Read Online The Bastards of Pizzofalcone by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar - Free Book Online Page B

asked Aragona:
    â€œThis is a wealthy part of town, isn’t it?”
    The officer nodded his head, clutching his raincoat closed at the neck: “Hell, yes, it’s wealthy. The richest neighborhood in the city, as far as that goes. And on the waterfront? Forget about it. These buildings are priceless; they’re monuments.”
    Outside the entrance were a pair of squad cars and an ambulance with its flashers on. Lojacono identified himself and asked one of the two uniformed officers how long they’d been there.
    â€œTwenty minutes or so, lieutenant. And ten minutes ago the medical examiner got here. In any case, it’s up on the fifth floor.”
    â€œThat means they waited to call us,” Aragona commented. “Before calling us, they took some time to think it over. They still don’t trust us, that much is clear.”
    On their way in, Lojacono stopped to take a look at the front door, which showed no signs of forced entry. Then he started up the wide marble staircase.
    Aragona, who had headed over to the elevator, followed him: “Hey, it’s up on the fifth floor! Why are you taking the stairs?”
    The lieutenant went on walking, his eyes fixed on the low, shiny marble steps.
    â€œBecause if you’ve just murdered someone, you don’t take the elevator when you leave. At least, not always. And if you’re trying to get away, you might just drop something. Or you might trip and fall. Listen, Aragona: I’m here to do my job, not to tutor you. Watch what I do, try to understand why I’m doing it, and quit busting my chops. If you really can’t figure it out, even through deductive reasoning, then you can ask and I’ll answer. Fair enough?”
    The officer looked offended: “I’m an investigator too, you know. And I’ve been to school, I know things. It’s just that I want to see them in the field, because I’ve never had the opportunity.”
    â€œAnyway, as far as I can tell, there’s nothing on these stairs. Either the murderer was very careful, or else you were right and he took the elevator. Or maybe he flew away on a gust of wind.”
    On the fifth-floor landing, there was just one dark, wooden door, without a nameplate; a red doorbell in the mouth of a small bronze lion was fastened to the doorjamb. Aragona made quite a show of inspecting the side of the door to make sure there was no sign of a break-in. Lojacono smiled, despite himself. After a second, inner door, at the center of which was a pane of frosted glass decorated with what seemed to be a monogram, there was a front hall; daylight came through yet another door, and with it, the sound of an agitated conversation. Lojacono and Aragona continued inside, following the voices.
    â€œJesus, do I have to keep telling you the same things over and over again? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, a thousand times. You touch nothing, do you get that or not? Nothing, not until I’m here with the forensic squad. Fucking Christ, these are the ABCs! Don’t they teach you anything at all at the academy?”
    The man who was talking was about forty, solidly built with very close-cropped hair. He was wearing a sweater and a pair of jeans.
    A uniformed cop was objecting weakly: “Hey, dotto’, what did I do wrong? I opened the window to let in a little fresh air, it’s stale and it stinks. Plus you couldn’t see a thing, we could have knocked something over. Anyway, I closed the window right away . . .”
    The medical examiner was having none of it: “Aside from the fact that there’s no stink in here, because this is a relatively fresh corpse, didn’t it occur to you that there’s a stiff breeze blowing? And we’re up on the fifth floor, after all. If there had been documents and papers, by now you would have ruined everything.”
    Lojacono decided it was time for him to speak