A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  ‘How great to see you, Chief Superintendent, after all these years,’ the driver said, greeting him with a warm handshake.

  ‘What are you doing here? Pietro, isn’t it?’ Pietro had been one of his men when he worked here.

  ‘That’s right. I came to pick you up to take you to your hotel. I’m working with the DIA now.’

  ‘Congratulations!’

  In the car, Ferrara put a cigar in his mouth. He had a craving for the taste of it, even if he didn’t light it.

  ‘Same old cigar, eh, Chief Superintendent?’

  ‘Oh, yes. My habits haven’t changed.’

  ‘We’re the ones who change.’

  A bitter smile played on Ferrara’s lips. He thinks I’ve aged, but he’s not the young boy I knew either.

  ‘Are you married, Pietro?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have a daughter who’s just started high school. She’s a great girl. She wants to be a judge.’

  ‘I’m pleased. A good choice.’

  They were nearing the hotel.

  ‘See what a nice seafront we have, sir? Do you remember? It wasn’t like this in your time!’ There was a touch of pride in his voice.

  Ferrara looked out at the view. It was apparently the only thing that was new. During the ride, everything had seemed unchanged, even the streets with their patched-up tarmac. But the seafront had been completely refurbished and embellished with colourful flowerbeds and beautiful wooden benches. With its extraordinary view of the Straits of Messina and the Sicilian coast, it had become the ideal place to stroll on cool summer evenings. He thought of Petra, who would have appreciated all those flowers.

  He caught a whiff of their scent. It was like the one emanating from his wife’s greenhouse every time he peered in.

  ‘They say it’s the best promenade in Italy,’ Pietro said, a smug look on his face.

  ‘I can believe that. It’s really wonderful.’

  ‘Here we are.’

  Ferrara bade him farewell, got out of the car and entered the hotel.

  Immediately after checking in, he pressed the lift button. As he waited for the lift to arrive, he looked around. He had the impression that a man was peering at him over the newspaper he held open with both hands.

  When he got to his room, he attached the DO NOT DISTURB sign and closed the door behind him. He wasn’t hungry. Even if he had been, he would not have been able to have dinner in the hotel restaurant. It was already closed. It was just after eleven o’clock, and his eyelids were drooping. The next day was going to be a heavy one, if Colonel Trimarchi’s theories turned out to be correct.

  Before he went to sleep, he made a last phone call to Petra. He knew how opposed she had been to this trip, so he tried to distract her attention by telling her about the wonderful flowers on the seafront.

  But Petra was true to type. ‘Be careful!’ she repeated several times.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. Go to sleep now, it’s late. When I get back, I’ll take you to see Carmen.’ He sent her a kiss.

  ‘I’ll carry on reading a while longer. But you, Schatzi, be careful!’

  With these words ringing in his ears, he closed his eyes and sank into sleep.

  They were motionless under a clear sky sprinkled with stars.

  And they were arguing.

  Don Ciccio Puglisi had asked for a meeting.

  An urgent one.

  For that same night.

  His emissary had been specific: ‘Midnight, on the dot . . . tomorrow could be too late.’

  Antonio Russo had understood that this was an appointment that couldn’t be put off.

  They were on the highest peak in the Aspromonte, Montalto, beneath the huge bronze statue of the Redeemer. It was neutral territory for the two of them, which made it a perfect place to meet. It was also very safe, especially at this hour, when any light would be immediately seen, any noise heard, even a distant one. From here, on fine days, the view was breathtaking: the two seas - the Tirrhenian and the Ionian - Mount Etna and the island of Stromboli.

  Tonight, there was an eerie silence, and the air was cold and sharp, but neither man minded. They were used to it.

  ‘I don’t want to hear any bullshit, ’Ntoni, your men were in San Piero . . .’

  Don Ciccio’s voice was even more hoarse than usual. He stood there, wrapped in a thick woollen jacket, looking fixedly at Russo.

  ‘It’s fine, Don Ciccio, it’s a matter I need to deal with . . .’

  ‘’Ntoni, you haven’t respected your agreements, and you know what that means?’

  ‘What agreements? Don Ciccio, you’re thinking like the old days.’

  ‘Do you want war, then?’

  ‘What do you mean, war? You can rest easy. Everything’s the way it was. I just have to settle my business.’

  ‘’Ntoni, I’m giving you thirty-six hours. By midday Sunday, I want him back home, having lunch with his wife and daughter. That’s my final word.’

  ‘Why are you so interested, Don Ciccio? After all—’

  ‘That’s my business. Remember, thirty-six hours . . . or you’ll regret it.’

  ‘He’ll be there, Don Ciccio, he’ll be there.’

  And as true men of honour, they shook hands, looking in each other’s eyes as they did so.

  They returned to their respective cars, where their men were waiting, and got in.

  The DIA officers, in position a couple of miles away, watched as Antonio Russo’s Mercedes passed on its way to the farmhouse. It would have been too risky to follow as far as the Due Mari crossroads, so they had waited for him to come back.

  New York

  There wasn’t much in the files.

  Just reports. No clues as to suspects. All the thefts remained unsolved.

  It was four in the afternoon, and Lieutenant Reynolds, having looked through the files, set aside just eight of them, to his right, one on top of the other. They related to thefts of uniforms, badges and other material allocated to officers. On top of the pile, he placed a sheet of paper noting the dates and the places. The thefts had been committed during the week ending 12 October, all eight of them in Brooklyn, the borough with the highest crime rate.

  Something told him they were the work of the same criminals. The Green Birds?

  He summoned Detective Green to his office.

  ‘This is the list of thefts that interest us,’ he said, handing him the paper with the dates and places. ‘They’re are all from the 81st precinct. We need to look at the files on the investigations. They may tell us something. Look particularly at the witness statements and the CSU findings. Maybe we’ll have some luck . . .’ He pushed the eight files across the desk to Green.

  ‘I’ll get right on it, Lieutenant. The 81st precinct is the same one where they’re investigating the theft of the badge we found in Baker’s apartment.’

  Reynolds nodded.

  The coincidence hadn’t escaped him.

  Dick Moore was also beginning to take an interest in the Green Birds.

  The FBI had been monitoring the gangs for some time. They were a threat to national security, second only to al-Qaeda. And some of them - including the Green Birds - had branches in several cities, several states.

  Moore found a lot on their leader, Harry Baker, who had stamped his authority on the gang, often with exceptional violence. He was a real son of a bitch, with a record to match . . .

  By the time he was seventeen, Baker had already been responsible for a number of muggings, car thefts, and break-ins. Almost all committed in Brooklyn, where he was living with his parents at the time. Then he had gone on to more serious offences: assaults and rapes on a number of women, all very young, including the girlfriends of members of his gang: it was as if he were claiming some kind of droit du seigneur, by virtue of being the leader. Then he had switched to drug dealing and even arms trafficking. And not only in New York. The gang had spread its tentacles to other cities. Harry Baker was quite a character. Unfortunately, although he had o
ften been a suspect, he’d never been convicted. There wasn’t a shred of serious evidence against him.

  And Dick Moore found something else in the course of his reading.

  It seemed the FBI had shown an interest in Baker, too.

  The reports were dated 1998, when the FBI had been keeping an eye on a pizzeria in Brooklyn, owned by a Sicilian, which was believed to be a distribution centre for drugs, according to the Feds. On several occasions, NYPD patrol cars cruising the area had picked up Baker as he was coming away from the place. Nothing had ever been found on him, but there was no doubt their suspicions had been founded. They were dealing with a very cunning criminal. Among the names that had cropped up in connection with the investigation of the pizzeria were not only Sicilians but also a few Calabrians, some of whom they’d caught in the act. But no one named Fedeli or Prestipino.

  Unfortunately, thought Dick Moore.

  The 81st precinct robbery files that Green had photocopied did not reveal very much.

  Only one captured Reynolds’ attention. At one of the crime scenes, some fragmentary fingerprints had been lifted - too fragmentary to be used in comparisons - and the print of a sneaker. He looked closely at the photograph of the sole. A shiver ran down his spine: there was a very strong resemblance between this print and the one found near the burned-out taxi.

  ‘Send a photograph of this print to Dick Moore,’ he ordered Detective Green. ‘He can run it by his lab in Washington. And let’s hope we have a bit of luck this time.’

  He picked up the phone and dialled Moore’s number. Having told him that he would be sending the photograph of the shoe, he got on to the real purpose of his call.

  ‘Harry Baker mustn’t walk tomorrow. Not even on bail.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Moore replied, after a moment’s silence. ‘I’ll have a word with the DA. The fact that Baker’s also been charged with the theft of an FBI badge could bring him within our jurisdiction, like when FBI documents are stolen.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll leave it with you. Let’s speak tomorrow.’

  He hung up, relieved. In that moment, he’d have liked to shake Moore’s hand.

  24

  Saturday, 15 November

  It was night, and he was stuck in some kind of gully in the middle of the Aspromonte, surrounded by trees and thick undergrowth. He couldn’t find a way out. He was lost. He could feel the breath of the ’Ndrangheta on him. They were hunting him down, eager for revenge. A vague figure suddenly appeared in front of him. Who could it be? It must be one of them. Then he heard a sarcastic voice. ‘Here he is! The Fox of the Aspromonte. Look what he’s been reduced to. He thought he knew everything . . . ha, ha, ha!’ He looked closer at the figure and saw that it was wearing a dark ski mask. But what most drew his attention was the object it was carrying: a sawn-off shotgun. And it was aimed at him. There was an explosion . . .

  Chief Superintendent Ferrara woke with a start. He was in his hotel room, bathed in sweat. He lit the lamp on the bedside table and glanced in the mirror. His face was as white as wax. He closed his eyes. He opened them again. He closed them again and once again opened them. A nightmare! And what a nightmare! The ghosts had returned. His mouth was dry, and the room was revolving around him. Slowly he got out of bed. He put his feet down on the floor and stood there.

  From the mini-bar he took a bottle of water and drank it in one go. He immediately felt better. Unlike some people, he did not place much credence in dreams.

  He opened the window and looked outside. It was dark, with just a few small lights on the sea from ships crossing the straits. The air he breathed in smelled strongly of sea salt. But the wind was cold, and he quickly closed the window. He got back into bed and Petra’s last words came back to him: Schatzi, be careful.

  At last he fell asleep.

  Ferrara was in the foyer, waiting for his driver.

  It was almost eight o’clock in the morning and the nightmare had by this time been completely dispelled. Petra had phoned him at six, dragging him from a deep sleep. She had wanted to wish him a good day at work and, above all, to advise him once again to be careful. Her concern for him made her more adorable than ever.

  He had had breakfast with the other early risers among the guests in a little room on the ground floor, sitting at a small table for two near the window, with a view of the seafront. He turned frequently to look towards the coast of Sicily, feeling a strong sense of nostalgia. It had been quite a while since he had been back to his native Catania, even for a few days.

  He had missed the tiny cream pastries and the soft brioches so much. A good cappuccino and a cup of espresso had invigorated him.

  The only time he had been distracted during breakfast was when the howling of police sirens had broken the silence in the room, almost as if trying to emphasise that the State was still a presence, even here.

  Colonel Trimarchi was sitting behind his desk, making call after call to finalise the operation.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the open door and Foti entered, bright-eyed. He was holding a sheet of paper.

  ‘Call me when everything’s ready,’ Trimarchi said down the phone. He replaced the receiver and gave Foti an inquisitive look.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘What’s happened, Foti?’

  ‘I’ve just heard from the men on stakeout.’

  The colonel, as usual, sat back in his chair and motioned to him to sit down.

  ‘Before seven this morning,’ Foti continued, taking his seat, ‘a car arrived at the farmhouse. A big car, our men said.’

  ‘The BMW?’

  ‘It could well be. But what’s new, Colonel, is that this is the first time there’ve been visitors so early.’

  ‘Do the men think it could be the same car that lifted Prestipino?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How many people in the car?’

  ‘Two. They went into the house, and still haven’t come out.’

  ‘It could be they’ve come to take Prestipino away,’ Trimarchi said, shaking his head. ‘Tell the men to keep on the alert and inform us immediately. It’s possible our plans will have to change.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  At that moment, Chief Superintendent Ferrara appeared. He was wearing a light grey suit and clutching a bundle of newspapers. In his mouth was a cigar, still unlit. As soon as he saw him, Colonel Trimarchi got up, went around the desk and shook his hand warmly.

  ‘Welcome to Reggio, Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘It’s good to be here.’

  ‘Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  They sat down in the lounge, where the colonel filled him in on the latest developments.

  Ferrara was silent for a moment, then asked, ‘Do we know whose car it is?’

  ‘Unfortunately our men haven’t been able to get the licence number. Because of the way it’s parked, they can only see it from the side. But it’s dark in colour, and the same make as the one that took Prestipino away. They’re sure of that.’

  ‘And do we have the licence number of that one?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s registered to a company run by a man who fronts for Russo, and is often used by his associates.’

  Ferrara nodded. ‘We must be ready. And we need to keep the prosecutor up to date.’

  The others nodded. Trimarchi picked up the phone and called the Prosecutor’s Department. Immediately afterwards, Bill Hampton and Bob Holley arrived. Both greeted Ferrara and shook hands with him. Then Bob Holley handed the colonel a sheet of paper. ‘This list was sent by Assistant Director Moore. They’re all Italians whose names came up in a Bureau operation, and they all have links to Harry Baker in one way or another.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ferrara said. ‘Who’s Harry Baker?’

  ‘Forgive us, Chief Superintendent,’ Holley replied. ‘We forgot to inform you: Harry Baker is the head of a dangerous gang in New York, who’s been arrested in connection with the case.�
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  Colonel Trimarchi noticed that the list included the names of two men born in the area, one in Bovalino and the other in Gioiosa Ionica. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘The Squadra Mobile will need this list. They can take a look at these men’s families. Foti, fax this to Chief Superintendent Bruni.’

  He looked at his watch: it was nine thirty.

  New York

  Judge Steven Goldstein of the Supreme Court of Brooklyn Kings County, was sitting on the bench between two flags, wrapped in his black robe. He was just over fifty, and had the reputation of being conscientious and efficient. In front of his bench, at a little desk, sat a young stenographer.

  The spacious courtroom was filled with defendants and lawyers. For almost an hour Goldstein had been hearing the charges against the arrested gang members. Now Harry Baker’s turn had come.

  Baker was standing on one side of the room, behind a glass partition. His lawyer, Robert Mills, who was nearly six feet tall with slicked-back dyed black hair, walked around the table and approached him.

  ‘You-know-who says to say hello.’

  ‘Thanks,’ was all Baker said in reply, his lips curled in a grimace.

  ‘You have to plead not guilty.’

  Harry Baker nodded. Mills turned to the judge and said in a loud voice that his client wished to plead not guilty.

  Steven Goldstein hesitated for a moment.

  There were four possibilities: to refuse bail, to release Baker subject to restrictions such as confiscating his passport, to release him on an already fixed and paid bail, or to release him with the condition that bail would have to be paid if he skipped town or failed to appear at the next hearing.

  Robert Mills, who was hoping to get Baker released on a low bail, intoned professionally, ‘Your Honour, I ask that the evidence against my client be ruled inadmissible, on the grounds that it was obtained during an illegal search. My client is completely innocent of the charges against him, and there were no reasonable grounds to search him, let alone arrest him.’