By My Hand (7 page)

Antonio sat there, his gaze once again lost in the darkness. He gently shook his head and murmured:

“This, too. This, too, you stole from me. Damn your soul.”

 

 

 

 

T
he week before Christmas the center of the city became one huge marketplace; and police headquarters was right in the center of the center. To reach their office Ricciardi and Maione now had to pass hundreds of beggars, lottery sellers, junkmen, water carriers, shoeshine boys, all busy trying to steal their rivals' clients. The air was rife with odors, the smell of fried foods, pizza, macaroni, seafood, and candied almonds. You had to take care not to step on the merchandise that was laid out on filthy sheets on the ground: vases, glasses, silverware, and other utensils.

Maione had to dance a pretty elaborate jig, on the toe tips of his boots, to keep from stepping on the open hand, resting on the pavement, of a begging gypsy girl.

“Damn it, it's becoming impossible to even get through here on foot! And then, all these wonderful smells, how is a poor devil supposed to eat only at meals, and not in continuously?”

Ricciardi, thanks to his considerably smaller build, managed to maneuver with less difficulty.

“Christmas is conspiring against us, too. This investigation is going to be no easy matter, let me tell you. We're going to wear out a lot of shoe leather, and we're going to have to make our way through this market more than once.”

When they got to the office, they found, waiting for them at the foot of the staircase, none other than Ponte, assistant to the deputy chief of police Garzo, head of the mobile squad. Like almost the entire staff at police headquarters, Ponte was convinced that Ricciardi brought bad luck, that he had some obscure link to the devil or some other dark deity: because of the unorthodox way he conducted his investigations; because of his complete lack of friends, or of even rudimentary communication with any of his colleagues aside from Maione; because of his disinterest in advancing his career, in spite of his many successes.

Strange, inexplicable things. Which for Ponte, a cowardly and superstitious little man, translated to a simple imperative: to avoid, as much as was possible, having anything to do with him. And to avoid looking into his incredible green eyes, which, as far as he could tell, were a direct portal to hell itself.

“
Buongiorno
, Commissario. Brigadier . . .”

Maione made no effort to conceal his repulsion for that policeman who had chosen to become the deputy police chief's butler; and, knowing the reason why the man spoke without looking his superior officer in the eye, a superior officer of whom he was very fond, Maione became openly hostile.

“Well, look who just crawled out of the sewer. What do you want, Ponte? We're busy, we're working a murder, if you can remember what that is.”

Ponte let the irony fall flat; he was a master at sidestepping fights. Looking at a vague point on the floor, he said:

“I know, I know, Brigadie'. And that's exactly why I'm here. The deputy chief of police would like to see you both immediately.”

“Incredible: we still don't really know what happened, and Garzo's already asking for a report. Let's get it over with and go see him immediately. That way we can get to work.”

 

The deputy chief of police Angelo Garzo felt certain that he possessed a superior talent for diplomacy. He'd built his career on it, on his diplomacy, although the colleagues he'd surpassed—thanks to various whispering campaigns and personal favors leveraged through influence and connections—might well have seen matters differently.

To tell the truth, his wife's blood ties to the prefect of nearby Salerno had also played a role. But Garzo preferred to see his personal qualities and determination to reach the top as the chief factors in his professional trajectory.

As he waited for Ricciardi he shot a glance at himself in the mirror, and he liked what he saw. His mustache was his latest innovation. He'd given it plenty of thought. He didn't want to give the impression that he was someone who took excessive care when it came to grooming; those types are usually loafers, he'd decided. Then, as his sideburns started to frost over with a pepper-and-salt coloration, he gradually came to the conclusion that a mustache would make a perfect companion piece, endowing him with distinction and authority, and he'd nurtured it like a rose garden. The result, he had to admit, was quite satisfactory.

Ah, Ricciardi, Ricciardi. His albatross and his prized possession. Uncontrollable, independent, undisciplined; but also a guarantee of success. With the inestimable added advantage of being entirely indifferent about the advancement of his career. In other words, Ricciardi had no interest in taking his job the way that Garzo, in fact, had set his sights on the police chief's. This meant that Garzo could claim the commissario's brilliant sleuthing as his own in the eyes of his superiors, especially those at the ministry in Rome.

Certainly, more than once they'd had a hard time of it: that time that someone murdered the great tenor who was a personal friend of Il Duce, for instance; and even though he had a magnificent confession safely in the bag, Ricciardi had insisted on continuing to investigate until he'd established that the singer was anything but a sterling individual. Vezzi, his name had been. And his widow, who was friends with Il Duce's daugher, had later come to live in Naples; Garzo suspected that she'd fallen for Ricciardi of all people, the Good Lord alone knew why.

In other words, he was a tiger that had to be ridden, this commissario with his unsettling green eyes. And Garzo was the man to ride him, especially now that he had a new mustache.

 

Ponte knocked discreetly and poked his head into Garzo's office.

“Dottore, Commissario Ricciardi and Brigadier Maione, as you requested.”

Maione shot him a venomous glare and hissed:

“Well, look at that, a talking lapdog. But can it bow?”

Garzo put on a jovial, conciliatory air.

“Oh, here he is, the man of the hour!
Caro
,
carissimo
Riccia­rdi,
prego
, come in and have a seat. Brigadier,
buongiorno
.”

Ricciardi entered but remained standing.

“
Buongiorno
, Dottore. You'll have to excuse us, but we don't have much time. We're investigating a double homicide, and as you've always taught me, the first forty-eight hours are crucial.”

The deputy chief of police's jaw dropped. How dare he, this ridiculous underling, come in and tell him that he didn't have time for him? Diplomacy, he thought. Remember to be diplomatic.

“In fact, that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Ponte informed me that it was during your shift that the call came in for the Garofalo case.”

Addressing Ponte, who was gazing at the ceiling with great interest, Maione murmured:

“Ah, nothing eludes the notice of the secret police.”

“He—by which I mean Garofalo, of course—was an officer of the port militia,” Garzo went on.

“A centurion, to be exact. Which would correspond . . .”

Ricciardi broke in:

“. . . to the rank of captain, from what we've been told.”

Garzo smiled, pleasantly surprised.

“I see that the infallible machinery of the mobile squad has already been set in motion. Now, tell me, what do you know about the port militia?”

Ricciardi shrugged his shoulders. He hadn't taken his hands out of his overcoat pockets, except to push back the rebellious lock of hair that kept falling over his forehead.

“We know that it's in charge of the movement of cargo and the regulation of fishing.”

“Precisely,” said Garzo, with a smile of approval. “Which, in a major seaport like the one we live in, makes it one of the most important police agencies.”

Maione furrowed his brow.

“Police? I thought that they were only concerned with administrative irregularities.”

The deputy chief of police wasn't pleased to have a mere noncommissioned officer worm his way into the conversation, but he was determined not to be rude.

“No, they provide support as an allied police agency to the coast guard when it comes to fishing and freight, with identical jurisdiction and responsibilities, even if they don't possess their own watercraft. In any case, the point is this: like any other agency under the command of the national volunteer militia, the port militia is a branch of the
fascio
, the national Fascist party. They report to the Blackshirts, and the Black­shirts report to Rome.”

Ricciardi smirked.

“I'm beginning to understand. This means that our dead centurion, Emanuele Garofalo, is quite the excellent cadaver.”

Garzo stiffened his jaw: a gesture that worked especially well since he'd grown his mustache, and one that he'd practiced repeatedly in the mirror.

“I don't know what you're trying to say with that tone: but yes, it's true, this is an important murder. The man was spoken of as a likely future consul, I'm told. He'd been promoted for special merits, and he was widely respected for his integrity and sense of duty.”

There was a moment of silence, during which Ricciardi scratched his chin.

“I'm sorry, Dottore. Are you trying to offer me some unofficial advice?”

Garzo began to lose his patience.

“I have no unofficial advice for you. I just wanted to tell you that . . . well, to make a long story short, we've just received a dispatch from Rome that unofficially advises”—Garzo faltered as he realized that he'd used the same phrase twice in two completely contradictory sentences—“that is, that suggests that we conduct the investigation with great care and caution.”

Ricciardi hadn't moved a muscle, but Maione knew that he was enjoying himself immensely.

“I'll devote great care to the investigation, Dottore, as I'm sure you know. The same amount of care that we devote to every investigation. But caution? What exactly do we need to be cautious about?”

Garzo felt as if he had his back to the wall. He stroked his mustache with his forefinger, but that offered scarce comfort.

“Caution, caution. Using caution to avoid stepping on certain toes, as you have the unfortunate habit of doing; to avoid being arrogant, to keep from annoying prominent citizens. For once in your life, Ricciardi, caution!”

The commissario bowed his head.

“Don't worry about a thing, Dottore. We'll use all our . . . caution. May we go?”

With the unpleasant sensation that he'd been beaten once again, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what game they'd been playing, Garzo waved his hand in annoyance and dismissed them.

On his way out, ostensibly by accident, Maione stepped on Ponte's foot, who took it without so much as a whimper.

I'
ve decided: this year I'm going to make another hill.

I'll put it right over here, to the side, like Posillipo with the Vomero. That way I can make the countryside, the flock of sheep, a few houses lit up from within. The children like that—lambs and shepherds.

Maybe it won't be as densely populated as what's already there, but that doesn't matter. It's like the city, after all: there are some parts with more people and other places with less.

I don't even have to rebuild the structure with wooden sticks; all it takes is a slightly larger piece of cork, the moss for the grass, and a few wire trees. Here's the cork. I'll have to cut it, to make a rectangle to nail down.

The knife is in my hand. And I think of flesh.

Flesh isn't like cork: it's so easy to cut, so very easy. All it takes is one quick clean slash. The problem is making up your mind to cut it.

But now I know how it works. You lay the blade down, and then you press.

The flesh takes in the blade, it's elastic; it gives a little.

But then the blade cuts through the surface.

And that's when you can no longer turn back.

 

 

 

M
aione was frothing with fury.

“That idiotic buffoon. He wants to tell us how to do our jobs! How dare he? Him and that incompetent Ponte, as God is my witness, one of these days I'll slam my fist into his head so hard I'll make him forget his address! And another thing, does he think that those scraps of whore-bush he's grown on his upper lip have somehow made him any less of a moron?”

Ricciardi, sunk comfortably in his old leather office chair behind his desk, was fiddling pensively with his paperweight, made from a fragment of mortar shell.

“On the contrary, this time more than ever before, good old Garzo has been a great help to us. He's given us an important lead, you know.”

Maione wasn't ready to calm down.

“Commissa', that guy's never going to give us any useful information, because he himself is a completely useless individual. Did I tell you that Antonelli, who was temporarily assigned to switchboard duty, told me that he overheard him telling his wife on the phone: ‘Ricciardi, he knows how to catch criminals because he understands the way they think. Which means that he's a criminal himself.' To justify the fact that he doesn't understand criminals, or anything else!”

“Think about it, Raffae'. The bodies are still warm, and the party apparatus has already sprung into action. Garzo does nothing on his own initiative, ever, unless somebody tells him to. So why did the militia intervene immediately? I have a feeling that the stroll we need to take over to the barracks where Garofalo worked is going to provide us with some interesting pieces of information.”

Maione scratched his head.

“You think? Then we'd better get strolling, sooner rather than later. That's what you always say, isn't it, that the first few hours are the most important, no?”