They returned to the car, walking side by side. Maria was still sobbing. She had a bewildered air about her, as if her mother’s words had left her dazed. Angela thought it best to distract her and, once she had started the engine, she changed the subject. ‘This is the place where your uncles and I often came when we were little children. We liked it a lot, especially Rocco. He came here many times with his fiancée, Teresa, and I came with your father.’ For the first time, there was a hint of genuine nostalgia in her expression. But it was only for a moment. She reversed the car and set off back to the house. In silence.
‘Who’s Teresa?’ Maria asked after a while.
‘She was your uncle Rocco’s fiancée. She lived near your grandmother’s house. They broke up.’
‘You’ve never mentioned her before. Why did they break up?’
‘Well, he would have liked to marry her, start a family with her, but she wasn’t the right person for your uncle. She wasn’t the right person at all.’
And, saying this, she pressed her foot down on the accelerator.
It was the spring of 1986.
One night, a patrol car from the police station in Siderno had picked up Rocco Fedeli as he was running away from the furniture shop where he had just planted a bomb. The officers had arrested him for possessing and carrying explosive material and attempted criminal damage. For the first time in his life, Rocco Fedeli had crossed the threshold of a prison. Returning home after six months on remand, he had been unpleasantly surprised to find his fiancée, Teresa, a tiny, very pretty eighteen-year-old, looking tense and anxious, so different from the way he had left her. She was hiding something, he knew. He had grilled her relentlessly, until finally she came clean and told him, weeping, how she had had to fend off constant advances from a friend of theirs named Pasquale.
‘Pasquale tried to kiss me and put his hands on me. He said he wanted to make me a real woman. His face looked so different. He wasn’t the friend we used to know.’
‘What about you?’ Rocco had asked, looking into her swollen, tear-stained eyes.
‘Me? What do you mean? What do you think I did? I wouldn’t have anything to do with him. I told him that, if he kept on at me, I would tell my father.’
Rocco had believed her. Ideas of revenge were already growing inside him.
He had been through a lot with Pasquale. He had loved him like a brother. But Pasquale had betrayed him in the worst possible way, taking advantage of his absence to make passes at Teresa. He must pay. And so, without hesitation, Rocco decided he would kill him. Pasquale’s offence would be washed away with blood.
One morning, before dawn, he had taken up position near the sheepfold belonging to Pasquale’s family. As soon as he saw him arrive and prop his black Vespa 50 against a tree, Rocco had come out from his hiding place and shot him five times with a sawn-off shotgun. The Carabinieri had linked the murder to the traffic in stolen livestock, which was very common at the time. The killer was never found.
A few months later, Rocco Fedeli had emigrated to the United States. Without Teresa. He’d discovered proof that she had lied to him: she was no longer a virgin.
‘Hello.’
‘’Ntoni?’ The voice was a man’s.
‘Speaking.’
‘You fix workers . . . And accountant to . . .’
‘I understand!’
‘You prepare workers . . . In two weeks . . .
‘. . .’
‘The . . . leaves tonight.’
‘How much?’
‘About five hundred.’
‘Five hundred?’
‘Five hundred!’
‘. . .’
‘Understood?’
‘Yes.’
‘’Bye. Regards to Diego.’
‘’Bye.’
It was 12.37 in the DIA’s phone-tap room when the computer linked to Antonio Russo’s phone line recorded this conversation. At last a sign of life. Russo had answered personally. A highly suspect call. As the duty officer listened to it, he felt a shiver of excitement run down his spine. He had immediately recognised the voice of Antonio Russo. The other voice, though, with its strong Spanish accent, was one he had never heard before. He listened to the conversation again. And then once more. However hard he concentrated, he could not make out the word before leaves tonight. He transcribed the conversation, indicating Antonio Russo with the letter R and the other man with an X. X for unknown. Presumably a drug supplier, he speculated, judging from both the cryptic nature of the conversation and its content. When he had finished, he handed the transcript to Lieutenant Oliva, who rushed straight to Trimarchi’s office. There, the lieutenant waited for an interminable couple of minutes until the colonel put the phone down. Then he went in.
‘Sir, we have a development.’ There was excitement written all over his face.
‘Calm down. Take a seat.’
Oliva sat down on the visitors’ chair and handed him the transcript. As Trimarchi read it, he shook his head several times. Then he picked up the phone and summoned Captain Foti, Carracci and Bruni.
The call was indeed a development.
Little more than half an hour later, they were all there.
Lieutenant Oliva handed each of them a photocopy of the transcript.
‘Five hundred!’ Lorenzo Bruni said when he had finished reading. ‘It’s true that Antonio Russo is involved in the construction business . . . He gets subcontracted, for things like the endless modernisation of the Salerno-Reggio Calabria autostrada. Five hundred, though . . . Five hundred what? Did they have to be so damned cryptic?’
‘And these five hundred whatever-they-are are coming in two weeks!’ Carracci said. ‘From where? The man had a Spanish accent . . . It doesn’t take much to put two and two together.’
‘It must be drugs, I agree,’ Bruno replied, staring at the transcript, apparently convinced. ‘Do we know where the call was made from?’
‘Not yet,’ Oliva said. ‘But I’ve already contacted the phone company, and they’re working on it.’
‘Let’s hope we get an answer soon,’ Carracci said.
The lieutenant nodded.
‘The something leaves tonight . . .’ Bruni resumed, looking at Carracci. ‘What does that mean? From what my men have been able to ascertain, the average length of time it takes a ship to get here from Turbo is twelve to fourteen days. And then he says, “Regards to Diego.” Who is this Diego?’
‘There’s no Diego we know of in the Russo ’ndrina,’ Foti said. ‘And it’s not such a common name in these parts.’
‘It has to be drugs,’ Carracci said. ‘If we wait, we’ll finally be able to put Antonio Russo in the frame. It’ll give us time to carry out checks and put the teams in place.’
‘Correct, Chief Superintendent,’ Trimarchi replied, speaking for the first time. And, remembering Annunziato Spina’s words, he thought to himself, As long as one of his ‘contacts’ doesn’t tip him off. ‘What about Alfredo Prestipino?’ he asked.
‘We can’t wait two weeks,’ Foti said, guessing his chief ’s thoughts.
‘Do we have anything new on Prestipino?’ Carracci pressed.
‘He still hasn’t come out of the farmhouse,’ Foti replied.
‘What about his wife’s phone?’ Trimarchi asked.
‘Nothing new there,’ Oliva replied. ‘Not even to the mother.’ He looked down at the papers on the table.
‘Nothing new at all?’ Trimarchi insisted.
‘Well, the only thing Angela mentioned when she called her mother was that she’d seen Don Ciccio Puglisi. Apparently he told her he didn’t know anything, but said he would look into it right away. He even told her off for not telling him earlier. That’s all.’
For a while, nobody spoke.
Trimarchi broke the silence. It was imperative, he said, that they launch a raid on the farmhouse.
‘What about the drugs?’ Carracci objected. ‘If we do that, we risk losing them.’
‘What are yo
u trying to say, Chief Superintendent?’ Trimarchi cut in. ‘That a man’s life is less important than a drug consignment?’
‘No, no, I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .’ Carracci stammered, trying to defend himself.
Everyone immediately turned to look at him.
Trimarchi glared at him. He would have liked to tell Carracci where to get off. He was finding the man’s contributions more and more obtuse.
‘We’ll still be able to grab the drugs when they arrive,’ he said, and everyone’s eyes now turned to him. ‘As long as the port’s in Italy. But, I repeat, the most urgent thing at the moment is to find out what’s happened to Prestipino.’
Silence fell over the room again. They were all weighing up how effective an immediate raid on the farmhouse might be.
Once again it was Colonel Trimarchi who spoke first. He was increasingly giving the impression of being the real person in charge of the task force.
‘I think it’s a good idea to report these developments to Prosecutor Francesco Romeo. Let him decide, if we can’t.’
They all nodded their approval. Having the prosecutor’s consent would provide them with a safeguard on both professional and disciplinary levels.
‘I’ll go and see him straight away,’ Trimarchi said in conclusion. ‘Will you come with me, Chief Superintendent Carracci?’
‘I prefer to wait here,’ Carracci replied, his eyes lowered, like a child who has been caught out in some mischief.
The Antonio Russo angle was proving to be a promising one.
23
New York
It was all because of me . . . Yes, because of me . . . Lieutenant Reynolds had been telling himself repeatedly over the past few hours.
Now he was in Dick Moore’s office at 26 Federal Plaza.
No sooner had he left Rusty Sheridan in Brooklyn than he had decided he needed to talk to Moore. He felt guilty about what had happened to his former colleague.
The gym, Rusty’s one true passion, his only purpose in life, his great love, had been completely destroyed in the fire, reduced to a pile of ashes. Nearby, in a graffiti-covered dumpster, the police had found a gallon can that still smelled of petrol. There was no doubt that the fire had been started deliberately. And the reason had to be the tip-off that had landed the leader and some members of the Green Birds in prison. Now they would have to act fast to avoid any further - and perhaps even more serious - retaliatory action against Rusty.
‘It was Sheridan who tipped me off about the Green Birds,’ a grim-faced Reynolds began.
‘Why did you swoop on them?’ Moore asked, puzzled. ‘Was it because of the taxi?’
Reynolds took his time answering. He was in a difficult position. Up until now, he had only informed Moore of the thefts, saying nothing of the gang’s likely involvement in the burning of the taxi. ‘Sheridan thought there was a connection,’ he said at last.
‘Why?’
‘Because the gang has contacts with criminal elements in the Italian community. He must have found something else as well, something he wanted to keep to himself.’
Moore remembered what the anonymous caller had said about the people responsible for the homicides: Italians, but not only Italians. At the time, given Rocco Fedeli’s known associations, he had thought of the Colombians.
It was only now that Dick Moore considered the possibility there might have been home-grown criminals involved. ‘What I don’t understand,’ he objected, ‘is that, OK, you arrested the gang’s leader, searched his apartment. But the guy’ll be out on bail soon enough, maybe even today, tomorrow at the latest. Burning down a gym seems to me a little out of proportion.’
Reynolds bowed his head. He saw again the images of the burned-down gym, smelled the nauseating odour of the still-smoking remains in his nostrils, remembered Rusty’s tear-stained face.
‘It’s as if they wanted to send us a signal,’ Moore continued, stroking his cheek with his right hand.
Reynolds looked up. ‘A signal? Who to?’
‘That’s what we need to find out . . . Who to? Sheridan? Or to others, too?’
Reynolds curled his lips in a grimace.
‘A signal to the gang that stole the uniforms, maybe,’ Moore said. ‘Because I believe that boy Denis. That’s why the killers were able to work undisturbed: they were disguised as police officers. That’s why the door of the apartment was opened to them. Everything fits!’
Reynolds looked at him, even more puzzled. Personally he had doubted the veracity of Denis’s story, but maybe now he would have to think again.
‘Yes, that’s it, Lieutenant. And the reasoning is simple.’
Reynolds continued looking at him. A little light had gone on in his memory. He nodded. ‘Explain it me.’
If it had been the gang that had set fire to the gym, Moore explained, it would have made things more difficult for Harry Baker, their leader, who was still being detained. So it seemed more likely that the act was intended to do two things: to punish Sheridan and at the same time to intimidate those who were involved in the murders, the gang itself. To remind them of the law of silence. Omertà.
‘But that would mean the gang’s involvement wasn’t limited to the burning of the taxi,’ Reynolds said.
‘Precisely. In the meantime we have a badge, which we know was stolen. We need to find out if there have been other thefts from police officers and Federal agents. And we mustn’t let any of the gang out of our sight. Any of them.’
At this point, Moore’s mind seemed to wander. Earlier, when he had stroked his cheek, he had realised that he had left home that morning without shaving. Now he thought of Jenny. She would certainly never have allowed him to go to work like that. How he missed her!
It was Reynolds who brought him back to the present. ‘We’re already doing that,’ he replied, his face now a picture of certainty.
It was almost 4 p.m. by the time Colonel Trimarchi got back to his office.
He had spoken at length, first to the chief prosecutor, and then to his deputy, who was in charge of the investigations, about Annunziato Spina’s statements. Now he informed the others of the decision that had been taken: to raid Antonio Russo’s farmhouse as soon as possible, that same night or by Saturday evening at the latest. The order had been imperative.
Carracci felt a trembling in his legs. It was a defeat, a bitter one. What should he tell Armando Guaschelli? That a decision had been made over his objections, even though technically he was in charge of the task force? He turned pale. But he swallowed his anger and said nothing, even though he was furious.
Later, when Trimarchi was alone in the office, he made a phone call - one he couldn’t avoid - to Chief Superintendent Ferrara’s mobile. Ferrara picked up at the first ring.
‘I’m sorry, Chief Superintendent,’ he said, after imparting his news, ‘but I thought you should know as soon as possible.’
‘You did the right thing, Colonel. If the prosecutor has agreed to a raid, then let’s go ahead with it.’
‘We’ll proceed as soon as we can. Tomorrow night, I think.’
Under his desk, Trimarchi crossed his fingers.
New York
The records were housed at NYPD headquarters in a room half the size of a basketball field. There were steel shelves, stacked almost seven feet high and filled with files marked with tags of different colours. Lieutenant Reynolds had preferred not to delegate this task to anyone else. He alone would be able to overcome any possible resistance from the records clerks. One of them accompanied him now as he went to the section given over to crimes against police officers. From his jacket pocket, he took the sheet of paper Detective Green had left on his desk: a list of officers who had reported thefts over the last few months. He read the labels on the shelves and finally found the files he was looking for. None of them was particularly thick. The labels, protruding from the covers, indicated the kinds of theft. They were all different, but, compared with the number of thefts suffered by locals and to
urists alike, they were a tiny minority, a small drop in a big ocean. The names of the victims were in alphabetical order. The lieutenant read out the names on the sheet, one at a time. There were thirty-six in all. It took the clerk less than ten minutes to find the files. He pulled them out, leaving tags to keep their places.
‘Here you are, Lieutenant.’
‘I’d like photocopies of all the papers in each file.’
‘No problem, but it’ll take time.’
‘I’ll wait.’
The 9.40 flight from Rome Fiumicino had just come through a patch of turbulence.
Ferrara closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander. He recalled his first years as a chief superintendent. All these memories coming back to the surface made him feel slightly anxious. There had been so many murders, so many deaths, it had been like living in a war zone. At times he had felt as though he was in Beirut . . .
He remembered particular areas of the city. He saw again the corpses, some of very young men, on the pavements, or in the middle of the road, or trapped in cars that had been riddled with bullets or even ripped apart by bazookas.
How could he forget the suffering he had seen on the faces of the victims? What he was feeling couldn’t be anxiety, Ferrara told himself, No, what he was feeling was anger at the neglect prevalent in that wonderful land fragrant with the smell of the sea and the scent of orange blossom, in which the vast majority of the inhabitants were perfectly respectable people.
With a jolt, he opened his eyes, and the last faces vanished. His thoughts came back to reality - to the present, and the reason he was returning to Calabria. He looked out of the window and saw the runway lights. The plane, tearing through the darkness, was nearing the airport. When it landed and the pilot switched off the engine, Ferrara was among the first passengers to descend the steps. His legs had gone numb, and he stamped his feet on the ground. His muscles relaxed. The terminal was just the way he remembered it. On the way out, he had a pleasant surprise.
A Death In Calabria Page 18