“I don’t want his help,” Nikki said.
“Don’t be unreasonable,” he said. “In intelligence, you need as many allies as possible.”
“He’s not my ally,” she said.
“Well,” he said with measured calm, “may I share the photo with him?”
Nikki sighed. “Do whatever you want.”
Twenty-One
Valerio strode from Nikki’s apartment feeling uncomfortable. His neck and head were stiff and painful from Ivan’s attack three days ago. He’d been so distracted he’d forgotten to drink the coffee—leaving the Moka steaming on Nikki’s stove.
Yesterday had been complete shit. He’d been heading to the gym for some much-needed weight training, when he was called into HQ and spent hours going through mug shots. The CCTV footage of Gaetano’s shooting hadn’t captured the men in the sedan, so Valerio was the only eyewitness. But he was loath to finger anyone when he didn’t trust himself. He’d been far too drunk.
The investigators used the interview room with the two-way mirror—a procedure Valerio didn’t like at all, but that they said had been insisted on by Director Bonetti.
Afterwards, Bonetti himself strolled casually in, acting for all the world as if he just happened to be stopping by instead of having watched the entire exchange.
“How are you holding up, Capo?” he asked, putting a hand on Valerio’s shoulder.
“Fine,” Valerio said.
It was never good to be completely honest with a boss—particularly one inclined towards politics.
“That’s a nasty bruise,” said Bonetti.
Valerio shrugged. “Just catch the bastards and let me get back to work. Have you looked into Errichiello?”
“There’s no reason to suspect his involvement,” said Bonetti. “He has an alibi.”
“He’s scum,” said Valerio. “Look again.”
Bonetti gave a hard stare.
“That sounds like a personal grudge,” he said. “Is there anything I should know about?”
“You should know that he trafficks girls and women,” Valerio said.
“Last year, I took a course about confirmation bias,” said Bonetti. “We must be constantly on our guard to ensure our feelings don’t drive our policing. Go home, Alfieri. Letusworry about the investigation.”
—
Valerio stopped by Maurizio’s desk on the way out.
“Did you run the plates?” he asked.
“Looks like they’re stolen. It’s a dead end.”
“How about our white-haired friend? Any hits on facial recognition?”
Maurizio shook his head. “None. Sorry. I’ve sent it to a friend at Europol. Maybe he’ll get a match.”
—
This morning, Maurizio had called with the bad news: no hits in Europol’s databases. This surprised Valerio, who couldn’t believe that the white-haired Ivan had a clean record. He was a clever and experienced operator, and had likely moved in criminal circles for a long time. There had to be an ID somewhere. Valerio wondered if the problem was in organizational information sharing—everybody with their own system and data.
If he’d had any other option, he wouldn’t have asked Nikki. Thinking about her violent reaction, though, how she recoiled at Tito Calandra’s name, he regretted his request.
