stay with the two flower ladies until he got there. He then insisted that Antolini accompany him and the two flower ladies back to the cemetery. That was just after eight o’clock.”
“The questore called me at the stadium close to eleven!” Cenni said aloud. A three-hour lapse of time, he thought. Plenty of opportunity for Russo to make mischief.
Fulvio Russo, il lupo to his friends, of whom he had none, had now been commissario of the Assisi station for twelve months. Assisi is one of those backwater towns where the commissario is either on his way up or on his way down, or as in the case of Assisi’s previous commissario, on her way up. Anna Duccio was now in Rome enjoying a spectacular career, a rising star, whereas Russo, as everyone in police circles knew, was destined for obscurity, although he himself was not yet convinced that his time had passed. He was still young, not yet forty, and until a year ago, had enjoyed a career of firsts: the youngest officer in Perugia to be promoted to commissario, the best-looking (if one admires Nordic muscularity), the one with the richest wife. Even his flaws were excessive. His disposition for cupidity and backstabbing was unequalled, but if one is rich and good looking in Italy, such flaws are generally overlooked.
It was the cupidity that finally sank Russo, and the questore had done the sinking. Russo had been caught suppressing evidence of fraud by his brother-in-law, a parliamentarian, who had devised a scheme to buy two thousand hectares of Umbrian land that had been secretly earmarked by the government to become a national wildlife sanctuary. This type of land grab is not unusual in Italy—it happens every day, in fact—but Russo had acted imperiously when the papers had first stumbled upon it. He had huffed and puffed, cajoled and threatened, and in the end had tried to bribe one of L’Unita ’s more intrepid reporters who, as it happened, had come to their interview wired for sound. That Russo was still on the police force was a testament to his brother-in-law’s millions. That he was no longer stationed in Perugia, and unlikely to return, was partly due to L’Unita , but mainly to the questore, who also had a rich wife. The questore had his own talent for backstabbing and very much disliked competition.
Russo had been given his nickname by a subordinate some ten years earlier. An attractive woman, she’d found it necessary to ward off Russo’s advances whenever they were together. The name caught on rapidly, helped no doubt by his almond-shaped eyes of that curious shade of green that turns to a dirty yellow in certain lights. The nickname (amended to il lupo when repeated to Russo by one of his minions) had delighted him at first. He reveled in the image of himself as a rapacious predator. What he didn’t find out until much later was that the woman had used the diminutive, il lupino.
Cenni had worked with Russo for five years in Perugia. He had learned to work around him, by flattering him or whatever else was necessary. He was prepared to do the same again, but he was beginning to suspect that Russo had his own plans, none of which included being worked with. He had already violated the rules of engagement twice, the first time by not calling Cenni or the questore immediately after the body was found, and the second by speaking to the Casati family directly to inform them of the American’s death.
It’s a high-profile investigation, Cenni reflected. A clever man could rise by it. Perhaps Russo thinks it’s his opportunity to climb back up. Cenni knew that would never happen. Il lupino was a backroom joke in police circles, and a dirty one at that, but he was still in a position to throw a spanner into the investigation. “Tread lightly, Alex,” the questore had warned him. “The count has lots of high-placed friends, and he’s rumored to be Opus Dei.”
Fulvio Russo had now been commissario in Assisi for a year. Plenty of time to worm his
“The questore called me at the stadium close to eleven!” Cenni said aloud. A three-hour lapse of time, he thought. Plenty of opportunity for Russo to make mischief.
Fulvio Russo, il lupo to his friends, of whom he had none, had now been commissario of the Assisi station for twelve months. Assisi is one of those backwater towns where the commissario is either on his way up or on his way down, or as in the case of Assisi’s previous commissario, on her way up. Anna Duccio was now in Rome enjoying a spectacular career, a rising star, whereas Russo, as everyone in police circles knew, was destined for obscurity, although he himself was not yet convinced that his time had passed. He was still young, not yet forty, and until a year ago, had enjoyed a career of firsts: the youngest officer in Perugia to be promoted to commissario, the best-looking (if one admires Nordic muscularity), the one with the richest wife. Even his flaws were excessive. His disposition for cupidity and backstabbing was unequalled, but if one is rich and good looking in Italy, such flaws are generally overlooked.
It was the cupidity that finally sank Russo, and the questore had done the sinking. Russo had been caught suppressing evidence of fraud by his brother-in-law, a parliamentarian, who had devised a scheme to buy two thousand hectares of Umbrian land that had been secretly earmarked by the government to become a national wildlife sanctuary. This type of land grab is not unusual in Italy—it happens every day, in fact—but Russo had acted imperiously when the papers had first stumbled upon it. He had huffed and puffed, cajoled and threatened, and in the end had tried to bribe one of L’Unita ’s more intrepid reporters who, as it happened, had come to their interview wired for sound. That Russo was still on the police force was a testament to his brother-in-law’s millions. That he was no longer stationed in Perugia, and unlikely to return, was partly due to L’Unita , but mainly to the questore, who also had a rich wife. The questore had his own talent for backstabbing and very much disliked competition.
Russo had been given his nickname by a subordinate some ten years earlier. An attractive woman, she’d found it necessary to ward off Russo’s advances whenever they were together. The name caught on rapidly, helped no doubt by his almond-shaped eyes of that curious shade of green that turns to a dirty yellow in certain lights. The nickname (amended to il lupo when repeated to Russo by one of his minions) had delighted him at first. He reveled in the image of himself as a rapacious predator. What he didn’t find out until much later was that the woman had used the diminutive, il lupino.
Cenni had worked with Russo for five years in Perugia. He had learned to work around him, by flattering him or whatever else was necessary. He was prepared to do the same again, but he was beginning to suspect that Russo had his own plans, none of which included being worked with. He had already violated the rules of engagement twice, the first time by not calling Cenni or the questore immediately after the body was found, and the second by speaking to the Casati family directly to inform them of the American’s death.
It’s a high-profile investigation, Cenni reflected. A clever man could rise by it. Perhaps Russo thinks it’s his opportunity to climb back up. Cenni knew that would never happen. Il lupino was a backroom joke in police circles, and a dirty one at that, but he was still in a position to throw a spanner into the investigation. “Tread lightly, Alex,” the questore had warned him. “The count has lots of high-placed friends, and he’s rumored to be Opus Dei.”
Fulvio Russo had now been commissario in Assisi for a year. Plenty of time to worm his
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