The Deliverance of Evil (30 page)
She got up unsteadily. “My head’s spinning, Captain. I’m going to lie down in my bedroom. You can come in and talk to me there if you like.”
He followed her. He had a good idea of what the room would look like. A large circular bed, an enormous mirror in front of it. Back in the day he would have handcuffed her in front of the mirror, taken her leggings down to her knees, and thrashed her with his belt until he drew blood. Which was what she wanted.
He stopped on the threshold.
“I’ll let you rest, Mrs. Corona. Please don’t bother to see me out.”
Ornella Corona was only a fork in a road that started from very far away. And only when he was outside once again and saw the posters with the face of the deputy mayor, Augusto De Rossi, preaching the words
Only integration can stop the violence
did he feel certain of it. The man with the newspaper who was leaning against a traffic light and calmly smoking a cigarette was watching him.
. . . .
“They’re all in there questioning the shepherd. The public prosecutor is in there and so is his lawyer,” Margherita said.
A flower sat in half a glass of water on her desk.
“All right. And Mastroianni made the travel arrangements for Ramona?”
“He’s come to an agreement with the Romanian police and Iordanescu. She’s flying back to Italy and should arrive the day after tomorrow.”
“Any news from Coppola?”
“Detective Coppola’s also in there for the questioning. He hasn’t managed to track down the American tourist.”
“And what about Carmen, Camarà’s girlfriend? Has he found her?”
“He already sent you a report by e-mail.”
When he was alone, he lit a cigarette and opened Coppola’s e-mail.
Subject: Camarà’s urinary tract infection. After several requests, I received a copy of the file from the doctor who treated him. Symptoms: itching, burning, swelling, urgent and frequent micturition. Diagnosis: acute prostate inflammation. Therapy: systemic and local antibiotics. P.S. A friend of mine who specializes in men’s health says urinary tract infections are common among men who practice unprotected anal intercourse. Black people’s poor hygiene makes them more susceptible.
Presumably, the racist comment came from Coppola, not the specialist. But Balistreri was starting to connect the dots. Camarà’s infection and his subsequent increased urge to urinate and Nadia’s small theft had upset the murderer’s plans.
He called in Corvu and Piccolo. “Let Coppola and Mastroianni finish questioning Vasile.”
He read them Coppola’s e-mail.
“I don’t see what that has to do with it, sir. We already have the lighter to link Nadia to Bella Blu,” Corvu said.
“Exactly, but the lighter doesn’t link Nadia to Camarà. Why was he killed?”
As usual, Piccolo was faster. “Because he saw Nadia that night.”
“I don’t think so,” Corvu said. “Nadia entered the private lounge directly from the back alley.”
Balistreri said, “True, but Nadia saw Camarà when he went to pay an urgent visit to the bathroom, just as Nadia was coming in from the back alley. The doors are all along that same hallway. Unfortunately for Camarà, Nadia wasn’t alone. Someone else saw him.”
“But why? It doesn’t hold up,” Corvu protested. “You don’t commit a murder for something like that,” Corvu protested.
Giulia Piccolo got it. She said, “Unless the bastard knew he was going to murder Nadia the following day.”
Keep your cool now, girl. With prejudices and a hot head you only make grave errors.
There was another point that needed immediate clarification. The most dangerous connection. All three went into the interrogation room. After greeting the public prosecutor and the appointed defense lawyer, Balistreri noted the plaster cast on the wrist Colajacono had crushed. He asked the prosecutor for permission to ask a question and turned to Vasile.
“When they brought the Giulia GT back to you, was it any different apart from the broken headlight?” he asked.
“No,” murmured the shepherd.
“Did it smell any different?”
“Smelled of cigarettes more than usual. I smoke, but not very much.”
“Were there any cigarette butts?”
Vasile shook his head.
“I figured,” Balistreri said, “because smoke doesn’t yield DNA results, but cigarette butts do.”
Corvu swore in Sardinian. Balistreri said to the public prosecutor and the lawyer, “Please excuse the interruption.”
His deputies followed him back to his office.
“I can’t believe I overlooked that,” Corvu said.
Balistreri could believe it all too well. Natalya was affecting Corvu’s concentration. He felt sorry for Corvu, but he had to tell them. “One of the three Roma said the Invisible Man was smoking while they were raping Samantha Rossi.”
Corvu and Piccolo looked shocked.
“You don’t think it’s the same killer, do you?” Corvu asked.
The three folders were still on his desk: Samantha Rossi, Nadia X, Marius Hagi.
We’re only at the start of the game. These are only the first three cards on the table. The decisive ones are yet to be revealed.
Evening
Balistreri decided not to bother Pasquali. He was afraid that a wrong move might lead to cancellation of the Dubai trip. So he didn’t tell him that he suspected he was being followed, and he didn’t mention the links between the murders of Samantha Rossi and Nadia. The Bella Blu lighter, however, was enough to justify the short visit.
Antonella greeted him with a decaf and made a slight fuss over him, as a sister would over her unruly brother.
“You look tired, Michele. You should get some rest,” she said.
She ushered him into the less well-appointed meeting room. That meant Floris wasn’t coming. Pasquali, even more impeccably dressed than usual, rushed in a minute later. His hair was fresh from the barber and he wore a new made-to-order suit. He shot a slightly disapproving glance at the sleeve of Balistreri’s jacket. If he knew that breaking into the cellars of an apartment building under investigation had caused the tear his disapproval would have been more evident.
“I know you and Corvu are leaving tonight for Dubai,” he began. Of course, all requests of this nature passed across his desk, even if Balistreri had his own independent budget.
Balistreri explained the link between Nadia, Bella Blu, and ENT, including the outcome of the visit to the trust administrator. He had to give credit where credit was due: Pasquali was an excellent listener and asked pertinent questions.
“Where does ENT fit in with Nadia and Camarà?” he asked.
“Camarà was killed there—at the time that was all we knew. But Nadia was in the private lounge the night before they kidnapped her. We can’t exclude the possibility that she might have been with one of the ENT shareholders. If we don’t investigate we may miss an important lead.”
“Isn’t there a less costly method for finding out the names of the shareholders?”
“It would appear not. Corona’s dead. Ajello says he’s never met them and his only contact is with Trevi, who deals only with the Lebanese lawyer, Belhrouz. Mrs. Corona once spoke with one of them on the telephone, but she didn’t know who it was.”
Pasquali stared at him. “Do you really think there’s a link between the murders of Nadia and Camarà?”
It’s no use, he’s too sharp
.
Balistreri knew how slippery the ground was, but under those inquisitive eyes he had to answer truthfully. Pasquali would catch on to any possible lies immediately.
“Perhaps Camarà unwittingly saw the person who was planning to kill Nadia.”
Pasquali fiddled with his glasses while he weighed his reply. “And after a few hours, this person dressed up as a motorcyclist, faked an argument, and then killed him.”
“Not exactly,” Balistreri said.
“I don’t follow,” Pasquali said.
“Let’s say that this character, let’s even call him the murderer, already intended to kill Nadia out of some sadistic sexual compulsion. But at that moment he hadn’t killed anyone yet. Does it seem logical to you for him to improvise something so complicated in order to protect himself against a crime he hadn’t committed yet? And what crime? Killing a Romanian prostitute? He could have just killed a different one three days later.”
You’re an idiot, Balistreri. Pasquali’s managed to get you to reveal your innermost thoughts. And now you can see something in his eyes you don’t understand.
He immediately backtracked. “Naturally, there are more plausible explanations. This character wanted to kill Nadia specifically, her alone. Perhaps he was a stalker.”
Pasquali peered at him from behind his glasses.
Okay, we both know this is bullshit. I’m asking for a truce. Let me have it and let me check things out in Dubai. Pretend you believe me and let’s postpone the Samantha Rossi problem.
Pasquali stole a glance at his expensive Piaget. That meant the truce was granted.
“One last thing,” he said, stopping Balistreri before he could leave. “Linda Nardi.”
Since Balistreri was a boy he had learned how to sniff out real danger, so he said nothing.
Pasquali wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring at the computer screen. “A very intelligent woman. Dangerous for us and for you. Be very careful, Balistreri, and keep as far away from her as you can.”
. . . .
Angelo offered to take him to the airport for the night flight to Dubai. He was both cheerful and thoughtful at the same time.
“Michele, you’re not upset that I’m seeing Margherita, are you?”
“Not at all, Angelo. I’ve already fucked her up, down, and sideways. Your turn.”
Angelo’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Then he burst out laughing and playfully punched Balistreri.
“Lying bastard. Margherita wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth.”
“If I’d wanted to, she’d have let me. But I’m no longer interested in cradle-snatching.”
“No, I’d say Linda Nardi is just about your age.”
Balistreri was taken aback. “How the hell do you know about Linda Nardi?”
“Graziano told me. It slipped out—don’t be mad at him.”
“I’ll kick that guy so hard he’ll land back in Sardinia with his goats. Corvu’s in love, and he’s lost his mind. The usual story.”
“He thinks of you as a father figure. He wants you to be happy. We all do. And he says Linda Nardi is just your type.”
Balistreri interrupted him with a threatening gesture. “You can stop all this bullshit. The Nardi woman’s an arrogant and presumptuous shit—lesbian or frigid, I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I wouldn’t touch her, not even—”
Dioguardi burst out laughing.
“What the fuck are you laughing at, Angelo?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never heard you talk like that about a beautiful woman before. This must be serious.”
Morning
B
ALISTRERI DIDN’T SLEEP A
wink on the flight to Dubai. The seats were small and uncomfortable. Business class was only for politicians and executives, not for someone doing something as inconsequential as tracking down a bunch of murderers. Beside him, Corvu was playing video poker on the small screen.
He fell asleep exhausted during the last hour of the flight when they were already over the Arabian Peninsula, music from the headphones still penetrating his ears.
The Ottoman servant had her face half-covered, but her body was draped in transparent veils. When his eyes fell on her breasts a vertical line furrowed her brow. He murmured words of apology, but couldn’t manage to shift his gaze and realized with horror that his hands, which were no longer linked to the control of his brain, were loosening the knots and progressively revealing the girl’s nakedness. She let him do as he wished, silent and unmoving. Her eyes stared at him from the opening in her veil. It’s your choice, they were saying.
He awoke bathed in sweat when the undercarriage hit the runway. When they disembarked, Corvu turned out to be fully prepared: map of Dubai, address in Media City, Nabil Belhrouz’s telephone number, passport, landing card, sunglasses, baseball cap, Lacoste shirt, and light cotton trousers.
The airport was aggressively modern and full of noisy stores. Courteous officials in long white robes led them through the arrival process.
Huge hoardings advertised new residential centers in the middle of the sea in the shape of palms. A cluster of drivers stood holding cards. One card read
MR.
BALISTRERI—MR.
CORVU
.
“He must be from the hotel,” Corvu said.
The driver in a dark blue suit was a young Pakistani. He led them through a forest of big cars and SUVs to a limousine. It was air-conditioned, with a bar and a television in the back.
Before Corvu could pass the address to the driver, he said, “Media City, correct?”
The traffic was heavy. The driver explained that Dubai was sprawling and it would take a while to get downtown. The limousine moved slowly amid Porsches, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis. The number of cranes and construction sites was incredible. They crossed the bridge over Dubai Creek, which divided the city in half, and entered the modern side.
Gleaming glass skyscrapers soared in the air. Corvu enthusiastically played tour guide.
“It’s the emirate nearby, Abu Dhabi, that has the petroleum. But Dubai has skyscrapers, seven-star hotels like the Vela, shopping centers out of a sci-fi movie, a ski slope covered in snow right next to the beach. Alcohol, nightclubs, girls.”
They took Sheikh Zayed Road, which led to the recently developed area along Jumeirah Beach. They arrived in Media City at ten o’clock. Balistreri insisted on wearing his jacket and tie, though he thought longingly of Rome’s rain and cold as he sweated through his shirt.
The driver dropped them in front of the main door to the building that housed the offices of ENT Middle East. A Filipina secretary greeted them and accompanied them to a meeting room on the third floor. The wide window offered a view of the green sea furrowed by motorboats and catamarans.
Nabil Belhrouz was a handsome man with gleaming black hair and a sunburnt complexion. He was thirty-five at the most.
“We can speak Italian, if you prefer.”
Balistreri accepted his offer, relieved not to be forced to serve as Corvu’s interpreter.
Belhrouz served them cups of American coffee. He said, “You’re probably surprised to see how young I am, but Dubai offers a world of opportunity for the young.”
Balistreri took an instant liking to Belhrouz. Corvu seemed a little sullen, however; perhaps he was envious.
“Mr. Belhrouz, we’re here because one of the ENT nightclubs in Rome, the Bella Blu, was the scene of a crime before Christmas,” Corvu said.
“Yes, I read your e-mail and I’ll give you any information I can. I don’t exactly understand the connection with the crime, though.”
Corvu ignored that and continued. “We know that ninety percent of ENT’s shares are held by an Italian trust that receives its orders from ENT Middle East. We need to trace the ENT Middle East shareholders.”
“Of course,” Belhrouz agreed. “Being Italian, I presume you’ll understand that there are certain issues. Anonymity is totally protected here.”
Balistreri and Corvu exchanged a worried glance.
“I mean,” Belhrouz explained, “that here in Dubai you will never be given the first and last names of persons residing physically in Europe.”
He handed a sheet of paper to each of them. It was a shareholders’ register, certified in the Media City Free Zone for the Dubai Chamber of Commerce. On it was the name of the sole shareholder of ENT Middle East: ENT Seychelles with headquarters in the Seychelles.
Corvu gave Balistreri a skeptical look. “I should have known,” he muttered.
“This trip has been a complete waste of our time,” Balistreri said in Arabic. Belhrouz looked startled. He replied in Italian.
“Not entirely. Yours is a difficult request and this is a difficult world, almost impenetrable for various reasons—nearly always for tax reasons, but sometimes for more or less legal reasons. As far as I know, everything is absolutely legal in the case of ENT. I’d like to help you, however.”
He was a likable young man, clearly well compensated to act as front man and ignore any seamy traffic underneath But Balistreri could see that he was concerned. He wasn’t a citizen of the Emirates, and a murder investigation wasn’t a joke. Italy had an embassy in Dubai and even a polite protest over less than satisfactory cooperation could cause him problems. The sheikhs wanted to live in a clean, orderly, and civilized country. A young Lebanese lawyer could be expelled, even if he wasn’t guilty of anything.
“There are no nighttime flights to Italy, so I imagine you’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning. Which hotel are you staying in?” Belhrouz asked.
“The Hilton Jumeirah.”
“Excellent. You have the whole day free. So please enjoy the sunshine and I’ll pick you up at seven. We can talk in a less formal way over dinner.”
So, he didn’t want to talk in the office. They had no choice but to accept. Before leaving, Balistreri said, “Thanks for sending the car to pick us up from the airport.”
Belhrouz looked bewildered. “I didn’t send a car.”
Balistreri had a disturbing thought. “Then it was our own travel agency. We’ll see you this evening.”
Afternoon
They had arranged to meet at the café the day before, as they stood and talked outside Marius Travel.
“I could have managed with my trusty pepper spray,” Linda Nardi said, “but thanks all the same for your help. I imagine you’ll have to tell Captain Balistreri about this.”
Piccolo smiled. “I was following you after I heard about your visit to the restaurant. But Balistreri wouldn’t approve. It’s best we keep this to ourselves.”
“I have a proposal for you, Giulia.”
Piccolo looked at her. Linda Nardi was beautiful, intelligent, sensitive. But it was also clear she had no sexual interest in her whatsoever. She listened to the proposal in silence, not letting her excitement show.
An older sister. More sensible than I am, but prepared to do anything, like me.
“Aren’t you afraid?” Piccolo asked, for the sake of hearing her say what she wanted to hear her say.
And Linda said it, with her peaceful look. “My only fear is that this is going to keep happening.”
. . . .
The well-organized Corvu had brought two pairs of swim trunks, one for himself and one for Balistreri. They stayed on the hotel beach until five o’clock. Every so often Corvu phoned Natalya and told her what he was doing. He took pictures with his cell phone and sent them to her. He went parasailing. He tackled the ski slope. He swam for over an hour. Balistreri slept on the beach, where he had a dream in which Linda Nardi spoke to him in a language he didn’t understand.
Evening
By the time Belhrouz picked them up in his Audi A8 it was dark, but a light breeze was blowing and the temperature was mild and pleasant.
The restaurant was on a dock that jutted out into the sea. They sat by the water illuminated by the lights from the skyscrapers. The average age of the diners was about thirty. The women were gorgeous, and the prices on the menu were outrageous. He ordered tiger prawns.
During the meal Belhrouz talked about his family, who were of Palestinian origin: his grandparents had been driven out by the Israelis, and his parents had escaped the Lebanese Christian army in 1982 in Shatila. The young lawyer drank white wine and kept his eye on the attractive women surrounding them.
Dinner ended with scotch on the rocks and good cigars. As they puffed and sipped, Belhrouz said, “Dubai is one huge game of chance. You see, here it’s the same as in your Gospels—the loaves and fishes get multiplied every day. Real estate, finance, tourism, everything.”
“Because no one asks where the money comes from,” observed Corvu.
“Exactly. The Russians, Chinese, Iraqis, Iranians, Saudis—all come with suitcases full of cash to buy skyscrapers. No one asks where the money comes from. Manufacturing or contraband weapons? Supermarkets or traffic in human organs? No matter, the money is always good.”
“What if the economy slows down and the government cracks down on money laundering for tax purposes?” Corvu asked.
Belhrouz pointed to the magnificent silhouette of the world’s most elegant hotel.
“Those suites cost a minimum of four thousand dollars a night and are booked for the next two years. But that could change in a matter days. And I’d go back to East Beirut,” he concluded with a sad smile.
Balistreri decided it was time to pick up where they had left off that morning. “What would we find if we went to the Seychelles?”
Belhrouz smiled. “More beautiful beaches. Another useless name. And so on.”
“And if we kept going?”
Knocking back his fourth whiskey, the young lawyer leered at the tight rear end of their waitress.
“In the end, Captain Balistreri, you would find yourselves back where you started in Italy. The truth lies there.”
“But how can we—”
“Listen to me,” Belhrouz said in a low voice. “You seem to be a serious man. I only need your word on two things.”
“I’m listening.”
“You must never mention my name.”
“Okay. And the second thing?”
“My sister’s studying in Italy, at the university in L’Aquila. Once when I was staying with her, she answered my cell phone by mistake and it was one of the ENT shareholders calling. I might need your help sometime.”
“You have my word.”
Belhrouz drained his fifth whiskey and paid the bill. He was drunk. He handed them a business card. “I don’t want to talk here, and I have to go by my office to pick up some papers for you. We’ll see each other at my house in one hour. Give the taxi driver this card. That’s my home address.”
They accompanied him to the exit. The valet brought his Audi. As he got into it, he called out, “See you later, my Italian friends!”
Balistreri watched the car as it headed in the direction of Sheikh Zayed Road. A huge SUV set off behind it.
He took out his cell phone, called the hotel, and spoke to someone at the desk.
“I wanted to know whether our car service to and from the airport was included in the price of the hotel.”
He heard tapping on a computer keyboard. “No, sir, that service was not included in your room rate.”
He shut his cell phone and ran toward the taxi stand. Corvu followed him.
They jumped in a cab. Balistreri gave the driver fifty dollars and pointed to the Audi A8 and the SUV two hundred yards ahead of them. As they sped to catch up, the taxi’s alarm indicating that it was breaking the speed limit beeped continuously. The driver looked at him in the rear-view mirror. “We’ll go to prison if this continues, sir.”
Balistreri handed him a hundred-dollar bill and the driver accelerated. The taillights of the SUV and the Audi were zipping around the curves ahead of them and heading straight for an overpass.
“Have you got Belhrouz’s cell phone number?” Balistreri barked at Corvu.
“Yes.”
“Call him and hand me the phone.”
Belhrouz answered on the second ring, his voice thick with drink.
“My Italian friend,” he said happily.
“There’s an SUV on your tail. Slow down and try to stop.”
“What do you mean?” Belhrouz laughed.
Balistreri saw the SUV accelerate and swerve alongside the Audi.
Belhrouz exclaimed, “What the hell?” Then came the metallic clash of the two vehicles as the Audi was rammed. It careered to the right, hit the guardrail, overturned, and skidded back to the far side of the lane, where it hit the other guardrail and reared up over it. Then it fell over the side of the road.
. . . .
Pasquali’s secret cell phone rang three and a half minutes after Belhrouz’s Audi A8 crashed along the Sheikh Zayed Road and burst into flames. Pasquali had just arrived home and was greeting his wife. When he heard that phone ringing, he knew he had to get to someplace where he could be alone. Only one person had that number: a person Pasquali both respected and feared, a person he trusted.
Lord, I did it for the good of the country, perhaps for power, but not for money . . .
He went into his study and called back but didn’t speak a word.
The familiar voice spoke. “Serious steps had to be taken.”
Pasquali heaved a deep sigh and said nothing. This really was unexpected. But protesting was as dangerous as it was useless.
“We don’t want any problems here when your man returns. Please take care of it,” the voice said.
The call ended. Pasquali had not spoken a word. Before leaving the room, he turned to the crucifix on the wall and bowed his head.
. . . .
As expected, Colajacono left the police station at nine. Piccolo had let the news that Giorgi and Adrian had spoken about him filter down to him so that the information could not be traced back to her. They saw him enter Casilino 900; he was in uniform.