Daughter of Ashes, page 12
“I put the ice cream in the freezer. I haven’t had dinner yet,” Teresa said.
He stood there in a daze, staring at her red bob whose locks kept falling over her face—free of any makeup—and nearly brushing her eyes. The first time they had met, he’d described them to himself as her “little eyes,” picturing her as some strange lady who was hanging around disrupting the investigation, but not a minute later, those same little eyes had pierced through him with brutal force and revealed her true nature: a ruthless huntress of murderers.
From that moment on, he had learned never to underestimate her. From that moment on, he had adored and loathed her in equal measure.
“Oh. You haven’t had dinner,” Massimo said.
He watched her thin eyebrows knit into a frown. A terrible sign. He had better be careful.
“What’s wrong with you, Marini? Is Elena all right?”
“Yes, yes, she’s fine, thank you. The pregnancy is going perfectly smoothly.”
The silence that followed made him wish he’d never rung that doorbell.
Massimo ran a hand over his face, then tucked it back in his pocket. This woman knew how to read body language. She could dissect him and his insecurities with unsparing observations, and by God, she hit the target every time.
He decided to play his last remaining card.
“I haven’t had dinner, either.”
He had managed to shock her. He could tell from her expression, no longer belligerent, but now somewhat alarmed.
“You’re not inviting yourself over for dinner, are you, Marini?”
He made as if to smile, when in fact he would have liked to disappear forever, right into the ground perhaps.
“Yes.”
She burst out laughing.
“If I were thirty years younger, I would think you might be hitting on me, Inspector.”
It would be all right after all.
“So I can stay?”
“Put some music on, then come and give me a hand.”
Massimo acquiesced. The CD in the hi-fi was a Dire Straits album. He joined her in the kitchen, a spacious room with yellow lacquered cabinets. He noticed that the spice, pasta, and cereal jars had each been carefully labeled, as had every drawer. Near the stove was a sign written in red ink and with three exclamation marks, reminding her to shut the gas off. He looked away.
Teresa drained the pasta and poured it into the pan. The smell allowed Massimo to forget his embarrassment at being an unexpected guest.
Teresa looked bemused.
“I’ve made too much,” she murmured. “You’re lucky.”
He felt a tug at his heart.
“Yes, I’m lucky.”
“Get some plates and cutlery. They’re in that drawer. Napkins are in the one underneath. Ah . . . well, it’s all written down, as you can see.”
He paid little attention to that remark, and gladly allowed her to boss him around, marveling at how little he seemed to mind.
They ate in the living room, on a pockmarked table he referred to as “old.” She immediately corrected him, declaring it an antique.
“It used to belong to a tavern. People played cards on it for a whole century, all the way through two world wars. Look: these markings are where they would use their penknives to keep track of their points.”
“And how did it end up here?”
“I rescued it. The tavern belonged to my grandfather, and some of those scores are his.”
It smelled of wood, beeswax, and olden times.
They paired their pasta with a young, perfectly chilled white, and kept their conversation casual—hardly ever talking about themselves, and even less so about the case they were dealing with. They rarely had the chance to talk like this, as there was always some investigation to follow, or Parisi and de Carli hanging around—if not Lona himself. This was new territory they were carving out, and he was surprised to find it so instantly comfortable.
At a certain point, she became untalkative, and Massimo realized that she was no longer listening.
“I’ll clear up, it’s the least I can do.”
She let him do so.
“Dessert?” he called from the kitchen.
“Later.”
Massimo returned to the living room and found her lying on the sofa, her feet curled up beneath her body. She was watching him as if she were waiting to pounce.
“I know I shouldn’t ask, Marini, but have you been to see Giacomo again?”
He took a chair and sat in front of her, elbows planted on his knees.
“You can ask me anything you want. No, I’ve not met him yet, but I suppose it’ll happen soon enough.”
Teresa looked at him through narrowed eyes, chewing at the temples of her reading glasses.
“Does he make you uneasy?”
“Does he make me uneasy? He’s a homicidal beast. Of course he makes me uneasy.”
“You do know, don’t you, that personal prejudices won’t help you in the long run, if you don’t figure out how to control them?”
Massimo was taken aback.
“What exactly are you scolding me for?”
“You’re about to become a father. Don’t bring thoughts of death into your and Elena’s lives.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Leaving you on your own.”
Massimo opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to find the right words. He swallowed, his throat constricting.
“I’ll be careful.”
“Don’t be alone with him, Marini.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring.”
She touched her forehead.
“This is where you mustn’t let him in. And if you want to understand what happened, if you want to see what he sees and how he sees it, then this is what you must use.” She pointed at his heart, and Massimo felt as if she had actually touched him right there, on his chest. Her lowered voice, that closeness he had worked so hard to foster and which had never felt so deep as in that moment, her meekness—it all made her every gesture reverberate inside of him.
“Do you know his story, Marini?”
“I’ve caught up. I’ve read his file.”
“That’s not enough. Do you know his story?”
Massimo slowly shook his head, telling himself no over and over again.
“I’m not like you, Superintendent. I will never understand people like him. I can’t feel anything for them. Certainly not compassion.”
Teresa Battaglia, instead, accepted their true natures, unfettered by revulsion. She accepted everything about the people she faced as a matter of fact, even their most horrifying sides. That was why she was so good at her job. She didn’t judge. She was never scandalized. She always tried to understand. But this came with a price: she suffered alongside them.
They were quiet for a time. “Romeo and Juliet” was playing in the background, telling its story of romantic and ill-fated love.
“We really must have some of that ice cream now,” said Massimo to end the impasse, and got to his feet.
She reached for a cushion and placed it under her head.
“Not for me, thank you.”
Massimo was already in the kitchen, fussing around with bowls and spoons.
“Oh come on, Superintendent. I got the sugar-free version for diabetics, just like you told me to. It took me a while to find that ice cream shop you mentioned. At least have a taste.”
He walked back into the living room and realized immediately that something was off. He could have sworn it was fear he saw in the superintendent’s eyes.
He placed the bowls on the table.
“What’s wrong?”
She didn’t reply straight away. She kept looking at him as if it were the first time she had ever set eyes on him.
“When did I tell you to bring me ice cream?”
Her voice, usually so purposeful, now quavered with a kind of unease Massimo had never heard in it before. Only then did he realize he’d committed a faux pas he might never be able to make up for.
“I meant that I knew this is the only kind of ice cream you eat. You must have told me about it . . .”
“When?”
“I don’t remember. Ages ago, probably.”
“Bullshit.”
Yes, he was lying to her. He knew it, and she knew it, too.
He would never forget how her eyes looked in that moment: dilated and staring into nothing, unshed tears fixed in place. He watched them dart toward the kitchen sink, which could be glimpsed through the door he’d left open. She brushed her bangs from her eyes and straightened her back in a gesture that might have equally signaled pride, denial of what she had just realized, or dignified acceptance.
She cleared her throat.
“You know what I think, Marini?”
He didn’t reply, his heart in his throat.
“That maybe I’m not such a good detective after all.”
“Superintendent Battaglia . . .”
“Aren’t you going to ask me why? You keep calling me superintendent, but if I were any good at this, I would have noticed that I’m wearing my silk kimono, even though I tend to dress much more sloppily when I’m at home. I rarely eat anything other than frozen ready meals, and even more rarely do I make enough pasta for two. The only explanation I can think of is that I must have forgotten I was expecting a guest for dinner.”
She was showing herself no mercy. Her analysis was brutal, and she wasn’t pulling any punches.
“There was too much pasta because I measured out two portions. And you brought me my favorite ice cream not out of some lucky coincidence, but because I asked you to—as recently as today. I even told you where to buy it.”
She looked straight into his eyes and delivered the final blow.
“I forgot I had invited you for dinner, and you’ve been kind enough to pretend there was nothing wrong, even though it made you look like a fool. Isn’t that right?”
Massimo would never have thought that a single syllable could be so difficult to utter. He managed to spit it out eventually, and that briefest of sounds was powerful enough to crush the woman in front of him.
“Yes.”
“When?”
It was his turn, now, to find his voice again.
“At Parri’s office. You told me to come by because I refused to let you leave, so you . . .”
“Ah, yes. A showdown. I must have been meaning to tell you the truth, but instead I’ve simply shown you.”
He watched her gaze around the room, looking embarrassed and adrift. He hated himself for what he was putting her through.
“Well, Marini, I guess it’s not quite going as I’d planned, but we’re here now, so we might as well . . .”
Her face crumpled under the brute force of her anguish, and she couldn’t continue. He was by her side immediately, putting his arms around her.
She was quite small, really, and so delicate. How thick and steely that armor she wore every day must be to make her into the virago she appeared to be, whose presence he couldn’t even feel now.
She moved away, slipping out of his arms and curling up far from where he sat. Her hands, pressed against her chest, were shaking.
“Go home, Marini.”
She had kept her eyes closed as she spoke, as if to keep him at arm’s length, as if ignoring his presence might be enough to remove the problem.
“I won’t tell anyone, Superintendent.”
“Maybe they already know. God knows what I say and do when I get like that.”
“No. If anyone had been talking about it, I would have heard.”
She did not respond. She was completely still, her face turned away in what might have been shame.
Massimo gathered his courage and moved closer. He feared that this spirited, independent woman would not accept his help, but he was fully prepared to insist on it, to argue if need be, because he had no intention of leaving this place—where he could be right by her side.
He feared her and he cared for her. He loved her and hated her. He drew strength from her, and he wanted to support her.
That was how it had always been with her: a constant search for balance between wildly conflicting emotions.
He sat with his back straight, full of tension. Between the two of them, he was certainly the least courageous one.
He cast around for something to say.
“It happened to my grandmother, too.”
“Jesus Christ, Marini. You’re still here? Just leave.”
Massimi didn’t say anything. He didn’t leave, either. He stretched out his arm toward her. He touched her shoulder, felt her retreat. He pulled her gently toward him, and Teresa let herself fall into his chest, let go of her fear of showing vulnerability.
She cried, finally, her shuddering sobs interspersed with what Massimo surmised must be muffled curses.
He felt like smiling, and crying, and screaming, but he didn’t.
In the background, Mark Knopfler’s voice and the sound of his guitar were chasing each other in the most magnificent live rendition of “Brothers in Arms” Massimo had ever heard.
Without even realizing what he was doing, he began tapping the notes out on her arm, and soon, those soft touches had turned into caresses. Little by little, her tears died down.
Her sobs gave way to a spine-tingling guitar solo, and to something between them that transcended their respective roles, ages, the masks they wore every day.
They were just two human beings now. Fallible, confused, clinging doggedly to life and to each other.
The final notes of the song faded into silence. She had stopped crying.
“You do realize you’ve just compared me to your grandmother, don’t you?”
She was still curled up where Massimo had pulled her close, her body relaxed and her head resting against his chest.
“She was quite a beauty, my grandma.”
They laughed together, then said nothing at all for a long moment, until Massimo finally uttered the promise that had kept him awake for the past few nights.
“You won’t be alone, Teresa. You won’t be alone.”
Her whole body shivered. Then, more laughter.
“That’s superintendent to you, you little shit.”
Massimo tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned a little closer.
“You can say whatever you want, but I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here.”
There was silence again, and a sigh, but this time it signified peace.
“Thank you.”
He kept holding her, cradled in his arms.
18
Twenty-seven years ago
PARRI WAS NOWHERE TO be found. His colleagues and various assistant staff in the forensics department had looked everywhere for him—even in the cellars—until they’d had to return to their posts.
He’d come into work as usual that morning. One of his colleagues showed Albert the stamped time card. He swore he’d seen Parri walk into his office not long after the time shown on the card.
“How did he look?”
A moment’s hesitation.
“Still sober.” But Albert’s forbidding gaze would not let the trainee off the hook, until eventually the young man stopped prevaricating and capitulated. “Who can tell, when it comes to Doctor Parri? One morning we found him inside a broom cupboard. And we’d already looked in there a few times.”
The trainee turned around to flee, and in a few brisk strides, he was just a lab coat fluttering at the far end of the corridor.
Teresa couldn’t believe his impudence. She wanted to chase after him, shake him, shatter the relief he felt after having disavowed his mentor at the first opportunity.
Albert turned toward the public prosecutor and threw up his arms.
“It’s up to you now, Doctor Pace.”
Elvira Pace was reputed to be a tough and competent magistrate who also knew when it was necessary to make compromises. Always clad in tight-fitting suits and low-cut silk blouses, her face strikingly made-up, and black hair sculpted with spray, she had found herself with the nickname “Elvira the Witch.” Rumor had it she didn’t mind. Every time she met her, Teresa wondered if the shoulder pads, a ubiquitous feature in all her outfits, might in fact instill in her the strength required to navigate a world that required muscular and often subtle adjustments.
Doctor Pace had called a meeting with Parri at the forensics institute to discuss their findings so far. She wanted to see the evidence with her own eyes, not just read descriptions. She was the kind of person who had no qualms about plunging her hands—bright red manicure and all—right into the murky depths of a murder investigation. She would have been perfectly capable of rolling up her sleeves and doing all the dirty work herself, if needed.
The latest tests had confirmed that the blood retrieved from the first victim’s dog matched its master’s blood type. In the mud scraped from the soles of the man’s shoes, they had found traces of concrete. This had led them to a building that was being restored not far from where the body had been left for them to find. Work on the construction site had been on hold for months due to a lack of funds. That was where the man had been killed.
Some progress, then, but Elvira Pace had made it clear to everyone that they must redouble their efforts and avoid another standstill.
Teresa admired her from afar, wishing she could work up the confidence and courage to ask her how she managed to hold the reins so firmly in her grasp while avoiding the inevitable traps that lay in her path. There was a ten-year age gap between them. How far would Teresa have advanced when she reached forty? She thought about the superintendents’ exam she needed to prepare for, and how Sebastiano would react to the kind of career progress he kept saying was necessary, but which in practice he kept obstructing, as if her success might somehow mean the diminishment of his own.
