“The phone isn’t evidence enough,” said Blume.
“No, but she was a pretty damned unlikely suspect to begin with. Her husband didn’t even have any money of his own.”
“She doesn’t want publicity. Is that all?” asked Blume.
“Far as we can tell. Thing is, she’s calling in favors. It’s important to find out anything compromising about her in case she calls in too many. Or starts threatening scandal.”
“She was having an affair, you said.”
“Maybe. It was rumored. A young PR man in Padua. It’s not much, especially since she’s a liberated leftist feminist who shouldn’t be too worried about a story getting out. But it’s something.”
“And what about the victim, Clemente? What do you know about him?”
“Nothing. That’s up to you.”
“I don’t believe you know nothing.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that.”
“Nando, go get that secretary. Bring her here.”
“It could take an hour, maybe more,” said D’Amico.
“I’ll wait.”
“OK,” said D’Amico.
“Give me the keys to the office.”
“I left them with Zambotto.”
Blume had almost forgotten about him.
“OK. One other thing, Nando.”
“What?”
“Don’t try to brief her about what to say. I’ll know if you do. I taught you, remember?”
“I remember,” said Nando, disappearing into the darkness.
8
SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 1:15 A.M.
Zambotto was waiting, leaning against a curving white marble wall smoking a cigarette. Even from twenty meters away, the smoke found its way into Blume’s sinuses and made him feel sick, but from somewhere near the pit of his stomach, he also felt a craving. As Blume walked over, Zambotto ground his cigarette out on the wall.
“That was a long three minutes,” said Zambotto.
“I needed to talk to D’Amico.”
“Clemente’s office is on the second floor,” said Zambotto.
“What will I find there?”
“Nothing much.”
“Did it look like D’Amico had been there long when you arrived?”
Zambotto did not seem to understand the question.
“You know, was he finishing off, or did he continue looking around when you arrived? That sort of thing.”
“He arrived twenty minutes before me,” said Zambotto.
“How do you know that?”
“I asked the patrolmen who brought him.”
“Well done.”
“Sure.”
Blume sat down on the doorstep. It was dirty, but pleasantly chilly against his bare legs.
“What time is it?”
“One fifteen.”
“You can go home if you want, Cristian. Get some sleep. There’s a meeting tomorrow morning at eight.”
“You want the keys?”
Blume held out his hand, and Zambotto handed him a ring with two heavy and one light key on it before ambling off, like an incurious ox.
Blume took out his phone and called Paoloni. This time he got an answer.
“I got nothing,” said Paoloni picking up on the second ring.
“Were we expecting anything?”
“No. I was ninety percent sure it was no gangland slaying, now I’m one hundred percent sure. No one knew what I was talking about.”
“Make that ninety-nine percent,” said Blume. “There is nothing certain in life, except death and taxes.”
“I’ve heard you say that before. I don’t get the bit about the taxes.”
“Who did you ask?”
“I used an Albanian guy I know as my main source,” said Paoloni. “He owes me a lot. Owes me more than a man should be able to live with. But I got nothing. Not even a suspicious blink. The other people I met this evening either know nothing at all about this Clemente or they’re keeping very quiet. I’ll talk to some more people tomorrow, but I don’t see this going anywhere.”
Blume said, “Either they know something but are scared of speaking, which suggests professional gang involvement, or this was a haphazard event from someone outside the loop, and they really know nothing.”
“Weren’t you listening? They know nothing. Tomorrow I’m going to meet more know-nothings. This is a dead end.”
“OK,” said Blume. “You know what you’re doing. You saw the apartment. Give me an adjective for the crime scene.”
“An adjective?”
“Just the one, mind you.”
“Haphazard,” said Paoloni.
“I just used that,” said Blume, “but it’s a very good adjective. By the way, did you know anything about D’Amico visiting Clemente’s office?”
“How should I know what he gets up to nowadays? Is that where you are now? Clemente’s office?”
“Yes.”
“With D’Amico?”
“No, D’Amico’s gone now.”
“Want me to come around?”
Blume considered. “No,” he said at last. “I’ll do this myself.”
Blume hung up and looked at the clock on his phone. It was nearing two in the morning.
There was nothing to do but wait. Blume fished in his shorts pocket and pulled out his badly dented Transcend MP3 player. The headphones were in the other pocket, and they took a while to disentangle. He had been planning a soft run, and had loaded the player with precise but sleek and laid-back music, the stuff his father used to listen to, a frictionless quality sound that no one in Italy knew anything about.
The first track was “I.G.Y.” by Donald Fagen. Clear, forward-looking optimistic music. His mother, from the East Coast, never quite got it.
She had bent down over his bed, early on a Friday morning, when he was half-awake, kissed him and told him to behave while they were gone.
She left a scent of Marseille soap and oranges, her European smell, as she straightened up. There was an art historians’ conference in Spoleto. They were staying overnight. His father had stroked his forehead. All he had to do was open his eyes and sit up, smile and bid them a proper goodbye. They could have exchanged an embrace, if he had still been doing that. But he lay there, a stinking, useless, lazy teenager, irritated at having been woken.
Fagen segued into Boston, who told Blume to lose himself in a familiar song, close his eyes and slip away, and from Boston to Clapton, to “Horse with No Name,” Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Doobie Brothers, Kansas,
