In a Heartbeat (6 page)

‘You didn’t answer your mobile, and at work they said you were at home. I saw you come out, so I followed you,’ he said. ‘If this bothered you I’m sorry, but I’ve got to lay low for a while, and we’ve got some unfinished business.’ He balled up the napkin and put it in his pocket.

‘Unfinished business?’

‘Are you drunk? C’mon, let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘To my office. Don’t worry, it’s just us.’

‘And what if I don’t want to go?’

‘That would be unfortunate.’ I felt his grip on my arms again. His fingers were long with thumbs like hammers. This freak who read tarot cards at the African Bazaar told me that powerful hands were a sign of homicidal tendencies. I didn’t believe him until that moment. I could have turned on my heel and run, but the guy knew who I was and where I lived. I, on the other hand, had no idea who he was so I had to go with the flow.

‘Fine,’ I said.

He smiled, showing his yellow teeth. His car was parked a few metres away. It was a dirty Fiat that reeked of fags. As he drove he explained that he had followed me until the end of the line and then lost me between the pigeons and the tourists.

‘I thought that you’d taken a taxi, and I found out which one from one from my sources. It’s a part of my job to get the right information. You should know that.’

From his way of doing things, I imagined his job wasn’t something you would find written on a business card, but when we got to his office, in a building next to a construction site filled with excavators and rubble, I had to change my mind.

A tag on the intercom was printed with the outline of a guy with a magnifying glass, made by some novice:
Poirot Detective Agency
. A private detective.
Poirot?
It would’ve been funny had I not been so scared.

I peeked while the detective punched in the code on the panel to disengage the alarm:
0000
. The door opened to a small room that smelt of dirty socks, with two desks and a computer that was old even during my time. He was packing. There was a pile of papers and folders on the floor, apparently taken randomly from the shelves.

He made me sit in a squeaky chair in front of one of the desks. Dressed in a tacky pinstripe suit, he looked me over. His expression reminded me of a dog that I used to have called Spillo. Spillo came into my life one spring evening, following me home like we were old friends. He was a mutt, a little bigger than the dogs that you’d see in the old portraits you find in museums. The crossbreeding had given him short legs and a sausage shape. The dog was covered with long dirty white hair. He was missing half an ear. The wound didn’t seem to be from a fight; more likely the cause was a crap vet or a psycho who wanted to have some warped fun. He didn’t have a collar and there was no one around looking for him. So I took him home on a whim even though I’d never owned a dog before. I would never own another one afterwards.

Spillo’s main attribute was that he was an expert on the human soul and he knew instantly if he liked someone or not. For some reason, the people he didn’t like, I didn’t like either. For example, he hated cops. He barked even if he saw them passing out of the window. Spillo lasted only a year. I found him one morning under my bed, where he’d gone to pass his last moments in silence.

This guy’s expression was the same as Spillo’s on one of those rare occasions where he couldn’t decide whether to growl or wag his tail. I had no other name to give the guy, so I called him Spillo.

‘Do you have your chequebook on you?’ Spillo said.

‘Yes.’

‘Make two out to yourself and endorse them to me.’ I’ll use them to cover debts with these people who also appreciate discretion. If anyone asks, tell them that you blew it at the roulette table at the Casinò di Campione.’

‘How much did I lose?’

‘Ten thousand, as we agreed.’

‘Ten thousand
euros
?’

‘It’s a little late to negotiate. The job is done, and I’ve been waiting to collect for a month.’

Whatever he did for me had to have been demanding … or illegal.

‘Just to let you know that as of tomorrow I won’t be here,’ he continued, ‘and I won’t answer the numbers that you know. If there’s an emergency, pass by Esposito’s just like the last time. He’ll know how to find me but it’s better if we avoid one another.’

I didn’t understand a thing, but I preferred not to let on and look confused. The name Esposito was familiar, but it was also a name that was everywhere in Italy, so I didn’t think much about it. I took out the chequebook. I twisted the cap off the Mont Blanc pen with some difficulty. Maybe the Ad Exec just kept it for show and somehow it had rusted shut. It wrote badly, and I used it to write the first cheques of my life. Spillo looked at them then put them in his pocket. Then he got up and took a painting of a lake surrounded by trees from the wall, revealing a hidden combination safe. He opened the door, then threw an envelope at me. ‘Even if you said that you didn’t want them anymore, you paid for them, and they’re yours.’

I opened the envelope expecting something interesting but the surprise was, at best, modest. It contained about ten standard A4 sheets of paper with four columns of numbers. They were phone numbers with strange area codes. For every number there was the date, time and duration of the call.

A private eye, a list of telephone calls.

From what I gathered the Ad Exec had put someone under surveillance and paid big time. On the back of the first page I found the name of the recipient of such great attention. Only the surname, Roveda, was listed. The only Roveda that I knew was a junkie who played guitar in Parco di Trenno, but I doubted that it was the same one.

‘If I were you I’d throw that away immediately. They’re hot, especially now – more than before.’

Before what? I rolled up the envelope, put it in my coat pocket, and left the building. It was only then that I recognised the area. The construction site where the excavators dug was the former Porta Vittoria station. The discovery killed my mood. Another piece of my Milan had been levelled into history, another bad omen. A taxi driver finally noticed my raised arm and pulled over to the pavement. The door opened on its own, sliding to the side. I half-expected it to fly like a hovercraft, but it didn’t, and I travelled normally through the crowded streets. I was so depressed that I didn’t even look at the fabulous new world around me. I had had enough of it already. If only there was some good news for a change.

The only bit of relief that I had was that the day couldn’t get any worse.

I was wrong.

When I got home, the police were there, waiting for me.

4

The cops were coming out of my apartment and I recognised their stench even though they were undercover. When you had to watch out for them, you learned to spot them, to catch the way they walk and the way they talk. The first one was in his fifties, with a grey moustache, and had the air and stance of a pissed-off southern Italian. The other was younger and looked like the boy who swept up after my old barber. Rosario was closing the door politely, but he reopened it when he caught a glimpse of me turning around to try to get the hell out of there. ‘Good evening, mister.’ Then he added, ‘The police are here.’

‘I see.’

The southerner stretched out his hand, ‘Signor Denti?’

‘Yes.’

‘Detective Augusto Ferolli, Squadra Mobile. This is my partner, Commissario Brambilla.’ He also shook my hand. ‘May we come in and talk for five minutes, if you don’t mind?’

Yeah I mind, a helluva lot. ‘Please come in.’

I had them sit down on the sofa in the living room and, excusing myself, I went to the bathroom. The envelope was burning a hole in my pocket, and it seemed like the cops could smell it too. I flushed the toilet and hid the envelope behind the bathroom cabinet. I made sure that it wasn’t sticking out and then went back.

‘Sorry, but when you gotta go, you gotta go.’

‘No problem,’ Ferolli said.

My hands were sweating. ‘Can I get you a coffee? Maybe a whisky?’

‘No, thank you.’ Ferolli had a heavy Sicilian accent. ‘We apologise for showing up like this, but your office receptionist said that you weren’t feeling well.’

‘Yes, that’s true, and then I felt better and went for a walk.’

‘I see.’

‘Hey, don’t tell the office.’ I winked.

Ferolli didn’t react. ‘That’s none of our business. Naturally, you know why we’re here.’

‘What, am I double-parked? Ho, ho.’

They weren’t amused.

‘No, Signor Denti. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I have some bad news.’ He paused. ‘Last night,’ he said gravely, ‘our colleagues over at Porta Genova found the corpse of Signor Roveda.’

He looked hard at me, studying my reaction.
Roveda! The phone records!
That’s why Spillo was blowing town!

‘Shit! Sorry. What I meant to say was— Oh, my God,’

Quite.

‘We can imagine it’s a surprise. Isn’t that right, Brambilla?’ Brambilla nodded in agreement.

I covered my face with my hands. Should I cry or something? Tear my hair out? I decided on a slight moan instead. ‘How did it happen?’

‘He was murdered, Signor Denti.’

‘How upsetting … He was so … so young.’

Brambilla coughed. ‘He was seventy years old.’

‘I meant young at heart, for his age.’ Now I was really sweating. ‘Who did it?’

‘We’d like to find out.’ Ferolli took out a pack of Nazionali cigarettes. They still existed. ‘May I smoke?’

‘Of course, as a matter of fact … ’ I took a cigarette from my pack and managed to light it on the fifth try. I looked around for an ashtray; there was none in sight. That’s right, the Ad Exec didn’t smoke. ‘Rosario! Rosario!’

‘Staff nowadays … ’ I said, rolling my eyes.

‘They left while you were in the bathroom.’

‘OK, then drop your ash on the floor.’

‘No, wait.’ Ferolli took the last cigarette from his pack and used the pack as an ashtray.

‘Well, I pay them to clean anyway. It’s marble, it won’t get ruined.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Oh, Roveda … ’

Ferolli wasn’t moved. ‘Signor Denti, when was the last time that you saw Signor Roveda?’

‘Alive?’ That was smart. ‘Listen, I’m too upset right now … could we … ’

Brambilla took out a notepad. ‘They said that you had a meeting with him last Friday.’

‘A meeting?’

‘At the office.’

‘Oh yeah, that’s right.’

‘May I ask what it was about?’

Ash fell on my trousers. ‘Dammit.’ I brushed it off. ‘It was about work.’

‘
Discussion related to company activity
,’ Brambilla wrote.

‘Could you be more specific?’ Ferolli requested.

I felt like I was being drilled for my school exams. ‘Well, you know that we’re in advertising. There was an … ad.’

‘An ad?’

‘For a detergent … you know, stuff that gets everything white.’

‘They said that it was an administrative meeting.’

Oh, God.

‘Yes, it was about a detergent
as well as
an administrative meeting.’

Ferolli put the cigarette out in the pack. ‘And was the overall mood of the meeting, how should we put it … a bit tense?’

‘No, not at all.’ I looked at them. ‘Well, maybe a little?’

I wasn’t doing very well.

‘They told us that Signor Roveda had raised his voice with you. There was, how should we say … the impression of a row.’

‘I assure you … ’

‘You left slamming the door behind you. They heard you say … can you read the statement, Brambilla?’

‘
That old piece of shit.
’

Did anyone mind their own business at Beagle & Manetti? I dropped my arms, defeated. ‘So maybe it’s true.’

‘This doesn’t mean anything of course,’ said Ferolli. ‘Please don’t feel like we’re pressing you. We’re simply having a friendly conversation. We only need information.’ He smiled at me the way Judas did before he kissed Jesus.

‘It doesn’t seem so friendly, if I may say so.’

‘So, since then, you’ve had no further contact with the deceased?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

Was this a trick question?

‘Yes.’

He looked at me, holding his gaze. ‘Did he appear to have any enemies?’

‘No. Everyone loved him.’

‘Actually … ’

Ferolli silenced his partner with a wave of his hand.

‘Loved, huh?’

Why couldn’t the ground open up and swallow me? Why couldn’t a bolt of lightning strike me down? ‘Within reason … ’

‘Within reason. Brambilla, write it down’.

‘
Believes that the victim’s relationships with his acquaintances were positive in nature overall.
’