Blood Curse

XLVI

Ricciardi took the promissory note, immediately noticing the bloody fingerprints near where the amount was written in numerals and by the signature. It looked as if Iodice had traced the parts that had been filled in with his finger, stained with Calise’s blood, making sure that it was the document he was looking for. He looked up at Concetta.

“He didn’t do it,” the woman said immediately.

Ricciardi shook his head.

“I know you’re convinced of that, Signora. Otherwise, you’d have never given me this note. But you have to admit that it’s hard to reconstruct what happened without thinking that your husband might have been the one to kill Calise.”

Concetta took a step forward. Her voice broke as she talked.

“I know it: I know it wasn’t him. After all, Commissa’, tell me this: why would he have kept the note? Wouldn’t he just have destroyed it and said he’d paid it in full? Even if his name did come out as one of the people who owed money to Calise. No, you know it yourself that it wasn’t him. He found her already dead, he took the promissory note, and he left. You have to find the murderer, Commissa’. Now there’re two souls that need to rest in peace.”

Ricciardi and Maione looked at each other uncertainly. What Concetta was saying was speculation. Evidence was quite another matter.

Iodice’s mother stepped forward out of the shadows. She spoke up in a low voice, roughened by silence and grief. It was clear that she had a hard time expressing herself in a language other than the dialect she was used to speaking.

“Commissario, Brigadier, forgive me. I’m an ignorant woman; I don’t know how to speak properly. I’ve worked hard all my life. That’s our fate, to struggle to raise our children. I watched this son of mine grow all his life long, minute by minute. I saw him cry and laugh and then I saw the children he and this fine girl brought into the world, this fine girl who tied her life to his, to ours. I knew him the way only a mamma can know her son, and I can tell you: my son never killed anyone. Much less an old woman, like his mother. Impossible. Believe what my daughter-in-law tells you, believe us both. Don’t let a murderer run loose in the streets; don’t let our name be stained just because it’s easier to stop looking.”

Ricciardi gave the woman a searching look.

“Signora, believe me when I tell you that we have no intention of letting the guilty party go free. I promise you: we’ll continue the investigation. But I have to tell you, the way things look right now, your son would appear to have committed this murder. You may go now. Maione will see you to the front door. And once again, my condolences.”

The women nodded their heads in farewell and walked toward the door. Before they left the room, Tonino Iodice’s mother turned back to face the commissario.

“The things a person does, sooner or later they have to pay for them, Commissa’. Or else they get their reward. Remember: ’O Padreterno nun è mercante ca pava ’o sabbato.” God Almighty’s not a shopkeeper who pays His debts on Saturday.

When he returned to the office after seeing the two women out, Maione found Ricciardi staring nonplussed at the door.

“What does that mean?”

“What does what mean, Commissa’?”

“What Iodice’s mother said. What did she mean?”

Maione looked at him with concern. This investigation was introducing him to a Ricciardi who was very different from the one he’d come to know.

“The line about God Almighty and Saturday, you mean? Sometimes I forget that you’re not Neapolitan. They don’t say that where you come from? It’s a proverb. It means that when you do something, you don’t get your reward or punishment on a set date, like with debts between human beings. But I don’t think she was trying to threaten you.”

Ricciardi waved his hands briefly in the air, as if dismissing Maione’s suspicions.

“No, I know, I know. It’s just that I’ve heard it somewhere before. And I thought it had to do with actual debts and payments. That the saying was literal, in other words.”

There was a discreet knock at the door, followed by the pinched little face of Ponte, the clerk of the deputy chief of police. Ponte glanced at the armchair, the wall, and the bookcase in rapid succession, then spoke.

“Commissario, forgive me. The deputy chief of police is expecting you.”

As he was climbing the stairs to Garzo’s office, accompanied by Maione, Ricciardi reflected on the shift in perspective brought on by his conversation with the two Iodice women. As soon as he’d heard about the suicide he’d thought that the pizzaiolo must be the killer; and, rationally, that’s what he continued to think. But he had to admit that the emotional impact of what the two women had told him had been powerful, and it had shaken his certainty.

Then there was the matter of the proverb. Ricciardi believed that the murder was somehow connected to Calise’s loan-sharking activities, and in fact her last thought, revealed to him by the Deed, seemed to point to the repayment of a debt, which would confirm his hypothesis. But now that he knew that that same proverb could refer to the course of fate, he could see that there were some murky points that needed to be cleared up. Iodice was certainly the most likely suspect for the murder, but he’d have to complete his investigation before he could give in to that belief.

Fate. Once again, there it was: cursed, inscrutable fate. The last refuge from all one’s fears, all responsibility: “That’s fate”; “Let fate decide”; “Fate will determine the outcome.” In songs and in stories. In people’s minds.

As if everything were preordained or carved in stone and nothing were left up to the free will of human beings. But that’s not the way things work; there’s no such thing as fate, Ricciardi mused as he and Maione approached the door to the deputy chief of police’s office. All there is in the world is evil, sorrow, and pain.

Garzo came to greet him with a dazzling smile.

“My dear, dear Ricciardi! Life is peculiar, isn’t it? We still have to deal with the occasional trivial crime; even if in this brave new era, murders are practically a thing of the past. We live in an age of law and order and prosperity, but if some lunatic decides to buck the system, we’re here to set things right. Prego, prego, Ricciardi, come in, have a seat.”

Ricciardi had listened to this little set piece of political oratory with an ironic smirk on his face. I’d like to send you down to spend just one day in the poorest quarters of this city, you bumptious peacock, he thought. I’d show you law and order and prosperity.

“Dottore, if you have orders. . I’m in the middle of an investigation, as you mentioned. I don’t have a lot of time.”

Garzo clenched his fists for a moment. That man really got on his nerves, with his calm and casual way of always showing him disrespect. Still, he did his best to restrain himself, so as not to deviate from the approach he had planned out in advance.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I heard about this pizza maker, what’s his name. .” He consulted a little sheet of paper before him on his otherwise immaculate desk. “Iodice, that’s right. So this Iodice is dead, isn’t he? As a result of self-inflicted wounds, according to the report. Therefore, case closed. Another quick and successful conclusion.”

Ricciardi expected this line of attack and he was ready for it.

“No, Dottore. You must have been misinformed. There was no confession on Iodice’s part.”

Garzo looked up from the report he was reading, staring at Ricciardi over the gold rims of his reading glasses.

“But I didn’t say anything about a confession. It’s the act itself, the taking of his own life: that is a confession. He was the murderer, and his conscience couldn’t stand it. There’s no doubt about it, as far as I’m concerned.”

Ricciardi briefly shook his head.

“No, Dottore. We’re not done with our interviews yet. We have another person we still need to talk to, possibly two people, and a couple of places we need to inspect. After that we may be ready to conclude our investigation. Maybe.”

With a theatrical gesture, Garzo whipped off his eyeglasses.

“It was precisely this last interview remaining, Ricciardi, that I wanted to speak to you about. I know that you’ve summoned the wife of a very prominent man for an interview. I assume you realize how important it is to preserve amicable relations with this city’s judges and lawyers. I therefore strongly urge you to avoid causing friction.”

Ricciardi smiled.

“But, Dottore, it was my understanding that the overriding interest of both judges and lawyers was the pursuit of truth. Can you imagine what a surprise it would be for the press to discover that a subpoena for questioning had been, how should I put this, suppressed by police headquarters? You should know, Dottore, that a certain list of names was found at Calise’s apartment by none other than a reporter, and if it hasn’t been published yet it’s only because Brigadier Maione here asked the person in question not to disseminate it, so as not to hamper our investigation. But if you really think it’s necessary. .”

Both Maione and Garzo looked at Ricciardi in amazement. Neither man had ever heard him talk that much.

The deputy chief of police recovered from his bewilderment. Among his many fine qualities was his ability to recognize when he’d been defeated and cut his losses.

“If that’s how matters stand, please, proceed as planned. And my thanks to you, Brigadier, for your sensitivity and concern for the reputation of the police force and for the people involved. The one thing I would ask, Ricciardi, is that you proceed with the utmost discretion. This means that the. . person in question will not be coming to your office. Instead, you will conduct your interview at the signora’s residence. And you’ll go there by car, so that no one sees you arrive on foot. Keep me informed.”