“I probably would have left Rome by now,” she confessed.“Someone is making a play to either put you out of commission or get you somewhere they can reach you.”
“To put me out of commission permanently,” I suggested.
She nodded slowly.
“I’m not easily intimidated,” I said.
“I can see that,” she replied. “I found Bernardo Baggio’s address. He lives at Balduina. It’s a suburb in the north-west, about a forty-minute drive from here.”
We hurried back to the parking lot around the corner, got in Faduma’s Volkswagen, and started our journey through the city. She kept us away from the center and took us on a route that swung west through Gianicolense. She was quiet throughout, clearly uneasy, and every time we stopped at an intersection her eyes darted busily around. I guessed she was scanning our surroundings to make sure no one recognized me. I was in my cap and shades, but my face was all over the news, so I remained equally alert.
We arrived at Via Eutropio just after 10 a.m. The neighborhood featured a mix of contemporary apartment blocks of varying architectural styles, all set back from the road in private gardens that were full of mature trees. Ivy covered the exterior walls and a number of residents had garden balconies, adding to the impression of greenery. The area looked like a lovely place to live.
Bernardo Baggio’s building was a five-story contemporary block set behind a high wall and a stand of mature trees. The apartments all had large balconies that overlooked the gardens. Faduma parked in front of the main gate, and we got out of the car and walked toward the entrance.
“How do you want to do this?” Faduma asked.
“You happy to say you’re doing a story on Matteo?” I asked. “That you’ve been told it was a suicide staged by someone who had access to the cell?”
She nodded.
“Then let’s play it straight, see how well he copes under pressure,” I suggested as we went inside.
CHAPTER65
BERNARDO BAGGIO’S BUILDING looked to be twenty or thirty years old. Modern, but with enough time elapsed since its construction to have acquired some character. The lobby had a marble tile floor, painted plaster walls, and an art deco staircase that ran through the heart of the building, creating an atrium topped by a glass roof. Everything was clean and well maintained and the indoor garden of potted plants added to the impression that the residents took pride in their building. There was a sign for an elevator toward the back of the building, but Faduma and I took the stairs.
“You know we’re going to see a cop?” I asked as we climbed.
She looked blank.
“Aren’t you worried about being caught with a fugitive?”
“I’ll just tell them you took me hostage,” she said with a mischievous grin.
I chuckled as we reached the second-floor landing.
We walked through a set of ornately decorated doors into a small lobby with corridors running off it in both directions. A sign informed us apartment 23 was to our right. We walked along the carpeted corridor past apartment doors embellished with wooden details of leaves and branches, complementing the decorative cornicing. Modern buildings didn’t generally expend much effort on decorative touches like these, but here they added a sense of style.
We found apartment 23 and Faduma rang the bell. I noticed the door wasn’t fully in the frame and kicked it gently. It swung open.
“Hello?” I said.
There was no reply, just the stillness of an empty home.
I looked at Faduma, who nodded.
I went first, senses heightened, alert, and she followed. The birds chirping in the trees and cars passing in the street below were audible through the large sash windows, but there was no other sound in the apartment.
The building’s fine finish was evident here, too, as we walked along a corridor with high ceilings. The walls were half wood panel, half painted plaster, with molded reliefs adorning them here and there. The kitchen lay to our left and was tidy apart from some dishes in the sink. Opposite was a dining room with a long table and eight chairs, all of which looked unused. Further to our right was a sitting room, comfortably furnished with two couches before a television that stood in front of the windows overlooking the street.
Farther along on the left was a bathroom, and then at the end of the corridor two bedrooms arranged opposite each other.
I took the one on the right and Faduma went into the room on the left.
There was a king-size bed, a dresser, bureau, and a built-in closet with mirrored doors. I caught my reflection and removed the cap and opaque shades to reveal a mop of messy hair and tired eyes. I needed a break when this was over and promised myself I’d go somewhere with Justine.
I moved toward the closet and opened one of the sliding doors. I had seen some grotesque things in my life, but nothing could prevent the gasp of shock I released and the shiver of dismay I experienced when confronted with the body of the man I presumed to be Bernardo Baggio. It was hanging from an electrical cable rigged to a clothes rail. He wasn’t even off the ground. His knees were simply bent so that his neck took the full strain of his own weight. If he’d been conscious when he’d died, he could have stood up at any moment and chosen life.
