The Deliverance of Evil (42 page)

Balistreri shook his head. “Exactly, unbelievable.
If
they were coincidences.”

It was Pasquali, as ever, who drew the conclusion.

“Let’s go back to the beginning, to Linda Nardi’s question about the investigators having something to link the four murders. Yes, we do. Do we have reasons for not revealing it? Yes, we do. If we said there was a serial killer going around carving letters of the alphabet into his victims, panic would ensue. Can we keep this a secret indefinitely? I would say no. Certainly, a fifth murder with another letter would be totally unacceptable.”

“Then what do you propose?” the chief of police asked.

Balistreri could see that Pasquali had made a decision. The news of the voice heard by Ornella Corona and Selina Belhrouz had had its intended effect.

“Balistreri, you now have forty-eight hours to arrest the murderer. Once the perpetrator’s in prison, we can tell the press part of the truth and they’ll forgive us for hiding it.”

Pasquali’s voice was cool, calm, and decisive. There was no room for any doubt or objection.

Floris stared at him incredulously. “I’m sorry, Captain Pasquali, but who would this perpetrator be that you’re speaking about?”

Pasquali wasn’t in the mood to mince words. “He wields enormous influence over the entire Romanian community. He never has an alibi. He speaks both Romanian and Italian. He could have used Adrian’s bike to go up the hill to Vasile. Samantha’s mother was his wife’s friend in 1982. Nadia lived in an apartment he owned. The four men who killed three policemen and almost killed Balistreri were his henchmen.”

“But we have no proof,” Floris said.

Pasquali looked at Balistreri. “Find proof, Michele. Tomorrow morning you can see Vasile and the three Roma who murdered Samantha. By Friday I want you to nail Marius Hagi on a multiple murder charge.”

Balistreri left the meeting with the uncomfortable feeling of having revealed too many things to Pasquali, and with regret for not having told him about the most dangerous thing he knew.

. . . .

“I imagine you have a very good reason for calling me.” His voice was calm, but not encouraging.

“We have to meet,” Pasquali whispered.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’ve gone too far, and on my own doorstep!” Pasquali was trying to keep the rage in his voice in check.

“Merely a fortuitous coincidence.”

“We have to stop this, right now,” Pasquali muttered in desperation.

“On that we’re in agreement. I’ll see to it. Prepare yourself for tomorrow.”

Pasquali hung up. He turned to the crucifix and began to pray. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

He felt Christ’s gaze on his head. He’d made a terrible mistake, and now the game was out of his control. Or perhaps it had never been in his control.

“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

. . . .

Balistreri was aware that speaking with ENT’s sole known shareholder was a final act of defiance toward whomever had warned and advised him in every possible way to keep his distance.

But Giovanna Sordi’s suicide had unleashed instincts in him that time and regret had gradually tamped down. His antidepressants were no longer any use, nor were his acid reflux pills. Cutting down on smoking and drinking had no effect, and getting into bed with a good book no longer did the trick for him. He could no longer put off the uncertain encounter with God, no use waiting for or fearing His judgment. The only thing that was any use at all was what he had sought ever since he was a boy, no matter what it cost—the truth. Without any compromises, with whatever force necessary, even at the risk of his own destruction.

Francesco Ajello appeared relaxed. Balistreri and Corvu caught up with him mid-morning at his golf club, where he had just finished playing a round with his son, Fabio. The four of them sat down at a table in the shade.

“It’s so hot,” Ajello complained, wiping away perspiration with a face towel while his son finished off a soda. “It’s only 10:30 and it’s already unbearable.”

“Aren’t you working today, sir?” Corvu asked.

Ajello brushed away the idea with an irritated gesture. “I work at night, as you know. But I was home yesterday, so this morning Fabio and I were playing the first hole by 7:00.”

Balistreri kept stealing glances at the son, who appeared totally disinterested in the conversation and was fiddling with a brand new BlackBerry.

“To what do we owe this visit? Have you found the man on the bike?” Ajello asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Can you talk about this in front of your son?” Balistreri asked.

“No problem. Fabio’s an adult and we have no secrets between us.”

“All right. Let’s talk about Ornella Corona.”

Ajello shook his head; Fabio stopped playing with the device and looked at Balistreri for the first time with all the scorn his teenage eyes could muster. It was clear that Balistreri was far from his idea of a success: a nobody of a civil servant, unshaven and badly dressed.

“We live in a ridiculous country,” Ajello said. “We allow young men to go around raping and killing.”

“I’d like to know when you last saw Ornella Corona,” Balistreri said flatly. Enough with the bullshit.

Ajello stopped smiling and examined the fresh manicure of his long sunburned hands as if he had spotted a small defect.

“How is this question relevant to your investigation?” he asked.

“We’re attempting to determine Ornella Corona’s movements on the night she was murdered. We know for certain that she was sunbathing at the beach resort until sunset. She left alone, and we presume she went directly home. We found a plate with the remains of a salad and a glass with a few drops of wine left in it. Then, toward midnight, before she was murdered—”

Ajello held up a hand to stop him. “Fabio,” he said to his son, “could you pop into the pro shop and check whether the new golf bags are in?”

The young man stood and walked away.

“Please, do carry on,” Ajello said, all politeness once his son was out of earshot.

“Before she was killed, she had what appears to have been consensual sex,” Balistreri said.

“And you want to know if she had sex with me? I still don’t see the relevance.”

“If you were there, you might have seen or heard something.”

“Or I might have killed her.”

“That depends on your alibi.”

“At the time I was in my car on my way to Bella Blu. I got there about midnight, I think.”

“That’s not much of an alibi, unless you went there straight from home, although as you know a spouse’s testimony counts for little.”

“I didn’t go there from my house,” Ajello said calmly. “I went there from Ostia, where I’d been with Ornella Corona.”

Corvu and Balistreri exchanged glances. Ajello hastened to add, “Naturally, Ornella was alive when I left around eleven thirty.”

“And did you see anyone around the villa on your way out?” Corvu asked.

“Absolutely not,” Ajello replied quickly.

“Please think carefully,” Balistreri insisted.

A small shadow crossed the lawyer’s face. “I saw no one. But I drive a convertible and I had the hood down, and I did hear a voice—someone speaking loudly into a cell phone. In Romanian, I think.”

“Would you recognize the voice of Marius Hagi?” Balistreri asked nonchalantly.

There was a lengthy pause. Ajello took his time lighting a cigarette. He gave Balistreri a sideways glance.

“I know that name,” he said, “but I can’t place it”

“He’s the husband of Alina Hagi, Anna Rossi’s best friend,” Corvu said.

Balistreri thought that Ajello could have been a very good poker player, but not a world-class champion like Angelo Dioguardi. Something showed on his face. Fear? Anger? Guilt? It was difficult to say.

“Anna Rossi,” he said with a smile, recovering his composure. “My God, how many years has it been? Alina Hagi I certainly remember, but not this husband of hers, Mario.”

“Marius,” Corvu corrected him.

“Marius Hagi. Yes, I must have met him once or twice. But I haven’t seen him since then. Once I got my degree, I didn’t hang out with the San Valente parish crowd. I was working for—”

“Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno,” Corvu said.

“How did you know that?” Ajello asked.

“The count told us himself. We went to ask him about this Marius Hagi and your name came up.”

Ajello nodded to acknowledge the coincidence, but he seemed to have decided to feign ignorance.

“Valerio Bona also mentioned you,” Corvu added.

“Valerio Bona! My expert helmsman.”

“Valerio Bona was working at San Valente with Father Paul for Cardinal Alessandrini.”

Ajello absorbed this information in silence. He seemed neither surprised nor disturbed.

Balistreri decided it was time to get to the point. “There was a major crime back then, do you remember?”

Ajello met his gaze. “Elisa Sordi, poor thing,” he said.

Balistreri was surprised. “Did you know her?”

Ajello shook his head. “Only by sight. I never went to Via della Camilluccia. But Valerio introduced me to her once and we went for a coffee together.”

Balistreri saw that Fabio was coming back. He looked directly at Ajello. “Do you remember where you were the day Elisa Sordi died?”

“Well, if it had been any other day I wouldn’t remember, but it was the World Cup final in Spain. I’m sure you watched it, too.”

It was difficult to say if there was any irony in the question.

“Anyway, I’d been alone on the boat all afternoon, and at seven thirty I was in the sailing club with friends watching the game. And later, naturally, I was out near the Colosseum celebrating.”

Ajello looked at him with amusement. “You must have celebrated yourself that evening, Balistreri, or maybe not.”

This time the message was much clearer.

Afternoon

It was lunchtime. Summer storms always break out when the temperature is high. Thunder and lightning accompanied them back to the office, while hundreds of tourists in T-shirts and shorts sought refuge in the bars and Metro stations.

It began to rain heavily as Corvu parked the car. It was the first downpour since the beginning of July. Balistreri decided to take advantage of it for a restorative walk through the city center’s now deserted streets. He sent Corvu up to the office and walked toward the Tiber in the pouring rain.

R.E.V.I. Was it a red herring or the key to something? Only the first letters of their names could directly link Samantha, Nadia, Selina and Ornella. But the Invisible Man wants us to find another link. He wants to enjoy our fear.

He felt the drops of rain trickling down his back through his open shirt collar. Absorbed in his thoughts, he suddenly found himself on the riverbank. Linda Nardi lived on the other side.

When did Alina die?

It was a ridiculous question. Linda Nardi could easily have found out when Marius Hagi’s wife had died. What did it matter?

He and Angelo Dioguardi had spent the evening of July 11, 1982 watching Italy’s World Cup victory. That same day, Elisa Sordi had been beaten, slashed, burned with cigarettes, and killed.

Balistreri’s mind had resisted seeing the similarities from the moment that San Valente came back on the scene. But there were similarities: a young girl beaten and tortured, albeit not raped, then suffocated and thrown into the Tiber, but with no trace of a letter on her.

Was there one? Are you sure, Balistreri? Do you remember how distracted you were?

He leaned on the railing. The river’s gray surface was running slowly, stippled by the rain. Elisa’s body had been in the water for days. The effect of the water and the rats had been catastrophic. He remembered the autopsy photos with a grimace. Bruises, burns, bite marks, but nothing scoring her skin.

Really only one bite mark, and even that was uncertain. The medical examiner had noted a semicircular scar on what remained of her left breast. Possible cause: bite, cut, scratch. A cut.

He was soaking wet, alone, disturbed, exhausted. His eyes were burning, and he was ready to drop. He looked over toward St. Peter’s and Linda Nardi’s apartment and then, with an ugly premonition, turned his away from the Tiber.

. . . .

When he returned to the office, without having eaten, it was already three.

Corvu and Piccolo made no comment about the state he was in. His clothes were drenched, his stubble was thick, his shoes caked in mud. If they didn’t know him, the policemen guarding the entrance would have rudely sent him packing, taking him for a homeless person.

“Big news,” Piccolo said.

“Two pieces of big new,” Corvu chimed in.

“Mastroianni’s back in Romania. With the help of a friend, I got permission for him to see the secret archives opened up after Ceausescu’s death. The two victims that Mircea and Greg were accused of murdering were retired employees of the ministry of the interior. They were secret police with serious résumés. Among other things, they were responsible for the disappearance of Marius Hagi’s brother.”

A man who never forgives. Alina must have found out as well.

“Excellent information,” Balistreri said. “Not directly linked to the current investigation, however.”

“The second piece of information is, though.” Piccolo was beaming. So she had nailed Colajacono, or at least the memory of him.

“After today’s meeting with Pasquali I asked Rudi if he could think of anything strange that Hagi did or said on the morning of December 29. That’s when I went to the Torre Spaccata police station and spoke to Colajacono. Rudi remembered that Hagi was ending a phone call in the billiard room when he went in to bring him coffee. He only heard the last thing he said, but I think it’s enough.”

Piccolo paused.

Balistreri said, “All right, Piccolo, spit it out. What did Hagi say?”

“He said, ‘Don’t worry about them. They’re just street sweepers in paradise.’”

. . . .

Balistreri shut himself in his office to think about Marius Hagi. What was he doing on his last day of freedom? The next day, Pasquali was going to have him arrested even if he had to fabricate additional proof beyond the evidence that was already taking shape. On an empty stomach, Balistreri drank two beers and a double whiskey and smoked four cigarettes.