Gianrico Carofiglio - Temporary Perfections

“So what did you do next?”

She told me what they did next. She told me how they got rid of Manuela’s body. They wrapped her in a carpet, just like in a B movie, took her to an illegal dump, in a distant corner of the Murgia highlands, and burned her with her possessions on a stack of old car tires. Duilio told her that was the best method to get rid of a body. It was what Mafia hit men did. The tires burn completely, down to the smallest particle, and when they’re done burning there’s nothing left.

As I listened, I was struck with a terrifying, dizzying feeling of unreality.

This can’t be happening. This is a nightmare. Any minute now I’ll wake up in my own bed, drenched with sweat, and I’ll realize that none of this really happened. I’ll get out of bed, drink a glass of water, and then I’ll very slowly get dressed and go out for a walk, even though it’s dark out. The way I used to sometimes when I couldn’t sleep.

Then I felt an overwhelming urge to punch her and free myself of her. My right hand formed a fist up on the seat. I thought that if it was unbearable for me to hear these things, for Manuela’s parents it would be torture.

I didn’t hit her. I kept asking questions, because there were still things that I needed to know. Details. Or maybe not.

“Didn’t you think the police would catch up with you eventually?”

“No. Manuela had that second cell phone, the one you found out about. It had a memory card that she asked some guy in Rome to buy for her. That was Duilio’s idea. Duilio was really paranoid about wiretaps and eavesdropping, both because of the drugs and because of his political activity. She only used that phone to talk to me, Duilio, and, I think, the people she sold drugs to in Rome. The phone wasn’t in her name, and even her parents didn’t know about it. So we were pretty sure that no one could ever find the number and trace it back to us by checking the calls. No one knew we were going to see her that afternoon.”

There was nothing else to say. It was banal-almost bureaucratic, almost perfect.

Almost.

“Why did you agree to talk to me?”

“What else could I do? Manuela’s mother asked me to, and I couldn’t refuse. You all would have gotten suspicious, the way you got suspicious when Michele refused to meet with you.”

“Then why did you decide to help me? To the extent that you did, of course.”

Caterina took a deep breath, pulled out another cigarette, and lit it.

“When I found out that I was going to have to meet with you, I called Duilio. We hadn’t talked for months. We got together and planned how I should act. I was supposed to confirm everything I’d already told the Carabinieri, and if by chance you asked me what I’d done that evening, I would tell you that I’d been with Duilio, that we went out to dinner, and that the last time I’d seen Manuela was a few days before that. I didn’t expect you to bring up the subject of drugs. When you did, I just kind of lost it. I had no idea you already knew about the cocaine.”

And in fact I didn’t. I just bluffed, and you fell for it.

I should have felt proud of myself, but I couldn’t feel good about anything. My mouth was dry and sour.

“Once you told me that Michele had refused to meet with you, that his lawyer had threatened to take action against you, I thought I could push the whole drug thing onto Michele and keep you from looking any further.”

“And, of course, Michele had nothing to do with any of this.”

“He had nothing to do with Manuela’s death, but he had plenty to do with the cocaine. He got her started on it, and he was in business with Duilio. That’s why his lawyer wouldn’t let him meet with you, because he has a lot to hide.”

“Does he know what happened to Manuela?”

“No. When he got back from his trip, he asked Duilio if he knew what had happened. Duilio told him that he didn’t know a thing, and Michele let it go. It’s possible he didn’t believe him, but Michele is such an asshole that he only cares about his own comfort and convenience. He doesn’t give a shit about anybody else. Everything I told you about him is true.”

“Why did you persuade Nicoletta to talk to me?”

“One way or another, you would have gotten in touch with her. So Duilio and I thought it would be a good idea for me to convince you I could help. If I pretended to help you in your investigation, it would be easier for me to control what you were doing and maybe I could even feed you false leads. There was the Michele thing, and then my suggesting that Manuela might have disappeared in Rome and not in Puglia.”

She suddenly shut her mouth and stopped talking. In fact, I thought, there’s nothing left to say.

It was getting dark.

Not just outside.

“What happens now?” she asked after several long minutes of silence, reviving me from the troubled torpor into which I had drifted.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I replied, opening my door and getting out of the car.

A wind had sprung up and was gusting the sky clean of clouds. The air was clear, briny, tragic.

I walked back to the restaurant and stepped inside to make sure that she couldn’t see or hear me. I called Navarra and he answered almost immediately, on the second or third ring.

“ Buona sera, Counselor.”

“ Buona sera, Officer.”

“You’re not calling to tell me you found out what happened to the girl, are you?” he asked jokingly, just to start the conversation. I said nothing. The silence dragged on.

“Counselor?” The playful tone was gone from his voice.

“I’m here. I assume you’re at home.”

“No, I’m still at the office, but I was about to leave. It’s been a brutal day.”

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you, you’ll have to stay in the office a little longer.”

“What happened?”

“In a short while, I’m going to bring someone in to see you. You should get in touch with the public defender currently on duty while you wait for me. We’re going to need him.”

There was a long, heavy pause.

“So, the girl is dead?”

“Yes.”

“The day she disappeared?”

“Yes.”

I told him the bare bones of the story and we agreed that in forty-five minutes he would be waiting outside the Carabinieri barracks. Then I hung up and went back out to the car.

Caterina was still there. She hadn’t moved an inch. I got back in the car, started the engine, and pulled out. She didn’t ask me again what was going to happen next. She didn’t say a thing. Neither of us spoke until we were back in the city and I stopped the car a few blocks away from the Carabinieri barracks.

“You’re going to have to tell the Carabinieri the things you told me.”

Before she said anything, she gave me a long look that I was unable to decipher.

“Will they arrest me?”

“No. First of all, you weren’t caught in the act, and the basic elements for arrest are lacking. Second, you’re turning yourself in voluntarily, and most importantly, the cocaine wasn’t yours. You didn’t give it to Manuela. You’ll just face charges of being an accomplice to concealing a dead body. You’ll get off with a plea bargain and probation.”

“What about Duilio?”

“That’s up to him. In many ways, Manuela’s death was accidental. If he cooperates with the law-and it’s entirely in his interest to do so-he can stay out of prison while he awaits trial, and with a good lawyer he might be able to strike a plea bargain, too. Of course, he’ll get a stiffer penalty.”

I was about to add a few other technical details about the process, describing the steps a good lawyer could take to reduce damage and possibly even keep Duilio What’s-His-Name out of prison entirely. But I realized that I had no interest in offering him any help at all. In fact, I was surprised to find myself hoping that his lawyer would turn out to be an incompetent-maybe Schirani-and that the prosecutor would be ill-disposed toward him, and that Duilio would be tossed into prison with the maximum sentence. It was probably a place where he’d thrive, anyway.