Free The Girl with the Crystal Eyes by Barbara Baraldi Page B

them
compensation.'
        'These
kids have no respect for anything or anyone. They have everything they want
right from when they're born, and look how they end up. They just don't know
how to behave any more.'
        A car
behind them sounds its horn, not realising that the stationary vehicle is a
police car.
        'There's
no respect any more for the police. Did I already say that?'
        Tommasi
starts off again but soon they stop for a coffee. The barista at Settimo Cielo
is a short man with a friendly face, a true local accent, and an overwhelming
desire to grumble.
        'Two
coffees.'
        'Another
robbery in broad daylight in the centre of the city the other day. Where's it
all going to end?' he grumbles, reaching for the cups.
        'Come
on, don't start. We do our job. But there aren't enough of us - and we're not
paid enough,' Tommasi responds. He already knows the barista's views.
        'I'm
not saying you don't do your job. I'm just saying that, with all these
immigrants, you aren't safe leaving the house.'
        'Don't
start on immigrants again,' Tommasi blurts out. He is originally from Naples,
and remembers when he was little and he was the foreigner. At school the other
boys said his father had come to steal work from Italians, as if Naples was
another country.
        'I
can't afford to be a liberal,' says the barista, as he puts the two
steaming cups in front of them and goes back to drying the tall glasses, the
ones used for prosecco.
        'What
were you saying before, Inspector?' Tommasi is annoyed. His eyebrows seem like
they meet in the middle even more than normally.
        'This
is confidential information. So I'm warning you - not a word to anyone.'
        Tommasi
leans forward, ready to digest this tasty bit of information.
        'So,
both men were hard before they died.'
        'Which
means that the stiletto print could be…?'
        'Yes,
that footprint could belong to the murderer. And it also means that the first
statement we got from the woman at the service station could contain an element
of truth. The blonde, sexy woman - perhaps she wasn't a real babe, like the
woman described her, but everything else could fit.'
        'The
lollipop next to the second victim made me think of a woman straight away. I
couldn't see the victim himself eating a lollipop. Not someone like him, I
mean.'
        'Picture
the scene,' says Marconi, changing tack. 'In the first murder, he pushes her
into the bathroom. He wants to fuck her, he's looking forward to it, and she
doesn't allow him time to realise anything's wrong before she cuts his throat.
        Then
the second murder. It's late at night and she lets herself be followed to that
garbage dump. His intentions are definitely not honourable, but he's not
worried. He knows he's stronger than her. There's no contest: it's as good as
done. But she hits him with a heavy object - a club or perhaps an iron bar. She
smashed his head open with two blows and it was all over quickly. I've looked
at the photos again.'
        'And?'
        'And
they've both got the same expression. The expression of someone who's just
landed in the shit.'
        'I
could be wrong, but the last one, Mario Rossi…'
        'Yes,
like in those adverts: "There's always a Mario Rossi.'"
        'He
used to beat his wife.'
        'That's
right. The man was violent: We've got two complaints on file from his first
wife. But now he was with a Romanian. They were living together in a block of
flats in Via Casini.'
        They
get up and go over to pay.
        'It's
on me.' The barista turns towards them. 'Let's see if it wakes you lot
up a bit,' he adds under his breath. 'What?'
        'Have
a good day,' he says, shrugging his shoulders.
        
        
        'Morning.
Police.'
        Silence.
        'You
heard me. Open the door.' Marconi doesn't bother trying to sound polite. 'Open
the door. We don't have all