Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone (8 page)

If only we had our nightlight, eh, Batman? If only we had just a little bit of light, in this great big room.

And maybe a pillow too, to sit on and be more comfortable.

But not to sleep, no. Sleeping is impossible. It's too dark to sleep.

In this much darkness, there's no way to keep out the bad dreams.

 

 

T
he sight of the video footage had lowered an icy pall over the room.

“Excuse me,” Aragona had tried to maintain, “but what does it really change? She could still be a friend, the mother of one of his classmates.”

“Oh, really?” Romano had murmured, expressing everyone else's point of view—and perhaps Aragona's as well. “And the hoodie, on a warm May morning, how do we explain that? The way she kept close to the wall, walking quickly so no one would stop her? The way she stood right by the door but was careful not to attract the attention of the ticket taker?”

There was a pained silence, which Ottavia shattered: “I think it's time we called his mother, she was waiting for news. Strange that she hasn't called yet herself.”

Palma ran his hand through his hair, the way he always did when he was worried: “I talked to her in my office. She's made a round of phone calls, she's called everyone, relatives, friends, and no one knows anything. I told her to be very careful not to give the impression that there's anything wrong. It's important to keep word from getting out about this possible kidnapping.”

Alex gave him a level look: “This isn't the first time for you, is it, boss? It seems to me you know just what to do.”

A sad expression appeared on Palma's face. “Yes, I've been through this before, it's true. And that's why, at police headquarters, they've decided to leave us the case for now, not only to keep leaks from getting into the newspapers and on TV. Years ago I was in charge of investigating the disappearance of a sixteen-year-old girl in Puglia. She'd run away with a boy, then she'd changed her mind and wanted to go back home; but the boy wouldn't let her. She was rich, or at least well-to-do. Her father was in the meat business.”

“And how did it end?” asked Pisanelli.

“Well, that depends on how you look at it. We found her twenty days later. He'd raped and tortured her, but she was alive. In a state of shock, but still alive. Everyone sang our praises, but when I think back to the look on her face . . . I wonder sometimes if it wouldn't have been better . . . Anyway, they tossed him in jail, and I hope he's still there.”

“Bastard,” murmured Alex.

Romano brought the topic of conversation back to Dodo's mother.

“Anyway, we need to call her back. We have to show her this video, you never know whether she might be able to identify the woman, though it seems unlikely since you basically can't see a thing. And then there's nothing distinctive about her.”

Aragona nodded thoughtfully, forgetting to remove his glasses with the usual cinematic gesture: “Right. She doesn't have a limp, she's of average height, average build, wearing a shapeless sweatshirt and pants. She could be anyone. How the heck is the mother supposed to identify her?”

Lojacono shrugged: “Who knows, maybe she'll think of something, some detail. You never know.”

Ottavia gave voice to the thought that no one else had dared speak: “Even though we'll be causing her intolerable pain. To see her son . . . in someone else's hands. That would break my heart in two.”

“I know,” Palma said, “but there's nothing else we can do. I'm going to call the magistrate and request authorization to show her the video. Giorgio, perhaps you could make the phone call to the mother. Ask her if she can arrange for transportation here, so maybe we can keep from attracting notice, or whether she'd rather we sent a car to pick her up.”

 

Half an hour later, Laura Piras, the magistrate on duty, entered the precinct house. No one had gone home, even though it was almost ten at night. As she had told Palma on the phone, her presence wasn't actually necessary, but she preferred to be there: a kidnapping, if that's what it turned out to be, was serious business, deadly serious. A crime that lent itself to media manipulation, and the media had become exceedingly aggressive thanks to a mole in police headquarters. Absolute secrecy would need to be maintained. And then she wanted to watch the woman's reactions in person; that might help her to better understand exactly what had happened.

Up to here, it was strictly a professional matter. But she couldn't conceal from herself that she also wanted to see Lojacono again; recently, their only contact had been a few hurried phone calls. She had the impression that his daughter's unexpected arrival had interrupted something that was in the process of evolving, and she wanted to make sure that this interruption didn't become an end.

Though petite in stature, Laura Piras filled a room the minute she walked in. Her even features, her large dark eyes, and, above all, her figure, which her dark skirt suit did nothing to conceal, inevitably attracted the attention of every male and the concern of every woman present: instinctive reactions Piras would gladly have done without, but that she'd learned to ignore.

“Well,” she said, taking a seat in the bullpen after greeting the team with a nod of her head, “what do we know about the family?” Her strong Sardinian accent turned even harsher when she was concentrating.

That's just like Laura, thought Lojacono, masking the joy that was spreading over his face in spite of the circumstances: She goes straight to the point and finds out all about the cast of characters even before it's clear that a crime has been committed.

Pisanelli, putting on his reading glasses and rummaging through his notes, replied: “Yes, Dottoressa, I looked into the family. The boy is named Edoardo Cerchia, he's ten years old, and he's an only child. His parents separated four years ago and divorced last year. His father, Alberto Cerchia, originally from around Bergamo, is a businessman. From what I was able to learn, he's more than well-to-do. He works in scrap metal: He supplies raw materials to industry up in northern Italy. After he and the mother separated he went back north. I don't know if he has a new family, but I'm waiting for more information from my colleagues in Lombardy. Eva, the boy's mother, is the daughter of Edoardo Borrelli, and the boy was named after his grandfather. She has a degree in business and economics, and she, too, is an only child. She doesn't work, but then, of course, she's the daughter of Edoardo Borrelli . . .”

Piras stared at him attentively: “Which means?”

“Well, Dottoressa, Borrelli is one of the richest men in this city. He's well over seventy and for the past fifteen years he's led a quiet and private life, but back in the golden years he was one of the biggest real estate developers in the city's hinterland. There are townships he built up alone, from scratch. There are two magistrates, if you'll forgive me, who are still under investigation for having massaged sentences in trials for malfeasance and bribing public officials.”

“They're not relatives of mine,” Laura stated flatly. “If they've done something wrong, they'll go to jail, same as anyone else. Go on.”

Pisanelli flipped to the next page: “Borrelli is a widower and he lives with a Sinhalese caregiver and a secretary he's had on staff since the boom times of his building business; she's still in charge of everything the old man needs. He has a huge duplex on Via Petrarca, and he never leaves it. He continues to pay for his daughter's luxurious lifestyle, but they don't see much of each other because he can't stand her boyfriend, just as he couldn't stand her husband before him.”

Aragona was impressed: “Say, President, how on earth do you find out all this stuff?”

“I have my informants. In this case, the concierge in the apartment building where Borrelli lives is the sister of the grocer who sells me my fruit and vegetables. It's all just a matter of having the right connections.”

Piras shot Aragona a look that could have killed: “So you're still free and at large? Remind me to have your driver's license revoked one of these days in the interest of public safety.”

The policeman swept off his glasses, looking to impress the magistrate: “Dottoressa, you're not being fair to me. It was simply my intention, when we went to perform judicial inspections, to keep you from wasting time getting from point A to point B.”

“And I still thank providence and nepotism for sending you here, away from me. All right, then, Pisanelli, it looks like both the child's father and his grandfather have plenty of money. We'll have to act immediately to freeze their assets.”

“Certainly,” the deputy captain noted, “it would seem that whoever took the kid got the right one. Moreover, though he doesn't get along with his daughter, old Borrelli adores his grandson. The concierge tells me that the boy is the old man's one weakness.”

Palma grimaced: “Forgive me, Dottoressa, but I speak from personal experience. Freezing assets is, as they say in Rome, a
fregnaccia
—a fool's errand. It's not against the law to pay a ransom, all they'd need to do is borrow the funds; or maybe they have money stashed in a foreign bank, and they sidestep the restrictions that way. I know that it has to be done, but it's not going to do a lot of good.”

Laura was about to reply when Guida appeared in the doorway: “Signora Borrelli is here. Shall I show her up?”

E
va Borrelli entered the room hesitantly. She was accompanied by her boyfriend Manuel, who as usual walked a step or two behind her.

To Romano and Aragona, who had seen her only a few hours before, she looked like a different person. The confidence, aggressiveness, and strength that she'd displayed at the museum were gone now, lost over the course of a day spent in the pits of despair. Her face was creased and her eyes, as she removed her dark glasses, looked swollen and reddened; her hands were twisting a drenched handkerchief and her lips were trembling and quavering incessantly. It was clear to everyone that Eva was now certain her son had been kidnapped.

She was evidently confused by the presence of so many people. Romano approached her: “Signora, let me introduce you to Commissario Palma, our commanding officer.”

In a faltering voice, Eva replied: “But . . . why all these people? You haven't . . . haven't found him, have you? He isn't . . . my little boy isn't . . .”

Palma understood that the woman was afraid she was about to hear a tragic announcement: “No, no, Signora. We have no news, or perhaps I should say we're still working, as you can see. All of the officers on duty, including those assigned to other cases, are here to offer their help. Dottoressa Piras, the magistrate who's working the case, is here, too. But let me ask you, do you have any news?”

Eva felt reassured: “No. I called everyone, everyone I know, everyone who knows Dodo. But no one's seen him since this morning, when the driver dropped him off at school. I . . . I don't know what to think. It all strikes me as so absurd: Who could have taken my child?”

The woman blew her nose. Palma stared for a moment at the man accompanying her.

“Signora, I have to ask you . . . we aren't authorized to discuss the matter in the presence of people not directly involved. I'll have to ask the gentleman who's here with you, I'm afraid, to please wait outside.”

Eva jerked to attention, and Romano and Aragona recognized the attitude that had been on display that morning.

“The gentleman who's here with me, Commissario, is my partner. He lives with me and Dodo, he knows the boy very well and loves him deeply. His name is Manuel Scarano, and he's an artist, not a criminal. I beg you to refrain from offending us both by sending him away.”

Palma exchanged a glance with Piras, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“As you wish . . . though I'll have to ask you to sign a release form authorizing Signor Scarano to view the material.”

“Material? What material?”

Palma gestured for her to step over to Ottavia's monitor, and then asked Ottavia to start the video.

The video began to run, and frame by frame, a whirlwind of emotions appeared on Dodo's mother's face. When they pointed out the woman in the hoodie she furrowed her brow; when she saw her son appear she lifted her hand to her mouth, eyes wide, and held her breath. And when, just before leaving the frame, the child looked up into the security camera, she heaved in shock, turned pale, and flopped down onto a chair, supported by Manuel, who seemed almost as upset as she was. The silence that ensued, broken only by the woman's sobs, was excruciating for everyone.

Piras stood up and went over to her: “Signora, I understand how you must feel, and I assure you that we're horrified by what has happened, but this is not the time to give in to pain. Every single minute is crucial. Please, do your best to answer a few questions.”

Eva seemed to appreciate the magistrate's little speech. She brushed her trembling fingers over her face and said: “Of course, Dottoressa. Go right ahead.”

Piras nodded in Palma's direction, and he asked: “Do you recognize the person that took Dodo? Think it over carefully. A detail, some feature: Could it remind you of someone? Keep in mind that your son's friend, Christian, spoke of a blonde woman. From his vantage point, which would have been the same as Dodo's, he must have gotten a better look than we did, so his description of the hair color might well be correct.”

The woman thought it over, doing her best to choke down the powerful emotion that was clutching at her throat. She coughed, then said: “No, Dottore. I don't recognize her, she's all covered up, you can't see a thing. But who is she? And why did she take Dodo? My God, oh my God, it's a nightmare. It's a nightmare.”