snickered: “Without any help from on high, I imagine.”

Pisanelli shrugged: “That I couldn't say. The fact is, that same year, the two of them got married. And little by little he became one of the most prominent members of his profession in the city; he was in charge of a couple of very significant mergers and incorporations. She, on the other hand, gives up all professional aspirations, not that she seems ever to have really had any, and starts weaving her web to procure contacts for her husband.”

Di Nardo's curiosity was aroused: “And how was their marriage going?”

“They had their ups and downs, from what I hear. They couldn't seem to have children, and that might have driven a wedge between them. Aragona and Lojacono saw for themselves: he's a good-looking man, athletic, youthful—plus he's powerful, and that's the best cosmetic a man can hope for. She, on the other hand, looked every bit her age. From what various sources have told me, at least three separate times over the years, he had affairs that he didn't bother to conceal. She, however, has always led a very private life.”

Calabrese asked: “And how did she handle her husband's escapades?”

“They were rarely seen together, only on truly important occasions. And there are no reports of outraged reactions—tantrums and scenes and things like that just weren't her style. In any case, for the past four or five years, everything seemed to have gone back to normal. Until a few months ago, when he once again began frequenting certain social circles in the company of a much younger woman.”

Ottavia took a sheet of paper from the printer: “Iolanda Russo, up-and-coming accountant and tax consultant, just twenty-eight years old but already quite well known; she's in charge of major debt rescheduling plans, and she mostly works with banks. They met on the job, working a couple of real estate deals. At first, they did their best to keep it under wraps, but then they started to be seen out and about as a more or less official couple. She's a redhead, quite striking, an elegant dresser, obsessed with shoes: she likes to wear wedges and five-inch heels.”

Everyone looked at her, confused; she suddenly found herself on the defensive: “Well, what's wrong with that? Gossip websites have all sorts of news, so . . .”

Pisanelli resumed: “In short, our victim is a character in need of some deciphering. I did a little informal asking around, and an old friend of mine who knew her very well, the Baroness Ruffolo, told me that if we promised to be extremely discreet and to keep everything she said strictly to ourselves, she'd be willing to tell us something about what kind of person she was and what kind of life she led.”

Lojacono heard the news with pleasure. “Well, now, that's an interesting development. Still, we shouldn't overlook the theory that this was a robbery gone wrong, even though the fact that there are no marks to indicate forced entry seems very strange. Where can we talk to this baroness?”

“At the La Vela yacht club, where the ladies of the upper crust gather. They play canasta, fill their lungs with tar and their livers with alcohol, and spew venom all over each other. Let me know when you can go, and I'll make a phone call; generally speaking, she's there every afternoon from four o'clock on.”

Aragona put in his two cents: “Maybe, before we go, we might go poke around in the notary's neighborhood. I don't know, talk to the concierge, a few of the shopkeepers around there.”

“If I were you,” Romano added, “I'd check up on how the housekeeper lives . . . she's Bulgarian, if I understand correctly. Not that I'm prejudiced, but I've heard of plenty of cases where burglars take advantage of the help to get into private homes. After all, she did have the keys, didn't she? That could explain why there are no signs of a break-in.”

Di Nardo puffed out her cheeks in annoyance: “The same old story. Find the woman and there's your guilty party. Plus the housekeeper certainly knew where the signora kept her really precious possessions, didn't she? It's not as if she'd be satisfied with carrying off a few trinkets.”

Aragona thought this over. “If you ask me,” he said, “the Bulgarian girl was sincerely shaken up. But maybe the signora surprised the burglar, and he killed her with the first thing he could lay his hands on, and it happened to be one of those glass snow globes; and then, as he made his escape, he was only able to grab the things he found on his way out of the apartment, that is, along the hallway and near the front entrance. If it was the Bulgarian girl, why would she have come back, given that she risked being seen?”

Romano defended himself: “I didn't mean to say that the girl was in on it or that she's the murderer. Someone could have taken her keys and duplicated them, for example. It was just an idea.”

Palma, pragmatically, tried to establish a plan of action: “All right then, first go talk to the concierge and the people who live and work near the notary's building, and see if you can get any sense of whether the housekeeper has anything to do with it or not; then take a walk over to the yacht club. In the meantime, we'll see if we can get the results of the autopsy and the forensic report, and we'll also examine the newly widowed notary's computer to see if that produces any leads.”

Lojacono nodded: “What remains is the hardest part of the investigation: figuring out where the notary was when his wife was killed. And the same thing for our young accountant who, according to Aragona's new friend, threw quite a tantrum in the notary's office last week. It would be nice to know what they said to each other and what they decided to do over the weekend.”

Ottavia jumped in: “I have a friend who works in the computer lab; I can give him a call and ask him to fast-track an analysis of the notary's computer; if anything useful emerges, I'll tell him to let me know in advance.”

Palma was delighted: “Good work, Ottavia. Your friend can't possibly say no to someone like you.”

The woman blushed, but luckily no one else noticed.

The commissario went on: “For my part, I'll talk to Piras and bring her up to speed on the investigation, even though she's already told me that she has utter confidence in Lojacono. Anything you need, call us immediately. We may be Bastards, but we can still show them that we know how to do our jobs.”

O
ttavia Calabrese took her son to the swimming pool day one day a week.

Riccardo went to the pool three times a week, but since Ottavia's husband was so sensitive, so dedicated—Gaetano took care of nearly everything that had to do with their son—Ottavia was only responsible for one visit. And even that one visit was a burden.

It wasn't a matter of having to move her shifts around so she could get the time off; or even having to drive in the city, which she loathed. It wasn't having to spend an hour and a half in a damp building that reeked of chlorine and sweat, nor being subjected to the swim instructor's coarse attempts at flirtation. She didn't want to admit it, but she couldn't stand being alone with her son.

She couldn't say when that feeling had first come to her. For many years, after it had become clear that Riccardo lived in a world all his own, a world from which he would never emerge in order to interact with the rest of mankind, she had been a loving mother, wholeheartedly devoted to her child's needs. She'd accepted that there were no wounds that could be treated, no operations that might give Riccardo—and his family—a shot at a normal life. She had understood that her son was going to stay that way, with only a few, almost imperceptible improvements, for as long as he lived.

And she certainly couldn't have asked for a better husband. Gaetano had become, if anything, even sweeter, more loving, more affectionate. He lived for his wife and son, he devoted every ounce of himself to them, taking on the vast majority of the tasks and responsibilities. Riccardo's care demanded spending hours and hours with the boy; and yet Riccardo seemed hardly to notice him. For Riccardo, there was no one but Ottavia, his
mamma
, the only word that he'd ever pronounced intelligibly since he'd been born.

As she waited for the two of them to be alone in the locker room so she could undress him and put on his swimsuit, Ottavia thought back, attempting to determine when she had first begun to think of her home as a prison cell. If it had been from the very beginning, that might have been easier to understand: not everyone has the strength to take on such a burden. But that's not how it had been.

She had loved her husband. They'd been together for years and years. She'd supported him as he pursued his career and he'd done the same for her, well aware that ever since she'd been a little girl, she had wanted to be a policewoman. They'd been through so much together, and Riccardo had come along when they were strong enough as a couple to survive even that. And in fact they'd been exemplary, held up as examples by all the parents' associations they belonged to.

She made sure that they were finally alone. Riccardo didn't want her to help him put on his swimsuit when other children were present. He'd shake his head vigorously back and forth and moan, attracting everyone's attention. It was better to wait.

He let her slip off his sweatshirt and jeans. Once again, Ottavia noticed how much he'd grown, maybe even more than the other kids his age. The hair on his face, chest, and pubic area was getting thicker, standing out against the whiteness of his flesh.
Mamma
,
Mamma
, he said in a deep voice.

Ottavia didn't bother to answer. She knew that it was nothing but a refrain, a mere confirmation of the fact that she was there, close to him. She slipped on his swimsuit, first one leg, then the other; she wondered what would happen now that Riccardo was visibly beginning to enter puberty. At work she had seen terrible things: atrocious acts of violence perpetrated by the intellectually disabled who experienced the explosive sexual development natural to their age, but had no way to control it; she hoped with all her heart that such a thing never happened to her son.