The Fatal Touch (44 page)

“Nobody’s safe,” she said. “Gypsies, Albanians, niggers selling socks on the streets waiting for their chance. We need a night watchman. In Naples there are certain houses that nobody robs and you know why?”

“Yes. That’s why they call it a protection racket. Now if you’ll excuse me . . . ” He reached his own floor and his reclusive next-door neighbor opened his reinforced apartment door and peered out.

“Just so you know,” he said, “I heard nothing. Otherwise I would have called.”

“I’m sure you would,” said Blume. “Thank you. Everything OK with you?”

The neighbor opened his door a little wider. “These things. They make you lose faith, you know.”

“I know,” said Blume sympathetically. He pulled out his keys.

“I don’t think you’re going to need them,” said the neighbor.

“No, you’re right. No lock to put it in.”

“You’re a policeman,” accused the porter. “So I don’t suppose I need to call the police. You’ll do that.” She marched down the stairs, muttering about plumbing disasters, break-ins, and foreigners. Blume heard her exasperated replies to people from the lower apartments. Everyone knew something was up. The porter would not have ventured so far into the building otherwise.

Blume pushed his front door inwards, then gritted his teeth and the bent frame scraped across his floor inside. He edged his way in and contemplated the devastation of his home that he had just authorized.

Was it possible to do this much harm in a quarter of an hour? They had pulled down his books, kicked over his television. Every drawer in the house had been carried into the living room, overturned on the carpet, and then thrown aside. Knives, forks, pens, socks, underpants, candles, tools, tape, string, and hundreds of other items lay in a heap. Most of the drawers looked damaged. His expensive amplifier was gone, but the other components of the stereo were left behind, and his CD collection was scattered everywhere. The wooden table in the dining area was scored, and the glass coffee table in the living room was cracked. His Kenwood coffeemaker had been knocked over, the Pyrex coffeepot lay smashed on the floor along with several plates and china. They had poured cornflakes, pasta, flour, and cocoa over everything.

The sofa cushions were slashed open, chairs overturned. In his bedroom, his clothes lay in a grubby pile, mixed up with dirty laundry. His favorite suitcase was missing. In his bedside table, there had been
€
120 in cash. The money was gone, but his passport was still there. He checked his wardrobe. Empty. They had pulled out everything. Thorough bastards whoever they were. And this had seemed like a good idea?

Fearfully, he entered the study, the room that contained all his parents’ art books, lecture notes, his father’s old typewriter, a large collection of LPs, and some of the furniture from when they were alive. All was intact. If they had been in here they had touched nothing.

He called up his own office and said there was no need to turn it into an emergency, since the thieves were long gone.

“Just send two patrolmen out here within the next half hour or so,” he said.

He went back to the living room and found that with some effort he was able to push the front door of his apartment closed again. He put an exploded cushion back on the sofa and waited.

Less than ten minutes later someone rang the doorbell seven or eight times, while someone else hammered on the door. Blume walked over, called to the people outside to push, saying it was a bit stiff.

They pushed and kicked even, and Blume pulled to help. Eventually four Carabinieri were in the room, staring at the chaos, unsure what to do. They were soon followed by the Maresciallo and Investigating Magistrate Buoncompagno. Blume stood beside the door, half blocking the magistrate’s entry. Buoncompagno stood back and showed Blume a piece of paper.

“Commissioner Blume, pursuant to Articles 259, 251, and 352 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, I am ordering a search of your place of domicile with reference to a well-sourced report . . . as the following . . . what the hell happened in here?”

“I appear to have been robbed. I hope the police don’t waste too much time getting here.” To the Carabinieri still in an immobile cluster at the end of his devastated living room, he said, “Help me pull the door open fully. The fat bastard will never fit through that crack.”

They glared at him without moving, but thirty seconds later they were all heaving at his door to make a large enough space for Colonel Farinelli to walk through.

The Colonel stood there surveying the mess, his face awash with sweat from the exertion of getting in and out of the elevator. “Did you Carabinieri do all this while I was on my way up? I told you to respect the apartment. It belongs to a police commissioner.”

He patted his heart, took a few deep breaths, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and dabbed his brow. “Something’s not right.” He looked in alarm at the overturned furniture. “Where can I sit?”

The Maresciallo grabbed an overturned chair with one hand, spun it around, and placed it against the back of the Colonel’s thighs. As the Colonel lowered himself cautiously onto the seat, there was a slight commotion behind and two policemen appeared. The first of them saluted Blume, saying, “Sir, we got a message that . . . ” He stopped as he took in the scene and the presence of the others.

He looked in amazement at the assembled group. “You called the
Carabinieri
?”

“No, Agente. Don’t worry about that. They have to execute a search warrant. God alone knows what they expect to find. But you two might want to follow them around a bit. I’m giving you an order as your commander and permission as homeowner.”

Buoncompagno gave his long gray hair a decisive flick and pointed at the Carabinieri. “Search the whole place,” he ordered. “Start in the bedroom. Rip down the walls if you have to. Anywhere that . . .”

“Wait!” called Blume. “Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene. Pursuant to Articles 354, 355, and 360 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, I ask all non-essential persons to clear the premises immediately to avoid contamination of the scene.”

The magistrate waved his search warrant. “This has precedence.”

“Oh, and pursuant to Article 254, paragraph 2, and . . . a few other articles I forget. I don’t suppose you can remind me, Magistrate?”

“Don’t try to get smart with me, Commissioner. No public prosecutor has received notification of this alleged crime, and therefore as the most authoritative person in this room . . .”

The Colonel, still struggling to control his breath, spoke so quietly the magistrate was forced to come closer to hear. He said, “Magistrate Buoncompagno? Please, just be quiet.” He looked sadly over at Blume, seeking fellowship of understanding between intelligent men.

He inclined his head slightly toward the nearest two Carabinieri. “You, accompany the magistrate back downstairs to his car. I am sure he has other urgent crimes to solve.”

“They could still be here, Colonel,” said Buoncompagno. “Let them look in the bedroom at least.”

The Colonel plucked a crumb of something from his lip and flicked it in Buoncompagno’s direction. “You never miss an opportunity to ruin the silence by speaking, do you?”

“Agenti,” said Blume, looking at the very confused patrolmen, “I want this place dusted for prints.”

“Now you’re overdoing it, Blume,” said the Colonel.

“Someone trashed my house. I intend to find out who.”

“Carabinieri,” barked the Colonel. “We are going.”

When they had left, the first Agente came over. “You OK, sir? Did they do this?”

“Of course not. It was thieves. Really. Write up a report, take a few latents from the walls, give it the usual treatment. No special privileges for me.”

“We need to do more than that, sir. We can’t let them get away with robbing a Commissioner’s house. If word gets around, it’ll look bad.”

“It can’t be helped. I prefer this to blow over. I prefer it not to get within earshot of the Questore, though it’s probably too late. Look, tell you what you can do for me, get someone to come around and fix that door. If they need to put in a new one, fine. Accept any price up to . . . I don’t know. How much is a new door?”

“Reinforced and all that, around two thousand euros,” said the Agente.

“May as well hang a bead curtain for all the good it does. Call me if you need me. I can’t stay here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 36

“Do we always have to meet at McDonald’s?”

“Do you prefer Burger King? I think their buns are too sweet. We could go for a kebab if you prefer.”

“This food will kill you,” said Blume. “Have you ever read . . . ?”

“No,” said Paoloni.

“Right. Dumb question.”

Paoloni received his tray and turned from the counter. “You didn’t order anything after all that time in line?” he said. “Let’s get those two seats over there. Grab me some of those paper . . . thanks. Anyway, it’s air that kills you in the end. I saw a program on the Discovery Channel the other day. Oxygen, they say, gives you wrinkles and breaks down your . . . something inside that you need not to die, basically. Turns out, oxygen is what makes us grow old.”

“Not the passing of time?”

“Apparently not. So, how did it go?”

“They might have trashed the place a bit less,” said Blume.

“You said you wanted it to look authentic.”

“It was authentic. They took money I left beside the bed, and the paintings of course. At least I’m presuming they found them there.”

“Yeah. They were hidden in your closet. All together. They used a suitcase to take them out.”

“I noticed,” said Blume.

“You want the suitcase back? I can arrange it.”

“No. This needs to run its natural course. I don’t want any contact with these guys. I want to know absolutely nothing about them. The only thing I want is a heads-up if they make a move to sell those paintings.”

“You want, I can stop that, too.”

“No. Let them do what they want. They’ll keep Farinelli occupied for a while.”

“Did they respect your parents’ room?”

“Yes. They left it alone. Were they wearing gloves?”

“It’s not like I was there,” said Paoloni. “But these guys are professionals. You’d need a lot of forensic work and lab time to catch their fibers, hairs, and so on. It’s just not worth it for a burglary. Oh yeah, almost forgot. The car watching your place did not register back to the Carabinieri, nor was it stolen, nor did it seem to belong to anyone. The
motorizzazione
de-lists vehicles for special uses so that’s Farinelli using his spooky contacts. Anyhow, they walked up unnoticed and unremarked to your apartment, did what they did, walked out with a suitcase. Then you arrived and Captain Sudoku spotted you and alerted the Colonel.”

Blume left Paoloni to his lunch, and drove back to the station, conscious that the Colonel and the Treacy case were distracting him from his proper duties. He was letting things slip badly, and it would be noticed, once the rewards and benefits of catching the muggers and seeing the two extortionists jailed had been distributed and absorbed.

As he stepped into the operations room, Rospo bobbed up. “Inspector Mattiola took it upon herself to take the initiative while I was . . .”

From behind him, Sovrintendente Grattapaglia, nodding pleasantly at Blume, came up, put his hand on Rospo’s shoulder in what seemed like a friendly gesture, but he held his hand there.

“The meeting with the investigator went like a fucking dream, Commissioner. Eight minutes. I timed it. He told me we needed one more meeting for the sake of appearances, and then I would be back to work.” Grattapaglia smiled. “I must say, I haven’t felt this good for a while.” His knuckles whitened as he tightened the grip and dug his fingers into the space below Rospo’s clavicle, drawing a gasp of pain from the Assistente Capo. “You and me, Rospo, we’re going to have a nice little talk about Inspector Mattiola and the recognition of merit. Come over here.”

Rospo winced as Grattapaglia steered him away from Blume, who looked across the room to where Caterina was sitting, apparently unaware of his arrival. Her head was bent slightly forward as if she were reading a breviary, but her hands held nothing. Blume went over to her.

“I expected to see you flushed with victory. What’s the matter?”

“He died,” she said. “Old man Corsi died. I just heard from the hospital. The stab wound was superficial, but they say he died from hypovolemic shock.”

Blume abandoned his self-serving plan to reprimand her for disobeying procedures and entering a suspect’s house alone and for not trying hard enough to keep him in the picture.

“Why are you so upset about Corsi?” asked Blume. “I mean, sure, it’s a bad thing, but he was an old man and old men die easily. Besides, it’s not as if you knew him.”

“Come to that,” said Caterina, “the few minutes I spent in his company were enough to tell me I didn’t like him much either. It’s not him; it’s the son I feel for. I passed by Mariagrazia Gazzani, the magistrate who was in charge of the investigation into the Corsis’ denunciation of Leporelli and Scariglia. It turns out the failed hotel was the son’s venture, but the affidavit on the attempted extortion was made by the father. It’s a stretch to say this, but I have a feeling the son would have paid off Leporelli and Scariglia just to stay in business. He was trapped and the hotel was his bid for freedom. When it all fell through, he took it out on the Noantri Hotel. I think he was trying to escape, and instead he’s lost everything and killed his only family . . .”