But he delayed a fraction too long, and when they reached the end of the lane, a large group of young people and two motorcyclists, conscientiously not going against the one-way signals on the road by driving on the sidewalk instead, caused them to separate for a moment, and when Blume turned around again, she had moved as if to go left and he as if to go right.
“I’m going this way,” she said, in a tone that excluded all possibility of invitation.
“How am I supposed to pay for the dinner? Can I see you again?”
There, that was unambiguous.
“I’ll phone you,” she said, with a smile that suddenly and very briefly revealed where future years would etch themselves into her face.
“You don’t have my number.”
“You’re in the book, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m ex-directory.” He started hunting his pockets for a pen and paper. He always, always had a pen when he was working. Now he didn’t.
His bag was in his office, damn it. “I’m not in the book,” he repeated in case she had missed the danger of the situation. He had given Pernazzo his last card. What a fucking waste. He pulled out used tissues, plastic wrappers, scraps of paper no good for writing on, and dropped them on the wet ground.
“Calm down, Alec. Just tell me your number. I’ll remember it.”
Blume gave her his number. She repeated it.
“OK, I’ve got that memorized. I have a great head for figures.” Without waiting for him to reply, she turned and walked off. She went through the noisy crowd like a white-sailed boat cutting through a darkening lake.
It was only as he took off his jacket at home that Blume remembered the peanut butter label from Pernazzo’s kitchen. With a mounting sense of dread, he began searching his pockets. Surely he hadn’t thrown it away when he was looking for…
Gone.
22
SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 10:30 A.M.
The following morning, Blume sat with Paoloni in a metallic-pink Fiat Punto on the sidewalk outside the PAM supermarket in Magliana. It was a ridiculous color. The idea, apparently, was that it didn’t look anything like a police vehicle, which would be the case if it had a woman with shopping in it. Instead, it contained two grumpy grown men watching traffic.
Blume was still thinking about the label he had dropped on the street.
Pernazzo’s squealing about chain of evidence had been right insofar as it probably would not be admissible in court, but if the label had been traceable back to Clemente’s supermarket, the case was as good as closed. Why had he not placed it in an evidence bag when he got back to the car? Too much of a rush to get to Kristin, and then he had drunk too much wine, talked too much, and literally thrown a piece of case evidence on the street.
It was time he quit drinking.
Theirs was just one of hundreds of cars jutting out at all angles from the sidewalk as if thrown there by a bad-tempered child. Wedged in between an Iveco flatbed truck and an off-white, massive 1970s Mercedes that may have been abandoned there for good, they had a clear view of the street, the supermarket, an Ambroveneto bank, a bakery and a newsstand, and a twelve-story apartment block in which, Paoloni promised-and Ferrucci had confirmed from his computer-Alleva lived. They were waiting for Zambotto, who was accompanying a junior officer, and Ferrucci, who had apparently had difficulty persuading the superintendent- mechanic that he had a legitimate need for a car. Or was old enough to drive.
Blume wondered if Pernazzo had been fooled when he said they would be watching him. Hardly likely if he ever listened to the police unions and hierarchy complaining on the radio about their lack of resources.
Blume pulled the Motorola Tetra radio handset out of his jacket pocket and studied it. It looked like it was on. He handed it to Paoloni. “I can’t turn this thing on.”
“You needed to rekey and switch to DMO,” said Paoloni.
“Right,” said Blume. “You do it.”
The door to the front of the apartment block opened, and a man with a pink top of some sort came out. Blume couldn’t make out the features from where he was, and had not thought to bring binoculars. The man walked quickly.
Ferrucci’s voice came out of the Motorola again. He had apparently decided to speak excitable Greek. “I have Alpha One quitting Charlie One. Alpha One out of Charlie,” he said.
Before Blume could ask him to talk properly, Ferrucci began to make sense: “Subject does not appear to be carrying any object. Light yellow pants, pink polo shirt, baby blue pullover knotted over chest, soft brown shoes. Wallet in his back pocket. No visible weapons. Hand in pocket.”
Ferrucci had only seen pictures of Alleva. So there was always a chance it was the wrong person.
“That’ll be Alleva,” said Paoloni. “He likes pastel colors, baby blue sweaters, that kind of stuff. It’s sort of his trademark.”
Ferrucci came back on the radio. “I have subject gone right, right; no hesitation, unaware; nearside turn number one not taken, number one is not taken; subject proceeding straight. Nearside turn number two taken.”
As Ferrucci finished his commentary, Alleva lifted his face and Blume recognized the piggy features.
“Subject checking road. Now scoping back towards six o’clock,” continued the radio commentary.
“What do you think?” asked Paoloni. “Is Ferrucci high?”
“Leave him alone. He always gets landed with the paperwork. This is all very exciting for him,” said Blume. “Even if it is a total waste of time.”
“What was the name of your suspect again?”
“Angelo Pernazzo.”
“And you think we should visit Pernazzo after this?”
“Yes. Before he figures out he’s not being watched.”
Ferrucci’s happy voice interrupted them. “Crossing road, committed to turn, now unsighted to me, unsighted to me.”
Blume handed Paoloni the Motorola. “Why don’t we just get out and grab the bastard now?”
“Better not try it in this neighborhood,” said Paoloni. “We don’t want to draw much attention to it anyhow.”
Ferrucci said, “Our man got into a black Land Cruiser.”
Blume turned on the engine.
Paoloni held the radio to his ear and reported. “Zambotto and his partner have picked up the target. Zambotto agrees it’s Alleva. They’ve taken up the eyeball on the Land Cruiser. We’ll come in as backup and Ferrucci can be tail-end-Charlie.” He put the radio down between the two seats, hooking a strap over the handbrake. “I’m putting this on hands-free now.”
Blume moved onto the road, almost taking out a motor scooter that was overtaking an Opel station wagon that was overtaking a bus. Their car was now perpendicular to the traffic lane, blocking all vehicles coming from the left. The motorists on the right started speeding up to prevent them from completing the maneuver. The cars to their left started up a horn concerto.
Paoloni said, “That was subtle.” He picked up the Motorola. “Zambotto, tell us where to go.”
“Via della Magliana, north-go up to the intersection, hang a right.”
Two minutes later, Zambotto confirmed that Alleva’s Land Cruiser was continuing due north on Via Oderisi da Gubbio.
Blume reached the same road about thirty seconds later, and slowed down. Then Zambotto reported that the target had turned right and was moving east toward Piazza Fermi and Via Marconi.
“Something’s wrong,” said Blume.
