Valerio grunted. “I haven’t agreed yet. Give me the name and address of Gaetano’s mother. I’ll talk to her. I’ll talk to the kid. If what you say checks out, I have no problem calling the magistrate.”
—
Gaetano’s mother lived in the Forcella district. There was a time, not long ago, when Valerio would have thought twice about walking alone down these streets, even out of uniform as he was now. The difficult neighborhood and Camorra stronghold had been cleaned up by a government eager to accommodate the tourist economy. A thriving contraband trade was still visible on the periphery, but Valerio was less likely to be attacked by thugs or jabbed by a discarded needle wedged between the cobblestones, or to catch a bullet from a random spray. Still, he preferred to be here in daylight.
Valerio called Maurizio when he arrived.
“Where the fuck did you go?” his partner demanded.
“Urgent call. Hey, I’ve been asked for a favor: to look into the arrest of an eighteen-year-old kid.”
He described the situation, but omitted Luca’s name.
“I’m here at his mother’s house now—to see if the story checks out. Can you take a look on your side?”
“Fuck,” Maurizio sighed. “You should have brought me with you.”
“Can you take a look?”
“Yeah. Text me his details. I’ll see what I can find.”
—
The apartment was on the fourth floor of a large building with rusting railings and chipped concrete. Valerio buzzed the apartment number, but there was no response. He strode along the street, looking for another way in. The first open storefront was a cheap jewelry shop featuring twisted wire necklaces, beaded earrings, glass gems, and hundreds of cornicelli. The woman behind the counter had grey hair and a sour expression.
“We’re not open.”
“The door is open,” Valerio observed.
“We’re closed.”
“I’m trying to get into number forty-one.”
She took off her glasses and stared at him. “Who do you want there?”
“Ines Mancusi.”
“You a debt collector?”
“What makes you think I’m a debt collector?”
“They’re the only ones wanting forty-one.”
“I’m not a debt collector.”
“Well, whatever you want, she’s not well,” said the woman. “And her boy was just arrested. So, it isn’t a good time to be bothering her.”
“I may be able to help,” he said. “I’ve been asked by a family friend to look into the situation of his arrest.”
She looked him up and down, taking in the wrinkled clothing, the ruined shoes. She looked doubtful and Valerio thought she was going to kick him out. At last she seemed to surrender.
“She has a friend…a nurse who usually comes by around this time. Ravenna. She should be able to let you in.”
Valerio waited by the building entrance. He felt worn out. Uncomfortable. A deep unease ran through his mind like a sewer beneath thecity streets. For months, he’d carried the contamination of this obligation to Luca—whether he acknowledged it or not. Now that the corruption had worked its way to the surface, it itched. He wanted this to be over.
A group of teenage boys buzzed past on their motorbikes.
He waited and paced for nearly forty minutes, then strode into a nearby café for a cornetto and espresso, keeping an eye on the street and the door to the building. He ate rapidly, shoving the pastry into his mouth. He was brushing crumbs from his shirt when he saw a woman striding towards him—in her thirties, curvy, dressed in scrubs and sneakers and carrying a canvas bag. She had glasses and short, tightly curled hair.
