Blume held the phone at arm’s length and scrolled through missed calls. He found Caterina, called her, and listened while she gave him a more coherent version of events.
“I’ll get in as soon as I can,” he said, “I have something to attend to here.”
He swept his eye across the parking lot, his eye attracted by an electric blue latex dress worn by one of a group of five transvestites eyeing his car.
“One thing, Caterina. Panebianco. Is he… do you think he’s..”
“No. He’s out. He got a call.”
“That’s not what I meant. I was asking if you know, if you thought he might be in any way homosexual.”
“In any way?”
“Or in all ways.”
She laughed. “Are you really having to ask that now? How long have you been working with him?”
“Six years, seven,” said Blume.
“Yes. I would say he most definitely is. What gave you this flash of insight?”
“I know who he plays soccer with.”
“I’ve never heard it called that before.”
“No. They really do play soccer together,” said Blume. “Among other things.”
Blume drove out of the parking lot and back toward his home in San Giovanni.
He double-parked in front of green dumpsters, and opened his door into the traffic flow, earning a few horn blasts from passing motorists. His watcher’s car was fifty feet away. He called Paoloni. If this thing was spiraling out of control, any words he spoke in haste now would be listened to at leisure by a magistrate later.
“I’m outside my apartment. I was thinking of popping in, maybe having a shower. It would mean I’ll be a little late for lunch. Is that OK?”
“Sure,” said Paoloni. “So you’re going in now to have this shower?”
“Yes, right now.”
He chose the stairs rather than the elevator. On the third floor he encountered Mrs. Egidi, the porter, who glared at him with barely suppressed rage. She had just been told by a neighbor that his apartment door looked forced. She turned around and followed him.
“Nobody’s safe,” she said. “Gypsies, Albanians, niggers selling socks on the streets waiting for their chance. We need a night watchman. In Naples there are certain houses that nobody robs and you know why?”
“Yes. That’s why they call it a protection racket. Now if you’ll excuse me… ” He reached his own floor and his reclusive next-door neighbor opened his reinforced apartment door and peered out.
“Just so you know,” he said, “I heard nothing. Otherwise I would have called.”
“I’m sure you would,” said Blume. “Thank you. Everything OK with you?”
The neighbor opened his door a little wider. “These things. They make you lose faith, you know.”
“I know,” said Blume sympathetically. He pulled out his keys.
“I don’t think you’re going to need them,” said the neighbor.
“No, you’re right. No lock to put it in.”
“You’re a policeman,” accused the porter. “So I don’t suppose I need to call the police. You’ll do that.” She marched down the stairs, muttering about plumbing disasters, break-ins, and foreigners. Blume heard her exasperated replies to people from the lower apartments. Everyone knew something was up. The porter would not have ventured so far into the building otherwise.
Blume pushed his front door inwards, then gritted his teeth and the bent frame scraped across his floor inside. He edged his way in and contemplated the devastation of his home that he had just authorized.
Was it possible to do this much harm in a quarter of an hour? They had pulled down his books, kicked over his television. Every drawer in the house had been carried into the living room, overturned on the carpet, and then thrown aside. Knives, forks, pens, socks, underpants, candles, tools, tape, string, and hundreds of other items lay in a heap. Most of the drawers looked damaged. His expensive amplifier was gone, but the other components of the stereo were left behind, and his CD collection was scattered everywhere. The wooden table in the dining area was scored, and the glass coffee table in the living room was cracked. His Kenwood coffeemaker had been knocked over, the Pyrex coffeepot lay smashed on the floor along with several plates and china. They had poured cornflakes, pasta, flour, and cocoa over everything.
The sofa cushions were slashed open, chairs overturned. In his bedroom, his clothes lay in a grubby pile, mixed up with dirty laundry. His favorite suitcase was missing. In his bedside table, there had been € 120 in cash. The money was gone, but his passport was still there. He checked his wardrobe. Empty. They had pulled out everything. Thorough bastards whoever they were. And this had seemed like a good idea?
Fearfully, he entered the study, the room that contained all his parents’ art books, lecture notes, his father’s old typewriter, a large collection of LPs, and some of the furniture from when they were alive. All was intact. If they had been in here they had touched nothing.
He called up his own office and said there was no need to turn it into an emergency, since the thieves were long gone.
“Just send two patrolmen out here within the next half hour or so,” he said.
He went back to the living room and found that with some effort he was able to push the front door of his apartment closed again. He put an exploded cushion back on the sofa and waited.
Less than ten minutes later someone rang the doorbell seven or eight times, while someone else hammered on the door. Blume walked over, called to the people outside to push, saying it was a bit stiff.
They pushed and kicked even, and Blume pulled to help. Eventually four Carabinieri were in the room, staring at the chaos, unsure what to do. They were soon followed by the Maresciallo and Investigating Magistrate Buoncompagno. Blume stood beside the door, half blocking the magistrate’s entry. Buoncompagno stood back and showed Blume a piece of paper.
“Commissioner Blume, pursuant to Articles 259, 251, and 352 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, I am ordering a search of your place of domicile with reference to a well-sourced report… as the following… what the hell happened in here?”
“I appear to have been robbed. I hope the police don’t waste too much time getting here.” To the Carabinieri still in an immobile cluster at the end of his devastated living room, he said, “Help me pull the door open fully. The fat bastard will never fit through that crack.”
They glared at him without moving, but thirty seconds later they were all heaving at his door to make a large enough space for Colonel Farinelli to walk through.
The Colonel stood there surveying the mess, his face awash with sweat from the exertion of getting in and out of the elevator. “Did you Carabinieri do all this while I was on my way up? I told you to respect the apartment. It belongs to a police commissioner.”
He patted his heart, took a few deep breaths, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and dabbed his brow. “Something’s not right.” He looked in alarm at the overturned furniture. “Where can I sit?”
The Maresciallo grabbed an overturned chair with one hand, spun it around, and placed it against the back of the Colonel’s thighs. As the Colonel lowered himself cautiously onto the seat, there was a slight commotion behind and two policemen appeared. The first of them saluted Blume, saying, “Sir, we got a message that… ” He stopped as he took in the scene and the presence of the others.
He looked in amazement at the assembled group. “You called the Carabinieri?”
“No, Agente. Don’t worry about that. They have to execute a search warrant. God alone knows what they expect to find. But you two might want to follow them around a bit. I’m giving you an order as your commander and permission as homeowner.”
Buoncompagno gave his long gray hair a decisive flick and pointed at the Carabinieri. “Search the whole place,” he ordered. “Start in the bedroom. Rip down the walls if you have to. Anywhere that…”
“Wait!” called Blume. “Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene. Pursuant to Articles 354, 355, and 360 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, I ask all non-essential persons to clear the premises immediately to avoid contamination of the scene.”
The magistrate waved his search warrant. “This has precedence.”
“Oh, and pursuant to Article 254, paragraph 2, and… a few other articles I forget. I don’t suppose you can remind me, Magistrate?”
“Don’t try to get smart with me, Commissioner. No public prosecutor has received notification of this alleged
