When blume walked into Paoloni’s apartment, the Cane Corso bounced like a huge happy ball into his arms, almost knocking him down.
Blume had not been in the house for a while, but despite Paoloni’s improved circumstances, little had changed. Paoloni had evidently chosen to invest his money in technology rather than furniture. The marmalade- colored settee was the same as before, and the pizzeria chair on which Blume sat spent most of its life folded in a corner with the others. The room was dominated by a massive TV. Two new laptops sat on the table.
Blume sat down and the dog came over and put its big black face in his lap. He ran his thumb slightly against the nap of the short hairs at the base of the beast’s skull. Two years had passed since he dumped the dog on Paoloni and gone to the USA to be with Kristin. He had met her, slept with her, talked with her and then they had both come back on separate flights to Italy. She went back to being a legate in the embassy, he to being a policeman in the Squadra Mobile of Rome. They still met. Their relationship had humor and life, but no future.
Paoloni stubbed out a cigarette in a square black ashtray in the middle of the table that bore the inscription: “With the compliments of the Jolly Hotel Cagliari.” Blume remembered that convention. Three days being taught how to build up crime maps and geographic profiling. It hadn’t been a bad course. And by happy coincidence they had been able to see Roma play Cagliari on the Sunday.
Blume told him about the man outside his building. “He’s definitely a Carabiniere. I think they’re only watching my place, not following me. Can you call someone, get them to check outside now. I know, it’s the second time I’ve asked you to do this.”
Paoloni seemed delighted, and immediately made a phone call.
“My cousin,” he explained. “He’s started working for me. Thirty-five an hour tax-free. He’s good at it, enjoys the work, and I trust him like a brother. Though not with money.”
Blume looked at his watch. He needed to get into the office.
“So how long will it take this cousin of yours?”
“He lives across the way. It’ll take him about fifteen minutes to see if anyone is watching us here.”
“Then he’ll go keep an eye on the guy who’s supposed to be watching me?”
“Yeah,” said Paoloni. “Unless you have a better idea.”
Blume felt he should, but none came to him.
Blume’s phone rang. It was Panebianco, who seemed to think it was OK to ask Blume where he was.
“That’s what I ask you,” said Blume. “Not vice versa.”
“Sorry, Commissioner. It’s what the Questore wanted to know. Then he told me to get in contact with you and tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“There was another mugging. It happened last night at around three.”
“Any more details?”
“The victim was not injured.”
“Another foreigner?”
“Yes. Inspector Mattiola is working a new angle. She says something she learned last night with Grattapaglia made her rethink the cases.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” said Blume.
Fifteen minutes later, Paoloni’s cousin called in to report, as Blume had imagined, that no one had followed him. He thanked Paoloni and left.
Just as he was pulling into the station, Paoloni called again to tell him the guy outside Blume’s house was still there, still watching and playing Sudoku. “More Sudoku than watching.”
“He may as well play Sudoku, seeing as he knows I’m not there,” said Blume. “Tell your cousin not to waste his time.”
“Let me handle this, Alec. My cousin’s entire life until now has been a waste of time.”
When he arrived at the station, Caterina was at the far end of the room, placing pins on a map of Trastevere. Grattapaglia sat nearby arms folded, face homicidal. His first meeting with the investigator was in the afternoon.
“Try to smile during the interview, Sovrintendente,” said Blume.
Grattapaglia bared his teeth and tightened his arms. He looked like a man trying to crush himself to death.
“Seriously. We’ll get you out of this. Just don’t intimidate or antagonize the investigator. Go out for a walk. Go on. I know it relaxes you. Have a drink, too, if it helps. Try to get some perspective on this.”
Grattapaglia did not move.
“It wasn’t really a suggestion,” said Blume with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of the door. “Take a hike, Sovrintendente. Come back when you’re calm.”
Grattapaglia marched straight through them, sending Rospo dancing away behind a desk, and stormed out of the room.
Blume went over to Caterina.
“I’m mapping out the muggings,” she told him. She pointed to Rospo. “The Assistente Capo here has been offering constructive criticism.”
“I already told her we did all that shit,” said Rospo. “All they show is that the muggings took place in Trastevere, and that the convergence is in Trastevere, and there is nothing we can do with that data. For some reason she took all the pins out and then stuck them all back in, exactly where they were to begin with.”
“It’s a good way of getting a feel for the pattern,” said Caterina, sticking another pin in the map. “There. That’s more or less it.”
Blume looked at the pins, which seemed to form the beginning of a spiral.
“How many are there?”
“Thirty-seven muggings. Today’s makes thirty-eight,” said Caterina. “These date back to twenty months ago.” She pointed to a group of seven pins near Trastevere train station. “Those occurred within the time frame, but we have the perpetrator for two of them and we’re pretty sure they are unconnected.”
“We’re totally sure,” interrupted Rospo.
“OK,” said Caterina with a nod at Rospo. “Those are not connected. Inside this spiral we may have two, three copy-cat, opportunist, or run-of-the mill muggings, but if we factor in that the victims were almost all foreigners, then the pattern…”
“We know that,” said Blume.
“Wait,” said Caterina, picking up a printout from the desk beside her. “The victims were, let’s see: Japanese, Spanish, Greek, German, Japanese again, French, another Japanese, Chinese, French again, Swiss, Austrian, Slovenian, Irish, Belgian, Japanese, Japanese… and so on. But at number 23 we have an Italian, a businessman from Milan.
“It interrupted the pattern, but pointed to another one. Apart from being in that area at that time of night, the Milanese businessman, a certain Natale Rosa, was staying at the Hotel Noantri.”
“We checked that, too,” said Blume. “About two in three of the victims were in that hotel, which is by far the largest in the area, so it was not very surprising.”
“Right,” said Caterina. “And we looked into the possibility that someone in the hotel was involved.”
“That was never discounted as a possibility,” said Blume. “But the attacks seemed pretty random. The other main thing is that they were carried out by a single person, which is rare, and that a lot of the witnesses said he threatened them with a huge knife. If I remember, one or two even spoke of a sword or cutlass.”
“I found another anomaly,” said Caterina. “There is something not right in the balance of nationalities.”
“Thirty-eight is a hell of a lot of muggings,” said Blume. “But statistically it’s negligible. You can’t deduce too much from such a small number.”
“I know… but…”
“But?”
“Where are all the Germans, Dutch, and English? I looked up the Rome Chamber of Commerce tourism figures. The Germans, Dutch, French, and English are the main visitors to the city; the Americans come a bit down the list, but they are still ahead of the Spanish and the Japanese. But we have no Dutch victims, no Americans, just one English but a preponderance of Japanese and a few Spaniards. Why?”
“Maybe because Japs are midgets,” said Rospo and cackled.
