Game for Five (6 page)

“A witness is currently helping Dr. Fusco with his inquiries into the Costa homicide. Would you like me to inform the doctor immediately?”

“Yes, please.” In order to maintain the level of bureaucratic language, he added, “Without further ado.”

A brief silence, then Fusco's voice reached his ear, sounding quite conspiratorial in tone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Inspector. Listen, I have to talk to you. This morning in the bar a person gave me some information that may be important—”

“Concerning the case?” the inspector cut in brusquely.

“Yes. Practically speaking—”

“Not a word on the phone. Come straight here.” And he hung up.

Fusco really did seem over-excited.

I wonder who he's talking to, Massimo asked himself, even though he already had an idea. Dr. Carli had said he'd been interviewing the girlfriend. It was extremely likely he was now talking to the boyfriend Alina had sent the texts to.

He called Tiziana on her cell phone, but there was no reply. She'd probably gone to bed and couldn't hear the phone. What to do now? He couldn't leave the bar unattended, and in order to close he'd have to throw out the old-timers. He went back in and called Aldo over.

“Aldo, Fusco wants me at the station right now. What time do you have to be at the restaurant?”

“About six. Do you want me to mind the bar?”

“That'd be great. You know where I keep everything, more or less. I'll be back in an hour, two at the most. Don't give my grandpa all he asks for, or he'll feel sick. And don't, I repeat don't, let him get at the ice cream.”

“Don't worry.”

“Thanks. See you later.”

“See you soon,” the doctor said. “But what about my sandwich?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I'll make it for you before I go. Salt beef, lemon, grilled zucchini, and dill.”

“Sounds good. All right.”

“It is good, trust me. Even if you didn't like it I'd make it anyway.”

While Massimo was slicing, Rimediotti asked the doctor, “That car, do we know whose it is?”

“Yes, it's Alina's. It got stuck in the mud near the trash can. It's clear the murderer didn't want to stay there too long, so he left on foot, either through the pine wood or along the street.”

“What was it, a green Clio?”

“Yes, a new Clio. Just like mine. Arianna told me she wanted to buy the girl a car, something simple to drive, and asked me what the Clio was like. I told her I was happy with mine, so she got one. Three months ago. It seems like a hundred years.”

“Have they done the post mortem yet?”

The doctor looked down at Pilade and nodded slowly. “I just finished it. I can't tell you anything. Thanks, Massimo,” he said, taking the sandwich, “and can you give me also an iced tea, please?”

“Help yourself, I'm going to phone the girl.”

He went and dialed the number of Tiziana's cell phone. Nothing. He tried her home number. At the sixth ring, a voice said, “Hi, this is Tiziana and I'm not in. Leave a message and I'll call you back.”

“This is your employer Massimo Viviani speaking. Binding commitments to the civil authorities are taking me away from my business. Come here as soon as you can, I'll pay you overtime until six.”

He went back, grabbed his billfold, and pointed to the half-eaten sandwich on the plate. “Don't you want the rest?”

“No, it's good, but my stomach's tight.”

“Worried?”

The doctor looked at Massimo in a cow-like way, then nodded again. Stupid question, Massimo thought, look what I just asked him. He opened the door and left without saying goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Damn. Can't breathe in this heat. Look at me, for that pain in the ass Fusco I'm going to catch the mother of all sunstrokes, damn him, and his mother for good measure.

This was all Massimo was able to think as he walked to the station.

To keep cool, he took a slightly longer way around, through the pine wood. Mechanically, he took out a cigarette, but then it struck him he wouldn't enjoy it in this heat, so he put it back in the pack and carried on walking.

As he walked, lost in thought, he looked down on the ground and catalogued the refuse strewn through the pine wood. “A coke carton . . . paper from a sandwich . . . one of mine, yes . . . good boys . . . a pen . . . a condom wrapper . . . how do they manage it? . . . I'd be scared . . . plus you get pine needles in your ass, which must hurt . . . leftover rigatoni . . . that's worse . . . rigatoni in tomato sauce to the sea, my God . . . some people even bring fish stew and ceramic plates with them . . . and wine . . . Florentines, of course . . . they really are the limit, anybody would think they're getting ready for a siege, they bring everything . . . bread, ham, flippers and glasses, a rubber crocodile ‘for the kid,' loads of food . . . there must be ten a year that drown . . . it's amazing they don't die of congestion right here in the pine wood . . . at least if I talk to myself here there's nobody to hear me . . . ”

All the same, he fell silent.

*

After leaving the pine wood, he had only another hundred yards to walk to reach the station, but it was enough to bathe him in sweat. He couldn't bear even the thought of being sweaty: it made him ill at ease.

He walked into the station, sat down on a banquette, put his legs up on it, and settled down to a long wait.

Instead of which, much to his surprise, Fusco came out of his office and beckoned him inside. There, obviously in the process of being questioned, was a girl of about seventeen in a green top that served only to emphasize her breasts and an orange micro skirt—dressed like that, she looked like Cher's granddaughter—and a slightly older boy.

The boy was of medium height, so tanned that his teeth seemed fluorescent. He looked as if he hadn't slept for several hours. In spite of the air conditioning, both of them were dripping with sweat, and the girl had clearly been crying only a short time ago.

The inspector, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease. He sat down and motioned with his hand for Massimo to do the same.

“Well, Signorina, I don't need you anymore for now. Officer Pardini will ask you to dictate your statement and sign it. I must ask you, however, not to leave town, I might need to speak with you again. When were you planning to return home, Signorina Messa?”

The girl sniffed and said, “I don't know, in a week, I think . . . but if you need me I can stay, I can even stay all summer, I . . . I'd do anything . . . ” and she started to cry, silently. The boy wasn't looking at her, it seemed he was doing everything he could not to burst into tears too, although he seemed more scared than grief-stricken. And with good reason, Massimo thought. The girl managed to control herself and gave him a questioning look, and he made a jerky movement with one hand to tell her that everything was all right. She looked at him again and, by signs, made it clear that she'd be waiting for him. He made a sign to say no, then lifted one hand in an uncertain attempt to reassure her. Massimo started to feel ill at ease and was about to tell Fusco that he would come back later, but the inspector looked at him and gestured to him to remain seated. He called Officer Pardini and had the girl shown out, then stood up and asked in a low voice, “You have something for me?”

“Well, you know, O.K. dropped by this morning. He told me something that might be important.”

“And that would be?”

“That he searched in that trash can at four-thirty in the morning, looking for something to eat. He says the girl wasn't there yet.”

“Four-thirty in the morning. How can he be sure of the time?”

“He saw it on the laser clock.”

“The laser clock?”

“Yes, the one at the Imperiale.”

“Strange.” Fusco sat down and started drumming with a pencil on the desk. “Really strange. In other words, the girl was put there between four-thirty and five in the morning. That's a very narrow window of time. All right. There's something else. Since the girl was killed between midnight and one, and the medical report is precise about this, that obviously means the murder was committed somewhere at least four or five hours by car from the trash can. Which means the whole of Tuscany, Umbria, Liguria and part of Lazio.”

Yes, and the rest of Italy too, Massimo thought. What kind of car do you have, a used Trabant with a rear trailer full of paving stones?

“Well,” the inspector said, “I'm most grateful, and I'll let you get back to your work. First though, go to see Officer Tonfoni and sign the statement you forgot to sign last time. Have a good afternoon.”

 

Waiting for him outside was not only the usual wave of hot air, but the girl. She had stopped crying. She came up to Massimo as he was walking quickly toward the pine wood, longing for its coolness.

“Excuse me, can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

Massimo slowed down. In spite of this the girl, who wasn't very tall, had to walk quickly to keep up with him. She walked on high heels with an ease that impressed him. She was little more than a child, but had the overall look and carriage of a model, much more so than the twenty-five-year-old bimbos who consumed the air and the potato chips in his bar at aperitif time. His ex-wife, the bitch, couldn't walk on high heels: once when they had gone to the theater she had bought a pair of high-heeled shoes for the occasion—“You'll see, Massimo, how well they go with that red dress with the low cut jacket”—and the undeniable elegance of the ensemble when she was still had been spoiled by her unsteady, uncoordinated gait as soon as she started walking, like a car with manual gears driven by an American.

“That inspector . . . do you know him well?”

“Not very well,” he replied. “He comes into my bar.”

The girl looked at Massimo. “What kind of man is he?”

“I don't know . . . ”

The girl looked at him again. She had green eyes, and her make-up, which had run everywhere because of her crying, made them stand out in a startling way. They seemed to be melting in the heat.

Massimo decided to be honest. “Basically, a bit of an asshole.”

They had just entered the pine wood, silently. The girl looked at the ground, then turned aside, came to a halt, and began crying, also silently. Highly embarrassed, Massimo looked around and saw a bench. He sat the weeping girl down on it, hoping she would soon stop. He opened the pack of cigarettes and lit one, just to have something to do.

 

Sniffing, the girl said something that Massimo didn't understand.

“I'm sorry?”

“Bruno's the one.”

“The boy who was with the inspector?”

“They were supposed to go out together yesterday.”

Massimo amused himself for a moment with the image of Fusco waiting impatiently outside a restaurant with a big bunch of flowers, then returned to reality.

The girl looked around, then asked Massimo, “Could I have a cigarette?”

“Sure.”

He handed her one, and she gave him a tentative smile.

“How do you know Alina and your friend were supposed to go out together?”

“He isn't my friend, he's my brother.” A drag on the cigarette, followed by a pause. “Alina phoned me yesterday. She told me she was having dinner with someone, but she didn't say who. Then I asked her if this person was her boyfriend, and she said, ‘In a way . . . ' I asked her if he was anyone I knew, and she said no, I definitely didn't know him.”

She had stopped crying now, but not sniffing. She took out a handkerchief, blew her nose, and threw it away with a gesture that was starting to suggest practice.

All this while, Massimo had said nothing. Inside himself, he kept repeating, “It'snoneofyourbusinessit'snoneofyourbusinessit'snone . . . ” To overcome the temptation. He was starting to wonder what he was doing in this situation, and why he was so curious about the whole thing.

I've spent so much time with those old guys, he thought, I'm becoming an old gossip myself. Come on, Massimo, mind your own business and go back to the bar, you have work to do.

“So why do you think it was your brother?” he asked finally, while the implausible but appropriate image of a stadium scoreboard appeared in his head, all lit up with the words
Temptation 3672 – Massimo 0
.

Slowly, the girl nodded. “Last night Bruno got a text from Alina on his cell phone. It said ‘At ten outside my building?' and a smile. I know because I read it.”

“Did your brother let you read it?”

“No, I snuck a look while he was in the bathroom. I know I shouldn't have, but I . . . ” She broke off, looked Massimo straight in the eyes and said, with sudden frankness, “I didn't want him to go out with Alina.”

Ah, Massimo thought.

“Sorry,” he said, “I know this is none of my business,” (“Liar!” flashed up on the scoreboard) “but why?”

The girl was about to answer when, announced by a rustle of leaves, a woman of about fifty appeared in the little clearing in front of the bench. She was as fat as a Sumo wrestler, and had a Yorkshire terrier on a lead. She stopped, panting, next to a tree and gave Massimo a distinctly unpleasant look that probably meant “That's disgusting, he must be twenty years older than her.”

The girl looked at Massimo again and said, “Shall we go somewhere else?”

The woman was still giving them dirty looks, while her pint-sized dog performed a ridiculous little pee on a bush, from which Massimo imagined a Great Dane emerging, grabbing it in its jaws and carrying it away, like in
A Fish Called Wanda.

“All right, come with me. How about an ice cream?” If he was going to be taken for a pedophile, Massimo thought, he might as well do it properly.