“No. I had them removed in a staged burglery.”
This time he heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a sigh. He could hear the forbearance and strain in Faedda’s voice as he said, with admirable understatement, “That’s extremely irregular.”
“I know,” said Blume. “But the important thing now is to make Farinelli want them back immediately. When he comes for them, that would be a good moment to get him.”
“How are you going to make him want them straight back?”
“By telling him there is a Velazquez hidden beneath one of them.”
“A Velazquez?” Faedda permitted himself another sigh. “Is there?”
“There might be,” said Blume.
“You are going to have to explain this to me.”
“Later. It’s to do with something Treacy wrote. Obviously the Velazquez idea can’t come directly from me. But we know someone in your department is reporting to the Colonel. Do you know who?”
“I have a damned good idea.”
“If you disclose some confidential information, how long before it filters back to the Colonel through his informant?”
“Within an hour,” said Faedda without hesitation. “And there’s more than one of them.”
“Good. So you’ve got to let slip the news that I am suddenly desperate to get the paintings back because I realized one of them might hide a priceless Old Master.”
“And how did I get hold of this information-from you?”
“No. Through Panebianco. I confided to Panebianco and then he told you.”
Either Faedda was deeply offended by the suggestion or thinking it over, or both, but the silence that followed was lengthy. Eventually he said, “Catching the Colonel in the act might not be enough.”
“I know,” said Blume. “But it’s a start. Then there are some interesting notebooks that might help you build a deeper case and finally put an end to his superannuated career as puppet master.”
“Even if all this works out,” said Faedda, “and even if I get all I want-which I won’t, but let’s even say I emerge from this covered in glory, you’ll still owe me. You realize that?”
“I know,” said Blume. “Deal?”
“Deal.”
Blume hung up and phoned Paoloni again.
“Did your cousin make contact with his housebreaker friends?”
“They’re waiting. Just say the word. They’ll need a few sweeteners, of course.”
“Well, they won’t find anything worth taking in my house. Their sweeteners can be that I will be a big fan of theirs the next time they get arrested.”
“Plus 800 euros.”
“They want 800 euros to rob my house?”
“I’ll cover it,” said Paoloni. “I know how hard it is on police pay.”
“Fuck the pay, it’s the principle,” said Blume.
“Are we doing this or not?”
Blume drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then said, “Why won’t you tell me I’m making a mistake?”
“Because I don’t think you are.”
“I’m pretty sure this is going to be a bad move.”
“But it’s the move we’re making?”
“I suppose so,” said Blume.
“Great! It’ll take them up to an hour from now, but probably less,” said Paoloni. “Meet you afterwards?”
Blume’s phone started beeping, indicating another incoming call. First he asked, “What about Captain Sudoku or whatever his name is?”
“He’s still there solving number puzzles, waiting for you. No reason for him to see anything else. Be obvious about coming home or he might miss you.”
“OK, I need to hang up.” Blume looked at his phone to see which button he was supposed to press. He couldn’t read a thing. He moved it a bit farther away, saw the message “accept call.” He pressed the corresponding button and brought the phone back to his ear. Silence.
He shook the phone a bit, but it seemed to have no effect. He tried the other ear, pressed the green button. Cell phones had no dial tone. It was the first time he had noticed that. Whoever it was could call him again.
It rang again, and Blume was asked to hold the line because the Questore wished to speak to him. He imagined what it might be. Grattapaglia had murdered the internal affairs investigator. A mugging victim had died. The Carabinieri or Buoncompagno had issued another complaint. Leporelli and Scariglia were dead in their cell. He was being transferred to Gela, no, better, Locri. Blume glanced at his watch. 3:30 p.m.
As he held the line, the phone beeped and he looked to see who it was. Caterina. She could wait.
Finally, the Questore deigned to take the call he had placed.
“Commissioner! Good to speak to you. I must say that’s a bit of news, isn’t it?”
Blume made a non-committal sort of grunt, which he ended with an aspirated noise that could be interpreted as a weary sigh if that’s what the news demanded.
The Questore seemed to be waiting for a more elaborate response. Blume proceeded warily. “Of course, nothing’s definite, yet.”
This did not seem to be what the Questore wanted to hear. The irritation in his voice was clear when he demanded, “Well, have we or have we not got a confession?”
Was he talking about Leporelli and Scariglia or…
“I know the stolen goods have been found, too,” continued the Questore. “It looks like they are all going to be there. At least that’s what your man Rospo told me. He’s a good cop, this Rospo, a name I should be watching?”
Rospo had solved a case? Blume saw no other choice than to make another non-committal grunt.
“It will definitely be a propaganda coup,” said the Questore. “Maybe we should invite the press, get some photos taken of you, Rospo, a few others standing over this hoard of recovered material.”
“Definitely,” said Blume. “Photos. Good idea.” This had to do with the mugger.
The Questore said, “Sometimes you are a very dour man, Commissioner. Very dour. Enjoy your successes more. God knows, they’re rare enough.”
Blume was about to call Caterina back when his phone rang again.
“You won’t guess where I am,” said Grattapaglia, sounding considerably more cheerful than Blume had heard him in months. “Spanish Steps,” he added quickly as if afraid Blume might pluck an inspired guess from the air and ruin the surprise.
“You have a disciplinary meeting in fifteen minutes,” said Blume.
“No longer a problem,” said Grattapaglia. “I’ll make it in time. Aren’t you going to ask me why I am here, or has Caterina already mentioned it?”
“You tell me,” said Blume.
“I have just left the Spanish Embassy to the Holy See where I have had a very useful conversation with Jose Maria Carvalho, the diplomat from the other morning?”
“Oh,” said Blume. This did not sound promising.
“He’s not just dropping his complaint against me, he says he’ll write a letter of recommendation if I need one. I’ve never seen a man so pleased to get a silver cross back.” He dropped his voice as if in danger of being overheard. “He’s still a little shit, and I was right to give him a thumping. I hate to admit it, but Mattiola’s just saved my ass. She said she thought the guy was probably a member of Horus Deus.”
“Opus Dei?”
“Yeah. What did I say?”
Blume asked Grattapaglia what he was talking about. Grattapaglia explained all he knew about the Corsi father and son, Caterina calling him over and giving him the cross. Blume’s pleasure at things working out was tempered by his annoyance that he had not been there.
“You’re going to be late for your appointment, Sovrintendente.”
“I’m in the car now. Only a bit late, and it’s not going to matter.”
