Serving as a backdrop to these thoughts, Livia surfaced intermittently in the commissario’s mind, staring round-eyed at the four buffoonish clowns as they tried to attack Ricciardi; Enrica surfaced too, sitting at Gambrinus, her eyes filled with tears. His mind instantly raced to the debonair smile of the young man with her, and as it did, he felt a stab of discomfort in his stomach. Maybe I just need something to eat, he thought.
But he was wrong.
XXXII
Now, it was true that Maione was a bad driver, and it was also true that Ricciardi, presented with a choice between driving and walking, always preferred the latter solution; but for that particular route, between police headquarters and the Rione Amedeo, there was another reason, as well.
Some ten days earlier, right on the Via Dei Mille, an automobile had swerved out of control and hit a lamppost head on; it wasn’t going all that fast, but the windshield had shattered and killed the small family that was out showing off its brand new car: husband, wife, and a little boy, riding in his mamma’s arms.
Ricciardi had read about it in the newspaper, and had taken great care to avoid passing by the scene of the crash, knowing full well that the Deed would be sure to treat him to a very unpleasant moment. Now he had no choice, but it was one thing to walk through on the sidewalk, quite another to experience it aboard a bouncing, jolting vehicle propelled by Maione’s hysterical foot on the gas pedal. Walking would be the lesser of two evils.
Walking along under the pitiless hot sun, he braced for the vision the way a boxer prepares for his adversary’s punch. He knew that, however much he steeled himself, it would still catch him by surprise. And in fact the first time he looked up, he was greeted by the sight of man, woman, and child sitting in midair, where there had once been an upholstered bench seat, just a yard away from a steel lamppost that was still bent from the impact.
Without stopping, casting a sidelong glance, Ricciardi saw that the man had been run through by the steering column, as was almost always the case in accidents of this kind; his crushed and perforated thorax was a dark crater in the middle of an elegant cream-colored jacket, his face was startled, with staring eyes and open mouth, and from the mouth ran a couple of streams of blood from the punctured lungs. The phrase that the dead man kept uttering showed that he knew what was about to happen:
“Madonna, the brakes, the brakes, we’re going headfirst into the wall.”
Not the wall, Ricciardi thought. Before the wall, the post. Everything in its proper order.
The wife and the son, in contrast, were blithely unaware. That’s a small mercy. Ricciardi noticed that the woman’s head was almost severed; perhaps it was detached entirely from her neck once the woman was already dead. But in that moment, as he looked at her, the head was still joined to the body by a slender strip of flesh on the left side, cut cleanly through by the metal frame of the windshield: the entire neck, including the spinal cord. Above the horror of the artery spraying useless blood like a fountain, the face exhibited a grotesquely complacent smile:
“You’re dying, you’re all dying of envy for our nice new car.”
Look who bought it in the end, thought Ricciardi grimly. And he couldn’t help but take a quick look at the little boy, three years old, perhaps; no more. He’d been run through by a large shard of thick windshield glass; Ricciardi saw that the shard of glass had pierced his chest, first pinning him to his mother, and then the two of them to the bench seat.
As he listened, the commissario discovered where the family had been heading on its outing, so sadly cut short.
“Gelato at the Villa Nazionale, Papà promised me, a nice cup of gelato.”
All this pointless pain, thought Ricciardi as he unconsciously heaved a long sigh. Maione interrupted his grim silence to say:
“Eh, I know, it’s hot out, Commissa’. Don’t you think it would have been smarter to take the car?”
They could tell from a good distance which building it was, because Capece was pacing back and forth in front of the entrance, smoking nervously. When he spotted them he hurried in their direction.
“Ricciardi, Brigadier. I owe you my thanks; not everyone in your position would have shown me this consideration, to let me know so that I could be here. I appreciate it deeply. My children and my wife have nothing to do with this whole matter. They’ve already had to suffer too much, through my own fault. And now this added humiliation, having the police in their home. . no offense meant, let me make that clear: still, as you must understand, it isn’t easy.”
Ricciardi nodded, gesticulating brusquely with one hand as if to shoo away a fly.
“Don’t mention it. When we can, we always do our best to avoid certain situations; especially when there are innocent people involved. Shall we go upstairs?”
Capece led the way, showing them through an atrium that ended in a broad staircase. The building had clearly seen better days, but it was still a very presentable place. The journalist’s family lived on the third story; when they reached the apartment door, the man twisted the handle of the doorbell. Ricciardi and Maione exchanged a rapid glance, since they’d both guessed that Capece had waited for the two of them to arrive before going upstairs to his own home.
The door was opened by a girl who looked to be about ten years old, and who closely resembled her father; she looked at him in happy surprise and threw her arms around his neck with a joyful cry. Capece was embarrassed but also visibly moved, and he picked the little girl up and hugged her close with glistening eyes. Maione and Ricciardi hung back, to keep from intruding on that wonderful moment of closeness. The brigadier couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since the father and daughter had last seen each other.
In the end, without setting down his daughter, who still had both arms wrapped tightly around his neck, Capece gestured for the two policemen to enter the apartment.
“Prego, Signori, go right on in. Giogiò, darling, these two gentlemen are. . friends of Papà. Now you be a good girl, get down, and introduce yourself.”
The little girl, once again with her feet on the floor, smoothed her skirt with a very feminine gesture, and curtseyed impeccably.
“Buon giorno, Signori and friends of Papà. My name is Giovanna Capece and I’m eleven years old.”
Ricciardi gave her a half-smile. Maione doffed his cap and said, with a bow:
“Buon giorno to you, Signorina Giovanna Capece, eleven years of age. I am Raffaele and the gentleman, here, is Signor Ricciardi.”
The little girl considered introductions to have been satisfactorily completed. She smiled and said: “I’ll go call my mamma.”
But she was already there, behind her, standing in the doorway. She was a good-looking woman, perhaps just a shade nondescript, thought Ricciardi. Not tall, dressed in dark clothing, Capece’s wife didn’t catch the eye, thought she certainly had no evident shortcomings. Chestnut hair, fair-skinned, she had large lovely eyes and a sweet expression. Her face-and both Maione and Ricciardi noticed it-bore the signs of prolonged suffering, with deep wrinkles under her eyes and around her mouth.
Just then, however, the woman’s gaze seemed to be illuminated from within. She was staring at her husband, with the hint of a smile and an expression of unconditional devotion that verged on the shameless.
In fact, Capece was clearly uncomfortable, and looked away from the woman. He addressed the two policemen, without even bothering to say hello to her.