The Deliverance of Evil (41 page)
He went downstairs to buy a slice of pizza and another beer. Then he had another espresso and smoked another cigarette. He then went back up, closed the blinds, and turned on the air-conditioner. He looked at the blackboard. By now he had plenty of answers. Not all of them, but most. And now there were other questions and old acquaintances from 1982.
He switched on the television and found the right channel. The poker final hadn’t started yet. He stretched out on the sofa; the quiet, the beer, and the darkness took effect.
. . . .
Pasquali’s private cell phone rang immediately after lunch while he was playing a hand of
tressette
on the porch of his country house in Tesano, his hometown.
He excused himself and walked away to take the call. As usual, he pressed the button and said nothing.
It was the icy voice he knew all too well. “There are serious issues. Begin removal.”
“Couldn’t we—”
“No.”
He attempted a feeble protest. “But in my view—”
“I’ll send you a detailed message.”
The call was broken off. Pasquali returned to the card game with his legs feeling like lead. With his head in a daze, he wasted a magnificent hand and lost the game.
. . . .
Balistreri awoke suddenly in the middle of the afternoon, sweaty and dazed. Angelo Dioguardi was staring at him from the television screen as he swept a large number of chips toward himself in a gesture that was familiar to Balistreri.
He followed the game easily. He knew Angelo’s tactics by heart. Twenty minutes from the end, there were only two players left, and his friend was clearly in the lead. All he had to do was sit out each hand, until he got the cards that would allow him to eliminate his final opponent. Angelo Dioguardi had the Texas Hold ‘Em world title in his hands. All he had to do was be cautious and wait for the right hand.
On the table there were four cards face up on the table: the three, six, and nine of clubs and the nine of diamonds. The camera that allowed viewers to see the cards the players held showed two clubs for the opponent, who therefore already had a flush before the fifth card. Dioguardi had the four of spades and the jack of diamonds and no possibility of winning that hand, no matter what the fifth card was.
His opponent made his call, high enough to dissuade Angelo from placing a bet on the last card if he held only a pair or three of a kind. It was a predictable situation. Balistreri waited to hear him pass.
Then Angelo Dioguardi turned and stared out at him from the screen. He immediately knew two things with absolute certainty: Angelo was looking at him personally, and he would do the same thing that he had done on the night he and Balistreri first met, which was to call and match his opponent.
Angelo Dioguardi was looking at him, Michele Balistreri. He was showing him his thoughts.
All in, playing for everything
.
The viewers must have thought Dioguardi was crazy, risking a world title that was as good as his. The dealer dealt the fifth card, the nine of hearts. Dioguardi’s opponent turned pale. He thought long and hard, wringing his hands. He could risk everything for an unlikely victory, or else he could keep the chips he had in front of him and try another hand. “Fold,” he said, shaking his head.
Angelo’s face wore the same disinterested and absent expression it had on that first night, when Balistreri had seen him bluff at the card table in Paola’s apartment. His opponent looked at him one last time, then shook his head and put his cards down.
Angelo didn’t even smile as he took the pot. The freeze-out came in the next hand. Angelo Dioguardi was world champion.
. . . .
When Balistreri came out of the office, the sun was beginning to set, but the air was barely any cooler. He walked home, sweating furiously. The sound of his cell phone shook him out of his thoughts.
“Corvu, you haven’t gone back to the office, have you?”
“I’m running there now to get a car. Where are you, Captain?” Corvu wasn’t the type to get excited easily, and Balistreri could hear him breathing heavily. Something serious had happened.
“I’m on my way home. I’ll wait for you outside,” he replied, without asking any questions.
Corvu arrived five minutes later.
“We’re driving to L’Aquila. They found the body of a girl there this afternoon.”
“Another prostitute?”
“No, a foreign student at the university. The last time her friends saw her was Sunday night during the World Cup celebrations, but they didn’t report her missing because the day after she was supposed to come to Rome and fly home from here.”
“I’ve got that, Corvu. But I don’t understand what it has to do with us.”
“The victim is Selina Belhrouz, the sister of the lawyer in Dubai.”
Balistreri turned to stone.
It was my fault. I broke the pact. The truce is over.
Corvu sped down the highway, and in an hour they were there. The body had been found at the bottom of a well at an abandoned farmhouse near Tesano, Antonio Pasquali’s hometown. Pasquali was at the scene. He was there for the weekend and had followed the police cars that drove past his villa.
He was dressed differently this time, wearing a jacket and an open shirt, and he looked very shaken. “What are you two doing here?” he asked Balistreri.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll tell you afterward in private. Right now I’d like to find out what’s happened.”
“Then hurry up. Forensics is finished, and they’ll be taking the body away soon.”
But Balistreri was already on his way to the well. The girl’s body had been placed on a stretcher and was covered with a sheet. He introduced himself to the local police captain.
It looked just like Vasile’s farmhouse. A clearing, a little wooded area, a tumbledown farmhouse, and a well. And only a few miles from the country home of Antonio Pasquali. There was nothing to see apart from the body under the sheet. Forensics would have taken care of the rest. The body had been down there for a while, and the smell was overpowering. Everyone else on the scene was wearing a mask, and Balistreri and Corvu followed suit.
The paramedics were waiting to load the body into the ambulance. L’Aquila’s medical examiner was writing a few last notes.
“Has she been dead for long?” Balistreri asked him.
“I’ll have a better idea after the autopsy. At least three days, maybe four.”
“And the cause?”
“There are clear signs of strangulation at the base of the neck, besides the bruising, cuts, cigarette burns, and various fractures.”
Just like Samantha, like Nadia, like . . .
In his anger, he dismissed the thought of the last name. But he couldn’t drive away the feeling of dismay. It was there, fixed, immovable in a corner of his mind. He turned to the captain. “I’d like to see the body before they take it away.”
“Please, be my guest. It’s not a pleasant sight, but I imagine you’re more used to it than I am.”
Struggling for breath, the paramedics folded the sheet down to her feet. The body was badly decomposed, but the marks around the base of her neck were very clear.
“Can you turn her over?” he asked the paramedics, who reluctantly performed the task.
At the base of her spine Selina had a tattoo, one of those half-hidden ones that rose above the panty line. They were popular among young girls. This one depicted a sun surrounded by its rays and a half-inch V had been scored at its center.
Evening
Pasquali’s villa was as sober-looking as its owner. His wife served them dinner and left them alone.
Corvu was clearly uncomfortable. “If you’d like me to leave I can.”
Pasquali reassured him. “That’s not necessary. Maybe this terrible event can be of some use to us.”
His usually smooth and relaxed face was marked with deep lines. Pasquali waited until the end of the meal, then offered a stiff drink. He lit up a cigarillo and led them out onto the patio. “It’s cooler outside. It’ll help us think.”
Balistreri realized he could no longer skirt the issue. He told him what they’d seen in Dubai: the SUV, the death of Belhrouz, who happened to be the brother of the girl found in the well. As usual, Pasquali showed he was an excellent listener. He also decided not to ask why this had never been mentioned to him before.
“So, you don’t know whether it was an accident or a murder,” he said.
“We weren’t sure until this afternoon,” Balistreri replied.
“It could be another coincidence,” Pasquali offered, but it was clear that even he no longer believed that.
“Is it a coincidence that they tossed her down a well behind your house?” Balistreri asked sarcastically.
Pasquali let out a kind of resigned groan.
“There’s more,” Balistreri added.
Pasquali grew visibly nervous listening to the account of the events and people connected to San Valente. “You contacted Cardinal Alessandrini?” he murmured, incredulous. “And he actually met with you?”
“He’s very friendly.”
“He’s one of the top five people at the Vatican. What did you ask him?”
“ENT’s mixed up in something serious,” Balistreri said.
“Even I have gathered that,” Pasquali replied. “But that doesn’t mean it’s mixed up with these murders. And what’s Cardinal Alessandrini got to do with it? To say nothing of Count dei Banchi di Aglieno.”
“Do you know the count?”
“By reputation. Everyone does. We golf at the same club.”
“May I say something?” Corvu cut in timidly.
“What is it?” Balistreri asked.
“It’s just that there was an anonymous call.”
“What?”
“He’s right,” Pasquali said. “The local police station received an anonymous call today about five reporting a terrible smell coming from the well. It must have been someone passing by who didn’t want to get involved.”
Corvu looked at Balistreri. “I’m sorry, Captain. I should have mentioned it.”
“I’m not sure I follow. Does that change anything?” Pasquali asked.
Balistreri suppressed an evil thought. “It’s the second anonymous call after the one made to Colajacono. And now we have the third letter, a V. Another coincidence?”
“All right. Next week you can question the three Roma who killed Samantha Rossi. But not a word to the press about the letters.”
I should tell you how Colajacono died on that hill. But I can’t, not yet.
. . . .
They said good-bye to Pasquali about eleven and got back on the highway. Balistreri was exhausted. His stomach burned. He smoked in silence in the dark, his eyes fixed on the taillights of the car in front of them.
They managed to distract themselves by chatting about Angelo Dioguardi and his big win. Corvu decided to call him at his London hotel. He dialed on speakerphone.
They heard the phone ringing, then someone at the hotel desk put them through to Angelo’s room.
“Graziano.” A television was playing in the background.
“Angelo, you were great. I’m in the car and Captain Balistreri’s here with me.”
Silence. Then Angelo said, “Hello, Michele.”
Those two words and the way in which they were spoken made Balistreri feel—for the first time since he’d known Angelo—that there was an unbridgeable gap between them.
“Well done, Angelo. We need to talk about that bluff sometime.” It was his way of telling Angelo that he’d gotten his message.
“Okay, sure, Michele.” Angelo’s tone didn’t encourage further conversation.
They said good-bye then, still distant with each other.
Corvu and Balistreri began to talk about the afternoon’s events.
“I don’t like anonymous calls, Corvu, especially this one.”
Balistreri suddenly remembered something. “Did you tell Ornella Corona that I wasn’t coming this evening?”
“I didn’t think it was necessary. She said she’d be home after dinner anyway and you could just come by. It wasn’t a real appointment.”
“Call her now.”
“Sir, it’s almost midnight. She’s probably asleep.”
“Call her.”
Corvu punched the number and got a recording saying the phone was off.
“Call her landline,” Balistreri said.
“I don’t have her home number in Ostia.”
“Never mind,” Balistreri said. “Turn on the siren and step on it.”
Ornella Corona had heard that voice on the phone, just like Selina Belhrouz.
They didn’t exchange a word for the rest of the journey. It took less than an hour. Corvu only switched off the siren once they entered Ostia. Along the seafront there were crowds around the ice cream parlors that were still open. They entered the calm, silent residential area. Ornella Corona’s two-story villa was completely dark, surrounded by a small garden.
They rang the bell on the gate. No reply. They rang again. Nothing.
“I’ll climb over,” Balistreri said.
“But, sir—”
“You stay here.”
Corvu stiffened. “Let’s call the local police station. Let’s not risk—”
But Balistreri was already at the top of the gate. He didn’t have his gun, but he knew he wouldn’t need it. If the Invisible Man had paid a visit, he was already gone.
He landed in the yard. The only light came from the back of the house. He rang the front doorbell. Nothing. He decided to go around the back. As soon as he turned the corner, he saw a parked Golf. Its doors were closed, but a single light was glowing on the dashboard.
He stopped to inspect the car. Beside him was a small lamppost. He pressed a switch and the scene was illuminated.
He knew where to look. The light on the dashboard indicated the trunk was unlatched.
Ornella was inside, her eyes wide open and filled with fear. She was dressed, but her leggings were pulled down around her thighs. The letter I carved on her began at her belly button and ran down her pelvis.
Morning
B
ALISTRERI PASSED THE ENSUING
nights sitting in front of his television set and his window. His cigarette and whiskey consumption had spiraled out of control. He had full-blown insomnia, his head filled with unpleasant conjecture about the past, the present, and the future. The routine he’d shared with Linda Nardi for a few months now seemed like the last quiet moments in his life, a last failed attempt to forget who Michele Balistreri really was. He brushed her angrily from his thoughts, but she always came back.
Dawn found him worn out from thinking, smoking, and drinking. His eyes were red, his beard unshaven, his clothes even more disheveled. All caused by his twin obsessions: Linda Nardi and the Invisible Man.
A serial killer who carves letters on his victims, or a plot by my former colleagues in the secret intelligence service? Who am I chasing? Two shadowy figures, one on top of the other, which then split in two. Or was there only one?
From a good, sensible policeman, albeit one who was a little depressed, he was turning into someone disturbed; halfway between an alcoholic and a homeless vagrant. Corvu and Piccolo defended him strenuously against the cruel comments going around the special team office. The special team had never been accepted by the other divisions, and now its much talked-about boss, who was unpopular with both suspicious politicians and jealous colleagues, was on his knees.
Pasquali was also defending him strenuously, as was Floris, the chief of police. There had been three days of hellish media frenzy. Fortunately not a single journalist had a spark of illumination to link the discovery of Selina Belhrouz’s body with Pasquali’s house in the country. But Balistreri, who knew Pasquali well, was aware that he was eaten up by the possibility.
Information about the letters carved on the victims didn’t reach the media. Even the “Deep Throats” on the force were keeping quiet on account of reprisals threatened by Floris and Pasquali.
In this way, no one saw any link between the two crimes. Selina Belhrouz’s murder was likened to Nadia’s because of the way in which the body was found, although no one questioned the guilt of Vasile, locked away in prison. The most strident criticisms were about Ornella Corona’s death. A beautiful Italian woman killed like that in her seaside home, probably by an ordinary thief—surprised in the garden—who had also tried unsuccessfully to rape her. Moreover, some witnesses had seen and heard a man, probably a Romanian, speaking in an East European language into his cell phone, wandering around outside the villa after dinnertime.
The first reports from Forensics and the pathologist on the two cases were clear enough. In both cases there were no fingerprints, nor were there traces of any organic material. This already spoke volumes about the theory of the thief surprised by Ornella Corona. Whoever went into a house wearing surgical gloves and a ski mask so as not to let a hair fall had something far worse than a robbery in mind. There was no sign of sexual violence at all in either case, but there were significant differences.
Selina Belhrouz had been taken off to an isolated place and stripped, bound, and tortured. But she hadn’t been raped. The bag with her personal effects and cell phone had disappeared. It didn’t really look like a robbery. There were fractures, bruises, cigarette burns. An act of sadism or an interrogation? She had already fainted by the time she was strangled.
After coming back from the beach, Ornella Corona had engaged in seemingly consensual sex shortly before being killed. She had gone out into the yard, perhaps drawn there by a noise, and there she’d been attacked and strangled. The winking wristwatch had disappeared, but if it was a robbery it was an ineffective one. The leggings had probably been pulled down immediately after death in order to carve the letter I. The car was unlocked because it was parked inside the villa’s gate. It was clear the murderer knew there was little time. The pathologist had calculated the time of death as falling between eleven and midnight.
Once again, the movement against Casilino 900 and the other camps exploded, this time more violently than ever, and the city council was again in a jam. The opposition had launched a vicious attack and the Catholic Church alone was trying to defend the Roma from generic and total condemnation. In the outlying suburbs patrols of young Italians began throwing Romanians out of bars, then chasing after and assaulting them. When the police tried to arrest one such juvenile for making mincemeat of his grandfather’s Romanian nurse, after having accused her of theft, they found themselves facing the entire neighborhood opposing the arrest and praising the boy for having taken the law into his own hands. The police were drawn up in force to protect Casilino 900 and the other camps, but the idea of leaving it up to the crowd was beginning to circulate among them. In July’s torrid heat the peace created by the World Cup win was swept away by the latest murders, and by now it needed little for the situation to become explosive, much to the joy of those who were expecting that very thing.
Balistreri hadn’t seen Linda Nardi at the press conferences. She hadn’t even published an article on the matter, until that morning.
Sitting in Pasquali’s office at eight o’clock were Floris, Balistreri, and Pasquali.
“This is terrible,” Floris moaned, looking at the newspaper.
The headline read,
FOUR
DOTS
TO
CONNECT
? The official police versions of the murders of Samantha Rossi, Nadia, Selina Belhrouz, and Ornella Corona were offered. Linda Nardi made no comment in that part of the article; she simply repeated what official sources had stated.
But at the end there was a question:
If there is a common element among these four crimes and the investigators are aware of it, do they have the right to remain silent about it so as not to compromise their investigation, or should they tell us how things really stand?
Pasquali was his usual cool self. “Linda Nardi is posing a question to us. We can either ignore her or reply. I say we should consider the pros and cons.”
“If you want an investigative analysis rather than a political one, let’s bring in Corvu and Piccolo.”
Pasquali looked at the chief of police. “We need to make an investigative analysis to use as the basis for a political decision.”
Corvu and Piccolo were summoned. Corvu was a little intimidated by the chief of police, but not Piccolo.
“Balistreri,” said Floris, “would you guide us through this minefield?”
“Linda Nardi’s asking if we have the right to keep quiet about a common thread among these four cases. I’d like to dispel any doubt about one thing. In the past, as Pasquali knows, I’ve used Linda Nardi as a channel for investigative purposes, but I never mentioned the letters in the first two crimes, nor have I seen her since July 11.”
“All right,” Pasquali said. “There are no doubts about Balistreri’s discretion. Let’s continue.”
“We have four letters, probably carved using the same instrument: a scalpel or a sharp knife. An R, an E, a V, and an I. And they come in that order, assuming that the order and the letters mean something. This is the one common thread among the four murders,” Balistreri said. “And we can no longer consider it a coincidence,” he added, addressing Pasquali.
“There may be more letters to come,” Piccolo said.
Balistreri saw the chief of police touch the wood of his chair in an automatic superstitious gesture.
“Agreed,” Pasquali said. “So I propose we shelve the letters, for a moment only, and ask ourselves if there are any other common elements among the four cases.”
Corvu raised his hand to speak. “Actually, there are five cases. There’s Camarà as well, and that’s leaving aside the deaths on the hillside. If we want to analyze the deaths of the four women, we have to remember that Nadia’s death is linked to Camarà’s.”
“And the last two murders could be connected more closely to Camarà’s death than to those of Nadia and Samantha,” Balistreri said.
“Necessary killings,” Pasquali observed.
“Exactly. The first two crimes were preceded by sexual attacks and concern two females chosen at random. But the last two victims are not random at all. They’re two women linked in some way to the investigation into Nadia’s death, and the motive could be the same as in Camarà’s case: getting rid of an inconvenient witness. It could all be disguised as part of a sequence. The letters could simply be a cover-up.”
Pasquali said, “So you’re suggesting that we’re not dealing with a sadistic serial killer who attacks, kills, and carves letters into his victims, but with a premeditated murder that in turn causes more murders by one or more other murderers?”
It’s as if the Invisible Man had two personalities and two faces. But the same hand does the killing.
“If you’ll permit me, sir,” Corvu said, nodding toward Pasquali, “I’d like to pick up on your question about any other similarities among the four cases.” Corvu looked at Balistreri as if to ask his permission, then said, “The Invisible Man comes into play here.”
The chief of police stared vacantly at him. “What invisible man?” he asked, looking from Corvu to Balistreri to Pasquali.
“In the case of Samantha,” Corvu continued, “the three Roma say there was a fourth man—who later disappeared—who got them drunk, gave them drugs, and was the first to attack the girl. In the case of Nadia, according to Vasile, there was a man who telephoned, and in exchange for the loan of the Giulia GT brought him Nadia and two bottles of whiskey.”
“But there’s nothing of the kind in the other two cases,” Floris protested.
“If you’ll permit me to speak, sir,” Corvu replied obsequiously to the chief of police, “there was an anonymous phone call that led us to Selina Belhrouz’s body in the well, and a suspicious individual who was speaking on his cell phone in Romanian near Ornella Corona’s villa. Furthermore, there’s a motorcyclist involved in Camarà’s case.”
And there’s the phantom who announced Colajacono’s death and killed him in cold blood.
“Help me to understand here,” Pasquali said. “Let’s suppose—for a moment only—that the murders were all committed by the same hand and that the perpetrator is this Invisible Man, as you call him. You’re saying that the choice of the first two victims was random or in some way different from the last two, who were chosen by necessity. I can buy that Camarà was killed because he’d seen someone at the Bella Blu he wasn’t supposed to see, but I don’t understand where Selina Belhrouz and Ornella Corona come into all this. What did they see?”
“It’s not what they saw but what they heard—a certain voice on the telephone,” Balistreri blurted out.
They all stared at him. Pasquali in particular seemed to drill right through him with his eyes. Balistreri felt as if he were being X-rayed.
The fear I see in your eyes worries me more than anything else.
At last Pasquali heaved a sigh. “I’m telling you right now that if you have any more cards up your sleeve you’d better pull them out now. There isn’t much time left. Tell us about this voice.”
“One day Ornella Corona received a phone call at home. The person on the other end said that her husband’s cell phone was off and asked her to find him and tell him he had to go to Monte Carlo that evening. When she protested that it was already five o’clock in the afternoon, the man told her in no uncertain terms that this was why they had a private plane. Then he hung up.”
A long silence. The dark shadow of ENT was again falling across the murders.
“This ENT . . .” Floris began feebly.
“I beg your pardon, Chief,” Pasquali said, interrupting him. “I’d like Balistreri to finish his explanation with regard to Selina Belhrouz as well.”
“In Dubai, just before the accident in which Selina Belhrouz’s brother lost his life, he told us that during one of her visits to Italy, his sister accidentally answered a call on his cell phone. According to him, this was a problem because Selina heard a voice she wasn’t supposed to hear.”
Pasquali had turned very pale. He made a single note in his diary. “All right,” he said, taking charge of the meeting again, “let’s leave ENT aside for now. We have two women chosen at random and killed, then Camarà and two other women eliminated because they were inconvenient witnesses, and the letters are only a red herring to put us off. Is that it more or less?”
“No,” Piccolo said without requesting permission to speak. The others turned to her. “We can argue about Samantha, but Nadia wasn’t chosen at random. They twisted the arms of Colajacono and Tatò and got them involved, and they went ahead with Nadia even after Camarà saw them, at the cost of killing him and getting Bella Blu and ENT involved. They could easily have dropped her and chosen another victim. But they wanted Nadia. For some reason, she had to be the victim.”
“That doesn’t make any sense to me,” Floris said. “A poor young Romanian prostitute. Why her?”
“Maybe she’d discovered something she shouldn’t have,” Corvu suggested.
“But that’s absurd,” Pasquali said. “They would have shot her and thrown her down a well. End of story. Instead of this whole charade with the trip to Bella Blu, the motocross bike, the Giulia GT, Vasile.”
Balistreri knew Pasquali was correct. But Piccolo was, too: Nadia hadn’t been chosen at random, but for a particular reason. He just couldn’t figure out what that was.
“And where does Elisa Sordi come into all this?” asked the chief of police, ever more confused and worried. “Pasquali told me you went to question Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno and Cardinal Alessandrini.”
“Friendly chats, not interrogations. And neither of them was upset. They thought I was there to reopen the Elisa Sordi case after her mother’s recent suicide, but I was actually there for another reason. Everything starts with Alina Hagi, who at that time was at San Valente. Her best friend was Samantha Rossi’s mother, who was then dating Mr. Ajello, who today is an ENT shareholder and linked in some way to Ornella Corona.”
“This is like a soap opera. These coincidences are unbelievable,” the chief of police said.