me.
“He’s just a kid,” I said, my voice suddenly distraught. I stared again at the picture, everyone’s solution to the crime.
“Yes. But not a child. A man.” Making a legal distinction. “You know, it’s often like this in police work. People like to help catch and then-” He made a snapping noise with his hands. “They realize there’s also the punishment. That’s more difficult for them. The cold feet, you say, yes?” he said, still genial, sticking his chin out so that for a half second he looked like Paolo’s hero in Rome. Not a joke in the end, either. He took back the picture. “He’s young, yes. But think of the crime. Think how Gianni would feel. Grateful, I think, for your help.”
Before I could answer, Cavallini’s door, only half shut, swung open and his secretary came in, arms held out, being pushed by Rosa, who was screaming in Italian. “Ah,” Rosa said, spying Cavallini, moving the secretary aside and wagging her finger theatrically.
He yelled back, but she cut him off, flinging her hands now. There must have been some physical resistance in the outer office, because her cardigan, usually wrapped tight, seemed a little disheveled, and her hair was spilling out of its tidy bun.
“Oh, you too!” she said, seeing me, switching to English. “What a pair. What a pair. How can you be part of this? Give me that.” She reached over for the beige file. Cavallini put his hand on it. “It’s property of the Allies. Not yours,” she said.
“And now evidence in a murder case.”
“ Basta. What evidence?” She turned to me. “You see how they use everything? We investigate Maglione, not some poor boy. And now they use that, because he’s Communist. Anything to discredit the Communists. Where is he? I demand to see him.”
“He’s being questioned. He has a lawyer.”
“Ha. Picked by the Questura. Wonderful.”
“Let him pick another, then.”
“Don’t worry, he will. My god, what a fool you are. Always the same. The father was a hero. The boy was a hero. While you were-what? Keeping order for the Germans. And now you want to destroy him? Take everything he says and twist it-no, worse, everything I say. It was to help get Maglione. Why? Because he has to know.” She pointed her thumb at me. “So I help, and now you want to use that? Against an innocent boy? Shame. But then, when were you ever ashamed?”
“Innocent boy,” Cavallini said scornfully.
“Yes, innocent, of course innocent.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do.”
“Ah. And that’s his defense. No wonder you came. How did you know he was here, by the way?”
“Oh, you think maybe someone here told me? Good, start the search. A Communist in the Questura. Yes, that must be it. You’d better look everywhere. Under the desks. Do it to your own-see how they like it.” She turned to me. “You see what they’re trying to do? You think this boy killed Maglione?”
“No, he agrees with you,” Cavallini said, mischievous. “He’s been trying to convince me the boy is innocent.”
Rosa stopped, thrown by this.
“But he hasn’t,” Cavallini said, with a small smile for me.
“Be careful what you say here,” Rosa said to me. “It’s not justice here. Politics. Nothing changes.” She looked at Cavallini. “When can I see him?”
“Make a request,” Cavallini said. “While he’s being questioned, his lawyer only.”
“One hair,” Rosa said to him. “If you touch one hair.” She turned to me. “And you-you know what Maglione was. They’re the same. And now you work with them.”
“Is that the purpose of your visit?” Cavallini said, mock-formal. “To criticize the police?”
Rosa raised her head. “No, to warn you.”
“Oh, to warn me.”
“I know you, what a coward you can be. You want to make the Communists look bad? Go ahead. But not with this boy. You know me too. You think I survived that house to let you have Moretti’s son? I warn you, I will fight you with everything.”
“Except your own evidence. That fights for me.”
“Evidence can change.”
“But not the truth,” Cavallini said, pompous, actually raising a finger, the whole conversation a series of gestures, a visible squaring off.
“Truth? You’re a fine one-”
“ Che cosa succede qui?” a policeman said. He had stopped at the door, the secretary trailing behind.
“ Niente, niente,” Cavallini said, then to Rosa, “This behavior is for the streets, not the Questura. You want to see the prisoner, make a request.”
“The prisoner? He’s formally charged?”
“He’s answering questions,” Cavallini said, not answering hers.
“So. Then wait for his lawyer. Already sent for, already sent for,” she said, anticipating him.
“Tell him to hurry,” Cavallini said, smiling again. “We are expecting a confession any minute.”
“Bah,” Rosa said, flinging her hand.
There was a noise in the outer office-more people, including the man I’d met earlier, Cavallini’s boss. When I looked at Cavallini, I caught a flicker of anxiety, a worry perhaps that he’d be blamed for the commotion.
“Come on, Rosa,” I said, taking her arm.
To my relief, she nodded and moved with me to the door, then turned one last time to face Cavallini. “Remember,” she said, “not one hair.”
Outside on the fondamenta she stopped for a second to look across the canal to San Lorenzo. I gave her a cigarette, a peace offering, surprised to find my hand shaking, still rattled.
“I didn’t know-” I started, but she cut me off with a wave.
“They’re going to charge him.”
“No, they’re not. They can’t prove anything. He didn’t do it.” Trying it out, wanting to believe it myself.
“You’re so sure?” she said, looking up at me but not waiting for an answer. “Anyway, when did they need proof, this bunch?”
As we neared the bridge, Claudia ran toward us from the calle side of the building, glancing nervously at the police guards in front. She was clutching her open coat, as if she’d left too quickly to button it.
“Thank god. You’re all right?” she said, touching my arm.
“Yes, fine. What-?”
“Cavallini called, looking for you. He said they arrested somebody.” She looked again at the Questura.
“It’s okay, calm down. They didn’t arrest me,” I said, trying to make a joke of it and signal her at the same time. “Meet Rosa.”
The introductions were offhand, not much more than an appraising glance, each of them too distracted to be interested in the other.
“But who-?”
“A boy. His father was in the house with the partisans.”
“But how can they think-?”
“He’s got a motive,” I said quickly, looking at her. “And he can’t explain himself.”
“A motive?”
“Yes, we did that for him,” Rosa said grimly. “He never even thought about Maglione until I talked to him. So now it’s our fault.”
“But he didn’t do it,” I said.
“Yes, and who’s in there?” Rosa said, jerking her thumb toward the building.
“What are you going to do?” Claudia said quietly.
“We’re going to find out who did do it,” I said to Rosa, ignoring Claudia’s stare. But who? A phantom, a better story.
“No, I’m finished with this business. Look how it is already. They don’t want anyone else. He’s perfect for
