Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Read Free Book Online Page A

about the security cameras?”
    â€œAnyone want to tell us what’s happening?” Alex asked, looking at her colleagues.
    Ottavia answered Palma: “Two of the four are out of order. The museum’s already called the company that maintains them three times trying to get them fixed; they’ve been broken since Christmas because of a short circuit. Of the two working cameras, one is in a room that the boy never reached, and the other one’s in the atrium; we might get something from that one. I sent an email to the district attorney requesting an order to requisition the tapes, and as soon as I get a response I’ll forward it to the museum. Then maybe Romano and Aragona can bring the tapes here. In any case, I told them to wait there.”
    Pisanelli broke in, calmly: “Excuse me, Otta’, did they give you the names of the boy and his parents?”
    The question fell into a tense silence. For the first time, thanks to the elderly deputy captain’s unmistakable train of thought, the possibility that the child had been kidnapped had been made explicit.
    Palma tried to calm everyone down: “It’s still too soon to say. Maybe a relative came by and got him, or he went to get something to eat with a friend. Children do that kind of thing. Let’s hold on, it hasn’t even been three hours . . .”
    â€œYou know as well as I do that time is working against us, right?” Pisanelli objected quietly. “It’s better to get to work. Then if it all turns out to be a tempest in a teapot, as we hope, we’ve only done a little bit of unnecessary legwork. All right, then, Ottavia: Who are the parents?”
    Calabrese consulted a scrap of paper on which she’d scribbled notes during the phone call: “The little boy is named Edoardo Cerchia, but everyone calls him Dodo. The father, Alberto, lives up north, according to the information we obtained from the mother, Eva Borrelli, who lives with the child at Via Petrarca 51B.”
    â€œFuck,” Pisanelli muttered. Though it had been uttered in little more than a whisper, the word echoed throughout the room: The deputy captain never cursed. “Borrelli’s daughter.
Mamma mia
, let’s just hope that . . . Borrelli’s daughter.”
    â€œJesus!” said Guida.
    Everyone was looking at the deputy captain with a quizzical expression. Pisanelli realized, and turned to Palma: “Edoardo Borrelli is one of the wealthiest men in the city. Eva is his only daughter, and the boy is his only grandson. Believe me, we’d better get moving. And fast.”
    Ottavia closed her eyes; Palma ran a hand through his untidy hair, his expression disconsolate.
    Alex asked again: “Does anyone want to tell us what’s going on, please?”
    Â 
    Sitting across from each other in the commissario’s office, Palma and Lojacono were both staring at the desktop piled high with papers.
    â€œAs you can see, we don’t have anything solid at the moment. If you’d all been here, I would have sent you; but you weren’t here. You’re the most experienced, you know it and I know it, and even if I still hope it’ll all turn out to be a ridiculous misunderstanding, this case threatens to be very, very thorny.”
    Lojacono was motionless, expressionless. That pose, so typical of him when he was thinking, emphasized his quasi-Asian features.
    â€œExcuse me, boss, but if this really did turn out to be a kidnapping, don’t you think police headquarters would take the case for itself? They’re not likely to leave something like this in our hands.”
    Palma made a face: “No, I’ve already talked to them. They’ve had the press on their backs for a while now; there must be someone in there who’s not only handing out press releases, but also leaking inside information to those jackals. If the investigation was yanked away from us, word would get out to