A Season for the Dead

Thirty-Five

Rossi was three hours past the end of his shift when Falcone collared him. He could tell from Falcone’s smile it wasn’t good news.

“Overtime,” Falcone said.

“That’s voluntary, I imagine?”

“You’re going to be in the company of a star. You should be paying me.”

Rossi had seen Arturo Valena walk into Falcone’s office. He couldn’t stand the man. “Jesus…” he groaned.

“Piece of cake. The guy needs taking to the Brazilian Embassy in the Piazza Navona. There for an hour, no more, then you see him home. I’ll send someone else to take over around eleven.”

“How kind. He’s another one on the list? Another one she never told us about?”

“Seems so.”

Rossi shook his head. “Such taste…”

Falcone scanned the office, looking at the men on duty. “Shame Costa’s gone home. I could call him back.”

Rossi knew what game he hoped to play, winding the kid up with another ex-lover she’d forgotten to mention. He was having none of it. “Are you serious? The kid’s half dead.”

“True. But he needs to learn. You know that, don’t you?”

“Learn what? All the old tricks we know and love so well? Maybe he thinks that’s not such a good idea. Maybe he’s right.” Rossi was tired of Falcone. He couldn’t give a damn about the job anymore.

“You don’t fit in here, Rossi. Just three days and it’s so obvious.”

“Now, should I be offended by that? Sir?”

Falcone looked out of the window of his office, thinking, calm, as always, in these situations. “It doesn’t make much of a pension at your age. You should have stuck it out longer.”

“There’s more to life than money. Can I ask you one thing?” The silver beard nodded. “Just take the kid off this case. It’s beyond him and he doesn’t realize it.”

“Seems to me,” Falcone said, “he’s done pretty damn well. Found out more than you, to be frank.”

“Yeah.” Rossi wondered how far he could go. “Found out lots of things that just seemed to be sitting there waiting for him, huh? I just don’t want to see him damaged. Do what you like to me, but I won’t have that. Understand?”

“Get the hell out of here. Take Cattaneo instead.”

Rossi groaned again. In three days he had already come to learn the dull little man from Bologna was the least popular detective in the division: slow-witted, boring and an incessant talker.

“The sooner you’re gone, the sooner this all becomes someone else’s problem.”

“And the kid?”

“I’ll think on it.”

“Sir,” Rossi murmured, and walked to Cattaneo’s desk to break the news.

“Arturo Valena?” Cattaneo was in his mid-thirties, single and without vices. He bought his suits, shirts and shoes in threes from Standa because he got a discount that way and it removed the needless task of deciding whether to choose something different each day. His shift had started one hour before, which meant he was just bursting with energy to expend in useless conversation. “You mean the Arturo Valena? The man on the box?”

“Just don’t ask for an autograph,” Rossi warned him. “I don’t think I could take it.”

“Oh, come on,” Cattaneo complained. “It wouldn’t be for me, you understand. My brother’s kid. He just loves the guy.”

“Your brother’s kid is how old? Twelve?”

“Eleven.”

“And he watches Valena on TV?”

“We all do.”

“Sweet Jesus. The poor bastard’s marked for life. Can you walk and talk at the same time?”

Cattaneo scowled, picked up his jacket and followed Rossi to the door, where they joined Valena and went downstairs to the car. The detective from Bologna talked every step of the way. Before they’d even left the building, Rossi could see from the TV man’s eyes that he loathed Cattaneo too.