Ninni had followed the case with interest. The morning Gucci was killed, Ninni was passing through the neighborhood on his way to the office when he heard the murder report go out on his police radio. He asked his driver to swing by the scene of the crime on Via Palestro, only to find it crawling with carabinieri. Ninni stood to one side, observing the scene. Maurizio Gucci’s body lay at the top of the steps as medics and investigators milled about. The commotion hushed as Nocerino entered the foyer, shooing everybody out except for the carabinieri. In the following weeks and months, Ninni ordered his men to ask for information about the Gucci murder whenever they arrested a member of Milan’s criminal underground. If the assassin had been a professional killer, Ninni reasoned, then Milan’s malavita, or criminal underworld, would know about it and sooner or later Ninni was bound to hear something. But time after time the person being questioned would shrug or shake his head. As the months went by, Ninni became convinced that the killer couldn’t have been a professional. He felt sure the solution must be traced through Gucci’s personal affairs.
“Dottor Ninni, I’m afraid,” the voice grated. “I know who killed Maurizio Gucci.”
“Can you come to my office?” Ninni asked.
“No, it’s too dangerous. Meet me at the gelateria in Piazza Aspromonte,” the caller said, indicating an ice cream bar in a square east of the city’s central train station.
“I’m forty-nine years old, heavyset; I’ll be wearing a red jacket…. Make sure you come alone.”
Ninni hesitated, then agreed. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Ninni jumped into his car, his mind racing. As the car approached Piazza Aspromonte, he asked his driver to stop a few blocks away and he walked the rest of the way, through dark streets peppered with small, one-star hotels patronized by prostitutes and illegal immigrants trying to set up new lives. As he reached the gelateria the voice had indicated, Ninni saw a man standing outside, a bulging figure in a padded down jacket, tinged a garish green by the neon gelateria sign. The two men greeted each other cautiously and started walking around the small park in the center of Piazza Aspromonte. The man introduced himself as Gabriele Carpanese in the rasping voice Ninni recognized from the phone call. Overweight and in poor health, he walked slowly and breathed with difficulty. Ninni, a quick student of character, immediately sympathized with his mysterious caller, taking only a few minutes to decide he could trust him. He pointed to his car and driver down the street and invited Carpanese back to his office, where it was warm and safe from any curious onlookers hanging around the piazza.
Comfortably settled into the leather couches back in Ninni’s office, Carpanese told his story as Ninni toyed with the smooth soapstone queen from his beloved chess set. Carpanese had moved back to Italy several months earlier with his wife after they gave up their efforts to operate an Italian trattoria abroad, first in Miami, Florida, later in Guatemala. Carpanese’s wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, he developed diabetes, and their combined health problems forced them to come back to Italy where they could get treatment under the public health system. They had found cheap lodgings at a one-star hotel near Piazza Aspromonte until they could get settled. Carpanese made friends with the doorman, the hotel owner’s forty-year-old nephew, Ivano Savioni. Savioni commanded a view of all who came and went from his post behind the desk in the narrow front hallway of the Hotel Adry, Carpanese explained. He could see visitors outside the one-way tinted glass door of the hotel, but they could not see him and with a flick of a finger on a buzzer under the desk he dictated whether or not visitors could come in. A stocky man with heavy jowls, a thick neck, and a head of dark, wavy hair he wore slicked back with gel, Savioni wore gold-rimmed glasses and dressed in cheap, dark suits and button-down shirts in pale pink and peach colors he thought made him look up-to-date. To Carpanese, Savioni seemed well-meaning, although he was constantly in debt and juggling multiple schemes to pay off a steady stream of creditors. Savioni scraped together extra cash by sneaking prostitutes into the Adry while his unknowing aunt was out running errands. Grateful that Carpanese never squealed on him, Savioni often gave him a break on the bill or sneaked him a bottle or two from the hotel bar.
As Carpanese’s meager savings ran thin and his hopes of landing a job paled, his imagination came to life. He spun a lively tale for Savioni of big-time South American drug dealing, convincing Savioni he was a rich drug lord and was wanted by several countries’ law enforcement agencies, including the FBI. Carpanese told Savioni he had millions of dollars in drug money stashed in U.S. bank accounts and that he would be able to pay for his lodgings as soon as he resolved his legal problems.
“As soon as my lawyers straighten things out, I’ll be able to thank you properly and repay you—with interest—for your kind hospitality,” Carpanese promised an awestruck Savioni, who convinced his aunt Luciana to let the unfortunate couple stay on, rent-free, for a few more months. Savioni, whose own small-time drug dealing never amounted to much, hoped that Carpanese could get him into the big time.
One hot August evening in 1996, Carpanese told Ninni, he and Savioni were relaxing together at a sidewalk café, smoking and drinking beer. Hardly a car passed on the street, tightly shuttered apartments silently awaited the return of their inhabitants from the traditional summer holiday. Even many of the neighborhood single-room-occupancy hotels had closed their doors for vacation. There was nothing much to do in the deserted city, but it was too hot to sleep or even be inside, the air was so heavy with heat and humidity. Savioni leaned back in his chair, took a long drag on his Marlboro, and looked over at Carpanese. He too had been involved in something really big, something that had been in all the papers, he said confidentially, studying Carpanese to gauge his reaction.
As the two men grew closer, Savioni told Carpanese snatches of the story, until he finally dropped the bombshell: he had lined up the killers of Maurizio Gucci. At first, Carpanese didn’t believe him—he didn’t think Savioni was particularly bright, and despite all his schemes and swaggering, Carpanese doubted he had connections with professional killers.
“What do you think you are, some kind of boss?”
“Think what you will,” retorted Savioni, crestfallen at the skepticism of his new friend, whom he so badly wanted to impress. Over the next few weeks, Savioni told Carpanese every detail about the planning of the murder and the execution of Maurizio Gucci.
Carpanese was shocked. He couldn’t believe Savioni had gotten himself into something so serious. After wrestling with his conscience for weeks, he decided to go to the authorities and report Savioni’s story. He knew he and his wife would lose their lodgings, but he thought he might get some compensation for his information. Just before Christmas 1996 he walked to the pay phone in Piazza Aspromonte, dialed the number of the Milan courthouse, and asked the operator for the magistrate handling the Gucci investigation. His heart pounded at the thought of what he was about to do. He fiddled nervously with the cold metal telephone cord as he listened to the pre-recorded message, but no one answered. After waiting nearly five minutes, he ran out of coins and hung up. When he tried the number again a few days later, the operator told him she didn’t know who had the Gucci case. Carpanese then called the carabinieri, where the receptionist refused to put him through because he wouldn’t leave his name or the reason for his call. One night in early January while idly flipping channels in the Hotel Adry’s dank television room, he stopped to view a talk show about organized crime in which Ninni participated as a guest speaker. Carpanese liked Ninni’s straightforward manner and sensible comments, and thought he was a man he could trust. He grabbed a phone book, looked up the number of the Criminalpol, and went back to the corner pay phone.
Carpanese told Ninni the story of the murder plot, rich with details that only an insider could have known. Ninni was sure Carpanese was telling him the truth.
Patrizia Reggiani had ordered the murder of Maurizio Gucci and paid 600 million lire, or about $375,000, for it, C
arpanese told Ninni. Her longstanding friend Pina Auriemma had helped her and acted as intermediary, funneling money and information between Reggiani and the killers. Pina had gone to Savioni, an old friend, who in turn had involved Orazio Cicala, a fifty-six-year-old Sicilian who ran a pizzeria in Arcore, a suburb north of Milan. Savioni knew that Cicala, saddled with gambling debts that had ruined him and his family, needed the money. Cicala found the killer and drove the getaway car—his own son’s green Renault Clio. The car Cicala had stolen for the job had disappeared—either stolen again or taken away by the police! The killer’s name was Benedetto, a former mechanic who lived behind Cicala’s restaurant. Benedetto had obtained the 7.65 caliber Beretta revolver used to kill Maurizio Gucci, constructed a silencer from a metal cylinder lined with felt, bought the bullets in Switzerland, and destroyed the weapon afterward.
As the months passed after the murder, Patrizia had taken up residence in Corso Venezia, enjoying all the benefits of Maurizio’s multimillion-dollar estate—to which she had access by virtue of her control over their two daughters, Maurizio’s heirs.
At the same time, the gang of accomplices had grown dissatisfied, Carpanese said. They had taken all the risks for a pittance while la Signora lived in luxury. Now they want to pressure her for more money.
Ninni listened, turning the soapstone queen in his fingers. As Carpanese talked, a plan started to take shape in his mind.
“Would you be willing to go back to the Hotel Adry with a microphone?” Ninni asked the wheezing man.
Carpanese, though he looked uncomfortable, nodded. Ninni, who had been touched by this man’s honesty and sense of justice despite all of his misfortunes, vowed to help him if he could. Later he helped find Carpanese a new home, a job and clothing, and paid him regular visits to see how he and his wife were faring.
“WELL, NINNI, if you think you can get something out of it, go ahead,” Carlo Nocerino said reluctantly to the Criminalpol chief as they sat in the prosecutor’s cramped corner office on the fourth floor of Milan’s labyrinthine courthouse. Ninni had just told the magistrate Carpanese’s story and explained his plan: he wanted to send in an undercover detective to trap Savioni and his accomplices in their scheme. Ninni had found his man, a young detective named Carlo Collenghi, who spoke fluent Spanish because his mother was from Bogotá. Carlo would pose as “Carlos,” a hardened killer from the Medellín drug cartel who was visiting Milan “on business.” Carpanese would introduce Carlos to Savioni, proposing him as the ideal person to help “persuade” la Signora to give them more money. Milan’s chief magistrate Borelli told Nocerino to authorize Ninni’s plan. “If Ninni is behind it,” he had told Nocerino, “you know it’s serious.”
Ninni’s plan worked brilliantly. The next day, Carpanese invited Carlos to the Hotel Adry, where he introduced him to the swarthy Savioni. Savioni slowly looked him up and down, taking in the curly blond hair, ice blue eyes, black silk open-necked shirt, and the heavy gold chain around his neck.
“Buenos días,” said Carlos, flashing a diamond pinky ring as he extended a hand to Savioni. Under the black silk shirt, two small microphones had been taped to his chest. A few blocks away, officers from Ninni’s unit listened in a police van filled with recording equipment.
“Where are you staying?” Savioni asked Carlos as Carpanese translated.
“Tell your friend that I don’t answer those kinds of questions,” Carlos said, as Savioni stuttered an apology, looking at the cold-eyed “Colombian” with even greater respect.
The three men moved into the television room where they could talk more comfortably. Savioni brought them all coffee.
“How much sugar?” he asked Carlos, who pretended not to understand Italian as Carpanese translated.
Carpanese explained to Carlos in Spanish that Savioni wanted to ask for his help as Savioni strained to understand. When they had finished, Carpanese turned to the hotel porter.
“Savioni, don’t worry,” he said. “Carlos will solve all your problems. Even though he looks young, he is a professional killer, the best, used by the top dealers in the Medellín clan. He has killed more than one hundred people. He is the one who can teach a lesson to la Signora.”
Savioni’s jowls widened as a smile illuminated his face.
“Why don’t you call Pina and talk it over with her?” Carpanese asked. “Now we must go; Carlos has some business he must attend to.”
Savioni jumped up, elated, impressed, and eager to please.
“Of course, of course, I am sure Carlos is very busy. Why don’t you take my car? And here, tonight dinner’s on me,” he said, pressing a hundred-thousand-lire bill into Carpanese’s hand.
Carpanese drove Savioni’s rusting red Cordoba four-door, a popular inexpensive model produced by the Spanish car maker Seat, down Via Lulli away from the Hotel Adry, checking in the rearview mirror to make sure they were followed only by the police intelligence van. Carlos cheered softly into the microphone taped to his chest. “Ragazzi! What luck!! Let’s go fill this crate with bugs!!”
Back in the courtyard of Piazza San Sepulcro, Ninni’s team placed hidden microphones on all sides of Savioni’s car and inserted a chip behind the dashboard to track the car via satellite. The telephones of all the suspects had also been tapped, and Ninni’s agents manned the central listening post in Piazza San Sepolcro night and day.
That afternoon, Savioni called Pina at her niece’s house near Naples while the police reels turned. “Pina, you must come to Milan as soon as possible. I have a solution to our little problem. We need to talk.”
The next evening, the double reels recorded another conversation—Pina from Naples calling Patrizia.
“Ciao. It’s me. Did you see the news a few weeks ago?” Pina asked.
“Yes,” answered Patrizia. “But it’s better not to talk about it on the phone. We must see each other.”
Pina arrived in Milan on January 27. Savioni drove the old, red Seat to pick her up at Milan’s Linate airport as the police traced him on their Global Positioning Satellite screen. Although she had been pretty in her youth, Pina, now nearly fifty-one years old, showed her hard life in her face. Her streaked blond hair hung messily around her shoulders, and her basset hound eyes drooped into deep pockets. Her forehead seemed permanently pulled into long furrows. Savioni drove to a square near the Hotel Adry where he parked so they could talk. The police reels turned.
“Gesummio, Ivano,” said Pina, invoking Jesus Christ in Neapolitan dialect, wringing her hands and pulling her thin gray raincoat more tightly around her. “When I read a few weeks ago that they had extended the investigation, I almost fainted on top of the newspaper. They already extended it once for six months and came up with nothing. What could they have? What are they thinking of?”
“Dai, stai tranquilla,” Savioni admonished her, telling her to stay calm and offering her a cigarette, which she accepted gratefully. “They don’t have anything. It’s just routine,” he said as he lit her cigarette.
“I just stopped calling because I think my phone is tapped,” Pina continued, wringing her hands. “I think she is being followed. If this whole thing starts to smell, tell me immediately—I’ll go abroad, otherwise we’ll all end up in jail. My friend Laura says they’ll never find us—but we have to be very careful. One false step and it’s patatrac! All hell is going to break loose!”
“Ascoltami, Pina, listen, I have something important to tell you,” said Savioni as he lit himself a cigarette. “I met this Colombian, a really tough guy. You should see his eyes, they are like ice,” said Savioni, exhaling. “He’s killed more than a hundred people. Carpanese introduced us—you see, I always knew it would pay off to let him stay for free—anyway, this guy can help us with la Signora. He will make her pay up.”
Pina looked sideways at Savioni as the smoke from her cigarette trailed out the window, which was open a crack.
“Are you sure? Maybe this isn’t the best time. If they have extended the investigation—maybe
we should just lie low for now. And what if they are following her?”
Savioni frowned and shook his head.
“Ohhhh, Pina, it’s time to end this,” exclaimed Savioni. “You’re getting a monthly stipend, but what about the rest of us?”
“Yeah, a whopping three million lire [about sixteen hundred dollars] a month,” Pina snapped back. “That’s a whole lot to live on! And what happens if she changes her mind? I am finished. You know I see this thing the way you do—we take all the risks and she gets all the benefits. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should talk to her again, tell her, ‘We did this thing together, and now you have to give us our due,’” Pina said.
“And if she says no,” interjected Savioni, “we’ll ask the colombiano with the eyes of ice to bring us her head on a silver platter!”
Over the next few days, the police reels whirred and recorded every conversation that Patrizia, Pina, and Savioni had. Ninni chuckled with pleasure. He had Savioni and Pina on tape talking about the plot. He had a conversation between Savioni and Benedetto Ceraulo, the alleged triggerman, and he had a conversation between Savioni and Pina talking about Cicala, the alleged driver of the getaway car. All he needed was la Signora, and his hand was closed with a full house. But la Signora was clever and although she talked on the phone constantly, she never discussed anything compromising. Ninni waited as the double reels turned. He had learned over the years the importance of not getting carried away with excitement over a breakthrough in an investigation.
The House of Gucci Page 38