by Unknown
Jack didn’t hear anything else. The images on the computer burned in his brain. Giacomo’s eyes were blank and soulless as he unemotionally tried to find the kids’ pulses. There wasn’t a trace of care or concern about him. Jack watched him wheel away from the dead cousins, like he’d dropped a McDonald’s wrapper in a trash can. This was a guy who was so comfortable around death, it didn’t even make him blink.
Jacket on the back seat, Gucci shades on, head tilted back against the leather rest in the Lexus, Bruno Valsi gave Mazerelli his orders. ‘I don’t want to go home. Take me for breakfast. I’m starving.’
The Capo was amused to see him hesitate.
‘Forget calling your Don. His brains and guts are spread over the hillside of his blessed Posillipo.’
‘What?’
‘Ricardo, you’re not deaf. You heard me. Fredo Finelli is dead. Gone. Morto. No more paying your fucking wages or saving your lawyerly ass.’
Mazerelli turned on the radio. If it was true it would be on the news. He twiddled the tuning knob, then stopped. Of course it was true. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could make up.
Valsi leaned forward and peered into the consigliere’s eyes. ‘You sad, Ricky boy? Or don’t you really give a fuck? Deep down, are you just as mean and ambitious as the rest of us?’
Mazerelli was as nervous as he’d ever been. He chose his words carefully. ‘I want to live.’
Valsi laughed and sat back. ‘Of course you do. Of course you do. Now, find me somewhere fucking good for breakfast and then you can tell me again about that funny Japanese game of yours and how we all have to follow rules.’
99
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
It was time to pull everything together. So much was happening – and happening so fast – there was a danger they’d miss something.
A major case conference had been convened back at the Murder Squad HQ in Castello di Cisterna.
Sylvia, Lorenzo, Pietro and Jack were joined by Luella Grazzioli, Professoressa Marianna Della Fratte, Claudio Mancini and Susanna Martinelli. They settled in a row of chairs facing a projection screen and set of whiteboards. As they waited for the meeting to start their eyes settled on the first board, the one listing all the missing and murdered women.
Francesca Di Lauro (24) Missing 5 yrs, found dead, location Mount Vesuvius National Park
Gloria Pirandello (19) Missing 6 yrs, found dead, location MVNP
Patricia Calvi (19) Missing 6.5 yrs, found dead, location MVNP
Luisa Banotti (20) Missing 7 years, found dead, location MVNP
Donna Rizzi (19) Missing 8 years, body not found
Sylvia kicked off. ‘Thank you all for coming here at short notice. A number of things happened this morning, and are still happening as we speak. One of our prime suspects, Bruno Valsi, is at the centre of the latest developments. Because of this we are joined by members of the Anti-Camorra Unit. Major, could you please share some of your information with us?’
Lorenzo Pisano modestly introduced himself, though everyone in the room was well aware of who he was. ‘The Finelli and Cicerone families have operated side by side for more than a decade, but whatever peace they had, it is now over. Earlier today, Fredo Finelli was killed by a car bomb near his home and Carmine Cicerone was gunned down on the steps of the church of Santa Maria Eliana. We had Bruno Valsi, Finelli’s son-in-law, in custody at the time of both hits. A security guard had been killed at his home. We had nothing to charge him with and when he was bored with us and satisfied he’d established a good alibi for himself, he just upped and walked.’
Questions flew: Who died first, Finelli or Cicerone? What other casualties were there? Had Valsi orchestrated it all? Lorenzo did his best to fill the gaps. Half an hour later extra intel came in – the body of Valsi’s henchman Alberto Donatello had turned up in a skip just metres away from his front door. The war was certainly underway.
Jack tuned in and out of the conversation. It was becoming harder to separate the Camorra killings from the serial murders.
But at the same time, there was still no motive, no obvious links between victims and suspects.
For a while Jack perused the whiteboards. Some listed only the female victims. Some only the bodies found near Vesuvius. One detailed all the killings and all the missing women. Another – the latest – showed only the Camorra murders.
CAMORRA DEATHS
Fredo Finelli (64) – Finelli Don
Armando Lopapa (50) – Finelli Chauffeur
Alberto Donatello (27) – Finelli/Valsi Clan member
Beppe Basso (30) – Valsi House Guard
Carmine Cicerone (45) – Cicerone Don
At first glance, today’s troubles looked like a Cicerone-instigated war; with the death count running three to one in their favour. But Jack felt sure Valsi had drawn first blood. It was what he’d predicted.
He slid his attention to the next board.
OTHER DEATHS AND LINKS
Bernardo Sorrentino (42) – forensic anthropologist – killed at home
Kristen Petrov (24) – telephone sex centre worker – Finelli/Valsi business – killed in Castellani rubbish pit
Rosa Novello (18) – killed in car at Castellani campsite
Filippo Valdrano (19) – killed with Novello in car at Castellani campsite
Franco Castellani (24) – suicide at Pompeii – lived on site where bodies of Petrov, Novello and Valdrano found
Paolo Falconi (24) – killed by cousin at Pompeii – lived on Castellani campsite
Alberta Tortoricci (38) – Valsi trial witness, killed by electrocution – body burned and found in Scampia
So many deaths. So many links – strong or tenuous – to the Camorra. But, as Jack had learned, in Naples this wasn’t uncommon. The Camorra touched everything. He lingered over the list and started to eliminate suspects. If the Castellani cousins were the serial killers, they could now be trimmed from the list. Case solved and then all that was left was a turf war. But surely that was too easy an answer.
Jack considered the alternatives. If the cousins were not serial killers, then Bruno Valsi continued to emerge as the main suspect. Valsi and the cousins had all shared much of the psychological profile he’d drawn up of the murderer. Franco and Paolo had both been manual workers. Neither seemed to have had any steady sexual relationships. Both had access to a van – which would be perfect for abducting victims and disposing of corpses. And they’d even lived and worked on the site where the bodies of Petrov, Novello and Valdrano had been found. But to Jack they didn’t seem to possess either the expertise to kill efficiently, or the sadistic streak to want to burn women to death. Valsi on the other hand – well, he seemed to have those qualities in spades. Sylvia’s voice caught his attention and drew him back to the briefing.
‘Mancini. Tell us about Kristen Petrov – what’s new on her?’
Claudio Mancini cleared his throat and tried to settle his nerves. He’d never spoken at a briefing in front of senior officers before. ‘We’ve been to the call centre where she works – sorry, worked – and we’ve spoken to some of the girls on the sex lines. Seems that Bruno Valsi visited the centre with some of his thugs and removed the woman running it, Celia Brabantia. Our girl Kristen replaced her.’
Jack had questions. ‘Any suggestions of a sexual relationship between her and Valsi?’
‘Err, yes. One of the girls said that Kristen had bragged about seeing Valsi; she said that one day she would end up owning the sex centre.’ He looked towards Sylvia.
She took up the story. ‘The plan with Valsi is this – if necessary we will detain him for questioning in connection with the murder of Kristen Petrov. I know he’ll walk, and probably quickly because we have nothing – I repeat nothing – to link him forensically to this killing, or to suggest a motive. But it may buy us time.’
Jack’s attention drifted back to the whiteboards. Valsi certainly fitted his profile in the sense of being capable of immense v
iolence, and no doubt enjoying it. The interview with his wife had confirmed Jack’s suspicion that he was capable of anything, including murder.
And then there was that intriguing gap of five years. Five years in which no more women disappeared. Five years that Valsi spent in prison. But Jack had trouble believing Valsi had killed Kristen. He might have had her killed – that would be more his style – just as he’d had Alberta Tortoricci killed, but he certainly hadn’t done it himself. And as for all the other missing women, the endless canvassing of family, friends and neighbours had failed to produce any link between them and Bruno Valsi. Not that many people expected anyone to say anything about one of the country’s most notorious Camorristi.
Jack scanned the whiteboards one final time and hoped for inspiration. His mind was fogged by all the names and dates and twists. But the answer lay there in black and white. Valsi was involved somehow. He just had to figure out how big the some was and exactly what the how was.
100
Casonia, Napoli
A cop on a retainer was the first to ring Finelli Capo Giotto Fiorentino, and tell him of the Don’s murder. Seconds later, Fiorentino rang Ambrogio Rotoletti, his friend of thirty years, and woke him at his mistress’s apartment in Casonia. Ambro took his cellphone and walked out into the corridor in his string vest and baggy white underpants. He was crying by the time he rang the third Capo, Angelico d’Arezzo.
‘Angelico, it’s Ambro. Listen, the shit’s started…’ He never finished his sentence. He took two bullets in the stomach before he even saw the shooter. A third bit a hole out of his heart. Blood spurted through the gaps in the string vest. He sank to his knees, then slumped on to his side.
Vito Ambrossio picked up the phone. ‘Don Fredo’s dead. So is that fat fuck Rotoletti, and within the hour you will be too.’ He tossed the phone away.
The other end of the line was already empty. Angelico d’Arezzo woke his wife. She sat dazed in the marital bed they’d shared for a quarter of a century. Angelico pulled cases from the top of the oak wardrobe his parents had bought them as a wedding present and hurriedly emptied drawers into them. Within ten minutes they’d be gone.
Angelico had a stash of cash in a small villa in Greece. They’d go there and stay there. Maybe forever. Certainly until it had all died down. He was too old for gang battles. Too wise to think this war was winnable.
Meanwhile, Vito Ambrossio stepped over the corpse in the corridor. One Capo Zona down. Two more to go.
Centro città, Napoli
They breakfasted at Rocco’s, the place the Don had been eating at since he was old enough to buy his own food. Just an espresso for Mazerelli. Steak for Valsi. The new head of the Family didn’t leave a scrap. Both Rocco, the owner, and Myletti, the chef, visited the table to check everything had been all right. Valsi told them it was shit. Said he wasn’t Finelli and warned them he wouldn’t eat their crap again unless it improved. He picked up the check. Surprised he’d even been asked to pay. Unaware the Don had always settled in full, plus a generous tip. ‘And do you know what, Rocco? To make sure your food gets better I’m going to invest in your business.’ He peeled a twenty off a roll. ‘This covers the shit you served and gets me fifty per cent of your business. My friend Ricardo will be round with the paperwork.’
Mazerelli couldn’t look them in the eye. He’d sat in the restaurant a thousand times with Don Fredo. All the memories were now worthless. Blown away by a murderous bad-mannered oaf. ‘Ciao,’ he managed sadly, as the old doorbell clanged on the way out.
Though it was grey outside, verging on fog and rain again, Valsi slipped his shades on as they walked through the Piazza Nazionale and back to the Lexus. ‘Now, take me to the Don’s tailor. By the time I’ve been fitted for a new suit, the bloodshed will be over. Then you and I can talk of the future.’
Capaccio Scalo, La Baia di Napoli
Salvatore Giacomo sat frozen in his car, his cellphone on his lap. Giotto Fiorentino had just told him the Don was dead. The Cicerone clan was clearly on the rampage. Giotto had been in the process of adding that the Don’s driver, Armando, was also dead, when the sound of a door breaking and automatic gunfire completed the story. He was dead as well.
Sal sat and figured things out. Valsi would be in the thick of it. Stirring up bad blood. Serving his own purposes.
He should have killed the young piece of shit, instead of Donatello. If only he’d trusted his instincts instead of doing as the Don had instructed him. But that’s what Sal did. He followed orders. Always did as he was told. And now loyalty to the Family was going to get him killed.
Well, not if he could help it. Certainly not without taking some of the bastards down with him.
What about Gina? What about Enzo? Valsi wouldn’t hurt his kid, not the boy. But he wasn’t sure about Gina. He’d seen him with women, seen the violence, seen the brutality in his fists and in his heart.
The Don would want her protected. Keep an eye on her, Sal. Look after her like she was your own daughter. That’s what the Don had asked him to do in the past. And he had done it. Best he could.
Now there was only one way to truly protect her. And it didn’t involve running, or hiding. It involved what Sal did best.
Killing.
101
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
The case conference continued at a slow, methodical pace. Nothing was to be missed. Every link scrupulously examined. A mistake now could prove fatal.
Sylvia was growing tired and short-tempered. ‘I asked for checks on Celia Brabantia, the former manager of the Finelli sex centre. Is she dead or alive?’
Claudio Mancini hesitated. ‘Alive. We think.’
‘You think?’ queried Sylvia. ‘Alive is when you breathe, dead is when you don’t. Which is it, Claudio?’
‘One of the women said she’d quit and moved home to Sansepolcro. She gave us a number and we spoke to a woman who said she was her, but we haven’t yet had a chance to physically ID her, so we think she is alive but can’t be certain.’
‘Okay, we get the picture, thanks.’ Sylvia rubbed at her hair and paced while she thought. ‘Susanna, update us on the body count and body IDs. Where do we stand? Who’s linked to whom?’
Susanna Martinelli was a tall, thin confident woman in her late twenties with long black curly hair that shook from side to side as she walked to the front. She picked up the projector control and began with the slides of the dead cousins, Paolo Falconi and Franco Castellani. ‘Their deaths now seem like a single planned suicide by the elder cousin, Franco, a heroin user, that went wrong and ended in a double tragedy. Onlookers say the younger cousin, Paolo, tried to stop him and was accidentally killed.’
Sylvia stepped across the conversation. ‘We’ve been considering these two as suspects in our murder cases. It could be that Franco Castellani had planned to kill himself out of shame or guilt and he bungled the suicide and shot Paolo Falconi as well.’
Susanna continued her narrative. ‘I’ve been asked to put up these slides as well.’ She clicked on to several images of the cousins’ bodies being examined by a well-built, middle-aged man in a grey suit.
‘Salvatore Giacomo, aka Sal the Snake,’ explained Lorenzo from the shadows of the room. ‘Fredo Finelli’s personal muscle. We want to know why he was there. What’s his connection with the cousins? Had he been told to threaten them, abduct them or even kill them? We have information – which, unfortunately, I can’t go into at this moment – that suggests there was bad blood between Sal’s boss, Fredo Finelli, and their grandfather, Antonio Castellani. Was Sal following the cousins on Finelli’s instructions?’
Jack’s eyes were glued to the frame of Giacomo. This was a man who had slipped under their radar for most of the inquiry. No criminal record. Yet he was a career criminal who was certainly smart and efficient. He ticked a lot of boxes on Jack’s profile. ‘Lorenzo, is this Sal a local? Was he born and bred around here?’
Pisano didn’t need any
notes to help him. He knew the background on the Finelli Family as well as he knew the history of his own family. ‘Giacomo is Neapolitan. As local as they come. Born and bred in Herculaneum. Lives alone in a one-bed in Napoli Capodichino. He’s been there since we’ve been keeping tracks on him.’
Jack mentally reran the profile he’d drawn up. White male, knows how to control violence, probably aged thirties to fifties, single or divorced, born locally, has good local knowledge, holds driving licence, comfortable with a gun, perhaps a career criminal, a Camorrista with a history of violence. But what the hell was Giacomo’s connection to Valsi? The two men seemed more enemies than friends. Sal the Snake was unlikely to kill on Valsi’s orders. And there was no way Jack could imagine the two sharing some joint sexual pleasure in sadistically murdering women.
The slide show moved on. They reran the start of the sequence where Sal first appeared on the scene. He walked coolly into frame, checked the cousins’ bodies for signs of life and then disappeared again. ‘Can you flick through all those shots of him again, please? Maybe magnify by two and jog them back and forth?’
Susanna did as Jack asked. The quality dipped as the picture doubled in size. Sal moved in a near comical, jerky slow motion around the bodies, checking for pulses, wiping his hands.
‘Okay, you can stop there.’ Jack turned sideways to Professoressa Marianna Della Fratte. ‘Ballistics say the same ammo was used in the murders of Rosa Novello, Filippo Valdrano, Kristen Petrov and Bernardo Sorrentino. Two different sites, the same ammo, correct?’
Marianna nodded. ‘Yes, correct. Jacketed Hollow Point. And before you ask,’ she glanced at Sylvia, ‘yes, I’m absolutely certain that there were two separate guns. Both Glocks, both the same calibre, but the barrel markings and firing-pin impressions were entirely different. We double-checked.’