“The sleeve was what color?”
“White.”
“A shirt?”
“No, tracksuit top, underneath he had a V-neck and nothing under that.”
“Move up a little. What about his chin?”
“Sharp. Small mouth. No, it’s sort of wide, too. He smiled afterwards.”
“Any hair on this face, a goatee, beard, moustache, sideburns?”
“I can’t remember. I can see the mouth with a little moustache, and I can picture it without one. Both sort of fit.”
“What color was his hair?”
“I can’t remember. Not dark, not blond. Mousy. His skin was white. As white as his tracksuit.”
“That blue cross…” said Blume.
“No, that’s on the other man, the large one.”
“Yes I know. It’s just… never mind. Did they touch the car?”
“I don’t think so. Mommy pulled us away quickly. Then afterwards, they were waiting outside the restaurant. The police took the car away. I don’t know where it is, and my mother’s not interested in finding out. But we’re going to need it again next week when school starts.”
Nothing of any use had been found on the car. Blume had read the report. Why had they not given it back? Some bureaucrat who could not give a damn that his lethargy caused suffering.
Blume eased Giulia back out of the memory, and spoke to her a little of a recollection he had of himself, crawling on a long gray beach by the Pacific Ocean. A memory from when he was three, which they said was impossible, but he had it all the same. Giulia seemed to remember a day she had spent at Villa Borghese, and she could have been no more than three at the time. Her father had pushed her all the way from the house in her pushchair.
Hours of walking. He brought pasta in a thermos and they ate that and watched some horses. She was almost asleep as Blume stole out of the room.
He left the house charged with anger for what had happened, and anger at the way his own force had treated the family. The policewoman followed meekly behind. She had got nothing out of the mother. So now they had two follow-up interviews, no reports on progress, even if only to say there had been no progress and never would be.
“Is this one of those hopeless cases, Commissioner?”
Blume looked at her. Young, dowdy, and a bit sad-looking in her uniform. She had been working in immigrant affairs before this. If he remembered right, she had asked for a transfer.
“All homi cide cases are hopeless,” he said.
“I meant for resolving.” It surprised him she had the nerve to come back at him with a reply.
“Inspector…”
“Mattiola,” she supplied.
“I knew that. Look, we will do our best. You didn’t see what the girl was like. A life force. She’s holding the family together.”
He was going to make sure the technicians did their job properly. He would demand resources. He might even go to the press. He would show Principe a thing or two about caring for ordinary people. He would devote his entire being to resolving the road rage case. He owed it to the child.
His phone went, and he waved the inspector away, telling her to write up a report on the non-interview. The call was from Sveva Romagnolo.
“Hello. Commissioner Blume?” she sounded edgy. “It would not surprise me if someone were listening to this conversation, but we have nothing to hide, have we?”
“Insofar as we have nothing, yes, I agree,” said Blume.
“It has been brought to my attention that I am being followed. For my own safety.”
“So I hear. I have nothing to do with that. I’d love to have the resources to do things like that,” said Blume.
“I know they’re not your men. I wish they were. I wanted you to know that less than an hour ago I received the nastiest and most abusive phone call you can imagine.”
Blume, forgetting his arm was in plaster, instinctively tried to bring his finger up to his other ear to close off the sounds of the street.
“Who?” he said, looking for a silent area in the street.
“I was called a bitch, whore, slut-lesbian, too. I deserved to die instead of my husband. I was going to die, I needed to watch my back.”
Blume leaned into a wall to hear better. “This was a woman saying these things, wasn’t it?”
“So you know who it was. She said she knew who killed Arturo. Said she’d have them castrated. She said she had a cop in her pocket, and she used your name.”
“Did she ever actually say who she was?”
“No. I didn’t understand for the first minute or so, then it became obvious. She just went straight at it. Said Di Tivoli was a dead man walking for insulting her like that. Then when I asked her if she was Manuela Innocenzi, she started up again. Don’t use my name, bitch. My name on your cock-sucking lips… that sort of thing. So you know what? I’m glad those idiots from SISDE are supposed to be watching me, and I hope they’re recording this, too. Manuela Innocenzi, I’ll repeat the name just in case it gets lost in transmission. Someone’s got to stop her.”
“I don’t think she’s really going to do anything,” said Blume. “Not to you. That’s not how it works.”
“Her father is…” began Sveva. Blume could hear the fear in her voice.
“Organized. Her father is organized. Careful, low-key. You’re not in danger. She’s not going to persuade him to do anything like that.”
“Can you be sure?”
“Yes,” said Blume. He hoped he was right.
“Can you maybe go and talk with her?”
“Well…”
“I mean as soon as you can. Like now. It’s hard enough already. You need to get her away from me. That’s all I care about now.”
“All right,” said Blume, “I’ll deal with it.”
“Thank you,” said Sveva. “I won’t forget this.”
When Blume reached the car, an Alfa Romeo, Inspector Mattiola was standing there.
“I thought I told you to get back-oh, right, we came in the same car.”
He had even allowed her to drive him. He loosened his sprained arm from the sling.
“I can manage on my own. You call for a car to come and pick you up.”
Inspector Mattiola nodded slowly as if finally understanding something.
She had nice features. And she was quiet, which was good.
Blume got into the driver’s seat, turned on the engine, winced as he used his damaged arm to turn the wheel, and pulled out, leaving Mattiola standing on the curb.
32
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 3 P.M.
Manuela Innocenzi let Blume in as soon as he identified himself. As he entered the apartment, she was pulling up her hair with both hands. She let it go and as it cascaded in ringlets down as far as her shoulders she said, “Hello Alex.”
“Alec,” corrected Blume.
“I prefer Alex,” she said.
