Good Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

then spoke again. “As to who was kidnapped-I take it you don’t know yet?”
    Boldini hesitated. “Actually, we do. It was, ah, Achille de Grazia.” His voice was as somber and reverent as a muffled church bell.
    “I see.”
    “Sixteen years old, the son of Vincenzo de Grazia.”
    “Yes, all right.”
    “You do know Vincenzo de Grazia…?”
    “Yes, Boldini, I know Vincenzo de Grazia. The son, was he hurt?”
    “That we don’t know for certain. There is a witness, Carlo Muccia, a grocer-my men are holding him for you-he says the boy was definitely alive, but they had to drag him to their car-it took two of them-so, yes, it appears he may have been injured.”
    Or it could be that he just preferred not to go. “Thank you, Boldini, we’ll take over from here. You’ve informed de Grazia?”
    “Ah, no, as a matter of fact. As you may know, Signor de Grazia has honored me by making it clear that he does prefer to conduct any local police business through my office. However, in this case, I think the nature of the circumstances, the regrettable nature of the circumstances, ah, suggests that you be the one to inform him, don’t you agree?”
    So. That accounted for the person-to-person call. Now we were getting down to it. It wasn’t the shooting, it wasn’t the two dead men, it wasn’t even the kidnapping, per se. Boldini just didn’t want to be the one to tell Vincenzo de Grazia that his son had been taken. Well, his attitude, weak-kneed as it was, was understandable. The comandante served at the pleasure of the Stresa city council, after all, and Vincenzo, as everyone knew, was one of the powers behind that august group.
    As a colonel in the federal police, however, Caravale didn’t have to worry about local “powers.” True, Vincenzo had a long reach; no doubt he could put in a good-or bad-word for him in Rome and significantly affect his chances for advancement in the force. But that didn’t make any difference either. Caravale was that rare thing-a man not interested in advancing. No ambition burned in his belly, no resentment at the progression of friends and enemies through the ranks stuck in his craw. He was exactly where he wanted to be. When he’d been a boy of ten, he had sometimes accompanied his sainted grandfather on his ice wagon runs in Stresa, sitting with him up in the driver’s box and working the reins if the traffic wasn’t too bad. And one rainy day Nonno Fortunato, his words whistling through the gap where other people’s front teeth were, had said, out of nowhere: “Tell me, Tullio, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
    Out of nowhere, Caravale had answered, “A policeman, Grandfather.”
    “A policeman!” the old man had said, beaming. He’d raised his arm, stood up in the driver’s box, and pretended to make an announcement to the world at large. “Honored ladies and gentlemen, you see this little fellow sitting next to me? This is my grandson, Tullio Caravale. Remember his name, because someday he is going to be the comandante ”-he’d pointed to a building they were passing-“right there.”
    The building was carabinieri headquarters, and for Caravale, that had been that. Dreams of being an actor, a pilot, an international soccer star, were gone from his mind. Despite his father’s often-voiced reservations about the police, he knew from that time on exactly what he wanted to do, and where he wanted to do it.
    And here he was.
    “All right,” he said, “I’ll take care of telling de Grazia. I’ll go see him.”
    “Now?”
    “Give me a chance to look at the scene and see what’s what first. Then I’ll talk to him. His company’s up in Ghiffa, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, Aurora Construction, but these days he’ll be at his field office in Intra. It’s on Corso Mameli, a block north of the old port, right across-”
    “I know where it is. You’ll release no information before I see him?”
    “No, no, not until you tell me. Do you… did you want me to