By My Hand (22 page)

Maione felt his pulse throbbing in his temples.

“You set things right, sure . . . so the one who has to pay will finally pay. You set things right.”

Ricciardi came to a sudden halt.

“It's just that that's no way to set things right, my dear Raffaele. You want to fix one wrong with another, and that's followed by another, and on and on it goes. Forgiveness is difficult, maybe impossible. But that's why we have laws, that's why we have justice: to set things right. Don't you agree?”

Maione felt confused.

“It's a human impulse, Commissa', revenge. Sometimes it's much harder to keep from taking revenge than it is to take it.”

Ricciardi had started to walk quickly again.

“Yes, that's true. So in this case, we can't strike Lomunno from the list of potential killers. Among other things, he has no alibi, or at least he doesn't have anything that could exclude him from suspicion entirely, and his newfound tranquility, this sudden yearning for Christmas and family, manger scenes and pastries for his children, might very well mean that he's placated his conscience, precisely because he's finally taken revenge.”

Maione nodded thoughtfully.

“True enough. But it's also true that Lomunno is alone, and so who would be the second hand that Dr. Modo says struck Garofalo?”

They weren't far from police headquarters now; they were almost run over by the cart of a pots-and-pans vendor, piled high with copper cooking vessels clanging together.

“We ought to go to the Borgo Marinari and delve into the matter of the fishermen who were extorted,” Ricciardi said. “We might have better luck there.”

They turned the corner and walked through the main entrance into the courtyard, where they saw Livia's car parked and she herself leaning against the vehicle, smoking, a smile on her face. Neither of them failed to notice that a good dozen of their colleagues just happened to be leaning out of the upstairs windows, in spite of the piercing cold.

The woman tapped the ash off the tip of her cigarette, with a gleam in her eyes.

“Just in the nick of time; a few more minutes and my nose would have frozen off. Ciao, Ricciardi. Welcome back.”

T
he murderous hands are finishing their work.

They've slowed down, because they'd gotten ahead of themselves, when really the preparation is more like choreography: there's a time for everything, step by step, leading up to the grand finale. And the grand finale is a gesture, nothing but a gesture.

The murderous hands are industrious. They never stop for a moment. There are a thousand little details to fix, a thousand things to move from here to there, a centimeter forward, a centimeter back.

You might think that once the bulk of the work is done, once you've created the panorama complete with grottoes, terraces, temples, and caves, you've almost finished the job. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

The murderous hands know perfectly well that it's the details that make the difference. Preparation is important, as is execution, but the details are what distinguish a job well done from a slipshod one.

The murderous hands arrange the fountain, with water that really flows. The children are overjoyed at the sight of the fountain: it makes the whole manger scene seem real, that stream of water moving in the midst of the stationary figures.

And they finish arranging the herbs and plants: the rosemary, the myrtle, the java moss, the butcher's broom. The murderous hands are familiar with the tradition: the greenery chases away the evil spirits that haunt people's homes from the Day of the Dead to Epiphany. Need to chase away the evil spirits, for Christmas.

Because those who are dead are dead, and they need to stay with the dead. They can't come back, ever.

The murderous hands rub lightly together, pleased. It won't be long now, it won't be long at all.

Then everything will be complete.

 

M
aione took advantage of Livia's visit to make himself scarce, in spite of the silent plea for help that he saw in Ricciardi's eyes.

“If you don't mind, Commissa', I'm going to go run a few errands for Christmas. I'll see you back here in an hour, then we can take that stroll over to Borgo Marinari.”

“A wonderful place,” Livia chimed in, “charming, with the houses of the fishermen and the boats beached just beneath the Castel dell'Ovo. I've been there in the summer, is it worth visiting in winter, too?”

“No, it's really not worth it,” Ricciardi said to cut the conversation short. “We have to go there on a case, we have a couple of people to interview. All right, Maione, go ahead. But don't be long, we have work to do.”

Trailed by the curious eyes of the headquarters staff, as well as by an unknown number of lawyers', Livia and Ricciardi walked toward his office. A man in handcuffs, waiting to be led to his cell by two police officers, let out a long low whistle of appreciation as he watched the woman go by; one of the cops smacked the prisoner in the back of the head, but he exchanged a knowing glance with his partner. She certainly wasn't the kind of woman who could pass unnoticed.

Ricciardi, however, couldn't stand being the center of attention, so he hurried his gait, and when he finally shut the door behind him, he heaved a sigh of relief.

“You could have spared me the theatrical entrance, couldn't you?”

Livia peeled off her gloves.

“And I'm delighted to see you as well,
grazie
.
Buongiorno
to you, too. How are you?”

The commissario picked up on the sarcasm behind the greeting.

“Forgive me:
buongiorno
to you. It's just that I don't like attracting too much attention, you know. Police headquarters is like a small town; there's gossip, mockery, all of which tends to undermine the work we do.”

The woman took a seat, after removing her overcoat with its fur cuffs and collar.

“Of course, your work. The one thing that matters. Never giving yourself a break, never listening to what your heart is asking you.”

“Livia, please. Don't make a special effort to make me uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable. So I'm making you feel uncomfortable. Listen, Ricciardi, what if we spoke freely and clearly, just for once? If we looked each other in the eye and stopped beating around the bush, wouldn't it be better for us both?”

Ricciardi went to the window, looking down at the traffic in the piazza. On the bare-limbed holm oaks the few remaining leaves fluttered in the wind, and the strolling vendors hurried across the street to take their wares to the most heavily trafficked streets. In the distance, almost completely faded by now, were the images of a mother and a daughter killed in an accident some three months earlier. The woman and the girl, incongruously dressed in light summer dresses, were exchanging incomprehensible phrases:
Hurry, he's waiting for us
, the mother was saying, both her legs neatly shorn off.
My top, I lost my top, my top
, the little girl with her skull staved in was replying. She was in too much of a hurry to pick up her toy. You can't just suddenly turn around and go back, after you've crossed the street.

You can't go back.

“Livia, you know how I feel. We've talked it over many times. You're a beautiful woman, you see it yourself, you're well aware of it. You can have any man you want; and even if you weren't as beautiful as you are, you have plenty of friends, you're smart, you're wealthy. Why me? With all my problems, with all my quandaries?”

The woman considered the question seriously; it was one she asked herself frequently. She thought back on her suitors, both the ones who still called her from Rome and the new ones who sent her flowers and chocolates with fervent notes every morning.

“But you're the one that I want. You see, Ricciardi: I can sense two different people inside you, distinct and separate. One of them keeps the other one hidden, chained, like a hostage; and he forces him to suffer a long, involuntary solitude. Behind the facade of an apparent absence of emotions there's someone who needs to laugh, to open up to the sunshine. To be loved. And you know that I had proof of that, not long ago.”

Ricciardi sighed and turned away from the window.

“You've had proof, you say?”

Livia laughed, with a nervous edge. That man disturbed her deeply, and for the first time in her life she didn't know what to do or say.

“I know what you're about to say. That you were sick, that you had a fever. That it was raining out, pouring down, and you were suffering over something you had inside. But I held you in my arms, Ricciardi; and a woman knows when a man is fully present and aware.”

Ricciardi looked at her for a long time. His heart was touched by her brash attitude, her bold words, and the contrast with her bewildered gaze and her faintly trembling lower lip.

“I won't say that I wasn't fully present and aware. I won't say that I don't remember what happened between us that night. I was weak, yes, that's true, and I had a deep pain inside me. But for once the loneliness was too much for me, and I could no longer keep it to myself. I came to you, Livia, this I have to admit: even if I never knocked at your front door. I wanted warmth, I wanted hands and skin. Forgive me, I beg you.”

Livia was caught off guard once again. She hadn't been expecting an admission of weakness from Ricciardi.

“But don't you understand that that's exactly what I want to give you? A little warmth, a little joy? Listen to me, Ricciardi: I'm not trying to lay claim to you; that's not the kind of woman I am. You came to me, and I was happy you did. I was very glad to have that time with you, but I'll be the first to say that it was a chance encounter,” she said, running her hand over her eyes. “But it's also proof that a man like you can have a moment if not of happiness, at least of respite.”

Ricciardi stood listening, hands in his pockets, his usual lock of hair dangling over his forehead, his green eyes expressionless. He could have been a statue.

“There are things about me you don't know, Livia. I'm not so . . . aloof, shall we say, by choice. Each of us has his or her own personality, and mine keeps me removed from certain emotions, certain sentiments.” He closed his eyes halfway and heard the little girl, in the piazza behind and beneath him, searching for her toy. “And there's more. I do feel something, a strong feeling, I believe, for a person. I've told you that, once before. In other words, there's another woman.”

Livia's head started spinning. Her heart raced in her chest. Fight, she told herself. If you really want this man, then it's time to fight.

“Does she know it? Have you told her that you feel what you feel for her? Have you felt her skin, laid your hands on her flesh? Has she felt your breath on her lips?”

Ricciardi opened his mouth, then shut it. He turned pale.

“No, she doesn't know. I haven't told her yet.”

Livia laughed, but the laughter didn't reach her eyes.

“Well? That means that you have an extra something with me, no? That we might have shared nothing more than an instant, but share it we did. And the two of us are talking about it, at least.”

Ricciardi looked around: his old wooden office chair, his desk with the worn olive-green blotter paper, the bare bulb hanging on a wire in the center of the room because the lampshade, which had broken more than a year ago, had never been replaced. The paperweight made from a fragment of mortar shell, the glass inkwell. His world.

“Look around you, Livia. What do you see? A beat-up old office. I live here—much more than I do at home, a place I hardly know. What can a man like me offer a woman? I don't know how many years I have left to live, but I'll be spending most of my time right here. Why would you want someone like me?”

Livia got to her feet. There was a sweet smile on her face, but a tear was streaking down her cheek.

“You just don't get it, do you? You don't understand. There's no reason why. People fall in love, just like that, for no good reason. Even a woman like me, who's lived an intense life, who's been very, very happy and very, very unhappy, can still fall in love. So this, you see, Ricciardi, is the gift you've given me, come what may, whether you want me or not: you've made me see that I'm still alive, that I'm still capable of falling in love.”

She turned away, took a step toward the door, grabbed the handle. Then she turned back around and looked at him.

“And I want you to know: I'm willing to fight for this love. I'll stop at nothing, because I know that deep down you want me, too, that you want nothing more than to be led out of that miserable prison you've confined yourself to, God only knows the reason why. Never underestimate a woman in love, Ricciardi. I really wouldn't recommend that.”

She walked out the door, and hurried downstairs to her car. Once inside, she collapsed in tears.

As the vehicle left the courtyard, a pair of eyes watched it discreetly from the lobby of the building across the way.

I
mmersing himself in Via San Gregorio Armeno, Maione could hardly keep himself from thinking of the shack where the Lomunno family lived, at least what remained of them. Just as Christmas seemed to have stopped at the entrance to that dirt road, abandoning those who lived there to whatever fate awaited them, here in contrast every single window, every door, every shop screamed at the top of its lungs that the year's sovereign holiday was on its way, and everyone should prepare for its arrival.

This had always been the place to find shepherds for manger scenes, decorations for the home, things with which to deck the halls. Sales began in late October and went on until the Twelfth Day of Christmas, Epiphany, on January 6. After that the street sank back into commercial lethargy, with the vendors specializing in the cloth flowers that were used to adorn the hats and dresses worn by the ladies of the city.