Without taking his eyes off the woman, Ricciardi gestured with one hand to Maione, who pulled Calise’s notebook out of his jacket.
“In this notebook,” said the brigadier after clearing his throat, “found in Calise’s apartment, your wife’s name is recorded, either written out or as initials, one hundred and sixteen times over roughly three hundred days of appointments. If you ask me, ‘often’ is a perfectly reasonable term, don’t you think, Professo’?”
Ruggero snorted in annoyance. Emma answered.
“Well, yes, I would go see her. It was a distraction. We all need distractions. Especially when life becomes oppressive.”
She’d said something terrible; Ricciardi and Maione realized it immediately. They both glanced over at Ruggero. He didn’t react, continuing to stare silently into the void in front of him. The commissario went on.
“And what did Calise talk to you about? Did she ever, I don’t know, confide in you, mention any names? Did she ever tell you that she was worried about anything, or did you ever sense that she might be in danger?”
Maione looked over at Ricciardi in surprise. He would have expected the commissario to ask other questions about Signora Serra di Arpaja’s troubles, delve deeper into the cracks in their relationship. Instead, he had returned to the topic of Calise.
“No, Commissario. We talked about other things, like I told you. She read my cards. That’s all. She told what was going to happen, and she was never wrong.”
When the woman had withdrawn from the room, Ruggero saw Maione and Ricciardi to the door.
“You see, Commissario, my wife is like a child. She has her little crazes, her amusements, the silly things she does with her girlfriends. But she was having dinner with me at the home of His Excellency the Prefect the night that Calise was murdered. I read about the mechanics of the murder in the newspaper. Our name is fairly prominent in this city. I’d appreciate it if this conversation was the last we could look forward to. Can I count on that?”
“We want exactly the same thing that you do, Professor: to make sure no innocent person is made to pay for something they didn’t do. You can rest assured, you and your wife. We know how to perform our duty.”
As they were walking out the front door, under the doorman’s resentful glare, Maione reviewed the meeting.
“Commissa’, why didn’t you delve a little deeper into the matter at hand, so to speak? It seemed to me that the signora was reciting a lesson the professor’d taught her, and then she let slip that she was unhappy. Wouldn’t it be worth finding out a little more about that? It wouldn’t be that the signora got started killing little old ladies as a way off fending off her boredom, for example?”
Ricciardi stopped Maione, laying a hand on his arm before stepping into the car.
“You have a point. Listen, Maione, there’s something I want to tell you before we get back in the car, just in case I don’t get out alive: none of this is clear to me. Emma Serra went lots of times to see Calise, who never made use of Nunzia’s services for her. That means that someone else was serving as her informer. So I want you to do some digging into the life of Emma Serra di Arpaja, but be very careful how you go about it. I want to know who she sees, where she goes when her husband’s not around, the names of her friends, and what the domestics have to say. And as soon as you can. I have a feeling that any minute, we’re going to be given a choice: either say Iodice did it, or they’ll take us off the case.”
“Yessir, Commissa’. But this thing you said about not getting out of the car alive, I don’t get it. On the way back you can explain it clearly to me.”
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.