A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  Moore: I need to know who they are.

  Mr X: And I repeat, I don’t know, but I can tell you for certain that there’s going to be a bloodbath . . . Very soon . . . In a matter of hours, not days.

  Moore: Where?

  Mr X: In Manhattan.

  Moore: Where in Manhattan?

  Mr X: In an apartment, that’s all I know.

  Moore: Won’t you tell me who you are?

  Mr X: Not for the moment. But you know me indirectly.

  Moore: What do you mean?

  Mr X: You helped a relative of mine.

  Moore: Who?

  Mr X: I can’t tell you any more for the moment. But you have to take this warning seriously.

  The line goes dead.

  Mr X does not phone again.

  The call was made at 17.12 on 1 November from a public telephone in Grand Central Terminal.

  Bill Hampton raised his eyes from the sheet of paper and looked at his chief.

  ‘Well, Bill,’ Moore said, as if anticipating what Hampton was about to say, ‘I didn’t take the warning seriously. That’s why I haven’t talked about this to anyone.’

  ‘We get so many anonymous tip-offs, sir.’

  ‘True, but unfortunately, this one turned out to be genuine. Just a few hours later, there was a mass homicide in an apartment in Manhattan, where we would never have expected something like this to happen. It can’t be a coincidence, Bill. This caller knew what he was talking about.’

  Moore was unusually grim-faced. It was as if he was watching his career ambitions dissolve in front of his eyes.

  ‘You weren’t to know, sir,’ Hampton said, encouragingly.

  ‘What’s done is done, Bill, but now, we have to identify this guy.’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘I know it isn’t going to be easy. Grand Central is like an airport, especially at that time of day. And let’s not forget, this was the day before the marathon. But we have to do everything we can.’

  ‘Provided he was telling the truth, sir.’

  ‘Well, he was right about the homicides!’

  ‘Let’s hope he calls again.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Moore agreed.

  ‘Did he have any kind of accent?’ Hampton asked.

  ‘Not that I could detect. If he’s foreign, he must have lived here a long time. And the voice didn’t sound young. I’ll play you the recording.’

  There was a tape recorder on the desk, next to the telephone. Moore pressed the Play button.

  Hampton concentrated on every word. ‘You’re right, it’s someone who lives here, there’s no accent. I’d like to hear it one more time, though.’

  Moore rewound the tape and played it again.

  ‘The closest I can get is that it’s probably a Brooklyn accent.’

  Moore had thought of that, too. The caller did indeed seem to have the typical nasal accent of Brooklyn. But he didn’t want to send the tape to the lab for voice analysis. If it became known that he had received that call, a fissure would open up beneath his feet, and soon it would swallow him whole.

  Hampton asked him why he had recorded the conversation.

  ‘I got suspicious when the switchboard operator told me the man refused to give his name or to speak to anyone but me.’

  ‘Right. Did he phone 911?’

  ‘No, he called the agency number directly. But please, Bill, let’s keep this between ourselves.’

  Moore instructed him to investigate the call personally, checking out the relatives of all witnesses they were currently working with in the hope of finding a match. He also cautioned Hampton to go easy with the men of the 17th precinct detective squad. ‘The case is ours now, but these cops have good sources and we have to keep them onside.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Hampton replied, passing his hand through his hair. ‘You can rest easy.’

  10

  The weather, which had been mild at first, had already started to deteriorate by late morning.

  Dick Moore parked his car in the garage and took the elevator, still obsessing about the call he had received on the afternoon of 1 November. He was angry with himself: how could he have been so negligent?

  He lived in a smart apartment near Columbus Circle, with a view of Central Park. Whenever he could, he went jogging in the park to keep in shape and relieve the stress of his job.

  Entering the apartment, he placed his briefcase on the console table in the entrance, taking care not to knock the marble Adonis. At that moment, he was startled by an air-shattering clap of thunder, which sounded like a bomb exploding. He went into the bedroom, took off his jacket, and put his 9mm Glock, still in its holster, in the drawer of the night table.

  He walked to the corner bar in the living room, pausing at one of the two large windows: the monument to Christopher Columbus, erected by Italian-Americans to commemorate the four hundredth anniversary of his great voyage, was almost invisible in the thick mist. Turning, his eyes came to rest on the copy of Roy Lichtenstein’s In the Car on the wall behind the couch. It showed a man at the wheel of a car and, sitting next to him, a woman with long blonde hair, wearing a leopard-skin coat. The painting was suddenly illumined by a flash of lightning. A few moments later, there came another clap of thunder.

  With his right hand, his fingers tapered like a pianist’s, he picked up a crystal glass with a gilded rim. He poured himself two fingers of scotch, squirted a little soda in it, and drank. Then, exhausted and still tense, he collapsed on to the white leather couch.

  The calm, relaxed atmosphere of his home had no effect on his mood.

  He switched on the TV, and tuned to CNN just as a news bulletin was starting. The main item was the murders on Madison. The anchor summarised the known facts in very general terms, emphasising the lack of progress in apprehending those responsible. There was a clip of Police Commissioner Ronald Jones, in his usual dark grey suit, speaking to camera in a determined voice: ‘We’re putting all we have into this investigation. This case is going to be solved quickly . . .’

  The bulletin switched back to the anchor, who moved on to the next item. ‘There was another suicide attack in Baghdad this morning . . .’

  Moore pressed the red button on the remote and the screen went black. The news from Iraq was always the same these days.

  Just then, he heard the door open, followed by footsteps. Slowly he turned. It was his wife, Jenny, a tall, slim woman with delicate features and short blonde hair, who bore a vague resemblance to Sharon Stone. In her hand she was still holding the lead of their Labrador, Sam. The dog immediately ran to him, wagging its tail.

  Jenny came up to him, stroked his cheek and gave him a kiss: he could smell her perfume. ‘Dick, we have to hurry, we’re expected at Paul’s and the weather’s not looking too good. We need to get going before the sky falls on our heads!’ Then, seeing his grim, anxious expression, she asked, ‘What’s the matter? What are you doing with that glass of whisky in your hand?’

  He put the whisky down on the low glass table and slowly got to his feet. ‘It’s been a hell of a day,’ he replied. It was all he needed to say.

  ‘God, you work harder than a beat cop! You’re assistant director of the FBI, damn it, you should be able to take it easy once in a while.’ She stroked his cheek again, and for a moment she gazed at him with those blue eyes of hers, which for him glittered brighter than any jewel. ‘Now let’s get ready,’ she said, smiling. ‘Let’s go out and enjoy ourselves. You know my policy on your problems at work: they don’t come through our front door.’

  He returned her smile and headed resignedly for the bathroom.

  In a Starbucks near the corner of Park Row and Broadway, Bill Hampton was sitting at a table with his colleague Mary Cook, who for three years had been his partner in private life as well as at work. They were drinking macchiato from large paper cups and discussing the Fedeli case.

  Mary Cook was slim, with the long legs of a model. She was certainly a very attractive wo
man, with medium-length blonde hair and clear, penetrating eyes. At only thirty-two, she was rising rapidly through the ranks of the FBI, where she worked more regular hours than when she had been in homicide. And along with professional success, she had also found love.

  ‘What did Moore want?’ she asked, finishing her coffee and putting the cup down on the table.

  ‘Nothing special. He’s just worried about this case. He thinks there could be more murders. Maybe he’s right.’

  ‘If it was the Mafia, then definitely. For some reason we don’t know, the balance of power has changed.’

  ‘I agree, Mary. Anyway, Moore gave me a free hand. There’s no time to lose.’

  ‘I can’t wait, darling!’

  ‘Do you miss homicide?’

  ‘Don’t even joke about it, Bill.’ Her expression turned grave. ‘The only thing I miss is you. I’m sure you’re going to be really tied up with this case. More than I’ll be . . .’

  ‘Let’s get back to work,’ he said, and they left the coffee bar and made their way back to Federal Plaza in the pouring rain.

  At the 17th precinct, Bernardi was in Lieutenant Reynolds’ office.

  He had just finished reading the file on Rocco Fedeli which Reynolds had handed over to him on his return from 26 Federal Plaza.

  ‘Interesting?’ Reynolds asked.

  ‘Yes, very interesting.’

  ‘So, tell me all about it, Mike.’

  ‘From the beginning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The two Mafiosi from Palermo, Bernardi explained, had stayed at Rocco Fedeli’s hotel, and had met with him several times, either alone or with others. Some of these other men were known to the Feds from old investigations into the international drug trade. He was about to show Reynolds the photographs contained in the file, but Reynolds stopped him.

  ‘You can skip the photos, Mike. I already saw them during the meeting. Just tell me, when did these guys arrive?’

  ‘In September. They stayed for ten days.’

  ‘Do their names mean anything to you?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘And the others? The ones already known to the Feds?’

  ‘Those I do know, Lieutenant. Some were linked to the Pizza Connection case.’

  Reynolds recalled the major police operation back in the early 1980s which had led to the dismantling of an Italian-American drugs network.

  ‘But why were the Feds trailing these Sicilians in the first place?’

  ‘They’d had a tip-off from the police in Palermo They’d been tapping their phones as known Mafiosi and learned that they were coming to New York.’

  ‘OK. But were there phone taps here, too?’

  ‘I was just coming to that, Lieutenant. There were. There’s even a report with today’s date on it.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  Bernardi took a sheet from the file. ‘It says that yesterday morning there were several attempts to call Fedeli’s landline from a phone registered to Alfredo Prestipino of Brooklyn. None of them were answered.’

  ‘So the niece was telling the truth,’ Reynolds said. ‘She was, but her mother wasn’t. I’m sure Angela Prestipino knows more than she’s willing to tell us. You should’ve seen her when I interviewed her, Mike. She kept looking at me as if she was sizing me up.’ These words were accompanied by his usual rubbing of the chin.

  ‘A strange woman, eh?’

  ‘Never seen anyone quite like her.’

  Then Bernardi suggested they needed to find out more about what phone taps the Feds had set up and what they had discovered. ‘They have to put all their cards on the table. There aren’t even any actual transcripts of conversations in the file.’

  ‘Of course. You’re right, Mike. This time, they have to put all their cards on the table.’

  Bernardi went on to say that Rocco Fedeli had been in contact with Calabrians in Canada, members of the Siderno Group, who, according to a report from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, were involved in the drugs trade in association with the Colombians. The Colombians themselves were currently in negotiation with a Russian Mafioso to acquire arms, helicopters and even a submarine.

  ‘A submarine?’

  ‘That’s what it says, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me they’re planning to use submarines to transport cocaine?’

  ‘Anything’s possible. You know as well as I do, these people are always one step ahead compared with us.’ Bernardi smiled sardonically as he got up to leave. ‘And they always think of everything.’

  When Bernardi had gone, Reynolds started pacing up and down the room. He needed to stretch his legs and think over what he had just heard, especially about the phone taps.

  Suddenly a thought struck him.

  What if they had been illegal?

  11

  Tuesday, 4 November

  The murders were still front-page news.

  It was now generally accepted that these had been Mafia executions, perhaps a settling of scores between rival organisations, vying for control of the drug market in New York. A few in-depth articles attacked the authorities, including the politicians, for lowering their guard in the fight against organised crime in the rush to prevent further terrorist attacks in the wake of 9/11. The mayor, Bruce Field, came under particular fire for the lack of security in Manhattan. The public were starting to demand more effective measures.

  Dick Moore was sitting at his desk. He felt strange, vaguely depressed.

  That morning, before leaving home, he had quarrelled with his wife. Jenny had given him an ultimatum: either you change your way of life or I go.

  The telephone call that came through the moment he entered his office had done nothing to lighten his mood. There’s trouble brewing, he had thought, looking at the flashing light on the phone, which indicated that his boss, FBI Director Joe Brook, was on the line from Washington. He had lifted the receiver even before sitting down. Joe Brook was a sharp dresser who spent his days shut up in his office telephoning the heads of the local field offices and urging them to get results. And he was an early riser.

  He had given Moore a real dressing down.

  ‘People here are getting stirred up about this,’ he had begun, in a resolute tone. ‘I tell you, they aren’t happy.’

  Moore could imagine him sitting back in a leather armchair in his huge, tidy office, with all the newspapers open on his desk.

  ‘They aren’t happy at all,’ Brook went on. ‘They want results on these homicides. They say you’re wasting time up there in New York. We shouldn’t be having problems with the Mafia these days, we shouldn’t even be thinking about the Mafia, instead of which—’

  ‘Wasting time?’ Moore had cut in, his face turning red with anger. ‘My men are working around the clock on this. So are the detectives of the 17th precinct. You call that wasting time?’

  Not to mention my domestic problems, he would have liked to add.

  ‘I’m just telling you what people have told me. They want immediate results . . . It’s understandable. With this terrorist thing going on, we can’t afford to be fighting on another front right now, one that’s taking us back twenty, thirty years. There have been seven victims in twenty-four hours, and all in Manhattan. It may not even be over yet.’

  ‘We’ll continue to put everything we have into it,’ Moore promised. There was no point in arguing with Joe Brook. It was better to agree with him.

  ‘And the media are having a field day. We have to give them something, and as soon as possible. I’m expecting results.’ Without giving Moore time to reply, he hung up.

  This really wasn’t a good time for the Feds. After all the mistakes they had made before and since 9/11, they needed results to restore credibility.

  The day had begun badly for Dick Moore and was getting worse. It never rains but it pours.

  And still he couldn’t imagine what was in store for him.

  Lieutenant Reynolds had received a similar phone cal
l that morning. He had had to endure a lecture from the captain of his precinct, another early riser. In the kind of high-handed tone he wouldn’t have used even to a rookie, he had snapped, ‘The Commissioner’s like a bear with a sore head . . . He wants results . . . Don’t disappoint me.’ As if that was not enough, he had urged him to look into the case of a famous English lawyer, on vacation in New York, who had been wounded in a street robbery two evenings before. The news was all over the British media.

  The day was taking a nasty turn. Reynolds felt tense and his nerves were on edge.

  Not that it was anything other than a typical New York day. The athletes were all gone, and so were the vast majority of the tourists who had come from all over the world to watch them.

  But New York never changed. It was always ready to welcome you, to lift you up - or drag you down if you didn’t come up to its expectations. It was like a proud woman with two faces, one beautiful, the other terrifying.

  It was just after nine in the morning when Moore’s phone rang again.

  He picked up the receiver and said ‘Hello?’ He was hoping it would be Jenny, calling to apologise for storming out on him. She knew he was crazy about her, he adored her, and their quarrels always hurt him a lot.

  Unfortunately it wasn’t Jenny. When he said ‘Hello?’ and heard in reply, ‘Am I speaking with Assistant Director Moore?’ he immediately recognised the voice. He pressed the Play button on his recorder.

  ‘This is he,’ he replied, keeping his voice under control.

  ‘You see, I was right!’

  ‘I know who you are and I want to meet with you.’

  ‘That isn’t possible, at least not for the moment. What you need to do right now is to go to St Paul’s Chapel. I’ve left something there for you.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Go to the bell in the cemetery, in back of the church. Look in the garland that’s been put on the pedestal.’