“And so,” said Caterina, “you called in the Colonel to dissuade him.”
“Yes,” said Nightingale. He rubbed his cheek with the side of his hand. “The thing is, I called the Colonel about a month ago, warning him that Harry was writing about the past, some of our dealings, things that might be embarrassing. Farinelli told me he would deal with it, and now Harry is dead.”
“Wait,” said Blume. “Are you saying the Colonel killed him or had him killed?”
“Hardly,” said Nightingale. “And if I were to say such a thing, it would not be to you, Commissioner. There would be no point.”
“Why not?”
“Because Colonel Farinelli has bought you off, or perhaps set you up. My lawyer received a recording of a conversation between you and the Colonel in which you are heard agreeing to take a cut from the sale of paintings found in Treacy’s house. You, Commissioner, are corrupt, and I am calling my lawyer back in, if you don’t mind.”
Chapter 25
Blume’s first instinct was to look at Caterina. She had sat forward in her seat and seemed slightly curious to hear his response. He realized with a shock that the idea was not new to her.
His second instinct was to pick up the nearest object on his desk, which happened to be a copy of the Code of Criminal Procedure and pitch it straight at Nightingale’s face. Although the man was no more than two meters from him, he missed.
Blume then picked up a massive cut-crystal ashtray that he used as a paperweight.
Caterina jumped out of her seat. “Commissioner!”
Nightingale was already halfway to the door of the office.
“Just kidding,” said Blume, and put it down.
Nightingale opened the door and beckoned in his lawyer, escorting him to the seat he had been occupying before. Then he placed himself, still standing, behind the chair.
Caterina came round, picked up the law book. She put it back on Blume’s desk.
“You don’t believe that, do you?” whispered Blume.
“He taped you in the restaurant talking about selling the pictures,” said Caterina. “Not that I care.”
“Excuse us, gentlemen,” said Blume. “Inspector, outside, now.”
Blume closed the office door behind them, and pulled Caterina to one side, keeping his voice low so as not to be heard either from inside the office or from the operations room where he glimpsed Grattapaglia and Rospo and caught sight of Panebianco catching sight of them.
“First thing,” said Blume in a hoarse whisper, “you’re off this case. I want you to take over from Grattapaglia on the muggings. Whatever he’s doing, you take over. Panebianco will give you the background.”
“I already know the background,” said Caterina. “I’ve been looking into that case off and on for months, like everyone else.”
She turned to go.
“Wait,” said Blume. “I haven’t finished with you.”
Caterina gave a slight shrug and turned around again. “What else is there to say?”
“You gave the Colonel your copy of the notebooks, didn’t you?”
Caterina lifted her foot, plied it like a ballet dancer, and re-centered herself half a pace farther from him. She lifted her head to be defiant, but avoided his eyes. “Yes. He photocopied it. Did he tell you that himself? I can imagine he likes to gloat.”
“Maybe he does,” said Blume, “but more than that, he likes to divide, mystify, create distrust. He did not tell me that he got Treacy’s notes from you. It’s in his interest that I don’t know. He probably told you not to tell me, didn’t he? Otherwise, why did he photocopy instead of just taking them?”
Caterina nodded slowly, remembering.
“I guessed that now because I trust you. There must be some reason you suddenly cooperated with the Colonel. Even if you gave him access to the writings, I am willing to believe you had good cause, just as you should be willing to believe I am acting in good faith no matter what you hear on a digital recording. And there is only one thing I can imagine making you do that. Elia. Is your son all right now?”
“Yes. I’m sorry,” she said.
“If Elia was in danger, you’ve nothing to be sorry about.”
“All I can think about is Elia, and it’s clouding my judgment.”
“Did he harm the boy?”
“No. Like Nightingale said, he’s oblique. Elia’s fine. Really.”
“And so he shall remain,” said Blume. “You’re off the case, like I said. That’s the first step. I’m going back in there now and I promise you this-are you listening? — I promise I will get the Colonel out of your life.”
“I want to talk about this.”
“We can do that later. Get back to proper police work now. Make sure everyone knows you’re off the Treacy case, which we don’t have assigned to us anyhow. That’s step one.”
Caterina smiled. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe you’re colluding with the Colonel. I didn’t even listen to the tape properly when he played it.”
“That’s OK.”
She leaned forward and touched his elbow. “You won’t throw anything at the lawyer, will you?”
“Nothing too heavy,” said Blume.
He stepped inside the door and was annoyed to see Nightingale just behind it.
“Eavesdropping?”
“No!”
Blume returned to behind his desk. “ Per l’amor di Dio, si sieda.”
Nightingale remained standing.
“They say you need to use German or English to command a dog,” said Blume. “Let’s see if it works: sit, Mr. Nightingale. I won’t throw any more objects at you, unless I hear more moral judgments from the mouth of a crooked dealer.”
“I never sold a stolen work of art in my life,” said Nightingale, switching back into Italian for the benefit of his lawyer. He placed himself at the far end of the room and finally sat in the chair vacated by Caterina.
“So what, you are still a swindler, a con-artist, a fraudster, a forger’s assistant, a falsifier. If you don’t like any of those names, I’ve got some more.”
“I facilitate happiness and perpetuate good taste,” said Nightingale. “That’s what I do. And I make money from it. Morally, I have no problems with what I do.” He looked over to his lawyer, who was regarding the stained fabric of his chair with fastidious distaste. “Explain it to him, Avvocato.”
“If you need a lawyer to explain your ethics, you’re probably not going straight to heaven,” said Blume.
“What Mr. Nightingale means,” said Feltri, smoothing the turbulence out of the air with a stroke of his hand, “is that he helps the buyer feel that his purchase is legitimate, which is the basis of all value in the art world. At the same time, he helps the dealer conclude a profitable transaction and some of that profit trickles down to artists, art hunters, and minor collectors who supply him. You are a policeman, so I hardly need remind you what a confirmation bias is, but let me explain the term, for the sake of Mr. Nightingale. It is simply this: People believe what they want to believe.”
“Well put!” said Nightingale from his corner.
Feltri gave a slight bow of acknowledgment. “Once someone gets an idea into his head, he-and I say he advisedly, because women in this respect are a little less susceptible than men-will see only evidence that confirms his belief, and remain blind to anything that contradicts it. I do not say ignore or deliberately overlook contrary evidence, but simply not see it for what it is. I am sure that happens often in your line of work.”
“I have heard of such things,” said Blume.
“Quite. So you know exactly what I mean. So if Nightingale were to discover a painting of dubious provenance, first he would need to persuade himself of its value. Then he would need to persuade another dealer or
