Free Vipers by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Page A

surely you understand that . . . in other words, a poor citizen is asleep in his bed on a rainy morning, getting over the flu . . . and all of a sudden he’s in police headquarters, talking to . . . with whom do I have the honor of speaking, Signore?”
    In the face of this hasty about-face, Ricciardi showed a smidgen of mercy.
    â€œCommissario Ricciardi, of the mobile squad. The gentleman who, at my orders, came to ask you this morning if you’d be willing to come to this office for a conversation is Brigadier Maione, and you owe it to his delicacy of feeling and his professional courtesy that the matter was conducted with such discretion: if it had been up to me and in accordance with the dictates of ordinary procedure, we’d have come to your residence by car and with an escort of two additional police officers. That’s standard practice, when the crime in question is homicide.”
    Maione adored it when Ricciardi talked that way.
    Ventrone blinked and turned pale as a sheet. Then he said:
    â€œI beg your pardon. I had no idea. May I sit down? I don’t feel at all well.”
    Ricciardi gestured and sat down himself.
    â€œAs you well know, yesterday at the brothel known as Il Paradiso, in Via Chiaia, one of the working girls was murdered. The name of the murdered girl is Maria Rosaria Cennamo.”
    Ventrone murmured:
    â€œAs I well know, did you say? I don’t know anything. And I certainly don’t know this woman, what did you say her name was? Cennamo? In fact, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
    Ricciardi didn’t budge by so much as an inch.
    â€œVentrone, let’s not play hide-and-seek. I would not advise you to follow this line, because it won’t take you anywhere good, but rather directly to a criminal trial for withholding evidence, during the course of which a great deal of information would come out, information which, I’m sure, would be quite damaging both to your reputation and that of your family; that is, if we don’t decide to bring other, far more serious charges. The stage name, shall we say, of this young lady was Viper. Does that mean anything to you?”
    The man’s head dropped as if the commissario had clubbed him. He muttered an incomprehensible word or two, coughed, ran a handkerchief over his face and then, finally, replied in a low voice:
    â€œViper. Yes, I know her. And I appeal to your discretion, to the fact that we’re all men of the world here today, and beg you to promise me that what we say here in this room will remain confidential.”
    Ricciardi wasn’t in the business of offering discounts.
    â€œThat’s not a promise I’m able to make. If the things you tell us have any direct bearing on the investigation, they’ll have to be made public. But I can certainly assure you of our utmost personal discretion.”
    Ventrone nodded. That was already something.
    â€œI patronize the place, yes. A man, after a lifetime of work, has the right to a little enjoyment. And I, sadly, became a widower at far too young an age. And I met this woman, Viper, in fact, who showed . . . initiative, and plenty of it. And we had a lot of fun together. And as far as that goes, I paid, and generously. It doesn’t seem to me that there’s anything wrong with that, no?”
    Maione broke in:
    â€œNo, there’s nothing wrong with going to whores. But murdering people is quite another matter.”
    The man protested loudly:
    â€œI haven’t murdered anyone, why, how dare you?”
    Ricciardi gave him a level look.
    â€œAccording to our information, you were the woman’s last client. Another prostitute, Bianca Palumbo aka   Lily, did her best to cover for you by claiming to have found the corpse herself, but we forced her to admit she was lying. Why would she have covered for you?”
    Ventrone seemed stunned by what Ricciardi had just told him. He hesitated,