“Come on, let’s see the last one you did. My parents were art teachers. I know a bit about these things.”
Laughing, she flapped her hand around in her bag, eventually settled on one, and held it out to him.
Blume found himself looking at a charcoal smudge. He didn’t want to take it in his own hands in case he held it upside down or sideways or something.
“I bet you’re wondering why I am in a police station sketching.”
In fact he was wondering how to ask her out for a drink. All other inquiries were suspended from his mind, so that when she asked him a direct question, he answered with distracted candidness.
“Is my sketch any good?”
“Not yet.”
It’s what his father would have said to him. Did say to him.
She said, “You know something? It’s good you said that. I could have got all creeped out if you’d done the whole gallant thing.”
“I’m not saying you couldn’t make it…”
“Don’t spoil it. Just tell me, could you do any better?”
“No. I was a great disappointment to my father. I get Paoloni to do the crime scene sketches, and you should see his work.”
“I am Kristin. It begins with a K. I’m just leaving.”
“Alec, though my name varies depending on who is talking to me. Most say Alex, Alessio, Alessandro, or Ale. But in all cases it begins with an A.”
Blume stopped talking, and wished he had thought of stopping before.
She packed away her things and started walking across the courtyard to the front gate. Blume walked beside her. She was almost as tall as he was.
“Where are you from, Alec?”
“I work here.”
“Before that.”
“Seattle.”
Six years ago, he had passed the halfway mark. He had now spent more of his life in Italy than out of it. But Seattle was where he was from.
“I’m from Vermont. Near Plymouth.” She paused briefly to see if he had anything to say about that. “You been in Italy long?”
“Yeah, a bit,” said Blume. A bit more than a bit. Twenty-two years. He wasn’t going to tell her that. He was only beginning to tell himself it.
“What was your business with the vicequestore aggiunto?”
“Gallone, isn’t it? I just needed to give him a conference invitation.”
Blume wanted to know more, but did not want to waste time talking about Gallone. They had already reached the piazza outside, and he was in imminent danger of losing her.
“Are you going to be around later this evening?” There, he’d said it.
Kristin stopped and gave him an appraising look.
“Sure,” she said finally. “I’m going for a drink in Trastevere with some friends. You know the fountain in Piazza Santa Maria? We’re meeting there around nine thirty this evening.”
“I don’t want to butt in on any plans or anything,” said Blume, wondering who and how many these friends were and, more to the point, what gender.
“I’m going to be there. You’re very welcome to come along.” Kristin held up her hand to mark the end of the conversation, turned it into a half salute, and walked off before Blume had thought of anything to say.
Even so, Blume was pleased with himself. His last relationship had ended two years ago after a massive row that began over, of all things, his refusal to vote. Elena left him, and three months later married a more participatory member of the electorate.
In his twenties, Blume had had the rare distinction, almost unheard of in Italy, of not living with or even depending on his parents. But he had failed to exploit the full potential of his autonomy. He found flirting and the other preliminaries so excruciating that rather than go through them again, he would stick with the same woman, regardless of how fast the relationship trundled downhill.
This meeting with Kristin had not been too bad. Maybe he was improving with age. He went to the canteen for a late lunch, ordered a coffee, and forgot to eat.
13
SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 4:15 P.M.
Back in his office, Blume looked at a list of names that Ferrucci had gotten from the Carabinieri. Ferrucci had apologized five times so far for helping D’Amico out the previous night without telling him. Blume had forgiven him, but was not going to allow him to know it yet.
The Carabinieri had detained forty-seven people and then released forty-six of them without charge. The one charge was against Renato Alleva, organizer of the event. It was his seventh time to be detained.
On this, as on the last six occasions, Alleva had been charged under Articles 718–721 and 727 of the Penal Code. The first set of articles referred to illegal gambling, and Alleva was acquitted all six times because no one had found any money on him. Article 727 referred to the mistreatment of animals, and on five separate occasions in the past he had been found in breach of this statute, which came at the end of a section setting out the penalties for similar crimes, such as cursing in public, insulting God, and speaking ill of the dead.
This time, however, an ambitious prosecutor had also charged Alleva with criminal association. This was a serious charge, and Renato Alleva had hired real lawyers to deal with it in the Court of First Instance. He won. The case was now scheduled to go before the Court of Appeal.
Eight dogs were recovered and put down. A letter of protest from LAV dated October twelfth of the previous year was appended. LAV was Clemente’s organization. A reconfirmation that the link between Clemente and Alleva was direct. So maybe Gallone was right to insist on Alleva. But for now Blume was sticking to his own instinct, Paoloni’s assurances, and the word of the daughter of a gangland boss.
Blume stuck his head out of his office. “Ferrucci. If Paoloni’s about I want him in here.”
Ten minutes later, Paoloni entered. He pointed at the Carabinieri report on Blume’s desk.
“I saw that. There is a prosecutor who needs to be shunned,” he said.
“He’s young,” said Blume.
“So is Ferrucci in there, but even he knows better than to blunder his way through something like this in the hope of advancing his career.”
Blume agreed with Paoloni’s analysis. The dog fights made excellent negotiating territories. People made bets, passed information. Deals got made, orders imparted, moods judged. They provided a nice cross section of criminal life in one place. Like boxing bouts but even more so. When Paoloni and other detectives operating the streets needed to send out a warning or a request, a dog fight was a perfect interface point. Sacrificing a few animals for the sake of maintaining the peace was worth it.
Alleva had certainly been in criminal company. Ferrucci had listed the charges against the men detained. Then he had separated them by category, marking out twelve names who had served time for violent crime and twenty-six who had been charged but not convicted. The others had records relating to drug pushing, theft, robbery, vandalism, trading without a license, disorderly conduct, and so on.
Just three of the names had no previous convictions.
“We’ve got twelve convicted violent offenders,” said Blume. “Five of them have done stretches for murder, the other seven for assault. I suppose we can start with these.”
“I’ll follow these up,” said Paoloni. “But I don’t see we have a motive for any of them.”
“The only one with a clear motive is Alleva,” said Blume. “Like the Holy Ghost says.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t him,” said Paoloni. “He didn’t order it, either. Are you going to trust me on this?”
