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Authors: Maurizio de Giovanni,Antony Shugaar

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BOOK: Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone
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From the sofa bed in the living room, he could hear Marinella breathing heavily. It still seemed incredible that she was here with him. After all the time he'd spent wishing he could hear her voice, even if only for a quick hello on the phone, now he actually had her close enough to hug, to kiss.

As a father his heart was, as usual, caught midway between happiness and worry. It was wonderful to rediscover their rapport, wonderful not to be afraid he'd never see her again, not to have to wonder how she was, where she was, not to have to think of her locked in eternal combat with her mother. Not to feel anxiety over his uncertainty about what choices she would make.

He knew Marinella as well as he knew himself; he knew how resolute she could be, that she possessed the equilibrium and mental clarity of a very young little old lady, and that she'd make the right decision. He might as well go along and do what he could to make the process easier for her.

Even though they'd never discussed it explicitly, Lojacono had already figured out that Marinella never wanted to go back to Palermo. Every day, she co-opted a few more household linens; a book here and a book there, her makeup, a dresser from Ikea, like an ant she was building herself a new life. He'd checked into it: In spite of the classes she'd missed, her school year had ended successfully; they had all summer to decide what to do next.

While a weary but perfectly solid blues piece pounded out from the unknown piano, the lieutenant thought that he'd have to find a new apartment, with an extra bedroom and a real bed for his daughter. Sonia would no doubt cause trouble, but even she knew that, when confronted with their daughter's determination, there was nothing to be done.

Marinella liked that city. Not that she'd told him so; the two of them spoke in glances, no need to talk. The occasional fleeting laugh, a tilt of the head, the sighs at the sudden sight of panoramic views beyond a curve in the road: They all told him everything he needed to know. She was doing fine. She was happy. Even thinking about how best to take care of him helped.

He and Marinella added up to two, and Marinella and her mother added up to two; but for some odd reason, the first pair was a family, and the second wasn't. Perhaps it was because Sonia, unlike him, was self-sufficient, or at least seemed to be to her daughter; or perhaps it was because they had such similar personalities and tastes, and because of the remarkable physical resemblance that delighted people when they saw them together.

Certainly, Lojacono told himself, watching as car lights streaked by on the ceiling, it wouldn't be easy. But what ever was? Following a devious path, his mind went to Laura and the glance she'd shot him that night as she'd exited the communal office with her usual brisk gait. Laura and her finely drawn silhouette against the rain-speckled car window. Laura and the swelling outline of her breasts. Laura and the quivering heat of her hand in his as they ran toward the front door of his apartment building.

Laura and Marinella.

He wanted to keep things going with Laura. He didn't want to lose this sensation—of something at once different and familiar. He wanted her, wanted a woman who was
his
woman. He wanted to uncover her mysteries, savor her taste, and see if he could still build something.

But he didn't want to lose Marinella; he didn't want to miss seeing her grow up, watching her become a woman, talking to her without really talking, in the afternoon in the fresh sunshine, sharing a pizza by the sea.

Perhaps, he reflected in the night that crept little by little toward the dawn, the two things weren't incompatible. Perhaps each woman could have what she wanted without invading the other's territory. Perhaps for him, there was still a hope of life. And family. Who would have ever thought.

His thoughts, clouded by dreams and exhaustion, slipped away toward that small face in black and white, looking up at the security camera.

I wonder where you are, child. I wonder if you're afraid, tonight. I wonder if you're dreaming, or quaking with fear. I wonder if you're thinking of someone. I wonder if that someone is your papà.

As he finally closed his eyes, Lojacono heard in the waves of music coming from the piano all the anguish of a father whose son had been hacked away from him, all the terror of a son reaching out for help in the darkness. There are nights, he thought, as he slipped into a short, agitated sleep, that should never come.

There are nights.

XVI

T
he next morning, even Aragona looked the worse for wear. He flopped down in his chair and said: “Guys, I was up every other hour last night. This thing with the kid is really getting to me; and you know what I've been thinking about most of all? His face when he looked up into the camera. It was almost as if he knew that we'd be watching it later. If you ask me, I'm just too sensitive for this work . . . But hey, is there any news?”

Romano, who was standing over by the window holding a plastic cup, shook his head: “Nothing. The mother called at 7:30; Ottavia answered and told her only that, as of that moment, there was nothing new.”

Alex was pouring herself a cup of coffee: “Apparently she informed the boy's father. She called him last night and told him only that their son was missing. And this morning she was going to tell Dodo's grandfather, too, but she was going to wait until it got a bit later, when he was less likely to have a heart attack at the news. That's what she said.”

Aragona sighed: “At 7:30 in the morning, and Ottavia answered? And you already know all these things? But it's only 8:15 now! I can understand the President being here, since old people don't need much sleep, but why were you all already here in the office so early?”

Pisanelli remained unruffled: “Look, let me tell you from personal experience: you'll be the last one in even when you're an old man. You spend too much time in front of the mirror, trying to look like somebody else.”

Aragona took off his blue-tinted sunglasses: “What do you mean, somebody else? I'm authentic, one hundred percent!”

Lojacono raised his eyes from the screen where he'd been watching the video of the boy for the hundredth time: “Sure you are, cowboy. Come on, get yourself some coffee, seeing that that's at least one thing good old Guida knows how to get right.”

Just then a man walked into the room and asked: “Is this where you're working on the missing child? I'm Alberto Cerchia, the father.”

 

They had him sit down at Ottavia's desk, which had the least wobbly chair in the office, and then went to summon Palma, who was on the phone with police headquarters for the first briefing of the day.

Alberto Cerchia was a good-looking man, just over forty, fairly tall, tan, and with a lean physique. Wrinkles around his eyes and a slight graying at his temples betrayed his age, but otherwise, anyone would have thought him ten years younger. He wore a casual navy blue suit and a light-blue shirt open at the neck. He was shaken up and obviously tired; a shadow of stubble just visible on his face and a number of creases in the fabric of his jacket stood in sharp contrast to the general impression of a habitually well-cared-for appearance.

“I only got the news last night,” he said, as if to explain the timing of his arrival, “and I got on the road immediately; I was at the Swiss border. There was lots of rain on the highway . . . but of course I couldn't stop. She told me . . . I asked who was in charge of the investigation. So I came here first. Tell me, exactly what happened?”

His voice, with its northern accent, betrayed a pragmatic, impatient personality that preferred to be in charge.

Palma answered for the group by introducing himself: “I'm Commissario Palma, and we took the initial call. Your son was on a school field trip to a museum, the Villa Rosenberg, and he left with a person who hasn't been identified. Since then, yesterday morning at 8:30, we've heard nothing more about him.”

The man listened attentively, his brow furrowed, his lips tight.

“So you're telling me that my son Dodo has been kidnapped? Is that what you're telling me?”

Palma coughed uneasily: “We're not certain of that yet. We do know he wasn't taken by force, he went with this person willingly, so . . .”

Cerchia interrupted him, raising one hand; he seemed unable to believe what he was hearing.

“Wait a minute, how could you know that?”

Ottavia broke in, her voice gentle; she understood what that man was going through and did her best to calm him down.

“We have a video from the museum's security camera. It's just a short clip, no more than a few seconds, but . . .”

The man leapt out of his chair: “A video? A video of my son? And you can see the person who took him? Then it's possible to tell . . .”

Palma gestured for him to sit back down: “No, unfortunately it's not possible to see the person clearly, and he or she is wearing a hood over his or her head, plus the video quality isn't very good; in any case, we'll show it to you soon. In the meantime, tell me, when were you informed?”

Cerchia ran his hand through his hair; he seemed disoriented, as if he wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing there.

“It must have been one in the morning. I was traveling for business, and I was in a hotel. It was . . . was Dodo's mother. The minute I saw her number on the screen, it scared me. If she was calling me at that hour . . . actually, if she was calling me at all, it meant that something serious must have happened. Something very serious. You see, this woman and I no longer have any relationship at all. The law, which in this country is unfortunately blind, gave her custody of my little boy, though he would actually have chosen to stay with me, which is what I would have wanted with all my heart because he . . . he . . .”

He made a visible effort to keep from being overwhelmed by his emotions. Lojacono, ill at ease, turned to take in the view from the window; witnessing such pain was too much, even for a hardened cop like him. He well remembered how upset he had been about being far away from Marinella, and that had been no kidnapping. Quickly, in his mind, he thanked his lucky stars that his daughter was with him now.

Cerchia continued: “He's my entire life. Nothing, no amount of money, no creature comfort, no luxury, no woman could ever be worth so much as a second of the time we spend together. And she doesn't even give a damn about him; she's too consumed by that ridiculous lover of hers, by her girlfriends, by her club, and by everything else in her worthless life. And now no one knows where the boy is. I understand why she wouldn't have had the nerve to tell me immediately.”

Palma broke in: “To be perfectly honest, we were the ones who suggested that she might not want to sound what might turn out to be a false alarm. I want to stress that the child seems to have left the museum of his own free will. It could have been a perfectly ordinary chance encounter, I don't know, some woman who was a family friend, or . . .”

Cerchia leaned forward: “Some woman? Then it was a woman?”

Palma shrugged: “The quality of the images isn't very good, as I told you. But yes, it appears to be a woman.”

Cerchia slapped his hand on his thigh: “I knew it; it's her fault, that goddamn slut. It must be some woman who decided to take revenge on her by playing a nasty trick—maybe the wife of one of the men she screwed. And now we'll see, when I find him—because I'm going to find my son, I promise you that—whether the judge decides to grant her custody again. That whore, that damn whore.”

“I should tell you,” Alex said, her tone cold, “that your wife was here until late last night. And early this morning, when she called, it was clear she hadn't slept a wink. I assure you that she's every bit as worried as you are. I wouldn't be quite so hard on her, if I were you.”

Romano nodded: “I'm Romano, Dottore, and I'm working on your son's case. Let me confirm what my partner here just said: Your wife doesn't have the slightest idea who might have taken the child.”

“She's not my wife,” Cerchia hissed angrily. “Not anymore. And if she doesn't know who it was, that's just because there are too many suspects to choose from. She and that old bastard of a father of hers manage to generate more hatred than you'd ever believe possible. Now I'd like to see the video, if you don't mind.”

Palma helped him around the desk and over to Ottavia's monitor.

Cerchia watched the footage very attentively. When he saw his son enter the frame, cross the room and, just before leaving, look up at the video camera, his reaction was heartbreaking. His expression crumbled as all the muscles in his face contracted; tears poured forth; with his hands, he clutched at his throat, raked through his hair, and covered his mouth. He started sobbing, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Romano and Aragona stared at the floor, wishing they could be any place else but there. Ottavia, deeply moved, gripped his arm to comfort him. Pisanelli coughed.

Palma said: “Dottor Cerchia, please. This won't do anything to help your son, that is, if he does need our help. You saw it yourself: He went with that person perfectly happily. Perhaps he knew he had nothing to fear.”

Alberto Cerchia covered his face with his hands and waited a few seconds: “You're right, Commissario. We need to find out where Dodo is and get him back. And as God is my witness, I swear that when we find him, I'm going to keep him close and make sure nothing bad ever happens to him again.” His voice, made hoarse by grief, was a barely audible croak; nonetheless, it throbbed with enormous determination. “That's a woman, yes. It seems obvious from the way she moves and by her build. What other evidence do we have?”

Aragona gestured vaguely: “One of his classmates, the boy who was with him when he left, said that she was blond. But he was fairly far away, and after all, he's just a kid.”

BOOK: Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone
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