After phoning pistoia and telling them about Caterina’s imminent arrival and being assured she would receive every courtesy, Blume returned home where he spent the next few hours reading Treacy’s third volume, which evidently formed part of a textbook for artists that he was planning to write. Blume found it technical and rather dull, and was pleased to be able to set it aside as irrelevant. Taking notes, he worked his way through the first volume again until dinner. Then he boiled rice, oversalting the water, added oil and parmesan, and ate directly from the pot, as he began rereading the second volume.
Night stole up on him, and he realized he had been enjoying the work more than he had expected. He particularly enjoyed its potential for discomfiting the Colonel, John Nightingale and, he had to admit it, Kristin, Greg, and the rest of them at the embassy. Not that she or anyone there had any reason to worry about Treacy’s ancient memories, but her job was to anticipate this sort of stuff, to brief and forewarn and minimize the possibility that some journalist might someday ask an official an unexpected question. Fat chance. Investigative journalism had been dead for more than a decade. But giving Kristin the notebooks or even just some details of what was in them was a favor he could do for her, and he liked to be in a position to do her favors.
Before bed, he put Treacy’s memoirs in the study, filling the small space left by the three empty notebooks he had given to Greg.
The Monday morning meeting on the Krishnamachari killing was at 10 o’clock in the conference room with its horseshoe-shaped arrangement of desks. When he arrived, there were already eight people in the room, including the magistrate assigned to the case. Blume chose a place in the midst of the ranks, a demotic touch that unsettled some of his superiors, yet failed to connect him to his men. He knew it wasn’t working, but he had decided that the principle was sound, and so he stayed there, making the people around him uncomfortable. What he needed was someone like Paoloni to tell him to fuck off back to the top of the table where he belonged.
The meeting began. Inspector Rosario Panebianco stood up, touched his lips to indicate he wanted less noise before speaking. “It was not a hit-and-run accident. It was deliberate,” he began. “The victim is.. let me see how you say this name… Krishnamachari, an Indian national, had a store in a district where there is no real Indian community to turn to. An isolated place just off Via Pamphili on a dirty little street called Via Busiri Vici. He was on his own there all day. An easy target. He had two children to support. He came under pressure to pay a pizzo of ten percent of turnover, and reported it. This was last year.”
Panebianco sat down and nodded at Investigating Magistrate Gestri.
Gestri wore the tense grimace of a man who was traveling fast on a motorbike toward some important fate. His hair was swept back, his chin pointed forward, his cheekbones high, the tendons on his neck stretched forward. He remained seated, one hand gripping the edge of the table.
“We have the files here,” he said. He pointed to a short stack of file folders held together by red tape on the table. He clenched a yellow pencil in his teeth, took it out, and examined the bite marks. “Get them. That’s essentially my only instruction here. This is a crystal clear, linear exercise. It requires almost no investigative work. I shall concentrate my energy on shattering the understanding between the culprits and those who allowed them to operate.”
Gestri released the edge of the table, cracked his knuckles, glared at the papers like he wanted to set them on fire with his eyes, and said, “The extortionists are a repeat offender called Leo Leporelli and his monkey, Giacomo Scariglia. They went back to Krishnamachari, and kept going back, and Krishnamachari kept reporting them to us.”
Panebianco stood up again. “Here we have the usual stuff,” he said. “They superglued his locks, spray-painted the front, exploded three or four carton bombs at night, smashed the windows, followed Krishnamachari home, followed his wife. This wife has to go to a factory in Pomezia and uses the buses from EUR to get there. So Krishnamachari accompanies his two children on foot to school every morning, picks them up again in the afternoon. Sarjan is eight and Sabina five. This afternoon after school, they’re crossing the road at the traffic lights just outside the school, daughter on one side, son on the other, a Pathfinder doing about 55 runs the light, plows into the three of them, continues on its way without slowing. Hundreds of people about, nobody got its registration. But we know who it was. We know this because one of Leporelli’s friends reported his Pathfinder stolen a few days before.”
“Like they wanted to taunt us,” said Rospo from behind Blume.
Blume felt he had been among his men for long enough, and left his seat. He walked over to the table beside Panebianco, and addressed the room. “I don’t think it is because they wanted to taunt us, I think it’s because, like most criminals, they are morons. They probably think reporting a vehicle stolen covers them.”
Panebianco slipped a report over the desk and Blume glanced at it. “Inspector Panebianco and Deputy Inspector La Magra arrived on the scene around thirty-five minutes after the incident.” He looked at Panebianco. “Anything to add, Rosario?”
“Well, the son died on the road, twenty meters away from his father. He was still alive on the street when we got there. This is because the ambulance took a long time coming, then the crew spent some time trying to immobilize him, and then, in the end, trying to resuscitate him. He was alive and speaking. Usually the shock stops that, but not this time.”
“What about the girl?”
“The daughter’s critical. The hospital says she could suffer brain damage, but it’s too early to say. They operated last night to relieve the pressure on the skull, but I don’t know how it went.”
Blume asked, “Is that it?”
“Yes,” said Panebianco. “I can’t think of anything else-regarding the scene.”
“La Magra?”
The Deputy Inspector stood up. The year before La Magra had got married, and invited the whole department to the wedding. Blume happily contributed to the gift. Unsure about what the invitation was supposed to mean, he asked around the office. There was a lot of eye-rolling and shrugging, and muttering about not even knowing the guy. It seemed clear that no one was going, so Blume made a weak excuse and opted out. It was not until about a month later that he realized he was the only person in the department who had not been there. Since then, La Magra had started referring everything through others so as not to deal directly with Blume. He was doing it again now, his gaze fixed steadily on the magistrate who was squinting intensely ahead. But as he listened to the young man, Blume felt the words were intended for him.
“Yeah, well… I saw nothing… Nothing useful for the investigation. There weren’t even skid marks to measure. The bastards didn’t brake, they accelerated.” He paused, and his gaze flickered toward Blume, who nodded encouragingly. He liked the young man, and kept meaning to congratulate him on getting married.
“A bit later,” continued La Magra, “when the medics had given up and put sheets over the two bodies, the mortuary men went in with the body bags.” He stopped as if to check that Blume was following the description in his mind’s eye. “So, one of the medics goes over to retrieve the sheets from the bodies. He takes the sheet off the father, whose arms are stretched out so wide, one hand had been visible all the time. He pulls at the sheet, takes two corners, and one of the mortuary men comes over to help. He takes the opposite two corners of the sheet and, together, they fold it up. Then the medic goes over to the child, and he picks up the sheet covering him, gives it a quick shake, and snaps it likes this”: La Magra mimed the action. “Then he folds it, tucks it under his arm.”
La Magra attended to an itching above his eyebrow and shifted his gaze to a space behind Blume’s right shoulder. “You see? That second sheet covering him, all it needed was one single fold.”
Blume took out a pen and opened his notebook. He did not need to write anything, but La Magra needed a space in which to recompose himself without Blume scrutinizing his face.
“We know it was these guys?” said Blume, pen poised over the page. He glanced up to see Panebianco nod. “Right. Then we’ll get the bastards. Like the magistrate said, we don’t need too many detectives. You, me, Grattapaglia until… well, when Grattapaglia takes some leave of absence, maybe Inspector Mattiola can take his place.”
When the meeting was over, Gestri reached over and tapped Blume on the arm.
“Can I have a word? In private?”
“Sure,” said Blume. He clapped his hands loudly. “Come on, clear the room. I need to talk to Magistrate Gestri alone in here. Come on, come on!”
When the room was empty, he nodded to the magistrate. “OK, so what is it?”
“That wasn’t exactly subtle.”
“You mean you don’t want anyone to know you’re having a private word with me? You should have said.”
“No, no. I suppose it’s fine like this. I wanted to talk about tactics and explore the possibility of a shortcut. These two extortionists operated with the express consent of a Camorra gang in Ostia. They paid a fee. The gang won’t be happy with what’s happened, and to make it even less happy, I’m going after their commercial interests, or I’m going to make a big show of it. Can we put out the word that as soon as we have these two the pressure stops? Speed things up a bit. I’ve been asked to deal with this as fast as possible.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” said Blume. “But they could turn up dead.”
“I don’t prosecute corpses, so alive is best.”
“OK. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Do you know someone who can get a message through to the Ostia gang? Preferably through unofficial channels.”
“Yes,” said Blume. “I do know somebody who’s rather good at that sort of thing.”
Blume headed back to his office, telling Panebianco to send Rospo in.
Ten minutes later, Rospo arrived, a fug of cigarette smoke coming off him.
“Have you finished your report on the mugging of the Chinese couple?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I need to talk with Agente Di Ricci, who was on duty with me. He’s nowhere to be found right now.”
“Just do it. With or without Di Ricci. Meanwhile, I want you to find out if the preliminary autopsy report on Henry Treacy is ready, and if so, go get it. They won’t send you a copy. You’ll have to tap your vast reserves of charm.”
The forehead creased in annoyance. “Which do I do first?”
Blume’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. “Both,” he said. “Now get out of here. I’ve got a call.”
“Surely Largo Argentina is a handy lunch venue for you? A four-minute walk, and that’s at my pace.”
It was the Colonel. Blume drummed his fingers on the desk, and thought.
“I’ll have Treacy’s autopsy report with me by then,” said the Colonel.
“I can see that whenever I want.”
“True. But we have other arrangements to discuss. An autopsy report will make a difference.”
Blume agreed to meet in two hours’ time. He spent the next hour catching up on paperwork. He read a report on human resource efficiency mapping, and felt pleased to have got that done. A minute later, he realized he had not taken in a single word.
Shortly after midday, Panebianco knocked, entered, and told him Inspector Mattiola wanted to see him.
“Tell her to come straight in. She should always come straight in, damn it,” said Blume.
Panebianco gave him a funny look and left, leaving the door open. Caterina came in and closed it behind her.
“So,” said Blume. “How was Pistoia?”
“Great. The locals even sent a car to pick me up at the train station.”
“That was a courteous touch,” said Blume. “Well, enlighten me.”
“I found Manuela’s artist mother.”
“Where?”
“Working unhappily and inartistically in a bank, Cassa Di Risparmio Di San Miniato SpA, to be precise.”
“Exactly as her daughter told us yesterday in the gallery.”
“Her daughter told us a pack of lies, but like any good liar, she based it on the truth,” said Caterina with evident relish. She sat down in the armchair. “I had the local police take me to the bank, and the guard let me straight in. I had to wait for the manager in his office. He arrived at nine. I asked him if there was anyone called Chiara Angelini who worked in the bank. That’s the name Manuela gave us. Chiara Angelini. He said no.”
She paused for effect, so to humor her, Blume said, “Wrong bank?”
“No. Right bank, wrong name.”
She paused again to let this sink in.
“Look, just get on with it,” said Blume.
Caterina took her time in producing her notebook, and then appeared to have difficulty in finding the right spot. Blume swallowed a sigh, which made his ears pop. Finally, when she judged she had made him wait long enough, she continued:
“The bank manager said he was sure there was no one by that name, and since there were only twenty members of staff and he had been working there for ten years… So I asked him to pass round a quiet word that I had come up from Rome as part of an investigation, details of which I could not divulge, but that a girl called Manuela Ludovisi was in serious trouble. He went out and whispered this to the three members of staff there, and five minutes later, Manuela’s distraught mother, who is not called Chiara Angelini but rather Angela Solazzi, was sitting in front of me in the manager’s office, begging me for information and reassurance.”
“So Manuela Ludovisi’s mother is called Angela Solazzi,” said Blume. “Angelini-Angela. Always good to keep a pseudonym close to the original. I suppose this means Manuela Ludovisi is not really called Manuela Ludovisi, and you were right all along?”
“Yes, I was right. The girl’s real name is Emma.”
“Emma… Manuela, another close match. Emma what?”
“Emma Solazzi. She kept her mother’s name after all. But the part about her father being gone seems to be true.”
“Solazzi and Ludovisi aren’t particularly similar.”
“True,” said Caterina. “Not that it matters any more given what I found out this morning. I was right about the accent. Angela Solazzi and her daughter Emma moved to Pistoia just a few years ago. Before that, she and Emma, who you still think of as Manuela, lived in a villa near Nettuno. Oh, and the mother says her daughter hates Pistoia, and wanted to move back to near Rome as soon as she could.”
“Why all these pointless lies?”
“That’s what I wanted to know,” said Caterina. “We left the bank-that was her idea and the manager was so relieved to see me go he didn’t seem to mind-and went to a park bench, but she began to clam up and become unhelpful. I had to apply pressure.”
“What sort of pressure?”
“It’s not something I feel good about. In fact, I still feel a bit sick. I scared her about her daughter, as if something bad had happened. She kept asking me for reassurance, and I wouldn’t give her anything until I was sure she had told me as much as she could.”
“That’s a perfectly good strategic ploy,” said Blume. “It’s legal, too.”
“It wasn’t moral. And I was using the image of Elia in my own mind to make it more real, so she could see anxiety in me, too. I should have found a better way. But I was in danger of missing the train back, and I needed to work quickly.”
“Deadlines make creative geniuses of us all,” said Blume.
“She knew Emma had taken up a false identity in Rome for the purposes of getting a job in a gallery. So then I asked her why her daughter would do that, and she wouldn’t say. I asked if Emma has a criminal record of some sort, and she got all indignant and righteous, so I told her Emma was about to get a criminal record for giving false testimony to a public official, for possession of false documents, pursuant to Articles 476-80 of the criminal code and all that stuff, which kept her worrying. Then she tells me she was against the idea from the start, because it was always going to lead to trouble. At this point, she suggested we have a drink, though it was not even ten in the morning.”
“Sounds like she was nervous,” said Blume.
“I think it would not be the first time she had had a morning drink. She must have been very good-looking once, like her daughter, and she’s still good-looking now, but slightly bloated, and her eyes have the watery-lazy look that you see in drinkers. We had cappuccinos instead. All she would say was that Emma needed a different identity to work at the gallery. It was never meant to fool public officials, or even the tax authorities, or so she said, and that was more or less it. Except I did miss the train.”
Blume looked at his phone clock. “You got back quickly enough.”
“The Pistoia police drove me all the way to Florence, saw me on board the Eurostar. They were great.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Blume. “I’m not sure what it tells us, but it’s interesting. Your instinct was right. I apologize for almost getting in your way.”
“But I haven’t told you the best bit, yet.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” said Blume, and she really was. He had never seen her so happy, seen a smile light up her features quite like this.
“I was leaving some coins on the table to pay for my share of the coffees,” said Caterina, “and Angela was sort of looking into the middle distance when I had an illumination, or an insight or whatever you want to call it.”
“When I hear what it is, I’ll decide what to call it,” said Blume.
“I said, off the cuff, that we knew John Nightingale was Emma’s father. She went deathly pale. Then she asked how I knew.”
Caterina stretched out her legs and leaned back, plainly enjoying both the memory and Blume’s expression of surprise.
“That was a damned good question,” said Blume. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. But the reason I guessed is from another thing that I think will interest you. On the train up, I was leafing through the photocopy of Treacy’s notes looking for a mention of Nightingale and the Colonel together, and I found one. And it makes sense that both Nightingale and the Colonel would be anxious to stop Treacy from publishing, if only for this part of his writings.”
“You read this bit on the train?” said Blume.
“Yes.”
“I have read through the notebooks twice,” said Blume. “What’s the passage you are referring to?”
“Basically, it’s where Nightingale and the Colonel sold forged paintings to a Cosa Nostra boss in Trapani,” she said.
“That’s toward the beginning of the second volume,” he said. “Do you have the photocopy with you now?”
“Yes.” Caterina bounced out of her chair and came back a minute later holding the photocopies.
Blume glared at her. “Where were they?”
Caterina’s step faltered. “In my desk. Locked.”
“You brought them here?”
She nodded.
“And you just said you had them on the train, too. What if you had forgotten them there? What if Panebianco or Rospo or someone had found them in your desk?”
“They were locked in a drawer.”
“Fuck it. That’s not good enough, Caterina. I asked you to be extra careful.”
“So where are the originals, Commissioner?”
“In a safe place,” said Blume.
“Here?”
Blume hesitated.
“Or maybe somewhere in your apartment? So which one of us is physically guarding them. Actively looking after the documents? You or me?”
“Sorry,” said Blume. “It’s more the idea of them being on your desk out there than anything else.”
“In my desk, not on it. There’s a difference.” Caterina sat down again, her face creased. She seemed ten years older than a minute ago. “You could have said thank you for what I achieved this morning. Maybe not thank you, even though you and I both know this is now your private little investigation. How about a ‘Well done, Caterina,’ something along those lines?”
Blume held up his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. “Sometimes I’m not so good with people. It’s something I can’t seem to do much about.”
“Then you’re not a good commander.”
In the silence that followed, the loudest noise was the sound of the scratch of Blume’s pen as he amended something on his notepad. Caterina sat mutely listening to the heavy slowness of Blume’s breath, punctuated by a strange sound that seemed to come from far away but, she realized, was coming from him. He was humming broken bars of some song very softly and intermittently to himself, apparently without being aware of what he was doing. She realized she could look up, since he was bent down, attending to his work. Her photocopy sat unopened on his table.
After a while, she said, “Do you at least want me to show you the piece I am referring to?”
“Well, just to be sure.”
She opened the section, which she had marked with a Post-it note.
“The Trapani deal with the Colonel. What made you associate this with Nightingale’s being Manuela’s father?”
“Emma, not Manuela,” corrected Caterina. “The girl’s real name is Emma.”
“Right.”
“My own fears.”
“Of?”
“That some criminal event will break into my private life. I often wonder what I would do. And I was also thinking of Emma’s generous pay, the apartment, her confident manner. I’d like to see Nightingale.”
“I forgot, you didn’t meet him the other day.”
“No. In fact, I wanted to ask you what he looks like and the color of his eyes.”
“Bald. Gray… pink. I have no idea. Who notices these things?”
“Emma has blue eyes, fair skin, fair hair,” said Caterina. “She looks more northern European than Italian, really. Her mother, Angela, has dark hair, graying now, dark-brown hair, huge brown eyes, and sallow skin. They don’t look alike at all. But it’s not just that. If Nightingale really did feel under threat from Cosa Nostra, it makes sense for him to hide his daughter’s identity. It’s what I would do if I knew how. Nightingale does know how. He invents histories. So when I got confirmation that Emma’s history was partly made-up, it made me think of him. He creates provenances for works of art. Emma is his work of art. Fear of proxy reprisal seemed an excellent reason for hiding her identity.”
“If he was anxious to hide her identity, it doesn’t make sense to have her working with him,” said Blume. “That puts her right back in danger.”
“I know. I thought about that later. But it keeps her close, too.”
“So we have Nightingale, Angela, and their daughter Emma,” Blume traced an imaginary triangle on his desk. “Mother, father, daughter. You know, more than anything else, it looks to me like some sort of plot to exclude Treacy. So Nightingale did not like or trust Treacy enough to reveal the existence of his daughter.”
“Which raises an interesting possibility,” said Caterina. “By inviting his daughter to work in the Galleria Orpiment, Nightingale was making a fool of his partner. Or imagine a very pretty woman arrives in the gallery, maybe Treacy thinks he can make a move on her, ignore the gulf of years. She tells her father, or maybe Nightingale sees it happening, gets very angry, confronts his partner, they argue, or he hires someone, or he just comes up behind him at night, flattens him with an iron bar.”
“It was an inspired deduction,” said Blume.
“A lucky guess. If I had thought about it more, I might have discounted it again.”
“It makes Treacy a bit of a bastard for putting them in danger by writing about how they defrauded the Mafia.”
“I agree,” said Caterina. “I don’t think I’d have liked Treacy all that much.”