Lilith

"Yes. I sensed something was wrong and then when I saw you, thinking you were the man in the threats, I fled. I contacted a friend who works as a nurse at the hospital, and she filled me in on your condition, and from what she reported, it's certainly not the best."

And you haven't even seen him.

"He's in rough shape...the doctors still don't have much figured out and I, hearing your story, even less so."

I close myself off for a few moments to reflect.

"I even followed you home, to see how far you were involved." I would add that you're not much of a stalker.

"So, if you told me everything, I guess you cleared me of the charges?" I smile at her.

"To be fair, you don't look dangerous."

She reciprocates, but with style, my smile.

"What about the famous meeting with the chat people at the pub instead?" Let's see if you know anything about the famous dream woman.

"Which unfortunately you'll have to ask others: I never went there. After the threats, it would never have crossed my mind to see Roberto again. However, you can ask Patrizia, aka Carmilla in chat. She was there for sure, since she had an unrequited crush on Roberto."

Dear Roberto, you should have settled for a normal woman instead of getting involved in this whole mess.

"Do you have any way to contact her?"

"I could try to arrange an outing somewhere quiet, where you could ask her all the questions you want, obviously without going into too much detail." Wake the girl up.

"Great! So, I'm just waiting for you to tell me when."

Would right away be too soon?

"Let's do it later in the week, as soon as I have a night off and can arrange a babysitter for Elisa." I'll wait.

"One last question."

I stare into her eyes searching for an honest answer.

"Why did you decide to help me now despite the threats?"

Be careful not to lie to me...

"Because I feel guilty with Roberto and I would like to help him; because I know that you will be the one to expose yourself, thus limiting the risks; because I often think back to when I needed help and no one wanted to give it to me; and because I would like to close the accounts with my past for good. Is that enough motivation for you?"

I suppose so, but let's just say I want to trust.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a piece of work?" I chant.

"Why, did you ever doubt otherwise?"

A shiny Miss Toothpaste smile lights up on her face.

Chapter 5

The Notary

I walk down the long corridor of the hospital, look around, and notice a strange commotion. I reach room twenty-three hoping to cross the threshold and finally see my lifelong friend and not the surrogate he has become. It occurs to me that twenty-three is supposed to be a lucky number, but as soon as I come face to face with the reality of Sara's face I abandon any idea of applied numerology. She is sitting in a chair looking at her brother, searching for a reason.

She doesn't notice me come in. Actually, no one notices me, not even Roberto, whose gaze seems to go right through me. His expression is different from last time: he has a hint of a smile on his face, almost an imperceptible grin that makes me uneasy.

Gently, I step back and knock softly on the door. No reaction. Perhaps I had better bring along some stadium horns. I try again more vigorously and this time add voice support.

"Hi, am I disturbing?"

"David! Hi."

Sara gets up from her chair and walks over to me. I greet her.

"Is there any news?"

I approach Roberto.

"He seems to be getting better...at least physically."

It's the brain part that concerns me.

"I notice that at least the pallor of his face is gone."

Before you could hardly tell it from the sheet.

"The doctors say the latest test results are normal, despite still not explaining either what might have happened or the psychological trauma."

"But you still haven't spoken or said anything meaningful, to get a clue as to what happened?"

"Nothing. The last time he talked...you remember that, right?"

Right, after the snort, I expected a lick too.

"How about you? Got any news?"

Yeah, your brother's probably a Satanist and fused his brain with some drug.

"Nothing particularly interesting. Right now I'm trying to get in touch with someone he was dating recently. I'll probably talk to him later this week and hopefully something useful will come out."

"Okay, thanks anyway for the time being."

Thankfully he doesn't seem to be demanding much from me

As I head for the exit I give in to the temptation of a vending machine coffee. I know it won't live up to the smell, but it's an irrepressible call.

I rummage through my jeans pocket looking for the last tenner I need. I notice from the window overlooking the street that the sirens are really there: those of several police patrol cars. A trance of excited people starts running wildly, followed by journalists with cameras and microphones.

"What the hell?"

I remain stuck in the doorway with coffee in my hand and an infinite number of questions hanging in the air. Across from me, nurses mumble conjecture. Trotting along, hands in her scrubs, another orderly approaches and agitatedly addresses the small group.

"Looks like they found him!"

"Who? The two porters? The ones who were missing?"

"Yes, it seems those poor wretches were murdered!"

"Killed dead? Oh, Jesus!"

"What a time, even at the hospital you can't be safe anymore."

Sounds like my grandmother, but she's right.

The next day the news appears in all the newspapers, I read it with curiosity while devouring a croissant with honey in the office. It's strange how, just because you were there at the time of the event, it can be exhilarating to read a story like that in the paper, no matter how tragic it is.

It would seem that the two porters had literally been torn to pieces!

With growing disgust, I put the coffee cup on Roberto's desk and slide away the crumbs of the brioche anchored to the shirt. A slight halo of coffee is added to the grime, which by now has become attached to the desk.

"Yikes!"

I realize I've soiled a file. I grab it on the fly and start waving it around, hoping to rid it of the unwanted stain. I wonder what it was. I read sideways.

"Mancini Practice." It says in red: Gold treatment.

I wonder if Roberto will have completed it before the crisis? And how come it's Gold? We usually only award it to very important personalities: politicians, high prelates... and everyone, invariably, wants the honour in front. I think it's time to do some deeper checks on the client. I'm afraid that the De Carli lawyer's patience with Roberto could be exhausted if a Gold contract were to be cancelled. From my workstation I connect to the server and search for Mancini. This damn computer takes a while, but when will the boss decide to renew them?

Here is the file. I check the status: in suspension. Who knows what Mr. Mancini wanted to insure... holy shit! Assets worth more than eight million euros! It's time to call the boss.

"Lawyer, hello, this is Dionisi, I wanted to talk to you about a Gold file that Roberto Capua left in suspension, regarding Mr. Mancini. I was wondering if Capua had mentioned anything to you before he got sick."

"A Gold, he says...wait a minute, let me get my mind right."

He looks like he's just come back from a trance. I solicit his neurons with math applied to his wallet.

"It's 8.4 million euros." He either croaks, or recovers immediately.

"I'll be damned! I remember now. He'd told me about how he was pulling off a good heist, but I thought it was just one of his usual rants!"

I can almost hear the old man's head ringing like a cash register at Uncle Scrooge's.

"Come to think of it, he also told me that he set up an appointment for an evaluation about a week ago. Dionisi: track the client down and deal with them immediately, before the deal falls through. And keep me updated!"

"I'll get right on it, Counsellor."

He hangs up the phone, without even asking me about Roberto's health. The old saying that everyone is useful and no one is indispensable is always valid.

From the card I get his address and phone number. I don't wait any longer and try to contact him.

"Telecom Italia, free message, the number you have dialled does not exist...".

How does it not exist? I try again, maybe I typed it wrong.

"Telecom Italia, free message, the number you have dialled does not exist..."

Go to hell! I throw the handset like a basketball player on the base of the phone. Three points.

How do I find this guy now? Obviously: with the address.

Ask yourself a question and give yourself the answer.

I think of Claudio Bisio and his advertisement with relative musical tune on the number find everything.

"... I'm sorry, sir, but at the address you provided, I have no record of a telephone subscriber. I have checked several times."

I'd switch to competition if I didn't think the result would be the same.

Do you want to see that the guy was playing a joke on Roberto and provided him with false data?

"Hi, Davide, am I disturbing?" I turn around, it's Simonetti from accounting.

"Hi, Marco. Don't bother, come on in."

"I heard about Roberto and wanted to know if you have any news."

So someone with a bit of humanity still exists. I explain to him in broad strokes what little has been understood about the official and it seems to be enough.

"Poor guy. And to think he was so elated the other week because of that invitation to the mega party."

"Party? What party? He didn't tell me anything."

"He told me about a very important client who had invited him to an exclusive party, the main theme of which was...sex!"

My attention goes up, I search and find a more comfortable position in the chair.

"A shy guy like Roberto attending some kind of orgy party? I can hardly believe it."

"Yet I swear he seemed convinced."

He is as amazed as I am. No, that's impossible, I'm more so.

"And how did it end? I mean, he must have told you the outcome of the evening, right?"

"Unfortunately, then I went on vacation and couldn't talk to him. But is it possible that he didn't tell you anything? You're his best friend, you should have been the first to know."

Yeah, why didn't he tell me anything? Was he afraid of my judgment? Come on! As if I was some sanctimonious moralist.

"I assure you, I didn't know." Nor did I imagine.

Roberto's dark side shows up once again.

"However it went, I hope you'll tell us in person soon. Give him my regards if you hear from him."

The question is whether he will hear from me.

"Of course, I won't miss it." They always say that, don't they?

He greets me and walks to the door.

"Marco? One last curiosity: do you remember the name of the client who invited Roberto?" He pauses in the doorway in reflection.

"It seems to me that he was a notary, something like Sinistro or Mancino..."

My eye falls on the paperwork soiled by coffee: you can see that it is....

"Mancini! Yes, the notary Mancini." He concludes my thought, adding another link to the chain. I try to dissimulate my dismay. I succeed and he leaves the room. I throw myself headlong at Roberto's station looking for a clue to track down the mysterious notary. I'm more and more convinced that the party has something to do with Roberto's current state, but I don't understand how an event from a week earlier could have such delayed events: a singular drug. Very singular. At this point, I think it's appropriate to learn more about the notary. I wonder if Roberto had mentioned anything to the beautiful Angela? I look at my watch. It should be traceable by now.

"Hello?"

The little handyman secretary always answers the phone.

"...yes, I am the gentleman who came to see mom. No, I'm not her new boyfriend. No, not a serial killer either. Now, though, can I talk to Mom?"

But did the CIA train her?

"Angela, finally! I'm sorry to bother you. I have some news and I wanted to talk to you about it. Do you know anything about a certain notary Mancini?"

"Who, sorry?" The answer is not the most encouraging. I explain what I've heard, but the outcome doesn't change.

"Maybe he was embarrassed to tell me something that is strictly for boys." Sure. I, too, would have had trouble talking about it with someone who dances a lap dance every night half-naked in front of hundreds of individuals drooling like molosser.

"It's probably what you say, although I don't understand why he left me off the list."

"If he really is involved, it's critical to track him down." And what do you think I'm trying to do?

"Yeah, unfortunately I'm left with just checking the address and I'm afraid that's another dead end as well."

"One would still have to try. Keep me posted, please." Aye-aye, Mr. Lieutenant.

"Sure. See you soon."

I flip through the crumpled road map I keep in the car. Here's the street, in the middle of the countryside on Laurentina: I'll get lost for sure. Want to see if I'll have to drive blind all night? Damn, sooner or later I'll buy a satellite navigator!

I slow down my pace. I should be in the home stretch. On the left there is an almost dirt road that leads to the top of a hill. I stop at the intersection and try to scan the end of the hill: there is a building not well defined. I take the road. A huge gate delineates the entrance to a large square, with a deactivated fountain in the middle and surrounded by well-kept hedges. In the background stands a dream villa for anyone who hasn't won the lottery. I get out of my car and approach the gate: no signs of rust or decay. But a general sense of abandonment permeates the air: I can hear the sound of silence, which sometimes is more annoying than the noise of a built-up area. A prominent bell invites me to be pressed. I approach it hesitantly, afraid of introducing a sound out of place in a quiet and sleepy atmosphere. I press it gently and imagine the echo inside the house. How silly of me to think that it could be heard from this distance. Nothing changes, it almost seems to be lost in an undefined place. I wait with the good manners of a guest. The lack of any response gives me the courage to try again, but this time more vigorously. One more time. By now it is certain: the prediction of the empty trip has come true. I don't know why, but a sense of unease surrounds me, convincing me to hurry back to the car.

As I manoeuvre in reverse on the narrow lane, out of the corner of my eye I glimpse in the rear-view mirror the figure of a car stopped at the end of the slope. The nose of a sedan is pointing towards me, waiting for something. I'm convinced that it's not a driver who has taken a wrong turn, but that it's specifically there to observe me. Quickly, my hands move to find the optimal angle of the mirror, but a ray of sunlight, now dying, dazzles me. A moment, a few seconds of daze, and the vehicle is no longer visible. I turn sharply, compromisingly twisting my poor back, already pinned by the seat belt. A cloud of dust returning lightly to the asphalt is the only thing left in the air. It's not paranoia. Someone was watching me and I don't understand why.

Finally home. As I undress, I run the hot water for a shower. I lose myself in the vapours, relishing in the silence every single drop that falls on my skin.

Driin! Driin!

It's clear that the concept of peace of mind is foreign to certain moments.

Dripping, I grab my bathrobe, curse Meucci and Bell, just to do no one any harm, and head for the privacy-killing device that continues undaunted to play.

"He's missing! Roberto is missing!"

It's Sara's agitated, tear-filled voice.

"Calm down Sara! What do you mean Roberto is missing?"

"Today, when I went back to see him, he wasn't in the room. I thought he was having tests: his clothes were all still there, but instead no one knew where he was. They searched the whole hospital. My God, I'm scared, Davide. What if something terrible had happened to him, like to those two porters? I don't even want to think about it and I don't know what to do!"

Heck, I'm worried too.

"Don't jump to conclusions."

Now what am I going to make up to reassure her?

"They confirmed on TV that the porters were mixed up in a nasty drug racket and that that was the work of a settling of scores and not a crazed killer."

Put like that, it should sound good.

It takes him a while to swallow the pill, but then the placebo effect sustains its effectiveness.

"Maybe you're right, I've definitely gone too far. But then what happened to Roberto? Where did he go?"

I haven't idea. In this instant, however, I know where I would send that idiot!

"Have you asked the authorities for help yet?"

Maybe he's wandering like an automaton down some alley.

"Yes, there were still some police officers at the hospital about yesterday's incident, and they helped me with the report, but I don't know what good that will do."

Jokes are fine, but a guy in a hospital gown roaming the streets with his eyes wide open I don't think is that hard to spot.

"Then don't worry, you'll see he'll be found soon enough. He must have had a lost moment. The important thing is that when he comes back, you stay very close to him, ready to help him."

And to the assistance of good psychiatrists. I suggest a dozen.

"Yeah, in fact, my husband and I were thinking about having him stay with us for a while."

"Good idea. Family members are more helpful in these cases than cold hospital facilities."

"You know, I've thought it through and I don't care what happened to him, now I just want to get back to a peaceful life."

Does he really think that ignoring is the right way to regain normalcy? Even these searches of mine have now skewed the concept I had of it. The beauty of it is that I'm looking for answers to questions that are still unclear, including why I want to get to the bottom of this.

"He'll be back the way he always was...have faith."

And may God hear us.

Chapter 6

The dinner

The sound of the alarm clock in the morning is something irritating that can be cancelled with a simple press of the finger, but the sound of the door, which forces you to drag yourself like a zombie, enriches your vocabulary with swear words unknown even to Thomas Milian.

Obviously, the serial killer's enthusiasm dies down, if when you open the door you are presented with the figure of a half-naked model in a robe who asks you for some sugar.

"...Of course I'll make you some coffee, I was just turning on the stove, Captain Arimondi. Would you also like some brioche? I have several flavours."

It must be said, however, that if at the door you don't find the model, but the policemen, the kindness borders on pure licking.

Like a perfect butler, I re-enter the dining room carrying the occasion tray with four steaming cups and the sugar bowl on top. At my entrance, two seem almost absent, perhaps more interested in the decor than anything else. They got up from the sofa on which they were bivouacking and politely offered to help me. It is extraordinary how in front of representatives of the order one can feel embarrassed, almost guilty, despite being completely sure of one's sanctity.

"I guess you didn't come for any tickets, did you?" They smile. Well, at least they're human beings.

"No, rest assured. We've only come to ask if you can provide us with some help."

"Of course, I'm at your complete disposal."

"It's about your friend: Roberto Capua..."

He suspends the sentence, waiting for my deposition.

"Did you find him?" See, as if Sara wouldn't have already warned me with at least two thousand phone calls.

"No, unfortunately the search is still ongoing. You might be able to give us some useful information about his habits, places and/or people he hangs out with, though, so that we can speed up the results."

From a pocket he pulls out a pen and notebook: new.

"I assume you've spoken to his sister, Sara, as well." I cast the bait to see if they really came for that reason.

"Sure. In fact, she was the one who advised us to enlist her help as well."

Why not? I'm guessing right after I talked to her on the phone since she didn't tell me anything about you guys. Not to mention that it's common for a new notebook to be used for each interviewee.

"He did very well. So, I've known Roberto since middle school but then we had lost touch. We started seeing each other again about seven years ago, when he was hired at the same company I work for, De Carli insurance."

I look at the still blank sheet of paper, he notices me watching him and magically begins to quickly scribble down the name of the company.

"I should point out that Roberto has never been the type with a very bright social life. He always limited his outings with his colleagues, perhaps because he understood that many people thought he was a bit odd."

"Weird? In what way?" He's neither crazy nor a drug addict.

"In the sense that his shyness always made him take a back seat, and his excessive helpfulness was consequently interpreted as stupidity." He sounds disappointed, perhaps expecting me to talk about him like Hannibal Lecter.

"When he got sick, was she there with him? Did you accompany him to the hospital?"

"Yes, I had gone to see him at home worried, because he hadn't shown up at the office that day and hadn't notified anyone of his absence. When I saw that he wasn't well, I called the ambulance, then followed him to the hospital."

Best to skip the zombie part.

"Sure, sure...do you know if he was seeing anyone in particular lately? Someone she had a good night with before she got sick?"

Yes, crazy people in chat rooms who enjoy satanic rituals.

"Not to my knowledge. We would confide in each other at the office, but most of the time it was me telling him about some night out with friends. He, at most, would tell me about some movie I missed on TV."

He sighs thoughtfully drawing his unsatisfactory conclusions.

" Office home and home office. Without a little bit of escapism, you can easily lose your mind and do something irresponsible." He has a point. I'm starting to feel guilty for not pushing him to live. He continues in his exposition.

"It is well established that many individuals who lead double lives tend to hide it, especially from their closest loved ones. Probably for fear that their b-side may disappoint them or, worse, lead them to be aggressive, as a form of punishment against those who did not understand their requests for help."

Aggression, Roberto? Wait a minute, but do you want to see that these people think Roberto is somehow involved with the hospital mess, just because he disappeared on the same day?

"If what he claims is true, then I should be the least likely person to help you."

I'm starting to seriously believe it myself.

"Honestly, we were hoping you belonged to Roberto's circle of b-side friends. But we were wrong." He stands up imitated by the others. He stows his notebook and pen in his pocket and takes out a business card which he hands to me. I accept it.

"I have my doubts that he will contact you, but if he does for some reason, please inform us immediately. Your friend's health depends on it."

And mine, if he were as crazy as they believe. And they believe him to be.

"I will not hesitate, Captain, rest assured."

I greet them with a handshake and something makes me assume that this will only be our first meeting.

I watch them leave through the window. I don't like it. I don't like the way they've contacted me, and how they're investigating Roberto. That they have more on their hands than mere suspicions? What am I thinking! It's okay that he hasn't been himself lately, but it's a long way from becoming a crazy murderer.

I'm late. What bothers me the most is not so much the reproachful and patronizing look that the boss will give me, but the little joke and the little smile that will invariably come out of Francesca's mouth, always ready to point out.

"Always late, huh?" As soon as I know of some transportation strike, I'll puncture all four wheels.

"Yeah, I've noticed that too, I always arrive between the end of the filing phase and the beginning of painting your nails."

"Funny! De Carli's looking for you urgently, don't waste too much time at the coffee machine."

"Damn, I'm flying then!" Whatever, without the coffee the boss doesn't even enter my field of vision.

I camouflage myself perfectly between the soda machine and the coffee machine, which sizzles and begins to produce what will keep me up for the next few hours.

"Ah, Dionisi! You' re finally here."

The sudden tone of the boss's voice hits me full force and I nearly spill my glass.

"Sorry for the delay, I had a setback."

In uniform and badge format.

He said, "Cut the chitchat and come straight to my office. Notary Mancini is here and has been waiting for you for almost an hour."

Is Mancini here? That's what I call a lucky break.

"Notary, this is Davide Dionisi. He's our insurance manager who will replace the unfortunate Capua, more than adequately, for your case."

While it is true that one should not judge anyone by appearances, this case should be ruled out. Not so much because he looks like a look-alike of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons: thin enough to give the impression that he could shatter at the slightest bump; heavily receding; with lynx eyes; a long, narrow nose; and a hyena-like smile; but because of the snobbish air of absolute superiority with which he looked at me, or rather, half-ignored me.

"Pleased to meet you. I am convinced that I will establish an excellent working relationship with you, as I did with your colleague."

He stops spinning his chair and finally fixes his gaze on me. Too insistently. Maybe I preferred it before, when it was the paintings in the room that were his main focus of observation. The help to get out of the embarrassing situation comes providentially from the lawyer.

"Well, Dionisi, I think the time has come for you to accompany the notary to his office and review together the work started by Capua, without wasting a moment."

I make my way to my room and as I retrieve his handout from the computer archive, I invite him to sit down.

"Here's your paperwork, already done and started."

I almost pretend to ignore the reason.

"A nice amount, no doubt about it, and from the description it would seem a fair valuation."

"The property is an old family legacy, passed down through several generations."

From what I've seen from the outside, it's more than well kept.

"I don't live there permanently, more like I use it as a country estate, to find some respite from the chaos of the city."

I imagine her life stressed out like a canary's.

"More than fair. Escape points are really essential in life."

Some people, like me, are content with the PlayStation.

"Of course, I wouldn't dream of going there alone, it would be too depressing. So every now and then I like to throw parties there with friends."

Amazing, does he really have any real ones? Also, I would love to know when that occasional one happens.

"I'm sure in a place like this, parties are a hit."

"An idea occurred to me: since I think you'll need to do an inspection for the final estimate, how about I invite you to the next party?"

"It would be wonderful to combine business with pleasure. That is, of course, if you also guarantee me the presence of beautiful women."

I quickly clarify my tastes. You never know with these rich guys.

"Guaranteed. The most beautiful women never fail to show up at my parties." The barracuda smiles.

"Proposal accepted, then. Just a formality: on the file I marked a phone number, could you confirm it for me? So I can contact you if I need to."

He puts on the small eyeglasses taken from the pocket of his jacket and takes the printout that I give him.

"Now I understand why you were slow to contact me: I haven't had this number for quite some time. I've been careless, but we'll remedy that right away."

Other note of things to do: change the windshield wipers, they croak like a choked frog.

I look at the name that appears on the display of the phone that rings incessantly: it's Angela. I quickly put the Bluetooth headset around my ear and gleefully answer the magnificent woman.

"Hello, Davide, am I disturbing you?" Not even if I were in the middle of a whirlwind on the edge of a cliff.

"No, don't worry. I'm stuck in traffic, trying to get home."

"I called to tell you that I've set up my dinner date with Patrizia for tonight. I'm sorry I didn't call you right away to ask if that was okay with you, but since my neighbour was available to stay with Elisa, I immediately took advantage of it."

"You did just fine. Give me time to get home, take a shower, and I'll pick you up."

"As soon as I told her I was coming on the date with a single cousin of mine who recently got out of a bad romance she went into defibrillation."

I guess, by chat I already got a sense of what kind of chick she was.

"Great idea, little cousin!" What was the saying about cousins?

I tell her about Roberto's disappearance and the subsequent visit of the police, and she confesses that she's perplexed. I continued with the second piece of news, telling her about the invitation I had received from the notary. Damn the phone that doesn't allow to have a complete view of people's state of mind.