The Bastards of Pizzofalcone (32 page)

They'd come to a crucial point. The notary hesitated again, took a sip of his coffee, sighed, and said: “Iolanda Russo.”

Lojacono nodded: “And that would be the person who you've been seeing regularly, isn't that right, Notary Festa? The one who also recently accompanied you to a public event at a well-known yacht club in this city, correct?”

A glint of anger showed in Festa's eyes, but only for a moment. Sadness soon replaced it: “Baroness Ruffolo, eh? That witch must be having the time of her life thanks to this mess. She's always hated me, as have all the other self-satisfied degenerates who constitute the upper crust of this city. Well, at least she never concealed her feelings; I have to give her that.”

Lojacono neither confirmed nor denied: “In any case, she was the young lady you took to the yacht club on that occasion, is that correct?”

Festa nodded, in despair.

“Yes. It was her. Lieutenant, I was born poor. My family comes from Basilicata, from the countryside; my parents were farmers. They broke their backs to send me to school, and there was never an instant, never a single instant, when it wasn't crystal clear to me that study and a profession were my only shot at not winding up like my father, who died of a heart attack one night, out in the rain. And my chances were bound up with Cecilia.”

Aragona had stopped writing, his pen in midair, uncertain whether he should take this down. Lojacono gestured imperceptibly for him to go on writing.

“She wasn't beautiful. But she gave me everything I needed, and I don't mean money or connections, though she certainly had those: she gave me a sense of serenity. With her, I could focus on improving myself, on becoming the best. I know very well the kind of thing that Anna Ruffolo, or whoever it was that said it in her stead, must have told you: that my career is based on Cecilia's friendships. But that's not true, or it was only true at the beginning. My career is based on the fact that I'm good at what I do. Very good. And in this profession, you get work only if you're very good and very discreet.”

Lojacono reflected for a moment: “Do you think you have enemies, Notary Festa? Someone who might . . .”

Festa interrupted him.

“No. I've thought it over, you know. I've thought it over thoroughly, in part because of this thing with the doors . . . Cecilia would never have opened the door to a stranger. But no one, no one I work with, would have had any reason to do such a thing. People entrust themselves to a notary and I safeguard their interests. I'm not a magistrate, I'm not even a lawyer. I never clash with my clients or with anyone else's. I can't use my job to hurt anyone.”

Aragona asked: “You just said: Cecilia would never have opened the door to a stranger. In that case, what is that you think happened? Did someone else have the keys?”

Lojacono thought to himself that his partner couldn't seem to abandon Mayya's boyfriend, the Romanian who could so easily have taken the young woman's keys, as a lead. The notary replied: “Certainly, that's a possibility. All I know is that Cecilia was in a peaceful state of mind that night. I spoke to her around ten o'clock, and . . . oh, my God . . .”

His voice had dwindled away, and the two policemen both thought he was about to burst into tears; instead, the notary put his face in his hands and managed to compose himself: “I lied to her. It's what I always did, it had become a habit. I just lied to her. And she pretended to believe me, or maybe she actually did believe me, who can say. She was intelligent, you know; very intelligent. She may have decided to accept the fact that I was lying to her; maybe she knew, or she hoped, that I'd never leave her. And she listened to my lies as if they were the truth.” He turned his weary gaze to Lojacono: “I told her that I was on Capri, that everything was fine. That she was right not to come, and that I was bored out of my mind.”

“And what did the signora say to you?”

“That she was all right, that she'd go to bed soon, that she was already in her dressing gown. That a storm was blowing, and so she'd shut all the windows and blinds; that was something she didn't normally do, but the wind frightened her. That the concierge had repaired one of the shutters, I don't remember which. Lord forgive me, I was in a hurry and I didn't want to chitchat; if I'd known . . . if I'd only been able to imagine . . . but I wanted to break off the conversation, in part because the person who was with me . . . Iolanda . . . didn't like it when I spent much time doing anything that took me away from her. Anyway, she was about to go to bed; if she'd been expecting someone she certainly would have told me so.”

“And so?” asked Aragona.

“And so, it was either someone she knew so well that she was willing to open the door to them in a dressing gown, something that she would never have done for just anybody, or else it was someone who had a set of keys and opened the door himself, and she happened upon him. One of the two, I'm sure of it.”

Lojacono broke in: “Notary Festa, I'm sorry to have to ask you this question, but it's necessary. What is the nature of your relationship with Signorina Russo? Do you two have any . . . plans, any thoughts for the future? And if so, was your wife aware of them, in your opinion?”

Lojacono's question was met with silence. The notary gazed at his fingertips, pensively chewing on his lower lip. He was quiet for so long that the lieutenant began to doubt that Festa ever actually intended to answer. But then he said: “Many times, in the past, I've had . . . I've had affairs, I guess you'd say. Including with some of Cecilia's girlfriends, which I'm not proud of. I just can't seem to control myself. But this time things are different. Iolanda . . . is a very unusual woman, she refuses to be hidden, she wants to have it all. And once this became clear to me, it was already too late. And anyway, things between us . . . Lieutenant, our relationship can longer be undone, I can't leave her. I'd have told Cecilia eventually. Iolanda kept pushing me, and I was about to settle things.”

“And you were never apart, in those two days? The young lady never left you alone?”

Festa blinked rapidly, as if an absurd theory had suddenly formed in his mind for the very first time.

“Who, Iolanda? But . . . but what on earth are you thinking, no! No! We were together the whole time, we didn't even go out to eat, we brought everything we would need with us.”

Lojacono and Aragona exchanged a glance. The situation was clear, and they knew that it was based on words that couldn't be corroborated. And that the notary therefore remained the prime suspect, together with Signorina Iolanda Russo: the only ones who had any reason to want to ensure that Signora Cecilia De Santis, married name Festa, would leave the notary in question a free and very wealthy man.

Following that train of thought, Lojacono asked: “Notary Festa, your financial situation . . . the signora, in other words . . .”

“I expected that question. Everything was in her name. For tax purposes, everything we owned was in my wife's name.”

This only confirmed what Lojacono had already guessed.

There remained one more thing to clear up; but he needed to proceed cautiously, because he still hadn't received the official report from the IT office and he didn't want to risk putting the notary on the defensive.

“We've heard mention of a trip that you were planning to take with your wife. A trip to a distant destination, about which you inquired from an online travel agency. What can you tell me about that?”

The notary's expression grew baffled: “My wife had asked me, some time ago, if we could take a trip. Maybe to reestablish some kind of equilibrium between us. But I had told her that right now, with a couple of major work issues to be settled, I couldn't think of going anywhere. I might have made some inquiries, but I don't remember ever even considering actually leaving.”

It was clear to Aragona and Lojacono that they wouldn't get any more information from the notary about that matter. Once they had the official report, if it seemed worthwhile, they'd dig deeper.

They asked the notary for details on his mistress, including the young lady's address and phone number so they could make an appointment to speak to her. And they asked the notary also to aid them in obtaining all the information necessary for pursuing their investigation.

“Why, of course, anything at all,” Festa replied, without hesitation. “Do you think I haven't figured it out by now? You're my only hope.”

A
lex Di Nardo was concealed in a corner, hidden behind an entranceway.

In spite of the wind, whose fury had in any case subsided, the collar of her coat turned up and wearing a pair of dark sunglasses—which made her look something like a secret agent or private eye in a B movie, the kind her colleague Aragona was surely obsessed with—she stood there patiently, waiting, her eyes turned upward.

Thus decked out, she was keeping an eye on that grim old woman who sat sentinel at her window, missing nothing that moved along the stretch of street she could see from her vantage point.

Certainly, she could have just thrown caution to the winds and walked in, ignoring Guardascione perched up there in her armchair tatting away, one eye on her work, finishing one last doily that, as far as she know, might very well be destined for the toilet seat—if, that is, there wasn't one there already; she was probably tormenting her caregiver as well, calling her “slut” and observing her as well, with that unfriendly eye.

But, for some unknown reason, Alex didn't want to give the old woman the satisfaction of having identified a crime in progress, and knowing that she'd seen more clearly than most; it would have struck her as tantamount to rewarding behavior that, in some way, she saw as sleazy. And then, ever since she'd first seen Nunzia Esposito's eyes, those desperate eyes, the eyes of a terrified animal, eyes that clashed so sharply with her plastic smile, and since she'd sensed on her skin how filthy the architect was, how miserably petty the mother of this alleged prisoner was, she'd developed a very clear idea of who the good guys and the bad guys in this case really were.

As she was looking up and wondering, for the umpteenth time, when the damned old hag would be forced to give in to any conceivable physical need, her mind wandered to Francesco Romano. She'd heard from a colleague in the Posillipo precinct that he was someone who couldn't control his rage; and that was why the commissario had gotten rid of him the moment he had the chance. And yet, in the situation she'd just witnessed, she hardly felt she could blame him. She herself had felt a certain itch in her trigger finger: but that was nothing new. Certainly, she thought, snickering inwardly, the two of them made a fine pair, though better suited to a movie like
Lethal Weapon
than to the streets of a city like this one.

Still, she was grateful to him for having understood her request to go talk to the girl alone. To try to understand something more, to fully grasp the situation. She felt certain that the girl was being held in that apartment against her will. If Alex managed to discover the nature of that captivity, if she received the slightest appeal for help, she would free her. She'd find a way.

At last, Guardascione was gone; the event was so long-awaited that in the end it was unexpected, and Alex very nearly missed her brief absence entirely; still, she managed to slip rapidly through the front door of Nunzia's building. She'd made it past the first obstacle.

She climbed the stairs and knocked at the door. After a few seconds, she heard the girl's voice: “Who is it?”

“It's me. Al . . . Officer Di Nardo. But I'm not here on official business. Can I come in?”

There was a long silence. Alex shot an nervous glance at the door of the real estate agency, standing just ajar; she wouldn't have any way of justifying her visit in the face of the employee's inevitable curiosity.

From behind the door the girl asked: “Well, what do you want? Did you forget something last time you were here?”

As expected, Nunzia was stalling. She probably couldn't open the door because she had no key. But Alex had to make sure of it.

“No, I haven't forgotten anything. I just wanted to talk to you for a moment.”

Another pause. Then the girl's voice, trembling with uncertainty: “I'd . . . I'd prefer not to let you in, really. Can't you tell me whatever you want from there?”

Alex felt pity for Nunzia.

“You're locked in, aren't you? You're locked in. You couldn't let me in even if you wanted to. I know. I know your situation. We've been to see your folks, we saw everything. You're locked in, I know it. And if that's the case, I can help you, you understand?”

The policewoman heard what she thought was a sigh, or perhaps a sob. When she was quite certain she'd get no reply, she heard the voice again: “Are you alone? The other one, the man, is he with you now, out there?”

Alex answered in haste: “No, no. I'm alone. I told you, this isn't an official visit. I want to understand. I just want to understand.”

“I just want to understand . . .”
— under her breath, as if trying to justify something to herself.

Then, to the policewoman's immense surprise, she heard the bolt moving and the door swung open.

The place looked different that it had the last time; it was clear that she wasn't expecting visitors. A gossip and fashion magazine lay open on the sofa, a bag of potato chips sat on the coffee table, with a few crumbs sprinkling the floor, as did a glass half-f of some dark liquid, possibly Coca-Cola; soothing jazz from the Sixties floated out over the apartment from loudspeakers concealed in the drop ceiling.

The girl wore a light dressing gown tied with a sash at the waist. She was barefoot, her hair was ruffled, and she had no makeup on. And she was stunning. She looked exactly as old as she was. Alex was appalled at the resemblance to her mother, and at the same time, the incredible gap that separated the girl from the horrible creature she'd met that morning.