Costa 08 - City of Fear by David Hewson Page A

evil. Someone had devoured the apple or opened Pandora’s box. Or perhaps he was just a gift the Romans brought to make all those pleasure-loving Etruscans feel the weight of human guilt. The Devil was in the room and he wasn’t going to leave. If you look at the wall paintings, you get the picture. The Blue Demon stands between the living and Paradise. He decides who gets to live happily ever after, and who goes into a new place he’s invented. Somewhere called Hell. Good name for a terrorist group, don’t you think? Or its leader. No one was ever sure which it was supposed to be. There were only four in the cell anyway, as far as anyone knew. Maybe it didn’t matter.”
    “I remember that case,” Peroni said miserably. “I was a young
agente
. It was all so … inexplicable. A decent family destroyed. Those kids in Tarquinia too. And all for what?”
    “Still,” Falcone declared, “it’s not our business, is it?” He picked up a piece of ham in his fingers and stared at the others. There was some kind of challenge in his expression. “You heard Luca Palombo. We need to think about traffic. Crowds. Public relations.”
    The lines of command had been made crystal clear on their return, in a series of further communications between the control room in the Quirinale Palace and the Questura. The investigation into the death of Giovanni Batisti would be the responsibility of the Carabinieri and the secret-service team assembled around the man from the Ministry of the Interior. The state police would focus on security for the coming summit, ensuring that the strict limitations on traffic and pedestrian movement in the street would be made clear to the public and maintained throughout.
    “Police work is our business,” Costa grumbled. “If I wanted to be a security guard …”
    Falcone called for the waiter and asked for some more water. Thecarafe came, he waited for the man to go back down the stairs, then he poured himself a glass and raised it.
    “I’m very glad we didn’t lose any friends today,” he said. “Let’s drink to that.”
    “An Etruscan toast,” Teresa observed, watching him. “We all lose friends in the end.”
    “Really? You have a feel for these things, you know. And no evidence to look at, no forensic leads to work upon.”
    “Stinking body snatchers …” she hissed.
    He put down his glass and smiled at her. “There’s no reason why you couldn’t spend a day out of the office tomorrow. Go to the Villa Giulia. Ask a few questions about Andrea Petrakis and what happened there twenty years ago. The Frascas were that boy’s parents. It would be curious if the son murdered Giovanni Batisti in the same way Andrea Petrakis dealt with his own mother and father. Symmetrical.” The smile disappeared. “The older I get, the more I hate symmetry. It’s so … unnatural.”
    “Leo,” Peroni scolded him. “That’s
police
work.”
    “The Villa Giulia is a museum. Anyone can go there and ask as many questions as they like.”
    “It’s police work, and you know it. We’re not supposed to be involved.”
    “That’s not entirely correct,” Falcone responded, staring at the table.
    “I knew there was a reason you invited us out for a meal. Is this on expenses?”
    “Certainly not. I’m paying. We’re merely being”—an expansive wave of his long arm—“released from conventional duties for the duration.”
    “On whose orders?” Costa asked.
    “Esposito’s, as far as the Questura’s concerned.”
    Some ideas were starting to clear in Costa’s head. “This is Dario Sordi’s doing, isn’t it?”
    “I’m not answering that question,” the inspector replied. “We have an office set aside. Don’t bother reporting to work tomorrow. As far as they’re concerned, we’re on a training course. All four of us. Along with Teresa’s deputy and your young officers. Prabakaran and Oliva.”
    He wrote down an address twice on the napkin, ripped it in half, andpassed over the