The Deliverance of Evil (38 page)

Silence fell on the room. Only the sound of the new air-conditioning could be heard. After a while Balistreri stood up, dragging his bad leg, and went to the door of the office. He opened it and Giulia Piccolo left.

Balistreri then went back to his seat and addressed Corvu and Mastroianni. “Piccolo’s out. You are not to share a single detail with her.”

The silence of his team was clearly one of disagreement, but he decided to ignore it completely.

“Let’s move on. What else have you got?”

Corvu was overcome by the whirl of events, so it was Mastroianni who continued. “I checked the alibis for December 24 and January 4. The night Samantha Rossi was killed is too far in the past.”

“All right. Results?”

“We already know about Hagi on December 24. He has no alibi from six to seven, when he says he went home to pick up presents for the kids in Casilino 900. Nadia was presumably kidnapped around that time. And he doesn’t have one after nine thirty, when the others went off to St. Peter’s and he says he went home. And Nadia was presumably killed around that time. We don’t know where Colajacono was between six and seven when Tatò went to Mass. After that, there’s Tatò’s word, which—if we believe it—gives Colajacono an alibi; if not, then he doesn’t have one.”

“And Ajello?”

“He went to the charity benefit, but nobody knows exactly what time he arrived there. The cocktail hour ended at eight o’clock with donors handing over their checks, and there was one from him. Afterward he went home and celebrated Christmas with his family. His wife and son are his alibis. But we haven’t interviewed them.”

“And the night of January 4 and 5?”

“Hagi says he was at home in bed. He was sick and asleep at that time. No alibi. We know where Colajacono was. We’re not certain about Ajello.”

“Why?”

“At nine o’clock he was definitely at the opening of a new ENT betting parlor in Florence. But we checked, and his private plane landed at Urbe Airport in Rome around eleven. He picked his car up there and went off, presumably home, because there’s no sign of him at Bella Blu that night or in any of ENT’s other nightclubs. We’ll have to question him directly.”

“Let’s set aside Ajello and ENT for a moment. What about Adrian’s bike?”

Corvu said, “We asked a lot of people at Casilino 900 who knew Adrian. That night he came on the subway with the others, without his bike. And he didn’t have it when they went off to St. Peter’s. Therefore, it’s possible that it was used by Camarà’s murderer on December 23 and then the day after it was ridden up the hill to Vasile’s house.”

“Good work. Now concentrate on Hagi and his past.”

Corvu was obviously upset that Piccolo was being excluded from the investigation.

“Sir, may I say something?”

Balistreri’s head was aching, as was his leg. And he missed Linda.

“Spit it out, Corvu. What is it?”

“It’s about Margherita.”

“Not now,” he snapped, and he asked Corvu to leave.

. . . .

Alberto had set the table in the garden. Presented with a delicious plate of pasta and a cool glass of white wine, Balistreri managed to relax a little.

“I saw you hung an Italian flag on the gate out front. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“If you had teenagers you’d understand. And once upon a time you were the big soccer fan.”

“But then I came to my senses, while you’ve lost yours.”

“Something positive has come out of it, you have to admit. Look how much calmer things are now that immigrants have been out waving the Italian flag and celebrating.”

“You call that progress? We used to want to deport them for raping our women and murdering our policemen and now, after a game of soccer, we’ve decided they’re assimilated into Italian society?”

“That’s how Italians are. You know that. And the Roma situation is complex. It won’t be resolved by issuing edicts. It’s going to take cooperation, patience, and hard work.”

“You sound like Pasquali. Alberto, everyone knows what needs to be done—move the Roma out of those filthy camps in the middle of the city.”

“We’ll have to wait and see what the next mayor does, whoever that is.”

“I can tell you what he’ll do. He’ll move them out of Casilino 900 and we’ll see his photos in the papers as he closes the gates. And he’ll put them somewhere else. All things that could be done right now. Except that the politicians in this country are either useless or cynical. They don’t give a damn who dies, unless they can use those deaths to win an election.”

“Michele, there are plenty of honest politicians who are trying to get things done. I’m not saying that there aren’t some who think only of their personal careers and getting votes. Votes still count, fortunately.”

“Fortunately? You think it’s fortunate to have a democracy where no one tries to resolve issues but instead concentrates on stealing and getting of votes?”

Alberto’s face darkened a little. The words seemed to bring him back to the bad times with his brother, when he had been forced to make unpleasant compromises in order to get Michele out of trouble.

Alberto hadn’t heard his brother say anything like this for years. It seemed he had become more prudent, or perhaps nothing mattered to him anymore. He figured it must have been Giovanna Sordi’s suicide that brought all that aggression out.

“Michele, do you remember the senator, Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno? Would we be better off with people like him in the government?”

Balistreri sank into silence. The count was part of a whole series of memories of a time that had disrupted his life. He didn’t want to answer his brother’s question. He couldn’t. He would have had to think about too many uncomfortable things: his father, his mother, the crimes that had never been solved, and those last terrible hours in Tripoli. Alberto seemed to read his thoughts, and he didn’t press the point any further. He dished out the shrimp that sat on a platter between them and changed the subject.

“Have you heard from Angelo lately?”

“I’ve been trying to call him on his cell phone for days, but no answer. He must be at some romantic hideaway with Margherita.”

“When he called me to cancel the poker game he told me he was going away. I don’t know about a romantic hideaway, but they’ve definitely left Rome.”

“I hope Margherita’s a comfort to him,” Balistreri said, thinking of Giovanna Sordi and the remorse he and Angelo both felt.

“And you and Linda?” Alberto asked. “Are we all going to get together this weekend?”

Balistreri shook his head, but gave no explanation. Alberto asked for none. After all these years he could feel the disastrous shadow coming back over his brother’s spirit. He promised to pray for him again, and pray with fervor.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Morning

M
ONSIGNOR LATO HAD BEEN
told to expect the phone call. He had a warm voice and spoke Italian with a Roman accent.

“I read about your misfortune, Captain Balistreri. I hope you’re fully healed.”

“Thank you. I’m fine. I’m sorry to bother you, and to make you talk about something painful that happened a long time ago.”

There was a brief pause at the other end of the line. Then he said, “Yes, I read in the papers that the men who shot you worked for Mr. Marius Hagi.”

“They did,” confirmed Balistreri. “But I assume you’ve also read that it’s been proved that Hagi had nothing to do not only with that night’s events, but also all his employees’ illegal activities.”

“Yes, and I’m not surprised.” He heard a touch of sarcasm in Monsignor Lato’s voice.

“You’ve known Hagi for almost thirty years,” Balistreri said.

“Since 1978. That’s when I saw him with Alina for the first time.”

“Alina was your niece?”

“The only child of my sister, who died the year before that in an airplane accident with her husband. I took Alina with me to Krakow and helped her continue her schooling. That’s when she began working with orphans. Alina was sixteen, but she was as mature as any adult. Unfortunately, she could also be very single-minded about things.”

“Do you mean about Marius Hagi?”

The monsignor’s voice grew bitter. “Alina had a very strict Catholic upbringing and a genuine vocation to help others. And she got it into her head that young Marius was a victim she’d saved from perdition.”

“Did you try to convince her otherwise?”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t understand the risk he posed right away. At first, they were just friends. Alina involved Marius in her work, and he really did seem like a lost soul. Then I was transferred to Rome after the election of Pope John Paul II. Alina and Marius came to tell me they were getting married. He wasn’t the talkative type, but he was smart—maybe too smart. I could see in his eyes that the violence he had suffered had left its mark. But I couldn’t stop the marriage. So I insisted they come to Rome with me. I wanted to keep an eye on the situation. Contrary to what I expected, Hagi accepted this idea enthusiastically. I even performed the marriage.”

“And in Rome . . .”

“In Rome everything went well at first. Through Cardinal Alessandrini, I found a job for Alina at the San Valente orphanage. She adored the work, even though it paid very little. The orphanage had barely any funding at the time. After a short time, Marius started his own businesses—travel agencies, bars, restaurants. It was quite an achievement for a Romanian immigrant with no education, especially one who was so young. Whatever Marius touched turned to gold. They bought a house near the Colosseum. They had hundreds of friends.”

“Alina was happy?”

“Yes, and very proud of Marius. And the orphanage was a focal point for everyone. It lasted almost three years. Then, I don’t know exactly when, things changed. I used to see Alina and Marius every Sunday for the Angelus in St. Peter’s Square. One Sunday she arrived by herself, and from then on Marius never came with her again. At first, Alina said he was busy with work, and after that she didn’t say anything. I saw she was beginning to look unhappy and rundown. I tried to speak to her about what was going on, but I could see she didn’t want to share her feelings. This went on for months; I didn’t see Marius again until Christmas 1982, when there was a huge party in the parish. Marius came with dozens of presents for the children. I remember looking at Alina, hoping to see the old pride she’d once felt for Marius, but I saw only pain on her face. I cornered him and asked him if everything was all right.”

“And what did he say?”

“He told me that both he and Alina had taken vows on the day they were married in church and they would never break them. I got the feeling Alina was his prisoner. I also got the feeling that she was suffering deeply.”

“After Alina’s death you lodged a complaint against Marius Hagi.”

Monsignor Lato sighed. “It wasn’t a real complaint, more of a statement. The circumstances of the accident were never in doubt—there were many witnesses. But it was clear Alina was running away. She died trying to escape from Marius Hagi.”

“Did you have proof?”

“Indirectly. Alina was friends with several of the young women who worked at the orphanage with her. She was very close to one in particular. At Alina’s funeral, this young woman was really upset. I took her out for coffee after the service, and she told me that a few days earlier she had walked in on Alina in the orphanage bathroom and found her applying ointment to her badly bruised arms. She asked her who had done that to her and Alina refused to tell her.”

“But this friend thought it was Hagi?”

“Who else? If it had been anyone else Alina would have told her.”

“The statement was withdrawn soon after.”

Now Monsignor Lato’s voice was full of bitterness. “I couldn’t ask the young woman to testify. Who knows what could have happened to her? Besides, Alina was dead.”

“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you, Monsignor, and that is the name of the young woman in question, your niece’s friend.”

“I don’t think I ever knew her name, but even if I did I wouldn’t remember it. This all happened such a long time ago.”

“You have to help me, Monsignor. This tiny thread from the past is important. I have to know what took place between Alina and her husband.”

“In order to do what, Captain Balistreri?”

Just like Alessandrini. The final judgment is reserved for God.

“My business is earthly justice, Monsignor, not divine. If you don’t know her name, at least describe her. Then I can ask someone who was around at the time. I’ll track her down one way or another.”

Monsignor Lato gave a bitter little laugh. “I can do better than that. One day Alina and her friend asked me to take a photo of them.”

Balistreri held his breath.

“I have a copy on my nightstand. I imagine that would be more helpful than a description.”

“Monsignor, I don’t know how to thank you. Do you happen to know what a scanner is?”

“Even the divine use technology, Captain. I’ll scan the photo and e-mail it to you in a few minutes.”

He spent those few minutes thinking about Linda Nardi.

You directed me toward Alina Hagi. What comes next?

He had the reply in minutes. A beep announced Monsignor Lato’s e-mail. The photo was sharp. Two smiling girls were looking at the lens: Alina Hagi and Samantha Rossi.

. . . .

They met in Pasquali’s office at mid-morning. As a child, Pasquali had learned—from his father and his Christian Democrat friends—to put off, to water down, and to soften things. He did so with a smile on his lips and rage in his heart, and with the consummate skill of an actor.

He adjusted his glasses and studied the photo Balistreri was showing him. “Yes, a remarkable resemblance,” he said.

He added nothing further and waited to hear what Balistreri had to say. The head of the special team was holding out a photo that had appeared in the papers the year before at the time of Samantha’s murder. It was of her mother, Anna, rigid with grief, as she walked behind her daughter’s casket.

Pasquali said, “That could be Samantha’s mother as a young woman, but it would be a remarkable coincidence.”

“You find it a remarkable coincidence? Back in 1982 the wife of Marius Hagi, a man involved in two murders in 2005, was friends with the mother of one of the two victims, Samantha Rossi, and you think that’s a coincidence?”

Pasquali assumed his most patient manner. “Keep in mind that Hagi hasn’t officially been implicated in a murder. There’s nothing linking him to the murder of Samantha Rossi.”

“Unless he’s the Invisible Man,” Balistreri said, hoping to provoke a reaction.

Pasquali would not allow himself to be troubled, even by this. “The Invisible Man, as you call him, is so invisible that he’s only been described by guilty parties attempting to shed themselves of part of the burden.”

If I told you about the voice that announced Colajacono’s death, would you say I was delirious?

“All right, but I’m going to speak to Samantha Rossi’s parents.”

“Fine,” Pasquali said.

“And I want to question the three Roma who are in jail for Samantha Rossi’s murder.”

Pasquali pursed his lips. “The public prosecutor’s office will want to know why.”

“Because of the link with Nadia. It’s a new lead.”

“Link?” Pasquali didn’t want to take the R and the E into consideration. “There is no link.”

“There’s another thing,” Balistreri said.

Pasquali stiffened. He had a sixth sense for serious problems. Balistreri told him about the motocross bike at Bella Blu and the one in Adrian’s possession.

Pasquali listened in silence. “So?” he asked coldly when Balistreri had finished.

“So, it could be the same bike.”

“Or they could be two of the hundreds of motocross bikes circulating in Rome.”

“I don’t often see motocross bikes in the center of Rome or riding down the Via Veneto where the nightclubs are.”

“But you do sometimes see one, Balistreri. And as a good cop you know that’s enough.”

As usual, the change to his surname was a clear message: that was enough. But it wasn’t.

“Colajacono was at Bella Blu on December 23, the night Nadia went there and the night Camarà died.”

Long moments of silence passed in which the things unsaid weighed as heavily as those said openly.

“I have something to say to you,” Pasquali said at last.

Balistreri waited expectantly. He had a feeling he knew what it was going to be.

“I know you’ve gotten very close with Linda Nardi in recent months. I suppose you saw the little article that was published January 5.”

Balistreri looked implacably at the paper Pasquali pushed toward him:
IF
A
POLICEMAN
DIES
.

“Yes, I read it months later.”

There was no need to tell him everything.

“And what did you think of it?”

“A remarkable coincidence,” Balistreri suggested maliciously.

From the look Pasquali directed toward the stone angel on the balcony, Balistreri realized that his patience was wearing thin.

“If you read this piece in the light of what happened, doesn’t it seem more like a warning than a theory?” Pasquali asked, shifting his gaze to Balistreri.

“If it was a warning it went completely unheeded.”

“Who do you think was being warned?” Pasquali asked, staring directly at him.

Balistreri was aware of the danger, but he was no longer disposed to be cautious. It was as if his brush with death on the hill, Coppola’s death, and Giovanna Sordi’s suicide were dragging him back to his true nature, the one that the weight of remorse and time had crushed.

“Let’s say, as a hypothesis, that the article was meant for whoever ordered the ambush on Colajacono and Tatò, except that it came outside the time limit,” Balistreri replied.

Pasquali looked like a corpse. “Ambush? But if all the reconstructions say that Colajacono and Tatò decided to go to Vasile’s farmhouse to find more proof and by chance bumped into the four Romanians that were there to make them disappear?”

“What if Colajacono and Tatò were two accomplices who had become inconvenient? They could have been lured there by one of their informants who wanted the four Romanians to kill them,” Balistreri countered.

Pasquali gave him an icy look. “Did you dictate the article to Nardi?”

Balistreri feared what might happen to Linda if Pasquali thought it had been her idea.

“I suggested the idea for the article, yes.”

Not a muscle moved in Pasquali’s face. He was waiting for an explanation.

“I didn’t explain the reasons behind my suspicions. She agreed to publish it in exchange for a future exclusive.”

Pasquali picked up the telephone and spoke to Antonella. “Could you make me a cup of herbal tea, the one for an acid stomach, please?”

“I suppose you’d prefer something stronger,” he said to Balistreri, pointing to the bar.

“When I was recovering I stopped drinking before dinnertime. If Antonella could bring me some tea, I’d appreciate it.”

Pasquali called Antonella and asked her for another cup of tea.

It was as if Balistreri’s confession had calmed their souls. Showing the weaknesses of their respective stomachs created a reciprocal act of trust, no matter how minimal. Two policemen who suffered from heartburn and fear.

“Colajacono was involved because he was useful, and then he became a scapegoat. But Coppola’s unexpected appearance on the hill, and then mine, turned him into a hero,” Balistreri explained.

“I can accept the first part,” Pasquali conceded. “Someone got Colajacono involved because of someone. This someone wanted to be certain someone on his side would be inside the police station to greet Ramona if she went to report Nadia missing.”

“Pasquali, here’s what’s really bothering me: the day I stopped by the station and confronted Colajacono, he was totally calm, even when I accused him of having taken Marchese and Cutugno’s shift so he could delay Ramona’s report. No reaction—he was imperturbable. But then I said something to him.”

The two cups of steaming liquid arrived. Pasquali gestured to him to stop. “Let me have a sip of this herbal tea to settle my stomach before you tell me what you said to him. In fact, wait a second while I drink it, and I’ll tell you myself.”

He sipped at the herbal tea, then took off his glasses and massaged his temples. “You told him about Vasile’s wrist.”

You’re a damned bastard, but you’ve got a great brain
.

“When I told Colajacono about Vasile’s sprained wrist, he shook with fear. He suddenly realized they were framing him. He had no alibi for the hour between six and seven, the hour in which they kidnapped Nadia, probably because someone had sent him somewhere else. He had only Tatò, who they suggested to him as company for the night precisely because he couldn’t give a credible alibi. And he certainly didn’t know that Nadia would end up dead. He must have thought it was another politician being blackmailed, just like the deputy mayor, De Rossi, had been blackmailed.”