Black Run (23 page)

The deputy police chief cleared his throat. “That's a pity. If something can go wrong, it always will, eh?”

The judge looked at Rocco. “That's right, it's a pity. Or else a tremendous piece of luck. Am I right, Deputy Police Chief? Bring me the guy who murdered Leone Miccichè, Dottor Schiavone. And I'll forget all about what happened with this container in Turin. Consider it advice from a friend.”

Rocco nodded twice. He thanked Magistrate Baldi with a glance, then slipped through the door and left the office.

At 10:10, Italo and Rocco were already heading for Champoluc.

“Does your lip hurt?”

“No. The cold practically anesthetized it.”

“My ears are starting to pop.” Rocco held his nose and blew hard.

“Doing that can give you sinusitis.”

“Lot's of things are bad for you, Italo. One more or less . . .”

Italo downshifted. “Should we be worried?”

“About what?”

“What do you mean, ‘about what'? About the Sri Lankans.”

“No, don't sweat it. Everything's okay. In fact, don't let me forget that I owe you five hundred euros.”

“They don't suspect anything?”

Rocco drummed his knuckles on the glass. “Magistrate Baldi knows.”

Italo went pale. “Knows what? About the grass?”

“No, he doesn't know about the grass. He knows about the Sri Lankans.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Right. He dreamed up some bullshit about a software glitch with the highway authority. He saw the pictures, no doubt about it!”

Italo ran his hand over his mouth. “What's he going to do?”

“I don't know. I can't tell whether he's keeping this thing so that he has a hold on me or if he's just letting it slide. Baldi's not exactly normal.”

“While you totally are, right?”

The deputy police chief burst out in a robust and croupy belly laugh. It was the first time Italo had heard him laugh like this, so freely. Suddenly he found himself laughing, too.

And they laughed. Together. All the way to the frozen fountain at the village gate. They stopped only when they saw two men putting up purple-and-black bunting over the portal of the church. They'd forgotten that Leone Miccichè's funeral was today.

“Are we going to get there in time?” asked Italo.

“Of course we'll get there in time. This won't take long at all. Take a right at the next intersection. There—it's upstairs from the grocery store.”

On the third floor of a small building made of stone and wood was the office of Dr. Alfonso Lorisaz. Rocco climbed the stairs. He pushed open the door with the brass plaque that read,
ALFONSO LORISAZ—SPECIALIST
IN THE GENITOURINARY SYSTEM.
He went in. The waiting room was full of people. When the policeman made his entrance, every head swiveled in his direction. A nurse who looked about sixty was sitting at a desk, printing out prescriptions.

“Yes?” she asked Rocco, keeping her eyes glued to the computer monitor in front of her.

“Schiavone. I need to talk to the doctor.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Rocco reached out and held his police badge in front of the monitor. That was when the woman finally raised her eyes.

“Do I have your attention now?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Deputy Police Chief Schiavone, and I don't have an appointment. But I'm also quite confident that you're going to find a way to keep me from having to wait in line,
n'est-ce pas
?”

The nurse leaped to her feet and went to knock on the doctor's door. She went in. When she came out a few seconds later, her cheeks were bright red. “The doctor's finished with his patient. He'll see you now.”

“Excellent!”

It was almost embarrassingly easy to classify Alfonso Lorisaz in the deputy police chief's mental bestiary. He was clearly a rodent from the suborder Sciuromorpha, and specifically a
Castor fiber
, the Eurasian beaver. His buck teeth and his eyes concealed behind a pair of tiny, round gold-framed spectacles, his small, apparently webbed hands, his bald head and the tuft of chest hairs bristling out at the shirt collar. He looked as if he'd just finished building a dam and was now sniffing the air nervously in search of impending danger. He leaped to his feet the instant Rocco walked into his office. He couldn't have been taller than five foot seven.

“What can I do for you?” Alfonso squeaked.

“I got your name from LAB 2000, which is down in Aosta, for a test referral that you authorized for Leone Miccichè. You know him, don't you?”

“Certainly I know him. I knew him, I should say. Poor man. He was a likable guy, you know? I remember—”

“Stop. The deputy police chief isn't here to find out about your interpersonal relationships. Tell me one thing: you do remember why he had come in to see you, right?”

“Of course. And I examined him. I did a preliminary analysis of Leone and I identified his problem. Then I prescribed some tests. My diagnosis—”

“Stop. The deputy police chief isn't interested in your diagnosis. In any case, if you care to know, Leone was found to be sterile.”

“That's what I assumed. Do you happen to remember his sperm count? Just out of curiosity.”

“Azoospermia. Not a single spermatozoon in one milliliter of semen. Happy now?”

“I'm not happy. I was just certain.”

“Listen to me, now, Dr. Lorisaz, did you talk to anyone about this case?”

“This case . . . You mean Leone?”

“Right.”

“No, not that I remember. But you know, this is a small town.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Word gets around. You know why I say that? We're all sort of related. It's not like in the city. Here everybody knows everybody else's business.”

“If you had kept this information to yourself, how could anyone else have found out about it?”

“You're certainly right, but . . .”

“But you didn't keep the information to yourself.”

“No, no, I certainly did, and how. I said nothing to anyone, of course; such a sensitive subject.”

“Well?”

“Well, what can I say? We did the first semen culture here, in a little lab that I have on the ground floor. Maybe the nurse found out. Or someone else, who can say?”

Rocco looked the doctor hard in the eye, those little eyes protected behind lenses. “Why do I have the feeling that someone's hiding something?”

“It's a mistaken feeling, Mr. Deputy Police Chief. I didn't tell anyone anything.”

“Listen, this is very important. There's a murder mixed up in it, and if you're concealing information, you could be committing a felony and facing jail time. It's required by law to assist in an investigation, in case you didn't know.”

“Oh, Lord, now you're starting to worry me.”

“Good. By all means, worry.”

The doctor looked at the floor, as if hoping to find help in the cracks between the terra-cotta tiles. Rocco knew that he was actually thinking about the smartest and least painful way out of the corner he was in. He blinked his eyes and bit his lips with his two buck teeth.

“Do you remember anything?”

The doctor had clearly run through his own calculations, and now he replied, “Nothing that could interest you. I don't think I told anyone about it.”

“I hope you just told me the truth. Are you married?”

“Me? Yes. Why?”

“Can I ask your wife's name?”

The doctor's eyes bulged. “Why?”

“Professional curiosity.”

“Certainly. My wife is called Annarita.”

“Annarita. I imagine she has a last name, no?”

“Same as me, Lorisaz.”

“I mean her maiden name.”

“Pec. Just like poor Leone's widow. Annarita and Luisa are third cousins.”

Annarita Pec. The young woman at the ski shop. The one who had rejected him with courtesy, dignity, and firmness. “Oh, right, you're all more or less related here, aren't you?”

“It is true. But why are you asking me that?”

“Because, you see, maybe one night, when you got home, you were chatting with your wife and you inadvertently let Leone Miccichè's secret slip. Couldn't that be the case?”

Alfonso heaved a deep sigh, shrugging as he did so. “Oh, Lord, I couldn't say. I'm certain I'd remember. Anyway, even if I had, my wife knows how to keep private information private.”

“In other words, we can safely rely on her discretion?”

“Certainly, Dottore,” said the physician, smiling as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. “My wife is a vault.”

“Your metaphor is in extremely poor taste, Dr. Lorisaz. Have a good day.”

Italo started up the BMW at the very instant Rocco was coming out the front door of the doctor's building. As soon as he shut the car door, Italo released the clutch. “Where are we going now?”

“To catch the cableway. The doctor spoke to his wife about Leone's tests.”

Italo steered around an old man who was walking down the icy road with a pair of skis on his shoulder like Christ on Calvary. “Well, maybe his wife didn't tell anyone.”

“The doctor's wife is Luisa's cousin. And do you really think she didn't tell her? Her or maybe Mario, her friend at the bar?”

“Maybe so. Yes, you're right, Rocco. But why would she do it?”

“It's a small town. Gossip? Rumors? Or else out of a healthy and widespread feminine virtue. It's called sadism. Ever heard of it?”

“I'll say.”

The sun rode high above and had triumphed over the clouds. The skiers were so many colorful ants swarming over a massive spill of sugar. Rocco and Italo were walking toward the ski school offices. They strode briskly. Under the hot sunlight, Rocco's loden overcoat released plumes of water vapor from the shoulders, giving him the appearance of a smoking demon straight out of the book of Apocalypse. They ran into Luigi, the head snowcat operator, intently rolling himself a cigarette as always. “
Buon giorno
, Deputy Police Chief!”

“Buon giorno
, Luigi. You going to offer me a cigarette?
”

“Certainly.” And he held out the newly hand-rolled cigarette.

“Mmm, I used to smoke these in high school.”

“They're the only ones I can stand.”

“What kind of tobacco do you use, Luigi?”

“Samson. It's the best.” Luigi lit the deputy police chief's cigarette. “Did you come up for the funeral today, Dottore?”

“You going?”

“Of course I am. Everybody is.”

“Then we'll see you later, down in the church.”

“You want to head down with me?” Luigi said, pointing to his four-wheel-drive quad. “I'd let you drive. A steep descent is more fun.”

“No, no, you go ahead. I'll see you there. This is a good smoke, though. It's a little strong, but this tobacco kicks it.”

When Rocco Schiavone walked into the office, he saw the slightly overweight ski instructor sitting at the desk and another, older instructor busy doing a diagramless crossword puzzle. As soon as she saw Rocco and Italo come in, the woman stood up. “Deputy Police Chief!” she said.

“Deputy Police Chief: that's correct! You're finally starting to get it right.” Rocco looked around, then he headed over to the group photograph of the ski instructors of the Val d'Ayas.

“Did you ever find Omar Borghetti?”

Rocco didn't answer; he was focused on that group photo. Italo gestured to the woman to be quiet. She nodded, a little frightened.

“When was this picture taken?”

“At the start of the season.”

“Is there a cabinet here where people keep their personal possessions?”

“This right here,” said the woman, pointing to a low bin with a lid and a keyhole.

Rocco went over to it. “Do you keep it locked?”

“No. There's nothing in it but junk. Especially Omar's things.”

Rocco squatted down and pulled open the lid. He pulled out a pair of ski goggles, a wool cap, a pair of white Gore-Tex gloves, lip balm, suntan lotion, two spare T-shirts, and two neckerchiefs, one green and one blue. “The kid is good,” he said aloud, and no one understood whom he was talking about. Italo had a suspicion, but he kept it to himself.

“Three down: series of senseless actions performed in a state of anxiety. First letter
j
, last letter
r
. Eleven letters,” said the ski instructor, lost in that week's copy of the puzzle magazine,
La Settimana Enigmistica
.

Rocco looked at him. “Jactitation.”

“Wow, that's right—it fits with seven across!
Grazie!
” the man exclaimed happily, and he wrote it in on his crossword puzzle just as Omar Borghetti's backlit silhouette appeared in the office door.

“Dottore!” he said, pulling off his gloves and bringing a gust of clean air into the wood-lined office. He too was wearing a red down jacket and black trousers, but there was a handsome yellow bandanna tied around his neck.

“Ah, Omar Borghetti,” said Rocco. “With the light behind you, I hadn't recognized you. You're exactly who I'm looking for. Where is it?”

“Where's what?” asked Omar, tossing his ski gloves down on the table.

“The red bandanna. The one you're wearing in this picture.” And he pointed at the group photograph hanging on the wall. “In the laundry?”

“No. It ought to be in there,” he said and went over to the bin that Rocco had just explored.

“It's not there.”

“What do you mean, it's not there? I have a red one, a blue one, a green one, and this yellow one.” He tugged at the bandanna tied around his neck.

Rocco took the two bandannas, one green and the other blue, between thumb and forefinger and held them up as if they were two dead mice. “Here's the blue one and the green one. But the red one's missing.”