paved, let alone cleaned, and there were no sidewalks, just rows and rows of cars parked against apartment block walls. Traffic sped up and down narrow strips of asphalt in the middle, where some children played.
If two cars ever met in the center strip, one had to reverse all the way back to the beginning of the street. For this reason, the inhabitants tended to respect the one-way traffic signals, but they were less respectful of other laws. For a small area, it accounted for a lot of police work.
On Via Prati Fiscali, they hit a pothole so large Blume banged the side of his head against the window and wrenched his damaged arm.
Paoloni slowed down again. “Sorry.”
“We two should not be in a car together. That’s what it is,” said Blume.
For the first time since he had walked into the hospital that morning, Paoloni smiled a little.
“You know, Beppe, my driving spooked Alleva. I lost my cool, and Alleva panicked. If he hadn’t panicked, maybe Massoni wouldn’t have seen any need to shoot Ferrucci.”
“Massoni wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t tipped Alleva off.”
“All this is going to come out when internal affairs starts its investigation.”
“I won’t be telling them anything about your driving,” said Paoloni.
“I appreciate that, but maybe you should.”
“Shit, I should have turned off there,” said Paoloni. “They put the sign for the Salaria at the exit, not before it…”
“Take the next exit, double back,” said Blume. “If Alleva knew we were cops because you tipped him off, his actions don’t make sense.”
“That he fled like that and allowed his thug to kill Ferrucci?” said Paoloni. “I know. Massoni’s thick, but I didn’t think he’d deliberately shoot a cop. I’m sure Alleva didn’t mean him to. That’s why I believed Alleva when he phoned me, saying he was sending Massoni to us like a sacrificial bull.”
“What do you think happened?” asked Blume.
“I think Alleva or Massoni thought we were someone else.”
Blume said, “I think you’re right. All it took was a few minutes, long enough to panic. Alleva gets the nod from you, what does he do? He gets rid of a few things, then maybe calls in Massoni to make arrangements, gets him to hide some stuff, prepare for custody, get some alibis, what ever. But they didn’t meet to make a getaway. Also, if he was planning a getaway, the first thing he’d do is abandon Massoni.”
Paoloni turned left onto a quiet street with trees and less rubbish than usual. “This way might even be quicker. Not as much traffic. We’re almost there.”
He rolled down the window, and within seconds the cool air inside the car was swamped by humid heat. “Mind if I smoke?” he said.
“Same answer as fifteen minutes ago,” said Blume.
“Can I leave the window down, then? The air-conditioning gives me a headache. Also it gives me an acidic taste at the back of my throat. A bit like tomato skins. Ever get that?”
“No.”
Blume had to raise his voice a little above the sound of the car engine echoing back from the building walls through Paoloni’s window, “So Alleva arranges to meet Massoni, sees he’s been followed, and thinks it is someone else, even though you warned him we were going to pick him up.”
“I don’t think he was expecting an operation like that, more of a visit from two cops, told to come quietly, like in the past,” said Paoloni.
“And then my driving freaked him, he ran to Massoni, who had noticed Ferrucci, thought he was someone else… They thought it was an assassination attempt.”
“Maybe,” said Paoloni.
“Who are they scared of? Who would have them taken out? Innocenzi comes to mind.”
“I thought about that, too,” said Paoloni. “Suppose Innocenzi thought Alleva had killed Clemente. Clemente was fucking Innocenzi’s daughter, which makes him sort of bastard family. So it’s like Alleva killed Innocenzi’s son- in-law, if you see what I mean. If Innocenzi thought that, then I wouldn’t want to be Alleva. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near him. Getting shot would be good compared to getting disappeared, kept alive for days while Innocenzi used you to set an example to other would-be rebels and hopefuls.”
“Enough to make you panic and start shooting,” said Blume.
They arrived at a brick wall on which someone had painted “Romanians Out” and a backward swastika.
“This is it,” said Paoloni.
“This is a church?” said Blume.
26
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 4 P.M.
Behind the perimeter wall was a church made of the same brick, surrounded by a parking area full of police vehicles, including a short Iveco bus. At first sight, the numbers seemed impressive, but the people took up far less space than their cars. Around half the police present were in uniform. All of them were wearing sunglasses. Paoloni had his on already.
“Go make yourself seen,” Blume told Paoloni. “Tell them we’ll get the people who did this, because we will. Relax. Nobody will blame you.”
“Ferrucci’s family would if they knew.”
“They don’t know,” said Blume. “But even if they did, it’s what your comrades think, not them.”
Paoloni nodded and moved off.
Blume could feel a lot of eyes turning in his direction, then swiveling quickly away before he could catch them. That was fine. He wanted to be seen. It was important for them to see him there, out of the hospital, in attendance, back in charge. Some would appreciate it.
His new shirt was soaked through with sweat, and the sun was hurting his eyes. At best, he could stand another five minutes out here, waiting for the hearse to arrive. The doors to the church stood open, and the darkness inside seemed inviting. A hand pressed his shoulder, and Blume thought his legs might buckle from the added weight.
“The Holy Ghost wants you to go over to him so he can bless you in public.” It was Principe.
“I don’t feel like it,” said Blume.
“I thought you wouldn’t, which is why I’m warning you now. He was on television two days ago saying Alleva’s actions and his subsequent disappearance are absolute proof of his guilt. You catch that item?”
“No. I was dead to the world.”
“So you’re to be congratulated for your brave effort,” said Principe.
“He wants to associate my name rather than his own with Ferrucci’s death.” Blume found he was walking toward the yawning doors of the church, as if they were drawing him in.
“I thought you should know. Also, he’s talking about promotion, which is really turning people against you.”
“I need to get in there to sit down,” said Blume.
“Fine. I’ll walk you in. He’s also shutting down the Clemente case.”
“He can’t do that.”
“He can. Well, no, he can’t. But he’s the one who gets to make all the announcements of the decisions made by the big boys. Get this-on radio two days ago he was saying ‘absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.’ He is very pleased with the phrase. I’m pretty sure someone made him learn it off by heart. D’Amico, probably. The Holy Ghost’s theory is that Alleva probably wore gloves when he killed Clemente.”
“But there is evidence. Fingerprints, fibers, DNA traces all over the place.”
“But they are not necessarily those of the killer.”
“That’s twisted logic.” Blume could not think straight now. He made it to the door. The church seemed to be exhaling bad breath, but at least it was cool. There were plenty of empty pews to choose from. A short woman
