head of the assailant before it ducked into the traffic.
Blume made an exclamation and she swiveled around, fearing he might be under attack from some other quarter, but realized he was referring in some way to her handling of the weapon. She snapped her head and shoulders back again to take aim, but she had lost vital seconds. She could not fire into the traffic. She held her aim, watching as the assailant ran almost headlong into a speeding car. Had she fired, the bullet could easily have hit the vehicle. Serve the asshole right for driving like that in a built-up area.
The assailant was now on the other side of the street and running parallel to the old Roman wall. A missed shot would bury itself into ancient Roman history rather than straying into a passerby, she reflected. She moved the pistol fractionally upward. If the traffic let up, she would have a clear shot, and she would not miss. If the traffic let up. He had put thirty-five meters between them. She saw the breach in the walls to which he was headed. It was maybe seventy-five or eighty meters away and required a leading shot against a moving target. It was beyond the limit of a handgun of this type.
Even so, she realigned. As she did so, a red and gray Number 85 bus heaved into sight and stopped on the far side of the road.
“Kristin!” Blume was standing beside her now. She lowered the weapon, and turned to him. A semicircle of shocked pedestrians had come to a halt several meters away, and was bunched up in a group, afraid to go near the English-speaking couple standing in the middle of the street brandishing a weapon.
Casually, in full view of everyone, Kristin wiped the gray metal against her white blouse. It left a dark stain. She placed the weapon on the ground.
“His fingerprints,” he protested.
“We know who that was,” she replied.
Blume placed his foot on the pistol, and said, “Polizia. Siamo della polizia.” “Polizia!” Kristin yelled out in a clear voice. “Goddamn it, what a nation of rubbernecks,” she said to Blume.
Blume shouted out again, turning as he did so to trace an exclusionary arc around himself and Kristin as more people were drawn toward the commotion.
“Kristin, listen,” he said. “You may want to walk away from this. Just walk away. What ever you want. But decide now, because a patrol car is coming up behind you. Do you want to be a character in the story I am about to tell the patrolmen?”
“No. It would be easier if I wasn’t.”
“I agree. Will you meet me tonight?”
“OK.”
“It’s possible I won’t make it. Depends how this pans out. I’ll let you know. Also, can you avoid going home?”
“I need to change.”
“Pernazzo might know where you live,” said Blume.
“I don’t see why. And too bad for him if he does.”
As she turned to go, one of the patrolmen yelled out: “Signorina! Non si muova!” but he had no real authority in his voice. She heard Blume’s voice ordering the two young policemen away, telling them not to enter the crime scene, to call for backup, to clear the crowd. The gawking file of people on the corner opened ranks to let her through. She was calm. She was smiling.
51
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1:05 P.M.
Principe looked over his half-moon spectacles at Blume. It occurred to Blume that the spectacles were a sort of stage device. Like the piles of folders, barely held closed with ribbons, they formed a necessary but also a theatrical part of the public prosecutor’s paraphernalia.
The two men were seated in Principe’s office in government-issue armchairs, knees up, almost touching. It was already past lunch time, and as far as Blume could see, nothing had been done to catch Pernazzo.
“Alec, I know what you’re thinking,” said Principe, frowning over the steel spectacle frames.
“You’re psychic? Maybe you should book a hall, get out of the business of directing murder investigations, because…”
“That will do. You’re thinking you should be out there hunting down the man who tried to kill you and your woman.”
“What woman would that be?”
“We can come back later to the question of the two officers and several witnesses who saw an imaginary woman with you, but just because you’re not out there yourself doesn’t mean all investigative activity has ground to a halt. There is a warrant issued for Pernazzo
… Also, there have been some developments.”
“What developments?”
“Di Tivoli.”
“What about him?”
“He was found this morning by his cleaning lady. His head smashed in by a heavy object-Wait!” Principe slammed his hand down as Blume cursed. “I only found out about it shortly before you arrived in the back of a police car. A team is already there.”
“I need to get there, too,” said Blume.
“The call was not assigned to us and they have an investigating magistrate already on the scene. Anyhow, you already know who it was.”
“I seem to be the only one.”
“No. It was Pernazzo. At least that’s what Di Tivoli said.”
“Wait, I thought you said Di Tivoli had had his head…”
“Di Tivoli is not dead, though I hear he’s in a very bad way. He keeps repeating the name Pernazzo, or did until he fell unconscious again. He might not make it.”
“When was the attack?”
“Seems like it was last night,” Principe replied. “It looks as if Pernazzo tried to kill Di Tivoli and then you. The magistrate on the case is a good guy, used to work as an assistant with me. He’s got a team searching Di Tivoli’s house.”
“Check Di Tivoli’s computer for recordings.”
“What?”
“He records things. He’s a journalist and a Craxi-era socialist. You don’t get trickier than that.”
“OK,” said Principe. “If you say so.”
Blume didn’t like the tone. “I do say so.”
“I’ll pass on that information to the investigating magistrate in charge of the case.”
“And I’ll tell my colleagues,” said Blume.
“And you’ll tell your colleagues. But I will pass on the information, and the magistrate is reliable. He’s already ordered a search of the neighborhood, and they found Pernazzo’s car.”
“Did they look inside it, too?”
“Yes. Nothing important yet. Let me finish, would you?” Principe waited for a signal from Blume. “So the next thing the magistrate did was to start looking for Di Tivoli’s car and-this I just heard-it’s missing from the underground garage where he parks it.”
“So Pernazzo is driving Di Tivoli’s car. Now we have the make and license plate. Maybe we’ll get lucky, though it didn’t do much good when Pernazzo was driving around the city in his own car.”
“We might,” said Principe. “Di Tivoli has a Telepass device on his vehicle. RAI pays all travel expenses, you see. Including motorway tolls.”
“Good to know that my license fee contributes to his free travel through toll gates,” said Blume.
“Maybe you’ll see it as money well spent in a minute,” said Principe.
