Massiter was a different matter. His name appeared in every one of the files on her desk, each as inconclusive as the next. That he partook in smuggling illicit objects could not be doubted. They had intelligence from myriad sources to suggest this was the case. But there were rumours, also, of tax evasion and outright fraud. Massiter’s name cropped up in too many conversations for its appearance to be coincidence. Yet not a shred of evidence had been found against him. Even so, an ambitious detective had, some four years earlier, gained authority to search his apartment near Salute. He came away empty-handed and now pushed a pen in Padua.
Massiter had friends everywhere, friends who stood in the dark. He would, she assumed, be constantly forewarned of any impending action against him and act accordingly. Nevertheless, some soft Achilles’ heel must exist, and she knew where it lay. If the rumours were correct, there had to be some lockup or small warehouse in the city or Mestre where he was able to store his contraband goods before moving them on. The hapless detective whose career now ebbed away in Padua had ransacked the city records, looking for some magazzino that had Massiter’s name on the deeds or rental contract and found nothing. Still, this illicit Aladdin’s cave must exist. Massiter dealt in real objects, solid artefacts. They could not be spirited through the city on wings.
She walked to the window and watched the crowds heading for the station. It was a close summer day. The city swarmed with tourists. Somewhere beyond the glass, no more than a mile or two from where she stood, must lie all the answers. And some, too, to questions which no one had asked for years. Giulia Morelli returned to her desk and opened the final file, the one marked “Susanna Gianni.” She recalled the way the records clerk had looked at her when she asked for it. This was a case which had lost none of its potency for those who had been touched by it. She could not forget that brief week of frantic activity a decade before when, for a short interlude, it seemed a vicious killer might be loose in the city. Then the sudden sense of finality which resulted from the discovery of the conductor’s body. She had been in the party which visited the Gritti Palace to look at his corpse. The room was so tidy, the position of the dead man so perfect. She had looked through his luggage and found some mild homosexual pornography and a phone number which proved to be that of a gay pimp in Mestre. She had opened his wardrobes and smelled the heavy, cloying scent on his clothes. Later she had spoken to those who had known him and confirmed what she already understood to be true: that Anatole Singer’s sexual tastes did not lie in women of any age, least of all a lovely teenager who had blossomed beneath his care.
But she had revealed none of this for a good reason, one which continued to haunt her. She had been there when they searched the conductor’s suite, had seen what was found and what was taken away. She had followed in the footsteps of the captain in charge, old Ruggiero, who was now comfortably retired to Tuscany. She had watched him catalogue every last item and seen the report book before they left the hotel. There had been no suicide note. Every one of them knew as much; every one of them acquiesced when Ruggiero later produced it from nowhere and declared the case closed. She had never once taken a penny in bribes or as much as a free drink from a neighbourhood bar. Yet, through that single act of acceptance, Giulia Morelli continued to feel as stained as the grubbiest of Veneto cops whose palm stood open, always.
She stared at the typed report in front of her and started to read it again, even though by now she felt she knew it by heart. Almost an hour later, when her head was beginning to ache from the pointless effort, there was a knock on the door. One of the uniformed sergeants stood there, looking wary.
“Yes?”
He shuffled, uncomfortable in her presence, as so many of them were. “You said you wanted us to trawl for something on that killing.”
He had a file in his hand. She felt her spirits rise a little. “I did.”
“We picked up some cheap little hood lifting an American’s wallet in San Marco this morning.”
“Well?”
“When I asked him if he knew anything about what happened at the Scacchi place, he went white. Really white. Like he couldn’t believe it. There’s something there. Hell, I don’t know what.”
She walked to the door, took the file, and followed him down two flights of steps to the interview room, reading all the way.
“You know this man?”
“Rizzo? Sure. Minor league. Pickpocket. Errand boy.”
The sergeant was about thirty, tall and straight-backed, with a plain, pale face. He looked trustworthy. The new crop always did.
“Did he have any…associations?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he replied. “He doesn’t belong to any of the local packs, if that’s what you mean.”
It wasn’t, but she let that pass. “So what else do you know?”
“You mean apart from him going white like that? You need something else?”
She just stared and waited for an answer. The sergeant shrugged. “When we picked him up, he had a bankbook in his pocket that showed he’d deposited forty thousand U.S. dollars just on Friday.”
They stopped outside the interview room door. “Do you know where he was around three-thirty this morning?”
He smiled at that one. “Oh, yes. Here. We picked him up at three trying to roll this guy in San Marco. Odd. This jerk looks more professional than that. Maybe something’s worrying him. This is some small-time neighbourhood jerk. He doesn’t go around breaking into big houses and killing people. It’s beyond his imagination.”
“Is he married?”
“Complete loner. He’s got some fixed-rent place near the old ghetto. Nothing there except a few things that’ll never get back to the owners, wherever they are. Hey, it’s not a big deal. If it weren’t for the money and the way he came over all queer, I wouldn’t even have bothered you.”
She touched the sleeve of his shirt and was amused that he almost jumped at her touch. “Thanks anyway. I’m grateful. Are you going to charge him?”
“You bet I’m going to charge him. Why do you think we do this? For the pleasure of their company?”
“I was just thinking…”
“Yeah, yeah. I know what you were thinking.”
“If it makes sense to wait awhile. Let him think he’s trading something…”
“If… You make the case to me. You tell me why I should let him go.”
She nodded. There was a decision here she would one day have to face: finding someone to trust, someone with whom she could share her ideas.
“What’s your name, Sergeant?” she asked.
“Biagio.”
“Well, thanks.” Giulia Morelli pushed open the door and walked into the interview room, took one look at the man, waved at the cigarette smoke that made the atmosphere opaque, then strode to the window and threw it open, letting in the faint smell of fumes from the nearby car park. She stared at the grey landscape until she had stopped trembling. She had trained herself to ignore instinct. Facts were all that mattered. Yet, crazy as she knew it to be, Giulia Morelli found it impossible to shake the idea that this was the killer she had last met in the Sant’ Alvise apartment. Then it came to her. There was the stink of that dread room in Sant’ Alvise: cheap, strong cigarettes, African maybe, and the rank odour of sweaty fear. Such a small fact, and one which meant nothing in law.
“Put that out,” she barked at the figure on the other side of the table.
“What?”
She reached over, grabbed the cigarette from his mouth, and stubbed it out on the plain plastic top of the table. Rizzo looked shocked.