“That really would be idiotic,” said Maurizio. “You know what your problem is? You see things so black-and-white. Right and wrong.”
“This is black-and-white. That boy is dead!”
“And nothing you do now will bring him back,” Maurizio said.
Valerio scrubbed a hand over his head. “I’ll tell the truth. When I helped the kid, I didn’t know what Errichiello had planned.”
He thought about that benign and forgettable face, that beige hat. Errichiello had handled Valerio with the disinterested skill of a professional, only once displaying emotion—irritation—with his white-haired security chief. Wrapped around his own fear and anger, Valerio had unintentionally leaned into Luca’s calm demeanor and the reasonable logic of his request.
“Nobody’s interested in the truth,” Maurizio sighed. “It’s a political game—and you’re shit at it. Let’s say you march up to il Dirigente today and confess everything. Do you think he wants to hear it? Fuck, no. He’s new. He doesn’t know you—and he certainly doesn’t give a shit about you. All he cares about are the numbers that make himlook good. Until now, you’ve caught the baddies, and that makes him look good. If you fuck up his statistics, he’ll throw you out on your ass. My advice? Don’t tell him about Errichiello.”
“But I’m a liability,” said Valerio. “Luca Errichiello can draw a line between me and Gaetano’s murder anytime he wants.”
“Do you think you’re the only one they’ve gotten to?” Maurizio laughed bitterly. “Of course not. If we kicked out all the crooked cops, everyone with friends and family tied up in the system, the building would be empty. It’s the price of doing business. Look at my wife’s brother—he’s neck-deep. Always asking us for favors. One day, this is gonna bite me, and I’ll be in the same situation as you.”
Valerio leaned over and rested his face in his hands. He took a deep breath. Maurizio slapped his back.
“Get some coffee and head to the station. They’ll need your statement. Then take a few days off. Get your head back in the game.”
—
Maurizio left. Valerio took a shower, dressed, and walked outside. Squinting into the cool sunlight, he felt raw. Exposed.
He was hungry and nauseated, but didn’t feel like eating. He took coffee at the corner café. Far from helping, the espresso seemed to set the pain in his head ringing.
The world was duller than it had been yesterday, as though he was seeing it through dirty glass. Something inside said,Hadn’t you noticed? It was always like this.
—
At the station, he gave his statement to the investigating officers.
Against Maurizio’s advice, he directed them towards Errichiello—stopping short of confessing that his work to help Gaetano had been at Luca’s request.
Afterwards, he sat at his desk and tried to work. He couldn’t seem to think at all. After a few hours, he was about to give up, when he was called into the director’s office.
—
Valerio had only ever spoken to Dirigente Cristiano Bonetti once—a few weeks ago, during the director’s first days on the job. Originallyfrom Acerra, Bonetti had spent the past twenty years at the police headquarters in Trapani, Sicily.
Appointed as director only two months ago, he was already established in the office at the end of the corridor as though he’d spent his career here. Unlike the other offices, crammed with as many desks as could fit, and a jumble of excess and expired equipment and ugly metal lockers, his office was spacious and orderly, the polished wood desk organized—from the stack of active files to a neatly penned to-do list, and a row of Post-it notes in pastel shades. A bookshelf covering one wall was filled with judicial and policing review books—all alphabetized.
Bonetti gestured Valerio in with a curt nod, before returning to his computer and typing for several more minutes. At last, he pressed the Enter key with a little flourish, said, “There!” and turned clever, watchful eyes on him.
“It was not my intention to neglect you, Capo Alfieri,” he said.
Valerio nodded.
Bonetti was a handsome man in a well-tailored blue suit and silk tie, black hair beginning to grey.
“Terrible business with this Mancusi kid,” he said. “It’s one of my priorities to begin to address these gangs of baby criminals—young Camorra boys acting like guerrillas, committing serious crimes, but spontaneously, without any real planning.”
“Gaetano Mancusi was the victim of a targeted killing, not the criminal,” Valerio said. “We can’t know whether he was one of these baby criminals you’re talking about.”
“Ah, but he was in Poggioreale for a reason!” Bonetti exclaimed.
“He was only eighteen years old,” Valerio said. “And he hadn’t gone to trial. As far as I’m concerned, we should consider him an innocent.”
“Hmmm…” Bonetti gave Valerio an appraising look. “That’s a strange reasoning. He was arrested for drugs—and was clearly dealing for one of the clans. In a war, foot soldiers are never innocent. I understand you requested his release?”
