Free A Dark Song of Blood by Ben Pastor

young lady. Amiss, indeed! I should say there is. Things one wouldn’t believe! Pay attention, next time – it’s still early, but it’s showing all right. Since she came, she hasn’t spoken ten words to me, and I’ve been in this house going on three years now. Well, what can you expect from the likes of her?”
    Guidi drove his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œHer mother’s a Jewish you-know-what, and as for her father – he’s a bishop or something. That’s how she got to go to school and all that. People heard her brag about it.”
    With his fingertips, Guidi savored the fleece-lined space of his pockets, where Francesca’s chafed hands had burrowed as they waited for the tramway. “Sorry you got a scare,” he said. “Let’s hope nothing happens around here.”
    â€œNothing? Why, just before you came home there was a big blast at Piazza Verdi.”
    Guidi didn’t bother to say he’d been stopped by a German patrol while he drove past the Mint, and despite his documents the intolerant gendarmes had dragged him out of the car before allowing him to continue.
    Pompilia pouted with open hands held up to her face. “See how pale I am? I almost passed out. When you’re all nerves, it’s a constant struggle just to keep your sanity.”
    29 JANUARY 1944
    Bora and Guidi didn’t meet again until late on Saturday, in front of the Hotel d’Italia, only a street-length away from Guidi’s Pubblica Sicurezza office, at the other end of Via Rasella. The hotel faced the imposing gate of Villa Barberini, its scrolling metalwork appearing out of the dark and fading quickly as the dimmed headlights of passing German vehicles struck it.
    â€œLet’s go to my room,” Bora said. “I was able to trace one of Magda’s colleagues – you might be interested in what she had to say.”
    Minutes later, taking advantage of the fact that power was on, Guidi took notes on the narrow desk by Bora’s window. A photo of his wife – it was the same woman whose portrait the major had at work, in any case – sat on the desk, with a small snapshot of a German pilot tucked in one corner and a dried edelweiss on the other side.
    â€œWouldn’t she tell you whom Magda was afraid of, Major?”
    â€œShe doesn’t know. What’s for sure is that Magda didn’t want friends over, and no longer asked for rides from the embassy. She was drinking more, and ‘acting strange’, whatever that means. You understand, my informant is the girl who was reassigned after the famous party. She says that everyone was drunk, their kissing was just a lark, and Magda got to keep her job because she had a boyfriend in the SS.”
    â€œAny idea who that might be?”
    â€œNot yet. But I can tell you who else lives at her address.”
    Guidi flipped through his notebook. “Ground floor, a retired soprano, deaf and senile, never goes out. Third floor, three German officers, no longer there. Correct?”
    â€œCorrect. The officers are elsewhere now,” (Bora meant Anzio, Guidi knew) “but they have an alibi and witnesses. They were celebrating at their place, one floor down from Magda’s apartment. The rest of the building is untenanted and used for storage by the embassy.”
    â€œWell, whoever had a key to her apartment searched it professionally before we got there. I doubt it was the killer, so – whether they were destroying evidence or merely removing potentially embarrassing clues, the investigation has been impaired from the start. Magda dated Merlo, she dated an SS, she was afraid of somebody. As of today, Merlo is the only one we can place near her house on the night she died, and I must tell you, Major Bora, that the chief of police is convinced of his guilt.”
    â€œMaybe the chief of police is right. Or maybe he