“And white,” said Blume.
“I have sallow skin. I tan deeply in the summer.”
“Do you shrink, too?” asked Blume.
Faedda shook his head and smiled. “These misconceptions we have. I thought all Americans were fat and politically correct, yet here you are.” He gained the top of the stairs and opened the first door in the corridor, holding it for Blume. “Did you know that an art theft takes place in Italy on average every two hours, and that fifty-eight percent of what is stolen is never recovered?” he said as Blume walked in.
Faedda sat on a comfortable office chair behind his desk, empty apart from metal knickknacks and plaques with medals, bearing the insignia, symbols of the Carabinieri, feathers, rifles, the burning grenade… The Carabinieri certainly love their symbols, thought Blume. The police were satisfied with a themed calendar showing pictures of squad cars and the occasional Italian flag.
“OK then, did you know that our recovery rate has improved by forty-five percent over the past fifteen years?”
Blume sat down. “Are you seeking election?”
“No, no,” said Faedda. “I am just telling you that things have improved a lot.”
“And you are telling me this because…” Blume thought about it. “Because in the past fifteen years methods have improved?”
“There is another reason,” said Faedda.
“Because there has been staff turnover in this department and tall dynamic Sards like you have taken over from old-school people like Colonel Farinelli,” said Blume.
“Sometimes law enforcement agencies will defend a colleague simply because he is, or was, a colleague, not because he is worth defending,” said Faedda. “The Colonel has long exploited that, but his time is almost up. So I would appreciate it if you could tell me, in total confidence, officer to officer: Did the Colonel offer to cut you in on a deal to sell the paintings found in the home and gallery of the art forger Henry Treacy?”
“What makes you think he is even thinking of doing such a thing? And if he is, why would he offer a piece of the action to me?” said Blume.
“Good. Well, that sounds like a no to me,” said Faedda.
“A ‘no’ sounds like an ‘n’ followed by an ‘o,’ ” said Blume. “That was a question about how you reached such a conclusion.”
“You were there. You saw the paintings. It makes sense. As for the Colonel’s planning to steal the paintings, I’m basing that idea on his past form.”
Blume looked into the unwrinkled and trusting face of the Lieutenant Colonel and said, “You are accusing your commanding officer and me of graft and theft.”
“Him, yes. You, no. On the contrary, I think you agreed to participate in an attempt to corner the Colonel. I want to be part of whatever it is you are planning or, if I can put it better, I want to be able to help.”
“What makes you so sure? What makes you so sure I wasn’t planning something with the Colonel, and that I will leave this office, warn him, and together we will completely fuck you over?”
Faedda frowned slightly. “I asked.”
“You asked what?”
“I asked Panebianco about you. What sort of person you were. He said there was no chance you would be corrupted like that.”
“Panebianco said that?”
“Sure.”
“And that was enough for you?”
“Yes.”
Perhaps, Blume thought, the kid was a recent Christian convert or something. All that faith.
Faedda said, “Well, I ran some background checks, too. And I have a friend who… we checked your finances, going back ten years. And I spoke to a few magistrates and reviewed past cases. I am not sure what makes you tick, Commissioner, but it isn’t money. So I thought I would take a risk. Was I right to do so?”
“I… I have no idea.”
“Well, I feel confident,” said Faedda. “I hate dishonesty. We Carabinieri are not like that. The force deserves better leaders. The Polizia are lucky…”
Blume held up a finger to halt Faedda’s flow. When he was sure no more flattery was forthcoming, he said, “Do you have any idea how much more powerful Farinelli is than you? Forget about his rank, which is higher than yours anyhow. He can do what he wants, and as for those paintings, I doubt the Colonel put all of them in storage. Maybe none of them are there.”
“I hope that is not the case, because it would mean that some men here were accomplices to a fraudulent operation, which… Well, these things happen,” said Faedda, opening his palms in a gesture of devout acceptance. “The Colonel is famous for his secrecy. He’s the sort who used to pull the strings of the people who worked behind the scenes. He operates, or used to, two, three levels down. But he’s losing power. His contacts are fading. His former controllers are dying of old age, and some of the men he controlled have moved beyond him, found new masters, got elected to office.”
Faedda squinted his left eye in an attempt to make it look like the thought was just coming to him at that moment. “In this case, he’s being uncharacteristically straightforward. The Colonel bribes you, maybe plans to pay, maybe plans to expose you as the bad guy, the extortionist, maybe both. Pretty simple.”
“I’m a simple kind of guy,” said Blume. “I don’t recall confirming to you that the Colonel offered to cut me in on a deal.”
“But he did, right?”
Blume was not sure what to make of the young man’s mixture of candidness and presumption. “Let’s say for argument’s sake that he did,” he said.
“Like I said, Panebianco vouchsafed for you. That will do for me. But I was wondering, do you have something else the Colonel wants?”
Blume shrugged. “Obviously I do.”
“What?”
“I have no idea.”
“That’s fine. I accept that response,” said Faedda. “But if you really have no idea, let me suggest money. Or something that is worth a lot of money.”
“What about something that gives him power, leverage, or exonerates him. Or something that he wants hidden?”
“Those are all very plausible reasons,” said Faedda. “And it could be any one of them, or all of them. But I still think it’s money.”
Blume, thinking of an interesting section of the memoirs he had read the night before, said, “If it wasn’t money to start with, it soon will be.”
Chapter 24
Before returning to his office, Blume passed by his apartment, showered, changed, and picked up the three notebooks. The idea of their remaining unguarded in there made him uneasy. The damned things were becoming a burden to him. There was a safe in the office, but he was not the only one with keys to it. His best bet was to give them to Paoloni to look after.
The phone on the desk was ringing as he entered his office. The Questore or, rather, his smarmy secretary again. It seemed to Blume the Questore had no one else to talk to apart from him. And he always phoned Blume in his office, as if to check he was there.
“I’ve been having complaints about you,” he announced when they were connected. “A magistrate, Buoncompagno, claims that you have been making unauthorized interventions in his investigation into the art forger. I thought I told you to leave that alone.”
Blume gestured to the gods of the ceiling with the phone, then brought it back to his ear. “Buoncompagno has been told to say that, sir,” said Blume. “It’s just a minor jurisdictional dispute with a Carabiniere. Meanwhile, I have been working with Magistrate Antonello Gestri on a double murder.”
“You mean the hit-and-run on the Indians?”
“The vehicle was the murder weapon.”
“Don’t change the subject,” said the Questore. “I told you to leave the Treacy case alone.”
Blume slid the notebooks into his drawer. “I just had to make sure there was no connection with the muggings, which you said are our priority right now,” he said.
“Are you saying there is a connection between Treacy and the muggings?”
“Oh, just that Treacy was a foreigner like the rest of them.”
“It seems rather flimsy,” said the Questore. “Have you any proof?”