Caravale grinned at him.
“You found him?”
They had indeed. With the help of local police in Sesto San Giovanni, one of the gritty industrial suburbs north of Milan, Big Paolo Tossignani had been located and apprehended. Caravale had not yet had a chance to talk to him, but he was at this moment being transported to Stresa for that purpose. He would arrive by 4 p.m.
“And I’ll be there to welcome him with open arms,” Caravale said.
“That’s great,” said Gideon, impressed. “If he cooperates—”
“I doubt if there’ll be any problem with that. This young man is in very big trouble. He’s been positively identified at the kidnapping, remember, and there’s a homicide charge associated with that, let alone the attack on you and everything else he has to worry about. So he can either say nothing and go to prison for the next thirty years while the person that originated the idea and paid him a few euros comes away from it all without a scratch, or he can cooperate by giving us some information that would make the court look more favorably on him.”
“And you think he will?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t he? They call him Dumb Paolo, but he can’t be that dumb.” He chuckled delightedly. “And listen to this. The Sesto people faxed me what records they had on him. In the past three years, lo and behold, he’s hired on twice as a laborer on Milanese projects, with a regional construction company. Not only that, but Ugo Fogazzaro—the dead kidnapper—was hired for the same jobs, by the same company. Would you care to hazard a guess as to the name of this well-known construction company that is on such familiar terms with these two particular gangsters?”
“Aurora!” said Gideon. “Damn!”
The links to the de Grazias were piling up too thick and too fast to be shrugged off now. Caravale was getting close to wrapping things up, and it looked as if Paolo was going to provide the ribbon with which to do it. They had finished their coffees but they both had some water left, and Caravale looked so tickled that Gideon raised his water glass for a congratulatory toast.
“To Dumb Paolo,” Caravale said as the glasses clinked.
“BEFORE you go in, look at this and tell me what you think,” Caravale said as they got back to Luzzatto’s apartment building. He handed Gideon the leather-bound notebook he’d been reading earlier. “It’s not very long.” From his manner, Gideon could see that he had only that moment decided to let Gideon in on it.
Gideon took it. “What is it?”
“It’s a personal journal. He started keeping if some years ago, one notebook per year. We found them at the back of a drawer in his desk. This is the last one.” He sat down on the stone wall again, plucked the cigar from behind his ear, and stuck it between his lips. “While you read it, keep in mind what he was saying that day at the
“About Domenico having something to ponder the day he was killed?”
“Exactly.” He scratched a wooden match on the mortar between the stones of the wall, lit up, and settled back to watch Gideon read.
Gideon sat down beside him, taking care to keep upwind. The notebook had perhaps a hundred pages, but only the first few had been used. The first entry was dated January 3, 1992. Gideon tried struggling through a sentence or two, but then shook his head and handed the journal to Caravale. “I’m not used to this kind of handwriting. You’ll have to tell me what it says. Something about leukemia?”
“Yes,” Caravale said, spreading the notebook open on his thigh. “He was diagnosed with advanced acute leukemia on December twenty-eighth, 1991—”
“Wait a minute. And he was still alive and riding his motorcycle in 2003? That’s—”
“Unlikely, yes. The fact is, there was a mistake at the laboratory. His bone marrow sample was confused with someone else’s.”
“Some mistake,” Gideon said.
Caravale tapped the notebook. “It’s all in here, but the important thing is that—at the time—Luzzatto believed he had only a few weeks or months to live. Now listen to this. This is January fifth. ‘For twenty-seven years,’” he read, translating as he went along, “‘I have kept this secret buried in my heart, unwilling (or unable?) to tell Domenico. Now it can wait no longer. Tomorrow I will speak with him.’” He looked up from the journal. “Would you like to guess the date of Domenico’s death?”
“January sixth?”
“January eighth. Two days after Luzzatto told him.”
“Told him what?”
“That’s the question, all right. And the answer, unfortunately, is that I have no idea. There are no entries until the tenth of January.”
“So you can’t even be sure he did tell him.”
“No, we can be quite sure. Here is what he had to say on the tenth: ‘Dear God, can this terrible thing be my fault? Did I drive this fine, generous man to his death? Even if not, surely I made him wretched for the last few days of his life. And for what? For vanity’s sake? To satisfy my egotistical notions of honesty, of candor? For the bitter, self-indulgent pleasure of living my own last few hours on this earth as an “honest” man? May God forgive me.’”
Caravale blew out a cloud of sour cigar smoke. “Quite a philosopher, our Dr. Luzzatto. After this, he wrote nothing for a week, and then there was a brief entry describing the error in the laboratory tests. After that, apparently he lost his taste for journals.”
“And there’s no clue as to what he told Domenico?”
“So far, we’ve found nothing, not a hint. Fasoli has been going back through the eariler journals.”
“What about the one from—what would twenty-seven years before 1992 be?”
