Principe lowered the papers in his hand, peered over the top of his glasses at Blume, and said, “Alec, it sounds to me like you’re trying to say something.”
“I was talking to Innocenzi earlier today,” said Blume, watching Principe’s face closely.
“You got to talk to him?” Principe looked surprised. Then Blume saw his mouth open in a tiny o of recognition, and then form a pained smile. “The murder of Innocenzi’s wife. That’s what this is about.”
“Yes, that.”
“Innocenzi works like that, Alec. Divide and rule, sow seeds of distrust, know more than everyone else or pretend you do.”
“I know, he explained it to me. He calls it kompromat.”
“What does that mean?” asked Principe.
“It means he’s got something on you.”
“He’s got nothing on me,” said Principe. “There was no evidence against Innocenzi at the time. Many people thought he had arranged the murder of his wife, but there was nothing to prove it.”
“What did she do? Betray him?”
“I don’t know, Alec. Maybe she did nothing. Motivation was one of many things missing.”
“People kill with little motivation.”
“Sure,” said Principe. “I know that. But there was no evidence, no clear motive, just suspicion. The case would never have stood up in court. And if it had, then it would have required a hell of a lot of fabrication on our part. That’s what the chief prosecutor wanted. I didn’t.”
“You managed to persuade him.”
“It wasn’t that hard. The magistrate in charge was old, ignorant, corrupt. The case was never going anywhere. It was easy to terminate his line of investigation. A lot of people were happy to see me force a change of direction.”
“And you were happy to do as they asked?”
“Sometimes the wrong people want the right thing for the wrong reasons. This was one of those cases.” Principe looked directly down at Blume.
“You have known me for eleven years. It took-what? Half an hour in Innocenzi’s company to undermine that? Decide what you think, then tell me.”
Blume remained silent for a full twenty seconds. Principe settled back on the desk and waited.
Finally, Blume said, “Sorry. I should have thought it through.”
Principe nodded, apparently satisfied.
But Blume could not quite tell what he really felt. He was angry with himself. If he had stopped Pernazzo, stayed on him instead of keeping his date with Kristin, the child’s father might be alive. Bad enough though it was, he kept this thought in the foreground, because underneath was an even worse one, which was that he had somehow goaded Pernazzo into murder. He had called him a loser, a failure, and so Pernazzo had gone out to kill, while Blume was trying to make Kristin feel sorry for him with talk of his parents.
“Pernazzo’s got an alibi that I don’t think is real,” said Blume, and told Principe about his conversation with Rosati.
Principe unfolded the sheets of paper he had taken from his pocket and began to read. “I hate it when there’s computer stuff involved. It’s all above my head. But the main point is we now have another way into the Clemente case through the unfortunate Enrico Brocca. Or you do. But we may have to use the child as a main witnesses.”
“It wasn’t road rage, it was part of a game,” said Blume.
“A psychopathic game, you mean?”
“Yes. But not just that. Have you ever heard of World of Warcraft, Grand Theft Auto, EverQuest…” Blume could see by Principe’s face that he hadn’t. “I’ll get Pernazzo to explain once he is in custody,” said Blume. “And now it’s my turn to surprise you: Innocenzi gave me the location of Alleva’s hideout near Civitavecchia. The Holy Ghost is flitting down there as we speak. Along with Paoloni. And God knows how many others.”
Principe set aside the papers. “You sent them… Good move, I suppose. I wish I had known first, of course. What do you think they will find there?”
“An empty house, trace evidence. I don’t know. Too little too late, that’s for sure. Nothing that allows us to step back in time and prevent any of the killing.”
“If we could go back in time to prevent murders, we’d both be out of a job,” said Principe. “And how far back would you want to go? To Cain and Abel?”
“I’d settle for last week,” said Blume. His cell phone started ringing. “Or maybe some time before they invented these things.”
38
FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 12:30 P.M.
Having remained detached and efficient while killing Clemente, and having successfully battled down an onrush of nausea at the scene, Angelo Pernazzo was disappointed that he threw up as soon as he arrived home. It was the tension, especially on the drive back, he decided. He wiped the toilet rim with some tissue, filled the bath with tepid water and lay in it for an hour until the water was cold and gray. Then he put all his clothes in the washing machine, poured in bleach and washing powder, and set it at the highest temperature. Whatever did not survive, he would throw out. He put on a pair of elasticized gray tracksuit bottoms, a pair of cotton espadrilles, and a red V-neck Roma football shirt. He ate some Ringo chocolate cream cookies, drank a Diet Coke and felt better.
He wiped down the knife with a rag soaked in pink denatured alcohol, enjoying the smell and the glint. Then he put it on his desk next to his computer. That is where he had always kept it since he bought it at a martial arts shop outside the train station in Ostia, nine months ago. He had impressed them, walking in out of the rain, ignoring all the shit on display, asking for a Ka-Bar Tanto that he knew they would have to order from Japan.
Exactly on time, he took his scheduled twenty-minute sleep. When he awoke, he climbed off the sofa with the same sort of feeling he used to get on his birthday morning, when he knew his mother would be waiting in the kitchen with precisely whatever gift he had asked for. The last gift she had given him was a silver bracelet with his name inscribed on it. This was his first birthday without her, but if Massoni came through on his promise, today Pernazzo would finally get himself a pistol.
He had asked for a Colt Python, but Massoni had laughed at him.
Eventually Massoni agreed to get him a Glock, in exchange for which he wanted Pernazzo to do him a little favor, which was to go to Clemente, tell him to back off, stop disrupting the shows.
“You want me to take him a message from Alleva?” Pernazzo had asked.
“No. Just tell him to back off. Don’t say who the message is from.”
“I could say it was from myself.”
“And how would that work, Angelo? Are you going to threaten the man? Just deliver the message. No source, just a warning. Think you can do that?”
Once Pernazzo had done this favor, Massoni promised, he would get his gun. For fifteen hundred euros. Angelo knew it was five times as much as it was worth, and Massoni knew he knew.
Pernazzo’s first real contact with Massoni had been a fist in the stomach. That was eighteen months ago.
His mother was still dying in her bedroom, and the doorbell had rung. He answered to a massive man with a blue tattoo on his neck. Massoni asked Pernazzo to identify himself and, when Pernazzo did, punched him directly in the solar plexus.
Pernazzo had never received a punch like that. As he lay on the floor, all he could think of was that he needed to breathe in, but couldn’t. The blow had scrambled his thoughts, which re-formed into a single imperative: breathe. His brain started screaming the command, his limbs began to thrash as he tried to obey. Perhaps the worst of it was that he could not make a sound. He lay there jerking, mouth open like a fish, agonizing in total silence. No one
