The Crocodile (10 page)

Giuffrè started swaying back and forth on his toes again. “But I know you have a theory. Why don’t you tell the rest of us about it, Loja’? Maybe you’re right–you catch this damned Crocodile, and you get us out of the booby hatch. What a slap in the face that would be for that bastard Di Vincenzo.”

Lojacono shook his head. “Giuffrè, you could make me seasick right here on dry land, even though I’m an island-dweller from birth. Do me a favor and stop bobbing around. And no, I don’t have a theory. The only reason I went to the girl’s funeral was so I could see if anyone there had also been present at the scene of the Lorusso murder, but there was no one I recognized. And the only reason I did
that
was to kill some time. You know I’m under direct orders to stay away from casework. As a distraction, in other words. To divert my thoughts.”

The sergeant stopped swaying but kept smiling. “You can’t fool me, Loja’. Someone who’s trying to get his mind off something goes to the movies or hires a whore; he doesn’t go to the funeral of a murdered teenage girl. I know that the policeman sleeping inside you has been awakened. If you track down the murderer and they rehabilitate you, can I come with you? I’m sick and tired of being stuck here in the Crime Reporting Office, hearing people whisper behind my back that I must have received special treatment because I was a driver for a member of parliament. The truth is I’m a bloodhound, and I know everyone. I can be useful. Well, is it a promise?”

In spite of himself, Lojacono smiled back. “You talk like we’re a couple of prisoners exiled to the island of Monte Cristo.
O.K.
, it’s a promise. After all, what do I have to lose? The last people on earth who are likely to catch this Crocodile are you and me. Still, to kill time, we can keep an eye on the investigation. We need something to talk about all day, right?”

Giuffrè clapped his hands in delight. “No, I have faith in you, Loja’. If you ask me, you’re just like yours truly–much, much better than a few idiots upstairs think we are. The crucial thing is to find an opportunity, a situation, so we can show them what we can do. What do you think: is it a good idea to be going over the whole quarter with a fine-toothed comb in search of information, the way they’re doing?”

Without even looking up from the newspaper, Lojacono shook his head. “Information’s always good to have, and they can’t think of anything else to do. But you watch: it won’t amount to anything. I’ll say it again—there’s only one thing I know for sure: the Camorra has nothing to do with these killings.”

Just then, Piras walked past the open door of the booby hatch and came to an abrupt halt.

The old man watches the young man.
It’s stopped drizzling, and that has its upside and its downside, he thinks to himself. You stay dry, and there are more people on the street to mingle with. It’s better for surveillance, for figuring out routines, for taking note of travel routes and schedules. But it’s worse because there’s more chaos, more people, and therefore a greater likelihood of unwelcome surprises.

Still, the old man thinks, the key to everything is time. If you have the time, and you’re in no hurry, anything is possible.

As he sits there on the bench, next to an elderly woman feeding the pigeons, with the newspaper open in front of him as he watches the young man, the old man thinks about time.

He’s had plenty of time on his hands. He’s spent hours looking at a monitor, in the dark, hunting down names and addresses. He’s spent hours in his garage, which he kitted out as a workshop, filing and threading a pipe and then filling it with fiberglass. He’s spent hours at the shooting range, becoming comfortable with his pistol and smuggling out ammunition in order to avoid making a formal purchase and thus drawing attention to himself. He’s spent hours thinking about what he was planning to do, reviewing each individual gesture, every movement. He’s spent hours finding the right places, the right hotel, the right settings.

He dabs at his eye, under the lens turned dark in the pale sunlight. The last time he went in to see his doctor, she told him that it was a case of dacryocystitis, an inflammation that had become chronic, and his constant tearing is called epiphora, and if pus develops then he’ll have to use eye drops.

He asked her, “Could this cause me to go blind over the short term?”

She laughed and told him, “No, don’t worry. In fact, I don’t know anyone your age who’s in such excellent physical condition.”

I’ve taken care of myself, the old man muses. I’ve been prudent. To do what I had to it was important that I be in good health. I certainly couldn’t afford to have my body break down at the most crucial moment. I stayed in shape. I didn’t do what she did: let herself be consumed by it until it killed her.

After all, the old man reflects while the young man, only about seventy-five feet away, takes a look at his watch, I’m here representing her too. She probably would have wanted the same thing. We never talked about it: that would have been too dangerous. The less you know about things, the less likely you are to let something slip.

I cased the locations a million times before actually coming to the city: flying over the streets with the satellite map, even studying the layout of the hotel rooms. It’s incredible what you can do with a computer, and no one can see you.

I had time on my hands, the old man remembers. I found the right clothing, the most nondescript and comfortable clothing possible—things that don’t change color in the rain. The shoes, the glasses. Invisibility is a talent.

But I used the time to organize, not to gather my determination.

It only took a minute for that, ten years ago.

Over the edge of the newspaper, spread open to the page that is devoted to discussion of him, the old man sees the young woman arrive. He moves a little closer.

Piras remained in the hallway outside the door of the Crime Reporting Office with a quizzical look on her face and her head tilted slightly to one side, as if making sure of what she thought she had heard. Her dark eyes slid over Giuffrè as if he were a piece of furniture and came to rest on Lojacono.

The inspector met and held her gaze, admitting inwardly that she was a good-looking woman. Now that she was fully lit, unlike the first time he met her, he could see the gentle lines of her body, lines that her business suit could not fully conceal. He noticed the perfect features of her face.

“Who are you? Do I know you?” she said.

“I couldn’t say. But I know you: we met the night of Mirko Lorusso’s murder. Evidently, I have a better memory than you do.”

Giuffrè let out a groan of terror. Piras was famous for her hair-trigger temper: now watch her pulverize Lojacono for his impertinent reply.

Instead, the woman slowly nodded her head as a derisive smile played over her lips. “Now I remember. You’re the one who noticed the tissues. And then got sent packing with a kick in the ass.”

Lojacono shrugged his shoulders without pulling his hands out of the pockets of his overcoat. “True. The professionals had shown up, and in fact the first thing they did was solve the case.”

Piras weighed his reply. She nodded again, then she said, “Come with me. I want an espresso. Point me to a decent café around here.”

Leaving an openmouthed Giuffrè behind them, and trailing the curious gazes of a couple of colleagues who were coming in through the front entrance, Lojacono led Piras to a bar behind the police headquarters. The woman walked straight over to the only corner table in the place and sat down. She took a look around.

“Mamma mia, what a place. Cozy, isn’t it? I’ll take an espresso. Good and hot.”

Lojacono stood there, hands in pockets, his almond-shaped eyes focused on her face. “Not for me, thanks. I’m afraid it might interfere with the afternoon nap I’ve got planned.”

Piras smiled. “Do me a favor and stop playing the strong silent man who won’t take orders. If you don’t want an espresso, suit yourself. But sit down, please. I have something to ask you.”

Lojacono sat down. “What can I do for you, dottoressa? I don’t think I have any particularly useful information.”

The assistant DA shook her head. “You never know where you’ll find useful information. Please, remind me of your name.”

“Inspector Lojacono, Giuseppe.”

“Ah, now I remember—the Sicilian. I seem to recall reading something, a few months ago. I like to stay on top of things when it comes to the staff of the various police stations I might have to work with. What exactly happened? Some police witness, I think, must have mentioned your name . . .”

Lojacono stood up suddenly. “So sorry, dottoressa, but I need to be getting back. I can’t take time off my real work to sit here listening to fairytales I already know by heart.”

Piras smiled again, openly satisfied. “Whoa, calm down. No one’s trying to insult you. I was refreshing my memory. I don’t want to pry into your personal affairs, heaven forbid. Bad things happen to everyone, but there’s a solution for everything. So what exactly do you do, here at the San Gaetano police station?”

Lojacono decided to give the woman another chance and sat back down.

“I’m in the Crime Reporting Office. But that’s a front. I’m actually spending my days fighting a bloody poker duel with my computer. My weapon of choice is five-card stud.”

Piras smiled again. “I see. Effective allocation of human resources, as they say. Make the best possible use of all personnel to ensure that we give the criminals a generous head start.”

Lojacono shrugged. “No problem. Mine not to reason why, mine but to do or die. It’s sort of like being in purgatory; you take it and wait. And the truth is, I’m not dying to get back to where I was before, so it’s really
O.K.
”

The woman sipped her cup of coffee. “I have to say, even in the least appetizing dives, the coffee in this city is first rate. No argument. Now tell me, Lojacono, as one islander to another—what’s your theory about these two murders?”

“Me? What evidence would I have, from my privileged vantage point in the Crime Reporting Office, that would even allow me to develop a theory? I’d have to be able to read the reports, go over the documents, see the transcripts of interviews. And consult with the station captains who have oversight, hear what forensics has to say . . .”

Piras snorted and lowered her voice. “Stop pulling my leg, Lojacono. I know you have a theory; I heard you tell your colleague you did. Tell me more.”

“I really couldn’t say. It’s only an impression, but we cops don’t work on the basis of impressions; we base everything we do on facts. I wouldn’t limit my investigation to the world of the Camorra, that’s all. But as I say, it’s nothing more than an impression.”

Piras studied him at length. That man with his strange almond-shaped eyes provoked her curiosity. She sensed he was strong and also a little dangerous, but certainly intelligent. A rare quality, intelligence, she decided. Especially in this police station.

“In fact, there is some information you lack, Inspector Giuseppe Lojacono. That’s because you have no reason to know, since this is a high-priority investigation and it’s off-limits to almost everyone. And so I’m not authorized to tell you—and I’ll take care not to—that from a number of interviews it emerged that Mirko Lorusso, the first victim, had only recently been recruited by a drug trafficker, a two-bit Camorrista from the outskirts of town called Antonio Ruggieri; that this same Ruggeri had sent him to push baggies of cocaine outside a high school in the better part of town; and that it so happens that among the students attending this high school was Giada De Matteis, the second victim. A set of facts that are intriguing at the very least, wouldn’t you say?”

Lojacono turned his glass of mineral water between both hands. “I don’t know any of those things. But if I did, I wouldn’t stop at appearances. Unless there’s evidence of some deeper link between the two kids, then the murders might have nothing to do with that. Plus, bear with me: what’s the point of killing both of them and bringing down all this attention on the case? The Mafia, as I know and you know, always takes care first and foremost to keep business front and center. They could have arranged for the boy to vanish, leaving the girl safe and sound, and no one except his mother would have noticed a thing. Why unleash all this mayhem?”

Piras listened closely, then shook her head. “Maybe the kids saw something they shouldn’t have. Maybe they were planning to rip off the dealer. Who can say? Still, you have to admit that this contact is the only thing we have right now, isn’t it?”

After a moment’s consideration, Lojacono said, “I guess it is. When you have a concrete piece of evidence, you have to follow it; you certainly can’t chase after a vague hunch. But I continue to believe that this case has nothing to do with the Camorra.”

Piras insisted, “But all the hallmarks of a murder committed by a professional are there: the long-term stakeout, the painstaking selection of the time and place. No one saw a thing, no one heard a thing. He probably used a gun with a properly made silencer. A single shot, from close range, to make up for the lack of accuracy of the weapon itself, a .22—easy to carry, easy to hide.”

Lojacono replied, “Certainly. But you know as well as I do that this isn’t the sort of hit we see from the organized crime families we have around here. They’re much more arrogant and theatrical, especially when they’re interested in teaching someone a lesson. Plus, this guy left tissues on the ground and didn’t bother to pick up the shell casings. It’s not exactly the work of a professional. I’m still baffled.”

Piras sighed. “You’re telling me. And these dickheads seem incapable of providing any help at all. What do you think of Di Vincenzo?”

Lojacono smiled. “I don’t know him at all. I’ve met him twice: the first time when I got here, the second the night of the Lorusso murder, and I think I might have run into him in the men’s room another couple of times but he never even gave me a nod of the head. But he doesn’t strike me as a yokel, I’ll say that.”

“No, he’s no yokel, but right now he doesn’t know which way to turn. He’s sticking to this theory of the Camorra connection, but only because he has nothing better. And the other station captain, the one from Posillipo, keeps passing the buck. This Ruggieri, the dealer who recruits children, is a lowlife. We grilled him but he’s got nothing to tell us; he whines and denies everything. If you ask me, he really doesn’t know anything. And I don’t know which way to turn now. As you’ve probably seen, the press is ripping us to pieces.”