Blood Curse

XLIX

Teresa watched the two policemen from the kitchen window as they got into the car and departed with a jolt. They’d aroused her curiosity; those crystal green eyes had made a strong impression on her. She’d observed the professor and the signora, too: he, who had gone several days without washing or shaving, more perfectly groomed and elegant than ever; she, who was usually glamorous and dressed in the latest fashions, as modestly clothed as the parish priest’s spinster housekeeper back home in her village.

She had served the tea in silence, her eyes riveted to the floor, so she was unable to see their faces, but she’d still sensed all of the tension in the room bearing down on her. Only whispers had escaped through the parlor door; no one had raised their voice. She had taken this opportunity to tidy up the signora’s bedroom, scrubbing away the wine and vomit.

Then she had cleaned the professor’s study and had noticed the filthy shoes, which she now had there with her, in the little kitchen cabinet.

Teresa raised her gaze to the sea, from which a faint breeze carried a pleasant smell. Spring is really upon us now, she thought.

Having unleashed Maione to follow his trail, Ricciardi returned to his office alone.

Waiting for him at his door, eyes darting to and fro, was none other than Ponte.

Deputy Chief of Police Garzo was beside himself. There was no mistaking his shortness of breath and the red spots on his face. On top of that, he didn’t come over to greet Ricciardi when he walked into his office.

“Now then, Ricciardi. As usual, you’ve ignored my instructions. But this time, I haven’t the slightest intention of tolerating this attitude of yours, unless you have a reasonable explanation.”

Ricciardi cocked his head to one side, quizzically.

“I don’t understand, Dottore. Hadn’t we agreed that I would interview Signora Serra di Arpaja? That we were to take the car and drive to their palazzo? That’s precisely what we did.”

Garzo was snorting like a bull.

“I received a phone call from the professor himself, lodging a complaint about your attitude, which he found anything but deferential; he told me that you treated him like little more than a common criminal. Is it true what he says?”

Ricciardi shrugged.

“Not all of us are at home in the higher spheres of society, Dottore. I’ve envied you your diplomatic skills more than once. I was careful to stick to the standard questions, not wanting to imply anything. But if I were sitting at your desk, I’d be concerned about this excessively defensive posture: normally, as you surely know from your own vast depth of experience, it’s an approach that’s used to hide something.”

Garzo looked away. Ricciardi felt certain that if he got close to him, he’d hear the whirr and buzz of his brain testing its limits. The bureaucrat in Garzo instinctively shunned arguments with the wealthy and powerful, but the last thing he’d want was to have a murderer on his hands who’d been caught not through careful policework, but rather by chance, knowing that the press would crucify him for his protective attitude toward the professor. It had happened before. And Ricciardi knew it.

“Of course, you have a point. Ricciardi, I don’t want to direct the course of your investigation; perish the thought. But, for the second and I hope the last time, I must advise that you proceed with the utmost caution. If you need to speak with someone in the Serra di Arpaja family, you are to consult with me first. Agreed?”

“Yes, Dottore. Agreed.”

Maione was finally doing the work that he loved best: legwork. Collecting information, names, events, insignificant stories that were just fragments of a larger one. The kind of work that allowed him to immerse himself, that took him around the city, into offices and shops, from dark alleyways to grand, tree-lined boulevards. The kind of work that let him get to know new people and see old, familiar faces, and hear the voices of Naples. The kind of work that kept him from other thoughts; that was something he felt the need for, now more than ever. Two nights earlier, he’d filled his lungs with a different kind of air, an air he’d almost forgotten existed: that of a home. He’d felt the caring tenderness of a woman, the smell of food cooked just for him. He even thought he might have detected heartfelt concern in Filomena’s eyes for his weariness.

And yet his heart was filled with melancholy. He felt as if he’d been a spectator to someone else’s life, the usurper of a throne. He’d felt uneasy and depressed. He’d returned home in silence and had gotten into bed. Only then had he felt he was where he belonged, even though Lucia had doubtless been sleeping for hours, shut off in her world of memories.

These were the thoughts that were running through his mind when he finally saw the doorman leaving the Serra di Arpaja palazzo, changed out of his uniform and on his way home. Maione stepped out of the shadow of the doorway across the street and caught up with the man.

Pretending he’d run into him by chance, he suggested they go get an after-work beer together.