Day of the Dead by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

from my own experience: the only people who try to avoid questions are those with something to hide. Remember that. And keep one other thing in mind: as far as the fate of poor Matteo is concerned, you ought to be more concerned than I am. Good-bye; you’re free to go.”
    Don Antonio nodded his head in farewell and left the room.
    After shutting the door behind the departing priest, Maione turned to look at Ricciardi.
    â€œCommissa’, forgive me, but this priest strikes me as very dangerous. Did you hear what he said?”
    Ricciardi snorted.
    â€œThe things that priest says to scare me are like water off a duck’s back, Maione. If he didn’t know there was something strange going on, do you think he would have put on such an act? And plus this whole fairy-tale world he has these children living in doesn’t square to my mind with the fact that Matteo goes missing but it takes him two days to come tell us about it.”
    Maione scraped the floor with one foot, the way he did whenever he wasn’t entirely in agreement with Ricciardi.
    â€œStill, the priest does have one point: if it was an accident, then why all the questions? To tell the truth, if I’m being honest with you, Commissa’, I wondered the same thing myself. The autopsy, the investigation, the site inspections—we don’t do all these things even if we find a dead body with a bullethole between the eyes. It seems to me we’re attracting a lot of unnecessary attention.”
    Ricciardi shook his head.
    â€œWhat, are you turning diplomatic on me now, too? Since when have we let a few threats scare us, instead of following through on an investigation?”
    â€œCommissa’, it’s not a matter of getting scared or being diplomatic: this is something else completely. Mussolini’s coming to Naples. They’re already putting up posters all over town, haven’t you noticed? And that puts the fear of God in everybody, you’ve got people running this way and that. The one running hardest is Garzo, and you know how much that imbecile cares about his relationships with important people; when that fortune-teller was killed, you remember, and the duke and duchess of whatever-it-was were implicated, he came this close to throwing us in jail ourselves, he was so scared of getting complaints. So just imagine if he gets a phone call from the bishop, the day before Thunder Jaw pulls into town!”
    Ricciardi wasn’t about to give up.
    â€œWell, so what? If the child was poisoned, it’s our duty to . . . ”
    â€œNo, Commissa’, careful: the boy poisoned himself, the doctor even said so. We don’t have the grounds for an investigation. Even the autopsy, as I told you more than once, was going too far. Do me a personal favor, just this once: let’s call a halt to this right here. Then maybe later, once Thunder Jaw has left town, we can walk over to the parish together, and we’ll see what kind of conditions these kids live in. You know me, I’m the first to get angry about these kinds of things. But we can’t keep this up, not right now.”
    Ricciardi stood up and went to the window. In the falling rain, not far from where the little dead girl was asking her mother to fetch her top, he glimpsed a dog sitting as if it were waiting for something. Without turning around, he said:
    â€œI want to talk to Garzo. Do me a favor, call Ponte and ask for an appointment.”

XVI
    Rosa observed Enrica, who was sitting stiffly on the sofa, as if she’d swallowed a broomstick, holding a demitasse of espresso. She hadn’t drunk a drop.
    She’d been sitting like that for five minutes now, not saying a word, eyes downcast, knees together, perched precariously on the seat, far from the backrest. Rosa wondered how to break the silence, which was starting to become awkward.
    When they’d reached the landing, the young woman had stopped at the threshold holding the