victim killed. Sorry if I was heavy-handed. They are nervous at the Ministry, in case someone starts thinking this was a political assassination or something.”
“That’s unlikely.”
“I know,” said D’Amico. “But they want the case closed as fast as possible. I thought I could speed things up. That’s all.”
“That is evidence-planting, Nando.”
“You taught me.”
Blume slapped the dashboard with his hand, making D’Amico jump slightly. “I never planted evidence. I never taught you to plant evidence.”
D’Amico changed gear, accelerated on the straight stretch along the Circus Maximus. “I remember, four years ago, that case we worked together, the one with the girl battered to death by her student boyfriend because she tried to break up with him. Do you remember?”
“Sara,” said Blume. “I remember her. I can recall every particular.”
“So can I,” said D’Amico. “Just to make sure he stayed where he belongs, we tried to pin a rape conviction on him, too, even though it was probably consensual sex first, before he killed her. Do you remember that, too?”
“I remember,” said Blume.
“And do you remember how there was a copybook with lecture notes belonging to him lying on the bed, next to her body,” continued D’Amico, “and you told me to remove it, and I didn’t understand, because I thought you wanted to help the murderer by removing a piece of evidence that helped put him at the scene?”
“I remember all this,” said Blume.
“Then you explained to me that the copybook was there because they had been in bed studying together, and that not only undermined our rape charge but humanized him.”
“Yes, it would have,” said Blume. “And since we’re taking a stroll down memory lane, you’ll also remember the bastard confessed, and he wasn’t even particularly sorry. He had a problem believing anyone had a right to dump him.”
“He confessed afterwards,” said D’Amico. “But we removed the notebook first.”
“Which is why it worked. And we were working together, police against killer. Your attempt was police, or Ministry, or what ever you are now, against police. And you are introducing evidence. What you did with Alleva’s notes was-it was totally unconvincing, and wrong. There is a big difference. The spoilt brat who battered Sara to death was guilty.”
“Well, suppose Alleva was guilty? He still might be.”
“If he is, your actions won’t help gain a conviction, but they could jeopardize one. There is no comparison between the cases. Don’t insult my intelligence or Sara’s memory. We haven’t even brought Alleva in for questioning.”
“Which is what you need to do. Take the initiative. Go to Principe, get him to issue an arrest warrant. Principe is going to issue one anyhow, he has to. Stop being so bloody-minded.”
“Do you know more about Alleva than I do?” asked Blume. “Has the Ministry been conducting parallel inquiries?”
“Nothing like that.”
“So why the insistence?”
“I’m not sure why,” said D’Amico. “It’s coming down on me from above. I get the idea it might be the widow who wants it like that. It makes sense, if you think about it. Her husband murdered on a point of ethical principle, trying to save dogs.”
“You lot are so cynical about politicians,” said Blume. “If it’s the widow, then what could be better than going to see her now?”
“I’d prefer to have Alleva in custody before seeing her. That would cover us if she kicks up a public row.”
“As you say, that’s up to the investigating magistrate, not us.”
The temperature had climbed to over thirty degrees Celsius. The humidity was stifling, but D’Amico preferred to keep the windows down and the AC off. He drove with his arm hooked out the window, one hand on the steering wheel. His only concession to the heat had been to remove his jacket, which he smoothed, folded, and laid on the backseat, having first brushed the seat clean. As they started off, he glanced back at his jacket, almost as if he wanted to tell it to fasten up. As always, D’Amico was carrying his Beretta, snugly attached to his side in a minimalist leather holster.
“Nando?” said Blume.
“What?”
“Don’t try to plant evidence in one of my cases ever again.”
“OK.”
15
SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 5:30 P.M.
Sveva Romagnolo’s mother’s house was in EUR, a Fascist-era development of linear, white marble-clad monumental buildings to the south of Rome, built in the 1930s to impress international visitors who never came to a Universal Exposition that never was.
By the time they arrived, Blume felt as if he had been in a Turkish bath in a woolen coat. D’Amico parked the car, stepped out and stretched. His armpits were perfectly dry, as was the back of his shirt. His forehead shone, but did not glisten. This had to be a racial thing, Blume decided. Blume had now sweated so much that his entire shirt had simply become a darker shade of blue.
The courtyard contained five short umbrella pines and a circle of squat date trees reaching no higher than the lowest balconies of the four-floor buildings around them. The buildings were new. D’Amico nudged him and pointed to the modern security cameras, then nodded approvingly.
After being challenged by a sober and shaved porter in a tinted-glass cabin at the front gate and displaying their credentials, they followed a pathway that traced a figure eight across the well-tended grass. At the midway point, an automated sprinkler emerged from beneath the ground and squirted a jet of water at them across the path, wetting their trousers and shoes.
“Cazzo!” exclaimed D’Amico, staring at the bright water on his shoes as if it was liquid manure. Blume walked quickly ahead in case D’Amico noticed he was laughing.
Examining the names on the intercoms and the brass letter-slots, he realized that each house hold had an entire floor to itself. Thinking of the thirty intercom buttons on the front door of his six-floor building in San Giovanni, Blume reckoned that the apartments here had to be around five times larger than his own. The name tags showed that the Romagnolos lived in Apartment four, at the top.
“Who is it?” challenged a male voice from behind the intercom. It reminded him of someone.
“Commissioners Blume and D’Amico,” announced Blume in his most officious manner. “Open, please.”
Whoever was there was either having difficulty in finding the open button, or had gone away. In either case, the door remained closed. Blume closed his eyes and listened to his empty stomach gurgle. He would count to thirty before putting his finger on the buzzer and leaving it there while he counted to thirty again.
He had got to fifteen when, without further communication from the intercom, the door clicked. D’Amico pushed and Blume stepped in ahead of him.
When they had stepped into the courtyard, the brightness of the morning, which had been trying Blume very much, became suffused with the green of the garden and the cool shadow of the buildings around. Now, as they stepped into the atrium, the intensity of the light dimmed so much that they both immediately took off their sunglasses. Through flat tinted glass windows, the garden outside was dulled to deep brown. The air was cool, deionized and dry, like the inside of an airplane.
D’Amico, who was softly whistling “Il Fannullone,” called the elevator, which turned out to be surprisingly
