Day of the Dead (11 page)

Rosa ran a finger under her chin pensively.

“Signori', I've never been married. There was someone, when I was young, not a worn-out old lady like I am now, and he made it clear that he might be interested in me, but I sent him away, and I wasn't very nice about it, either. Because all I wanted was to care for my
signorino
, his
mamma
had entrusted him to me; she died young. And I've dedicated my whole life to him. I ought to tell you that he is, by nature, just a little closed off, as they say . . . a little reserved, a little shy. In other words, he's not the type to put himself forward. If you ask me, he's afraid of rejection. But I'll tell you one thing: in all these years, I've never seen him the way he is about you. This business with the window, and the letter: it's very significant.”

Enrica felt as if she were in a dream; here she was, in the place where he lived, pouring out her heart to a complete stranger, an old woman who spoke with an accent from a distant province, talking about something she wouldn't have revealed to her own parents even if she were being tortured. And yet she said:

“I know, I understand him. Because I'm the same way, not the kind of brazen woman who lets a man know that she likes him. Instead, I wait, hoping that he might, I don't know, ask my father for permission to take me out. So for the past year I've been sitting there doing my needlepoint, and he watches me, and nothing happens. And in the spring, I was summoned to police headquarters because of some investigation or other, and I found myself face-to-face with him. I don't know, it seemed wrong to me. So I lost my temper, I was harsh with him, and then I didn't want to see him at all, not even through a window.”

Rosa nodded seriously.

“Eh, I remember that period. He was in terrible shape, he thought I didn't notice but I could see it, of course I could see it. So then what happened?”

Enrica smiled at the memory.

“A lovely blonde lady came to see me, Lucia, the wife of the brigadier who works with him. She told me that life goes by, and what passes you by never comes back. That she, for the grief of losing her son, had almost lost her other children and her husband. She told me not to be foolish, and not to turn my back on love. In short, she persuaded me, and I went back to sitting in the window. And I waited. Then my parents got it into their heads . . . They introduced me to someone, and I told them that I didn't want anything to do with him, and that I cared for another man. My mother didn't like it. She said that she expected me to become an old maid, and she may be right. But if I can't have the one I want, I don't want anyone in my life at all.”

Rosa listened to Enrica talk; she liked the quiet, soulful sound of her voice. The better she knew her, the more convinced she became that Ricciardi's intuition about her was correct.

“If you ask me, you did the right thing, Signori'. It's just that with someone as hardheaded as my
signorino
, you have to be patient. You have to let him come out a little at a time, as if it was his idea. When he was small and I wanted him to wash up, for example, because he was always out playing in the yard and he got filthy, oh so filthy, if I'd say to him, go get washed up, he absolutely refused. But if, instead, I said to him,
mamma mia,
how horrible it is to see a dirty man, only little boys and babies are ever dirty, not grown-ups; then you should have seen him run for the tub. I think all men are that way: they need to think that they're making their own decisions, and it's our job to make them decide what we want them to do.”

Enrica laughed, then she asked:

“And in your opinion, what should I do, now?”

Rosa replied:

“You need to write back to him, a nice letter. You need to tell him that you're happy to have him send his regards, and that you send your regards to him as well. And you have to find some way of conveying the idea—I couldn't tell you how because I only know my numbers—that you aren't engaged to be married, that you're not interested in anyone else, but that you'd like a family in your future. That way he'll understand that he can't dawdle forever, he has to get moving. Because, as you can see, I'm an old woman, and I can't stand the idea that after I'm gone he'll be left all alone, with no one to take care of him. You can't imagine, Signori': he's like a baby, he doesn't know how to do anything for himself.”

Enrica impulsively reached out and caressed the older woman's hand.

“Signora, you'll live to be a hundred. I know it, I can feel it. And we'll become good friends, I'll come to see you every afternoon, when we're sure he won't be home, and I'll keep you company. That way, you can teach me to cook better.”

Rosa slapped a hand to her forehead:

“Ohhh,
madonna santa
, you're right! I'm sitting here chatting and I haven't even made lunch! Come with me to the kitchen, and I'll show you how the
signorino
likes his chickpeas. Are you familiar with the cooking of the Cilento region?”

Ponte stuck his head in the office door and, with his eyes trained on the portrait of the king, said:
“If you please, Commissario, Deputy Chief of Police Dottor Garzo is ready to see you.”

Ricciardi sighed in annoyance. He didn't know exactly why that little man was so uncomfortable around him, but the fact that Ponte could never bring himself to look him in the eye irritated Ricciardi in a way that few things could.

“Fine, Ponte. Would you do me a favor and let Maione know? I'd like him to come, too. We'll meet in Garzo's of­fice.”

Taking those instructions as a dismissal, Ponte withdrew his head like a tortoise retreating into its shell, shutting the door behind him with unmistakable relief.

Ricciardi was hardly overjoyed to be meeting with “Deputy Chief of Police Dottor Garzo,” as Ponte pompously described him without fail. The commissario considered Garzo to be a fool, and a conceited one. The man cared about nothing but himself and his career, and was incompetent when it came to the challenging job of overseeing multiple investigations. Still, Ricciardi thought, perhaps that position really should be filled by someone like Garzo, who could act as an intermediary between the politicians and agents in the field, like himself. Even the police chief, whom he'd glimpsed only a few times, was nothing more than a government official. The war against criminals—criminals not entirely to blame for being such, or for being so numerous—was a war that had to be fought by beat cops and detectives.

Nevertheless, this time he really needed to talk to Garzo. He had to make it clear to him how important it was to get to the bottom of this case and find out what had really happened to that child. Of course, he couldn't tell him the real reason for his convictions: as he walked down the corridor, he almost smiled at the thought of the face Garzo would make if Ricciardi told him that he wanted to continue with an investigation because he
hadn't
seen the dead person's ghost. But all the same, that's the way things were, and he had to find a way to ascertain why the body had been moved, and from where, and above all, to conceal what.

As he reached the door of the deputy police chief's office, an out-of-breath Maione caught up with him, and shot him an imploring look.

“Commissa', it's not too late. Let's forget about this. I mean, if you insist, I can put out the word and see what comes of it, but on the q.t. Let's not give this idiot a chance to pin us down. You know how I feel about him.”

Ricciardi squeezed Maione's arm reassuringly and knocked on the door.

Garzo was at his desk, with a pen in his hand and a blank sheet of paper in front of him. Maione immediately suspected that the scene was staged, because his reading glasses were lying on the desktop. The official looked up. He was a little worried about this reversal of the usual course of events: he was generally the one who had to request the presence of the commissario so that he could be brought up-to-date on the progress of some investigation. Now it was Ricciardi who had requested a meeting. What the devil could he want? Garzo had wondered.

He didn't like finding himself face-to-face with that man. His eyes seemed to burrow into him. And he always had that air of superiority, or at least of a disregard for Garzo's authority: and that was something Garzo found intolerable.

“Oh, here you are. Well, Ricciardi, what is this about? Ponte tells me that you need to speak with me.”

While Ricciardi was perfectly at his ease with the man, he still didn't count a conversation with Garzo among his favorite pastimes. He decided to come straight to the point.

“Dottore, I know you're very busy and I don't want to take up too much of your time . . . ”

Garzo was delighted to have this opportunity to lay out the extent and the nature of his present responsibilities.

“That's certainly true,
caro
Ricciardi, it's certainly true. This upcoming visit of the Duce, with all the officials and functionaries from the Ministry of the Interior who'll be accompanying him, rests entirely on our shoulders. At least in terms of the city's appearance and presentation, of course. You can't even begin to imagine how many things need to be checked out, once, twice, as many times as necessary, to make sure that His Excellency doesn't leave with a distorted impression of the state of law and order that we've managed to establish in this city. Luckily, the visit will be taking place at a time when there are no major investigations under way, no?”

Ricciardi noticed that on Garzo's desk a pretentious solid silver desk set was on display: a letter tray with a mirrored base and an elegant little surround, an engraved inkpot, a penholder, and a boat-shaped blotter paper holder. Everything was gleaming and spotless, as if shining with a light all its own. He thought back to the paperweight made from a fragment of an artillery shell from the Great War, the only concession to aesthetics in his own office, and how glad he was to be so different from the deputy chief of police.

“That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, Dottore. That's not precisely the current situation, at least not as you're describing it. There is one case that, in our opinion, would repay further investigation.”

A long vertical crease appeared immediately in Garzo's forehead.

“What are you talking about? I can't think of anything. Let me take a look . . . ” and he pulled out a pile of reports that he kept in a desk drawer, far from prying eyes, and began leafing through them: “You see, there's nothing. Of course, run-of-the-mill administrative issues, a brawl in a tavern with a couple of patrons complaining of contusions, two tourists held up at Mergellina, but the stickup artist, a fisherman, was immediately arrested and everything he stole was recovered. Three horse-drawn carriages operating a taxi service outside the central train station without a license. But after all, this is a big city, it would seem strange if little things like these weren't happening, wouldn't it?”

Ricciardi was beside himself. Could it be that Matteo wasn't even filed among the police reports that constituted run-of-the-mill administrative issues?

“There's the case of the little boy who was found dead at Capodimonte, Dottore. I forwarded the report to you yesterday myself.”

At this point, Garzo put on his glasses, opened another drawer, and pulled out a file.

“Ah, yes. Here we are: Diotallevi, Matteo, officially identified by Don Antonio Mansi, parish priest at Santa Maria del Soccorso. But that's another matter entirely; there's nothing for us to do at all. This is a case of accidental death, and here I see the medical examiner's report, from your friend, Dr. Modo: by the way, isn't he a little bit of a—how shall we say—a dissident? In any case, this is something that doesn't concern us. That's why the report isn't in the other drawer.”

Maione shook his head: as if the fact that a sheet of paper was in one drawer rather than another changed the material facts of the case. This deputy chief of police really is a cretin, he decided.

Ricciardi took a deep breath, reminding himself to be patient, and then went on calmly:

“Dottore, this little boy died of strychnine poisoning. I believe it's important that we dig a little deeper into just how and where this poison was administered, also to ensure that such a misfortune doesn't repeat itself. I feel sure that . . . ”

Out of nowhere, Garzo slammed the palm of his hand down on his desktop. The blast of noise was like an explosion, followed by the prolonged tinkling of all the newly purchased silver.

“What's this I hear? ‘I believe,' ‘I feel sure'? This is police headquarters, and we are policemen. We go by the facts, damn it! And all the facts are written right here: accidental death, due to the ingestion of poisonous bait for small animals. Rat poison! Ordinary rat poison! And you come into my office, to bother me while I'm trying to make sure the city is the very picture of order for the visit of no less than His Excellency the Duce, with these dreamed-up, nonexistent investigations?”

The commissario wasn't even slightly intimidated by Garzo's tantrum. He'd fully expected it.

“I don't dream up investigations, Dottore. I simply think that when the root cause of something is unclear, it's necessary to dig deeper, that's all. On the other hand, if the fact that we're talking about an orphan, with no one to care about whether he lives or . . . ”

Garzo turned red as a beet:

“How dare you suggest such a thing? I have two children of my own, you know!” and he pointed to his family portrait in a silver frame, temporarily moved from his desk to a shelf on the bookcase, to give a greater impression of efficiency. “I put children above all else! But I'm also a man who looks at the facts; and the facts tell me that this is a purely accidental death. I also read that from the first examination no signs of violence were found, and so I wonder, and I ask you: why was an autopsy ordered?”