Adam's Rib (24 page)

“YOU KNOW WHAT? I WENT BY THE APARTMENT. THE
furniture is all covered up. With sheets.”

Marina laughs heartily. “The wood worms can get in all the same,” she said and leaned against the window glass.

“And I even went to visit you.”

She looks at me and says nothing.

“I brought you daisies. The big ones, the kind you like.”

“You ran into them, didn't you?”

“Yes,” I tell her, but after a while, not right away.

“Were they both there?”

“Both of them.”

“They wouldn't speak to you, would they?”

“No, Marì, they won't speak to me. Or if they do, it's only to make it clear that they'll never speak to me again.”

Marina nods and goes over to sit on the couch. “You have to understand them.”

“Oh, I understand them. I'm not stupid. Still, I hoped. I mean, after five years.”

“How was Rome?”

“I wasn't there long. I don't know. It stinks.”

“What did you go there for?”

“There were problems with the accountant.”

“How many times have I told you? You're good at spotting lies but terrible at telling them.”

Really, can't I just once get away with hoodwinking Marina? “Well, okay, it was just something with work.”

“The double life of Rocco Schiavone!” She burst out laughing.

“What kind of double life are you talking about? It's life, and nothing more, Marì.” I pour myself some white wine. These days, since Ugo first let me sample it, all I ever drink is this Blanc de Morgex.

“How are Mamma and Papà?”

“Skinny.”

Marina nods. “Just remind me of one thing. That July seventh . . . what time was it?”

“Three thirty in the afternoon.”

“Three thirty. Was it hot out?”

“So hot. It was cloudy, but it was still terribly hot.”

“And where were we?”

“On Via Nemorense, outside the pastry shop.”

“And what were we there for?”

“To get a gelato.”

She gets up off the couch and goes into the bedroom. “Marina?”

She stops. She turns around and looks at me. “I'll come to bed too. I don't feel like staying up.”

“You won't get a wink of sleep.”

“Then you just go on talking to me.”

HE WAS TURNING OFF THE LIVING ROOM LIGHT WHEN
his cell phone rang.

“Schiavone, this is Dottor Trevisi, at the Parini Hospital in Aosta. Sorry to call you so late.”

“Don't worry about it. What time is it, actually?”

“It's midnight.”

“And you're still at the hospital?”

“I told you that Wednesday is always a nightmare. Listen, it's not a simple matter. But here's what we were able to find out. If nothing else, we had Esther Baudo in the emergency room, twice in 2007 and once in 2009. The second time, she was admitted to the trauma ward.”

“All right.”

“Then in 2010, again in the emergency room, where she was given stitches on the inside of her mouth and . . . I read here that in 2011 she came in with a fractured cheekbone.”

Rocco sighed. “And it never struck you as odd?”

“Look, I've only been here since 2010, and the truth is that the woman always explained these fractures as the result of car crashes. Except for the last time, which at least is filed as a result of a domestic accident.”

“Domestic. Yes. That sounds like a pretty good description. Thanks very much, Dottor Trevisi. You've been very helpful.”

“Don't mention it, it's my job.”

“WELL? ARE YOU COMING TO BED?” MARINA ASKS.

Tonight I'm not going to get a wink of sleep. Like so many other nights.

H
e found himself standing outside the Baudos' apartment. Someone had removed the seals from the door, which stood ajar. All Rocco had to do was push it open.

In the living room, squatting behind a sofa, his back to the door, was a man.

“Did you take the seals off the door?” asked Rocco.

The man turned around. It was Luca Farinelli, the deputy director of the forensic squad. “Actually, no. It must have been one of your officers.”

“Or one of yours. My officers haven't set foot in this place since the first day.”

Farinelli stood up, dusting off the knees of his trousers. “And it's a good thing!”

“Mind if I ask what you're doing here?” Rocco asked.

“I'm working. What about you?”

“I'm looking for a tie.”

“My men took all the ties to Fumagalli.”

“Then they must have been the ones who broke the seals.”

“My men don't pull mistakes like that. That's the kind of thing your people do. When are you guys going to learn the basics of handling a crime scene?”

“How's everything going? Is your wife doing well?”

“Why do you ask about my wife every time I see you?”

“Because I'm hoping that one day you'll say to me: she's not my wife anymore. We broke up.”

“That'll never happen.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.”

The whole question of Farinelli's wife remained a mystery to Rocco Schiavone. She was spectacular. When she walked down the street, every head turned—men and women. Luca was an unsightly toad, and the only thing he made turn was Rocco Schiavone's stomach, and the stomachs of all the officers who reported to him.

“What a mess you guys made in here . . .” said Farinelli. “Like always.”

“I know you were looking for me. So get to the point because I have no time to waste and I don't like being in this place.”

“I've got to hurry back to Turin. Double homicide, stuff that would make your hair stand on end.”

“That is, if you have any . . .” said Rocco, looking at the clearly thinning hair that Farinelli had been battling for years.

“I dropped by your office. I left a box for you. Take a look, you might find something useful in there. I'll say only
two things. First, you pulled down the corpse before my men got there, and you touched the cable without gloves. Someone even went into the bathroom and took a pee.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because we tested the urine. This is the second time that we've run into Officer Casella.”

That idiot, Rocco thought to himself. Already, the month before, up in Champoluc, Casella had marked a crime scene by pissing everywhere, like a German shepherd. “I know. Casella must have bladder problems or something. What's the second thing?”

“There was a cell phone, half-crushed. It's useless now. And we couldn't find the SIM card. Just think, it might be stuck to the bottom of one of your men's boots.”

Rocco helplessly threw open his arms. “Give me a break!”

“You move through these crime scenes like a herd of rhinoceros.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. I intend to ask the police chief for permission to hold a three-day seminar for your men. I'm sick and tired of running around fixing the stupid mistakes they make. They don't have the first notion of how to work a crime scene.”

“Are you going to teach the seminar?”

“Certainly.”

“Consider me enrolled. Anyway, this case is cracked. There's just one missing detail.”

“Mind telling me which?”

“A tie.”

“That again? We took them all to Fumagalli.”

“All but one.”

Then Rocco looked at Patrizio Baudo's bicycle, the Colnago worth more than six thousand euros. He walked over to it. He stood there, looking at it.

“Are you looking for it there?”

“No. But . . . something occurs to me.”

He turned the bicycle upside down. The rear wheel spun freely. Rocco stopped it. He carefully examined the structure, the brake pads, the seat. Then he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his Swiss Army knife.

“What are you doing, puncturing his tires?” Farinelli asked.

The deputy police chief said nothing, focused as he was on selecting the right tool. Then he opted for the saw and set to work on the bicycle seat. He carved through the rubber. He pulled out a spring. Then a piece of padding and finally a small cloth label. With a smile he showed it to his colleague from the forensic squad: “Look at that!”

“What is it?”

Rocco handed it to him. Farinelli inspected it. It was a small white label, with a logo stitched on it: two laurel branches surrounding a name, Tomei.

“So?”

“Just a piece of luck, Farine'.” And he took back the little scrap of fabric. “Well, take care of yourself. And thanks for your excellent work and blah blah blah.”

Without shaking hands, Rocco walked past him, leaving the room without taking his eyes off the white cloth label.
Luca called after him: “Take a look at the things I left in your office.”

“You can bet on it. Will you put the seals back in place, so I don't have to?”

ROCCO SCHIAVONE AND OFFICER ITALO PIERRON
knocked on the door of the Baudo residence in Charvensod, a handsome chalet with a chimney spewing gray smoke into a gray sky. A chilly wind had begun to rush through the valley, making the pine needles whistle and banging shutters. Patrizio Baudo's mother opened the door. “Deputy Police Chief . . . please, come right in . . .”

“I was looking for Patrizio,” said Rocco as he wiped his feet on the doormat.

The woman smiled and nodded her head. “He ought to be down in the garage. He uses it as an office and warehouse. Can I offer you anything?”

“Absolutely not, thanks . . .”

The house smelled of furniture wax. “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” the woman said, pointing to the leather sofas by the crackling fire. “I'll go get him right away.” She moved off silently. She opened a door and started down a metal spiral staircase.

“Nice place,” said Italo, looking around. The whole living room was lined with a wooden boiserie and on the walls hung strange paintings done with old lace. Cowbells and antique wooden skis, a couple of alpine landscapes, and a corner bookshelf mostly filled with cookbooks. There was
a handsome wooden crucifix over the kitchen door and a painting of a Virgin Mary with Christ Child by the front door. “Come on, Italo, we're not here on a social call,” Rocco said brusquely. And he went down the metal steps that led to a cramped little room full of jars and paintbrushes. There was a half-open door. Rocco pulled it wide and found himself in a cellar apartment, about a thousand square feet. Patrizio's mother was standing in the middle of the large room. “He's not here,” she said. “He must have gone out.”

That underground loft was full to the ceiling with athletic equipment. Hanging on clothes racks, wrapped in cellophane, were ski pants, trekking pants, sweaters, and windbreakers. Hanging on pegboards, on the other hand, was an assortment of mountaineering equipment. New items, on display. Climbing harnesses, ice axes, helmets, crampons, ropes, and carabiners.

“I just don't understand . . . I even looked in the garage. The car is still there,” the woman went on, looking at the two policemen.

Rocco stepped closer to examine the merchandise.

“These are my son's samples. He put it all here because he didn't have room in his apartment.” The mother continued to look around her. “Maybe he went for a hike. Have you tried calling his cell phone?”

“It's turned off,” said Italo, standing next to a group of futuristic-looking bike tires.

“I wouldn't know what to tell you. Not half an hour ago he was down here organizing his samples. He'll be back at work tomorrow. Can I ask why you want to talk to him?”

“No,” said the deputy police chief. “You can't.
Arrivederci
.” He turned and went toward the spiral staircase. Italo told the woman good-bye and followed his boss.

IT WAS A WOMAN CLEANING THE ARRAY OF VOTIVE
candles under the icon of the Madonna in the church of Sant'Orso who untangled the mystery. “No, Father Sandro isn't here. He went with Patrizio Baudo to the cemetery, to visit his wife's grave.”

Snorting in annoyance, Rocco left the church. “This wild goose chase is starting to get on my nerves.” Before leaving the house of Our Lord, Italo crossed himself. “You want to get a move on?” Rocco shouted at him.

IT WASN'T HARD TO IDENTIFY ESTHER BAUDO'S
grave. It was the one covered with flowers and wreaths. It was heaped high. That was because Esther was a new arrival. That's how it always went. Fresh funeral, fresh flowers, and the legends on the purple satin with gilded edges still legible. Then with the passage of time the colors would fade, the flowers would wither, the wreaths would crumble, and the grave would become the same as all the others. A couple of flower stalks in the vases. Nothing more.

Patrizio Baudo just sat there, next to the priest, staring at the headstone. Rocco gestured to Italo, who understood immediately and stayed about thirty feet away. The deputy
police chief went over to the bench and sat down on the widower's other side. He said nothing.

“Deputy Police Chief!” said Father Sandro.

“Can you leave me alone with Signor Baudo for a minute?”

The priest exchanged a quick glance with his parishioner, patted his hand, stood up, and went over to Italo.

Rocco waited for the other man to speak first.

“
Buongiorno
, Commissario,” he said.

“I'm not a commissario and this isn't a particularly good day. Especially not for you.”

Patrizio Baudo, the koala bear from Ivrea, looked at the policeman with his small, drab eyes.

“You don't understand, do you?”

“No. I don't understand.”

Rocco stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it. The sound of the River Dora flowing past was calming, as were the small cypresses running beside the lane. But what Rocco was carrying inside him was a tornado ready to splinter anything it touched. It had been building up all night long. “So tell me something,” he began, after taking a first drag on his Camel, “did you enjoy beating your wife?”

“Me?!”

“No, my dick. Now let's see. How many times did you send her to the hospital? The way I read it, five. Correct me if I'm wrong.” He pulled out a sheet of paper with his notes. “All right, I'll read you your resume. Your wife suffered a fracture to the ulna and the radius of her right arm. Then she
broke her right cheekbone and two ribs.” He folded up the sheet of paper and put it back in his pocket. “And that's just the fractures, the times you overdid it. I can just imagine the bruises and lacerations, no? You have a lot to learn. There are much more sophisticated techniques. For instance, there are ways of hitting that are incredibly painful and leave no marks. Have you ever thought of beating your wife on the soles of her feet with a club? Or even with a rolled-up phone book? Believe me, it hurts like a bitch and it never leaves a bruise. Or you could try with a wet washcloth. Use that on someone's legs and you might leave a faint red stripe, nothing more, but the pain is intolerable.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Ah, you don't? Would you mind doing me a favor? Take off your gloves.”

“Why?”

“Just take them off. Since the first time I saw you, on Friday, I haven't had a good look at your hands. Let's say I'm a bit of a fetishist.” He dropped his cigarette on the ground. Patrizio Baudo slowly took off first one glove, then the other.

“Let me see your hands.”

Patrizio held out his hands, palms up. Rocco grabbed both hands and turned them over. There were cuts and bruises on the knuckles. One knuckle was actually black. “They still haven't healed from last Friday? Did you try using a little Nivea cream?” Rocco remained calm. But Patrizio was scared. More scared than if the policeman had started shouting.

“So now I'm going to ask you again, politely this time. Did you enjoy beating your wife black and blue?”

The man turned to look at Don Sandro. “Don't ask the priest for help. Look at me and answer my question!”

Still, the priest managed to read the look of alarm on Patrizio's face and hurried over to the bench. “Do you mind telling me what's going on?” he asked.

“Padre, do me a favor and butt out of this.”

“Patrizio, tell me what's happening here.”

But Patrizio had lowered his head.

“I'll tell you exactly what's going on, Don Sandro. This gentleman has spent the last seven long years amusing himself by beating his wife bloody, so badly that he sent her to the hospital more than once.”

The priest's eyes opened wide: “Is . . . is this true?”

Patrizio shook his head no.

“Don't lie, Patrizio!” From benevolent and blue, Don Sandro's eyes hardened into a pair of razor-sharp arrowheads. “Not to me. Did you do what the deputy police chief is saying?”

“It didn't . . . it didn't always go that way. Sometimes I . . .” And with that he stopped.

“Go on. I want to hear. You what?” said Rocco. But Patrizio kept his mouth shut tight. And Rocco went on. “Now I'm going to lay the situation out for you, and you're going to listen quietly without interrupting, and if you do I'm going to break you in half right here and now, in front of your wife's grave and your spiritual father.”

“Please, Dottor Schiavone . . .” the minister of God objected.

“Don Sandro, you can't even begin to imagine how hard I'm working to stay calm and collected. And just to put things into terms you'll find familiar, I think it's nothing short of miraculous that I'm not blowing my cool entirely and kicking this piece of shit's ass in. Now then,” Rocco went, steadily raising the volume of his voice. “On Friday morning you beat your wife black and blue. Why, what had you found, some text message on her cell phone? Did you suspect she had a lover?”