Chapter Five
Five
Valerio’s sisters were awake and in the kitchen of their mother’s apartment when he let himself in at nearly three a.m.
He found Orlanda at the stove, scrambling eggs. She wore an old T-shirt and pajama pants, long hair tied in a sloppy bun. The burnt remnants of an unsuccessful earlier attempt were blackened and wet in the kitchen sink. The stink still hung in the air.
“Oh good,” she said, glancing up at him. “There you are. Penny wouldn’t let us go to bed until you got here.”
“Did you catch the bastard?” asked Penelope from her seat at the table.
His older sister had their mother’s way of stacking and sorting. The pile of detritus on the stiff plastic tablecloth was organized into rows: little battalions of teaspoons, sugar packets, chocolate wrappers, and breadcrumbs.
“Working on it,” said Valerio. He crossed to the sink for a glass of water. “How’s she doing?”
“The doctor gave her a pill to calm down,” Penelope said. “You know her heart isn’t good. You know that, Valerio! This sort of thing is dangerous for her.”
Her glare was accusing.
“Did she say anything about what happened?” he asked.
“She says it’s in God’s hands,” said Orlanda. “She prayed all night. You want eggs?”
His stomach, achingly empty for hours, lurched.
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”
Valerio felt a wave of gratitude for his younger sister. As children and teenagers, Orlanda never offered anything without a jab to follow. But they’d grown closer in the past decade. She seemed less inclined to tease and fight, more eager to help.
“You can have mine,” she said, spooning the steaming eggs onto a plate. “I’ll make more.”
Valerio took the offer without grace, scraping the eggs from the plate directly into his mouth. They were overdone—thick and rubbery—but hunger kept him from caring.
Penelope gestured imperiously.
“Sit down!” she commanded. “Eat at the table like a civilized person! I swear, you’re like one of my heathen sons. Is your shirt wet?”
Valerio rummaged in the bread box before taking a seat at the table. The rickety chair creaked and wobbled under his weight.
“Maybe we should call the priest,” suggested Orlanda.
“The priest can wait,” said Valerio, mouth full. “Mamma’s got to talk to the police when she wakes up.”
His older sister stared at him as he ate, eyes wide and hawkish. He tried to ignore it, but he had the unreasonable feeling of being a child again.
Penelope adhered to the same style she’d developed as a teenager, even as age thickened her face and waist and eyelids, softened her neck and arms. She dyed and styled her hair the same, hair spray molding her bangs into a solid shell.
He’d never known her to be without bright colors and long, painted nails, red lipstick, and huge earrings.
With her adornments missing tonight, there was something strangely vulnerable about the pale, naked skin.
Her hair was soft and thinning. It draped against her skull, grey at the roots.
“Well,” she said, watching him for a few more beats, “are you going to tell us what happened?”
At the stove, cracking eggs into the pan, Orlanda swiveled around to look.
“I told you: She was a witness to a crime,” Valerio said, sopping up the greasy remnants of the egg from his plate with a piece of spongy bread. “I can’t discuss it!”
Orlanda gave a frustrated groan. “Give us something! What was the crime?”
“A woman was murdered,” said Valerio.
Both sisters started talking at once.
“I really can’t say more,” he said again. “I mean it. No! Stop. Are you two staying over tonight?”
“I’ve got to get back before lunchtime tomorrow,” said Penelope. “I can miss breakfast, but they’ll be howling by noon. Nobody can feed themselves without me.”
She brushed her palms on the table for a few beats before pushing to her feet.
—
They slept in their childhood places. Penny and Orlanda shared their old room next to the bathroom.
This was where Valerio’s children, Davide and Gemma, slept whenever they stayed with their grandmother—so it was kept clean with fresh linens.
Valerio’s narrow childhood bed was in a closet-size room at the end of the hall.
He opened the door to find the space full—bed and floor stacked high with teetering plastic and cardboard boxes, pallets of canned food, bolts of fabric, and folded tablecloths and towels.
It took fifteen minutes to empty it, piling everything into the hall.
He worked numbly, automatically, body on the edge of collapse.
His mind returned to the gruesome scene in the church—the wrecked young woman, tiny white feathers settled onto crimson pools; hundreds of bloody footprints; clumsy helpers who obscured any useful evidence the murderer had left behind.
He thought of his mother’s hands dripping with blood and rain.
And the shock that had numbed her into silence.
No, not silence. She had shouted—and at the Madonna!
His mother, who had always been so respectful, who had rapped his knuckles when he didn’t display the correct piety—she had screamed at the Immacolata!
In a cardboard box he found one of his old T-shirts—mustard brown. It was folded and smelled clean, if a bit stale. He stripped off his wet clothes and put it on. Then, wrapping up in his old childhood quilt, he was asleep almost as soon as his body hit the mattress.
—
Sun glinted through the window when Orlanda woke him with a knock on the door.
“There’s someone here to see you.”
“Thanks. Is Mamma awake?”
“Not yet.”
His trousers, when he pulled them on, were wrinkled and a little damp.
—
He’d expected Sonia and Emilio. They were supposed to come by and interview Leonora first thing this morning—so he was surprised to see a tall, birdlike man standing on the rug in his mother’s small living room.
He wore thick-soled white sneakers with Velcro straps, and black-rimmed glasses perched on wide ears nestled in a rim of grey hair.
Narrow shoulders jutted from his collared shirt, and large bony hands kneaded against each other, fingers flexing.
“Federico!” Valerio exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
This was Federico Errichiello, proprietor of a local salumeria, and the last person he’d expected to find in his mother’s house.
“I gotta talk,” Federico said, staring over Valerio’s shoulder to where Orlanda stood.
Valerio gave Orlanda a look. She took the hint and retreated.
“Come to the kitchen,” said Valerio, yawning. “I’ll make us coffee.”
His mind worked as he dolloped coffee grounds into the Moka percolator and sliced bread.
Valerio had met the old man about a decade ago; Federico had been an addict desperate to get clean and excise himself from the criminal network run by his brother, Luca.
Impressed by the man’s determination and grit, Valerio had helped where he could.
And Federico had done the miraculous impossible: carved out an honest life for himself, an island above the eddies of corruption and criminality surging around him.
Months had passed since Valerio had visited Federico’s shop. The last time had been in the summer—when Valerio had begged for help. The memory stabbed him with guilt. He should have poured out his gratitude or, at the very least, checked in.
His mouth was dry as he put coffee on the table. He wanted to apologize, but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he said, “How did you know where to find me?”
Federico shrugged. “You weren’t answering your phone. You weren’t at home, or at the station. I asked around.”
“So, you know what happened last night? At Chiesa del Gesù Nuovo?”
Federico nodded, scooped sugar into his coffee, and stirred. He drank it down hot.
“Everybody knows what happened.”
“What have you heard?” Valerio prodded, suddenly hopeful for a lead on this messy case. But a tremor seemed to run through the old man. He shook his head.
“That’s not why I’m here. Luca wants to call in his favor.”
The coffee in Valerio’s mouth turned to tar.
Suddenly, he knew why he hadn’t visited.
Valerio owed Federico the deepest appreciation for helping him and, in so doing, crossing lines he’d sworn he’d never breach.
Valerio had been desperate to find his daughter, and Federico had arranged a meeting with his brother, Luca Errichiello—a Camorra capo, and the vilest man Valerio had ever met.
In his elation at finding Gemma alive, and the renewed closeness this had brought with his children these past few months, Valerio had tried to erase that ugly, shameful part of the story. This was why he’d never visited, never thanked Federico. He hadn’t wanted to remember.
Federico spoke his name and Valerio realized he’d been silent in these thoughts. He shook himself.
“What’s the favor?”
“Don’t know. He wants you to see him. Today. Now.”
“I can’t just drop everything. Detectives are coming to interview my mother any minute now.”
Federico’s shoulders rose, head dropping down. He pushed away from the table.
His voice was low and rasping. “Luca doesn’t take nos.”
“Can you tell him…”
But Valerio couldn’t get the words out. Federico’s head jerked up, eyes full of fire.
“I did my part,” he snarled. “I gave the message. I’m not his errand boy. I’m out. Do you hear? I’m never going back. This is yours now. You made the bargain with the devil. You!”
He stood and teetered unsteadily for a moment before striding out of the kitchen.
Valerio followed.
“Federico. I’m sorry.”
But Federico didn’t answer. He was through the front door. It slammed behind him.
—
Valerio’s phone was dead. He plugged it into the wall, but it still wouldn’t start. He hoped it hadn’t shorted out in the rain last night.
He showered in the old tub, the water coming in too hot and then too cold, the pipes moaning all the while. He squeezed toothpaste onto his finger and used this to brush the foul taste from his teeth and tongue.