The Fatal Touch (28 page)

Her photocopies sat in front of her on the table. She could not remember carrying them or putting them there. She said, “You kidnapped my son.”

“Not at all. He was taken straight to his grandmother’s. He was perfectly happy in the car. Chatty, one of my men said. You know, I ordered them to pick him up, drive him straight home. If I had ordered the abduction of a child, they would not have obeyed. They are Carabinieri. Their smiles were genuine and your son was not afraid. He was in safe hands.”

“I will kill you if anything ever happens to him. I will kill you if anyone even goes near him again. Is that understood?”

The Colonel bowed his huge head and murmured something, as if he were warning himself off something. His lips were liver-colored, almost the same color as his tanned face. He paused, and looked up and raised his voice a little so that Caterina could hear.

“Negative happiness. That is what I have just given you. Negative happiness is waking up every morning and knowing you have a son and knowing he is safe.”

He pulled out a slim white device like an air-conditioning remote control and slid it across the table.

“Here. The buttons on the damned thing are too small. My Maresciallo set it up for me beforehand, for voice activation. He’s just fixed it up again, now he tells me all you have to do is press play.”

Caterina picked up the device, holding it like it was a turd. It was a digital voice recorder. Buttons on the front, tiny speaker at the back. Manufactured by Olympus.

“I made the recording just an hour ago, at a late lunch with your Commissioner. We were talking business, as you’ll hear.”

Caterina pressed play, and for the next few minutes, she listened to the lunchtime conversation between the Colonel and Blume. They were talking about selling Treacy’s forged paintings.

As she listened to Blume take the name of an offshore accountant, demand a bigger cut from the sale of the paintings, she felt betrayed but detached, too. She was still thinking of Elia.

When the recording was over, she slid the device back across the table. It didn’t matter. She did not care what Blume did. Elia was her only concern.

The Colonel peeled his lips back over his front teeth in what was probably intended as a sympathetic smile. “It’s disappointing, isn’t it? You think you know someone, then
pfft
!” He conjured nothing out of empty hands, “They turn out to be a different person.”

Caterina said, “Blume would not threaten a child.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that? And, let me remind you: nobody threatened your child. Talk to Elia, you’ll see. Don’t mention the unusual trip to him today, and he’ll forget about it as something unremarkable. Go home full of questions, and you’ll frighten him.”

“Stop using his name.”

Caterina’s phone rang.

“Is that Blume?”

Caterina looked at the display. It was her mother. “Yes,” she said. “It’s him.”

“Don’t answer.”

Caterina placed her cell phone on the table where it rang loudly and rotated slowly as the vibrator shook it. She could tell from his folded arms and air of studied indifference that it was making the Colonel uneasy. Then it stopped.

“I think you had better go back home, or to the office or wherever you’re supposed to be. Remember, not a word to Blume, just like he did not breathe a word of his side-agreement to you. In another move that he did not report to you, your Commissioner passed on what were probably Treacy’s originals to a third party, so there are now other people involved in this. Let’s hope it does not become too complicated.”

Her phone started ringing again. This time it was Blume.

Chapter 23

Blume snapped his phone shut, annoyed. His mood had not been improved by his recent conversation with Grattapaglia, who had just shrugged and looked unsurprised when Blume told him the report detailing his misconduct would be forwarded in a few hours.

It was Grattapaglia’s shrug that had got to him. It implied that Grattapaglia had never expected anything different, as if Blume always let his men down.

Blume started signing off reports to be submitted to the investigating magistrate, reports in which he was supposed to write down all his decisions and developments in the case, and present them to Buoncompagno, Farinelli’s pawn.
The last entry was “case transferred by PM to Carabinieri.”

Two knocks, a pause of two beats, and Panebianco walked into the office.

“You remember my friend Nicu in the Carabinieri?” he said. “The Lieutenant Colonel in the Art Forgery and Heritage Division?”

“The one you play soccer with,” said Blume. “What about him?”

“He wants to meet you.”

“I don’t have time,” said Blume.

“He said that if you said that I was to tell you to make time. Sorry, sir. He’s not usually that arrogant. I asked him what he meant by that, and he said I was to mention your arrangement with Colonel Farinelli.”

Blume looked for signs of warning, knowledge, irony, or contempt in Panebianco’s calm eyes, but got nothing back.

“When does he want this meeting?”

“Now. He’d like you to go over to the division in Trastevere. I’d be happy to convey any harsh replies you’d like to make.”

“No. Thanks, Inspector. I’ll deal with it.”

As he drove past the Ministry of Justice, Blume pulled out his phone and called Beppe Paoloni, now a better friend than he had ever been when they were on the force together. A friendship born from confuted expectations was how Blume described it once. Paoloni’s version was that Blume was not as much of a prick as he had thought. When, two years earlier, Blume found out that Paoloni was on the point of assassinating a cop-killer, he had told him to quit the force and Paoloni had complied at once. Blume never reported the incident, which was why, Paoloni explained, he was not a total prick. As for Blume, he was pleasantly surprised at Paoloni’s immediate contrition and acquiescence instead, which was not what he had been expecting.

The friendship strengthened when it turned out that quitting was the best and most profitable thing Paoloni ever did. After a very brief stint as a bank guard, he was making a fortune as a private security consultant. As part of the compact they had struck at the time of his resignation, Blume had offloaded a large, unmanageable dog on his friend, and then occasionally popped around to see how the two of them were getting along. Paoloni liked to pretend it was Blume’s dog and he would be taking it back some day, and Blume liked to pretend that Paoloni had grown immensely fond of the animal.

“Yes?” Paoloni’s voice was wary. He never looked at the caller display.

“It’s me, Alec.”

“Alec!”

“Am I disturbing something?”

“No. I’m taking your dog for a walk.”

“He’s not my dog. I gave him to you,” said Blume.

“Hey, dog, say hello to your real father.” Paoloni must have really put the phone to the animal’s mouth or else was doing a good impression of the fast breathy sounds of a big black Cane Corso.

When Blume was sure it was Paoloni on the phone again, he said: “You still haven’t given it a name?”

“No. If I did, it wouldn’t be a nice name. The beast eats more in two days than I do in a week,” said Paoloni. “Most of my grocery bill is dog food.”

“He probably smokes less than you, Beppe, so it all balances out. What are you doing now?”

“I’m standing outside a sportswear store waiting for your dog to shit on the doorstep. We’ve been doing this every afternoon for a month now, ever since the owner refused to take back a Lacoste polo that I bought and was too small. Ahaaaa. There we go.”

“Beppe, I could do with a bit of your expert opinion on how to deal with a few things . . .” Blume listened to the sounds of Beppe praising and patting his dog. “You there?”

“Of course I’m here.”

“Did you hear about the killing of the Indian storekeeper?”

Paoloni’s voice became grave. “I heard about that. They drove a jeep over two kids. Are you looking for leads?”

“We know who it was,” said Blume. “I was thinking maybe if I gave you the names, you might help us find them.”

“Sure. Give me the names.”

“Have you got a pen?”

“A pen? Sure.”

“Something to write on?”

“I’ll use the dog. Give me the names, Alec.”

“Leporelli . . .”

“And Scariglia,” finished Paoloni. “What do I need a pen for? What’s the deal?”

“They hand themselves in. They have until tomorrow midday. In good time for the TV news.”

“OK,” said Paoloni. “And why do they do that?”

“The magistrate is Gestri. Remember him? Intense guy. He’s closed down a Cineplex in Ostia already, and at least five beach clubs won’t be opening for a week. He’s going to disrupt Camorra activities until they are delivered up. Simple deal. I think it’s in their interest to turn themselves in while they are still breathing. They shouldn’t be too hard to locate in the circumstances, and I was hoping you might act as broker.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“That sense of inner peace you get when you do the right thing.”

“I always feel that. What else?”

“You get to tell the Ostia crew the good news that the heat is off, their Cineplex and clubs can open again. You get to say you arranged it. Grateful gangsters: what else could you wish for?”

“You are sure Gestri will call off the police?”

“Of course he will. He can’t tie up all that manpower for more than a day or two anyhow, you know that.”

“OK,” said Paoloni. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ve another favor to ask, maybe two. But I’ll tell you about them when we meet.”

“Your dog simply can’t wait to see you,” said Paoloni.

The Carabiniere Art Forgery and Heritage Division was located on Via Anicia, next to a Franciscan church. Blume walked up to the high perimeter wall and past a sentry box, flashing his police ID at the three men inside. He was briefly challenged by a young Appuntato manning the door, who stood aside and let him in as soon as he had seen the card. Now a Brigadiere Capo behind a desk stopped him.

Just then a tall, elegant, and strangely white-faced young man appeared on the far side of the turnstiles. “It’s OK,” he told the Brigadiere at the desk. “Commissioner Blume?”

“You still have to sign in,” said the Brigadiere.

Blume signed the logbook and waited for his visitor’s badge.

“I need identification, please.”

Blume flicked his ID card on the desk.

The Carabiniere carefully wrote down the time, opened a drawer, took out a visitor’s badge, and very reluctantly gave it to Blume.

Blume went over to the stile, which refused to turn.

“Sorry about this,” said the young Lieutenant Colonel. “You need to swipe the visitor’s card.”

Blume was through. The young man held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I am Nicu Faedda. Let me show you to my office.”

Blume was fascinated by how a man with such white skin could have a Sardinian accent. He felt he was in the presence of a comic or an actor reciting the part of a Sard. There was a
Candid Camera
feel to the experience, and it put him on his guard.

“Stairs or elevator? It’s the second floor.”

“Stairs,” said Blume.

Faedda took the first flight of ten steps in three bounds, and stopped on the landing. “Did you know that UNESCO says seventy percent of world art heritage is in Italy?”

“Yes. No. Whatever.” Blume reached the landing. “Are you really a Sard?”

“Because I’m tall, is that it?”

“And white,” said Blume.

“I have sallow skin. I tan deeply in the summer.”

“Do you shrink, too?” asked Blume.

Faedda shook his head and smiled. “These misconceptions we have. I thought all Americans were fat and politically correct, yet here you are.” He gained the top of the stairs and opened the first door in the corridor, holding it for Blume. “Did you know that an art theft takes place in Italy on average every two hours, and that fifty-eight percent of what is stolen is never recovered?” he said as Blume walked in.

Faedda sat on a comfortable office chair behind his desk, empty apart from metal knickknacks and plaques with medals, bearing the insignia, symbols of the Carabinieri, feathers, rifles, the burning grenade . . . The Carabinieri certainly love their symbols, thought Blume. The police were satisfied with a themed calendar showing pictures of squad cars and the occasional Italian flag.

“OK then, did you know that our recovery rate has improved by forty-five percent over the past fifteen years?”

Blume sat down. “Are you seeking election?”

“No, no,” said Faedda. “I am just telling you that things have improved a lot.”

“And you are telling me this because . . .” Blume thought about it. “Because in the past fifteen years methods have improved?”

“There is another reason,” said Faedda.