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Franco acknowledged them briefly, but Roberto was driven by grim purpose, heading to theQuesturato kill the man he believed had killed Bruna. Thecarabinieribegan to look their way, bursting into chatter. Officers ran inside, undoubtedly to tell Marshal Rosselli.
They reached the entrance of theQuestura, dismounted, and tied their horses to the rail.
“You all know who I am,” Roberto told thecarabinieri. “My wife was murdered yesterday, and you have her killer, Gabriele Provenzano, in custody. I want him now.”
“I’m sorry,” said the tallest of thecarabinieri. “We can’t do that. You have to—”
Franco interjected, “If you don’t bring him out, we’ll get him ourselves. Your choice.”
“Let me explain, please.” The officer swallowed visibly. “Provenzano is dead.”
“What?” Roberto and Franco said in unison.
“We found him in his cell. He killed himself.”
“No!” Roberto shoved the officer aside and charged up the steps. “That’s not possible!”
Franco went after him, elbowing thecarabinieriout of the way, followed by his and Roberto’s men. They entered theQuestura, charged down the hallway, passed the courtyard, and burst into Marshal Rosselli’s office.
Marshal Rosselli looked up, his wrinkled face going white. He stubbed out his cigarette hastily in a crowded ashtray. “Gentlemen—”
“Where’s Provenzano?” Roberto demanded. “I want to see him! I won’t believe he’s dead until I see him!”
“It’s true, I assure you he—”
“Where is he? Show me!”
“Downstairs.” Marshal Rosselli rose slowly, leaning on his desk. “Oh, my hip!”
“You incompetent old man! How could you let this happen? I want to see him right now!”
“Pezzo di merda!”Roberto kickedthe corpse of Gabriele Provenzano, which lay on the floor of a storeroom filled with bottles of antiseptic, floor wax, old straw brooms, and dirty mops. Provenzano was naked to the waist, and bruises encircled his neck, which bent at an unnatural angle. Veins in his eyes had burst, and his eyeballs protruded. His purplish tongue hung out sideways. He had soiled his pants, and the odor reeked.
Franco stood next to Roberto, and on the other side of the corpse was Marshal Rosselli, next to his second- and third-in-command.
Roberto seethed, raking back his hair. “How could you let this happen, Rosselli? He killed my wife!”
Marshal Rosselli spread his palms. “In truth, I’m mortified—”
“Wherewereyou?”
“I don’t work the night shift.”
“Who does?” Roberto confronted the second- and third-in-command. “Do either of you? Or both?”
“I do.” The second-in-command raised his hand timidly. He was young, his eyes terrified under his plumed cap.
“I do, too,” added the third-in-command. He was older, with a solid demeanor and a brushy mustache. He had a large family to support on slim wages, which made him corruptible. He had strangled Gabriele Provenzano at Franco’s bidding.
Marshal Rosselli interjected, “Don Roberto, I’m sorry to say, we don’t patrol the cells. We don’t have the manpower. We rarely have suicides, and Provenzano was known to us. He’s been in and out of prison for assault and robbery.”
“Not murder?”
“No. We believe he acted on impulse this time. He had been drinking when he was arrested.”
“But why would he kill himself? Why?”
“Murder is a more serious crime than he’d committed before, and we believe he found out whose wife he had killed. The murderer of the wife of Don Roberto Fiorvanti would be a dead man, even in prison.” Marshal Rosselli’s gray eyebrows sloped down. “We didn’t know the identity of the victim until you came here.”
