“Try.”
“I can’t. It was classical music.”
“OK. Any other sounds?”
“It’s was kind of a quiet, sleepy afternoon. I can’t remember any more sounds. Apart from the cicadas. Wait, there was another sound, like someone hitting woodwork.” He hit the table with the base of his palm. “Sort of like that. Three, four times.”
“From where?”
“From below, when I was sliding the box into the apartment upstairs.”
“OK, Leonardo. That’s good.”
6
FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 11 P.M.
Investigating Magistrate Filippo Principe was waiting when Blume came out.
Principe nodded at the door to the interrogation room. “No defense lawyer present, so his statements are legally worthless.”
“I know that,” said Blume. “But he’s not our man.”
“Is he likely to cause trouble about this interrogation?”
“No. He’s a nice guy.”
Blume went up to the ground floor where he found Zambotto leaning against the jamb of a door halfway down the corridor, staring at a vending machine like it was a TV screen. He called, and Zambotto came lumbering down the corridor, unhappy to be wanted.
“What?”
“I want you to prepare it as a voluntary witness statement. Did you ask the supermarket manager about pilfering?”
Zambotto looked at him without a hint of comprehension. Blume motioned him to follow him back downstairs. “Paoloni and I discovered some of the items in the grocery box were missing. I just thought we should ask the manager if the delivery people ever lift out items from the boxes-you know, pilfer.”
“What items?” asked Zambotto.
“Peanut butter.”
“What is peanut butter?”
“American food,” said Blume.
Zambotto stuck out a wide flat tongue in disgust.
“We found a list in the box of groceries,” said Blume. “There were two things missing. Peanut butter and Nutella.”
“Uh,” said Zambotto.
“I’m not saying it’s important. It’s just a fact. But if the killer took them, then it’s relevant. If he didn’t, then it’s not.”
“All deliverymen steal stuff,” said Zambotto as if quoting a well known proverb. “But the supermarket’s never going to admit that.”
“Depends how you ask, I suppose,” said Blume. “Did you ask?”
“No.”
Blume nodded. “No reason you should have. Did you get the supermarket manager’s home number?”
“I got his cell phone number. I have it here,” Zambotto unbuttoned his orange and brown jacket, fished out a notebook from his inside pocket.
“His name is Truffa.”
“Truffa, you say?” Blume pulled out his cell phone, pressed the numbers as Zambotto called them out. He dismissed Zambotto with a nod of the head. Zambotto went into the interrogation room.
“You going to call him now?” asked Principe.
“Why? Think we should wait?” Blume dialed the number, identified himself to the man who answered and apologized for calling so late, paused for a second, then made a weak joke about bad television. Two minutes later he hung up and shrugged.
“Well?” said Principe.
“OK. This supermarket manager-Truffa-just told me customers almost never try to pull a fast one or complain about missing items,” said Blume.
“Is that a breakthrough of some sort?” Principe wanted to know.
“Not at all,” said Blume. “Hardly makes any difference. But it means stuff doesn’t go missing. Customers would complain if it did. It doesn’t make sense to lose a job, even a lousy one, for the sake of a tin of beans.”
The door to the interrogation room burst open, and Zambotto appeared, breathing heavily, his enormous head hanging down as if he had just completed a round in the ring. “Had to get out of there, stop myself from strangling the fucker.”
“Why, what did he do?” said Principe.
“He denies everything. So maybe he didn’t do it, but he’s using this tone of voice, you know, like he was calling me stupid.”
Blume said, “You know what, Cristian? I think we can leave it there.”
“What?”
“He’s not who we’re after. Also, I want a break. Maybe you want one, too?”
Zambotto nodded.
“Fine,” said Blume. “Let’s send him back to his mother in time for supper. In one piece.”
Blume left the basement and went up to the serious crimes section on the second floor of the station in search of Paoloni, who was supposed to be setting out the investigative chronology. But instead of Paoloni in the office, he found the young deputy inspector, Marco Ferrucci, tongue out in concentration as he tapped something into his police computer on the desk. Blume had not intended to use Ferrucci until the following day.
“When did you get in?”
“About an hour ago, sir.”
“There was a reason I didn’t call you. I wanted at least one wide-awake officer on the job tomorrow. Who told you to come in?”
“No one.”
“So what, you just dreamed there was a case, woke up, and came in?”
“I wasn’t asleep. It’s not late.”
Blume cut him off. “So where’s Paoloni?”
“He said the computer hurt his eyes, sir.”
“He went home?”
“I don’t think he went home. Anyhow, he’s been working very hard until now.”
The phone on Blume’s desk in the next room began to ring. Almost all the calls to his desk now came from within the building, and the only person he could think it might be was Gallone.
“Are you going to answer that, sir?” asked Ferrucci.
The phone stopped ringing.
Blume said, “Answer what?”
But then it started up again. Blume banged his way into his poky office, grabbed the receiver, brought it up to his ear, but, just to provoke Gallone, said nothing.
“Alec?”
It was D’Amico, not Gallone.
“Nando.”
“Yeah, it’s me. So you’re in the office. I called this number because I know it by heart. I was about to call you on your mobile.”
