‘I’m Prosecutor Francesco Romeo,’ he introduced himself.
‘They told me you would come. Thank you.’
‘There’s no need to thank me. I’m only doing my duty.’
Then he turned to the technician sitting beside the desk and asked him if everything was set for the recording. Having received confirmation, he took a few sheets of blank paper from the printer, to use for making notes.
The interview began.
‘So, Signor Prestipino, before anything else please bear in mind that you are being heard as a witness, not as a defendant. My office has no legal proceedings against you, and has been informed that you have information on the murder of your brother-in-law Rocco Fedeli and on the ’ndrina of San Piero d’Aspromonte. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let’s start with the ’ndrina of San Piero, which is of more immediate concern to my office, being within our jurisdiction. ’
‘You can ask me whatever you like.’
‘Was your brother-in-law a member?’
‘Yes, he was a member of Don Ciccio Puglisi’s ’ndrina.’
‘When did he become a member?’
‘When he turned eighteen, he was baptised and became a foot soldier.’
‘I see. Can you explain what this baptism consisted of?’
‘It happened during the feast of the Madonna of Aspromonte, you know . . . when all the ’Ndranghetistas meet. Rocco took an oath of loyalty and was baptised by the boss in person, Don Ciccio Puglisi . . . and from then on, he kept faith with that blood oath until . . .’
‘Until what?’
‘Until he violated the family’s code of conduct.’
‘Could you please be more specific about that? I understand you, Signor Prestipino, but you must tell us more.’
‘My brother-in-law changed sides. He betrayed us . . . And he also took the money . . . To him, you see, money was everything in life. It was the only thing he cared about. Maybe it was the only thing he’d ever cared about.’
‘Can you explain about the betrayal and about the money?’
‘I’d have to tell you about New York.’
‘Then tell us about New York.’
There was a long pause.
‘Would you like us to stop for a few minutes?’
‘Thank you. I’d like a glass of water.’
At this point Romeo turned to the technician and dictated, ‘Let it be noted that at ten past eleven the interview was interrupted at the request of the witness and will be resumed in ten minutes.’
The technician switched off the tape recorder.
‘Signor Prestipino, I’m going to stretch my legs a little. In the meantime I’ll have them bring you a bottle of water.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Would you like a coffee, too?’
‘If possible . . . Thank you.’
Romeo left the room.
He came back after ten minutes.
‘Do you feel better now, Signor Prestipino?’ he asked, sitting down behind the desk.
‘Yes, thanks again.’ He gave a slight smile.
‘Good. Then let’s continue the recording.’ The technician nodded and pressed the Play button. ‘Let it be noted that it is now eleven twenty and the interview is resuming, in the presence of the same people . . . Now, tell us about New York.’
‘The real target was Rocco. My other in-laws and the other victims were killed because they were there, but also to send an even stronger message to all the members and avoid further betrayals.’
‘In what way had your brother-in-law betrayed the organisation, to be punished so harshly?’
‘He had gone over to Antonio Russo. They were involved in the cocaine trade together. Rocco was using not only Russo’s money, but his family’s as well . . . All those dollars had gone to his head, Signor Romeo . . . America isn’t like San Piero . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders.
Romeo nodded, and gestured to him to continue.
‘The next day, the morning of the New York marathon, Rocco was supposed to make a payment of three million dollars to a boss of the Cali cartel for a consignment of drugs, but the killers grabbed the money . . .’ He lowered his eyes to his legs.
‘Where did he keep the money?’
‘In the safe in his den.’
‘How did the killers open it?’
Antonio Prestipino again looked down at his legs and crossed his hands nervously. He seemed hesitant, uncertain how to continue. Then, slowly raising his head, he let out a deep sigh and said, ‘It isn’t easy to talk about certain things, Signor Romeo.’
‘Why?’
‘I was the one who gave up the combination.’
‘Who to?’
‘My cousin Luigi Cannizzaro, but I never imagined it would end up in . . . that kind of bloodbath.’
He burst out crying.
Romeo made a gesture to reassure him, and dictated, ‘Let it be noted that the witness appears moved and has burst into tears . . . He can’t continue.’ Then, to Prestipino, he said, ‘I realise it’s a difficult situation for you to come to terms with, but my office needs to know every detail of what happened in New York. Please continue. So, it was you who supplied the combination of the safe?’
‘Yes. Yes, it was me.’
‘Why?’
‘I couldn’t say no to my cousin.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’d done me a favour, but that has nothing to do with this . . . and I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘All right. Tell me how much money was in the safe.’
‘Three million.’
‘Three million dollars?’
‘Yes. Three million dollars. And most of it was Antonio Russo’s.’
‘Antonio Russo’s? Is that why he had you kidnapped?’
‘Yes, he wanted to know what had happened in New York, especially what had happened to his money.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘No. And if the police hadn’t arrived when they did, I wouldn’t be here. He’d have killed me.’
‘Where did Antonio Russo sell the cocaine?’
‘That, I don’t know. What I can tell you is that, according to Rocco, Antonio Russo controlled the whole cocaine trade not only in Italy, but also in other European countries . . . He was a very powerful person . . .’
‘Did your brother-in-law tell you about any specific thing that Russo did?’
‘No, but he told me once that Russo scared even him, and that he had a lot of connections - politicians, senior police officers . . .’
‘Signor Prestipino, you do realise these are serious allegations? ’
‘Yes, Signor Romeo, but I’m only telling you what Rocco told me. I don’t know if it was true, or whether Russo was just bragging to make Rocco think he was even more powerful than he was.’
‘So you can’t be any more specific. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you recognise your kidnappers?’
‘I was blindfolded. I just heard the voice of the one who questioned me. I assume it was Russo. I’d never heard him speaking before, I only knew him by name.’
‘I see. Can you tell me how they kidnapped you?’
‘They tricked me into going with them after I left the cemetery. They said someone wanted to speak to me.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Two young guys, real heavies.’
He described the two young men and the driver of the BMW, even though he had only seen the latter from the back or in profile.
‘Would you be able to help us put together an identikit?’
‘Of the two young guys, yes. The driver, I’m not so sure.’
‘Good. It’s now twelve thirty. This interview is concluded. The transcript will be signed by the witness and the interviewer. ’
The technician switched off the tape recorder.
‘You’re not going to prison, Signor Prestipino, but the DIA will keep you in custod
y until the Minister of the Interior has come to a decision. Today, I’ll present the special commission with a request for urgent measures to be taken to protect yourself and your immediate family.’
‘Thank you, Signor Romeo, for my family, too . . . My daughter, you know, is studying law. She wants to be a judge in America.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that, Signor Prestipino.’
Romeo signed the transcript, said goodbye and left the room.
A crucial piece had been added to the jigsaw.
New York
It was just after six in the morning, and for some time now Dick Moore and John Reynolds had been discussing the new information received from their colleagues in Calabria.
And something else, too.
The name Luigi Cannizzaro was in FBI records.
It was on the list of names that had come up during the investigation into the Sicilian-owned pizzeria in Brooklyn.
‘We need to check him out right now,’ Dick Moore said, thumping the desk with his fist. ‘Tap his phones. Keep him under twenty-four-hour surveillance.’
He felt jittery.
The man responsible for the murders was right here in New York. And if it hadn’t been for the tip-off from Italy, they might never have identified him.
Reynolds lowered his head and rubbed his chin, as usual. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘We have to find out everything there is to know, including his connections with the Sicilian pizzeria owner and Baker’s gang.’
They had a long day ahead of them.
Four men were sitting in a circle on large stones, talking.
One was older than the others, and seemed to be their chief.
Inside the shack, Diego, who had just opened his eyes, slowly rubbed them. All at once he had the impression he could hear a chorus of voices. He sat up on the mattress and listened carefully. He was right. There was more than one voice. They were arguing, sometimes heatedly.
He tried to concentrate. Fragments of what they were saying reached his ears.
‘. . . so much bacon . . .’
‘Don Peppe . . . the pile . . . now they’re at school . . .’
‘Who breathed?’
What language were they speaking? He remembered ’Ntoni and his men talking like that during the long drive from Barcelona. It was the same. Even the rhythm, the tone, seemed identical. ‘A special language,’ ’Ntoni had said once. It was the way the ’Ndrangheta expressed themselves, in a jargon known only to them, rich in double meanings and metaphors, a mixture of Italian, Calabrian and Neapolitan dialect with a touch of Sicilian. It was full of allusions and symbols, as befitted a secret society whose rituals were handed down orally from father to son.
Bacon, yes, bacon means the police . . . he told me that.
He listened more carefully. He was starting to get worried. His heart began to pound. He caught another word: breathed.
The odd word here and there, difficult to put into context. Of one thing, though, he was certain: these voices weren’t fake, unlike those of the kidnappers who had watched over him up until now.
Suddenly, the men fell silent. After a few moments, the door of the shack opened wide.
‘What the fuck are you doing? Listening?’
It was one of his kidnappers. The man was really angry. Diego did not reply. But for the first time he tried to look him in the eyes. They were very black and gleamed through the holes in the ski mask. He was even more afraid.
‘And don’t look at me like that, you Colombian prick! My eyes are dark, just like yours.’
Again, Diego did not reply. He felt his blood run cold. The man came to him, checked that the padlock on his ankles was secure, and fixed one side of the chain even more tightly to the hook on the wall to the right of the mattress. Then he went out, slamming the door.
After that, Diego did not hear any more voices.
Meanwhile, Captain Foti had arrived in San Piero d’Aspromonte.
He had already combed through the files in the local Carabinieri barracks to find out something about Rocco Cannizzaro. Now, together with the marshal from the barracks, he was knocking at the door of Angela’s house. It was a two-storey building, with a balcony on the first floor just above the front door. The concrete façade was unfinished.
It was early afternoon.
He knocked several times, but there was no answer.
‘She’ll be at her mother’s, Captain,’ the marshal said.
‘Let’s go then. Where does she live?’
‘Just a few minutes’ walk from here.’
They set off.
It was a very old stone house surrounded by a small vegetable garden. The marshal rang the bell.
After a few moments, they heard a woman’s voice. ‘Who is it?’
‘Carabinieri! This is the marshal. I need to speak to Signora Angela Prestipino.’
‘Just a minute!’
Moments later, they heard a click and the wooden door opened. They went in.
Angela was waiting for them just inside the door. She was dressed all in black: her skirt, her blouse, her stockings, the woollen shawl over her shoulders. She gave them both a searching, inquisitive look, as if, from the way they were standing, the expressions on their faces, she might glean some idea of the reason for their visit, even before they started speaking.
‘Signora,’ the marshal began, ‘this is Captain Foti. He’s come here from Reggio Calabria. He’s with the DIA and needs to speak to you. Can you spare us a few minutes?’
The woman looked at them a while longer, then her eyes narrowed and focused on Foti.
The captain approached and shook hands with her. She had an unusually strong grip for a woman.
‘Come in, then,’ she said, reluctantly.
She led them down a short corridor lined with the odd piece of furniture, at the end of which she opened a door and admitted them to the living room. She motioned them to take a seat and they settled on the sofa, but she remained standing, her arms crossed over her chest. There were no paintings or photographs on the remarkably soulless walls. The only image in the whole room was a photograph displayed on a side table with a lighted candle in front of it, an unframed photograph showing the three brothers who had been killed.
‘Who is it, Angela? Who is it?’
The shout had come from the back door that led out to the vegetable garden.
‘Nothing, Mother. It’s for me. Don’t worry.’ She ran her hand through her hair. ‘So, Captain, you want a word with me? Is it about my husband?’
‘Yes. There’s something you need to know.’
For a moment, Angela’s impassive expression betrayed a touch of emotion. But only a very attentive observer would have noticed the shiver that ran down her spine. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve come to tell you that your husband is cooperating with us and with the State Prosecutor’s Department.’
‘Cooperating? What does that mean?’ She shrugged her shoulders, but at the same time raised her voice until she was almost shouting. There was a growing anger in her eyes. She stooped to pick up her shawl, which had fallen to the floor, and put it back around her shoulders.
‘Last night, we set him free . . .’ Foti said.
‘Set him free?’ she echoed incredulously.
‘That’s right. He’d been kidnapped. And he decided to cooperate. He’s in a safe place. Don’t worry. You and your daughter will be safe, too, together with him.’
‘No, no, no.’
A tomblike silence pervaded the room.
For a few moments, the woman continued to stand there, with her arms folded, glaring at the captain, as if trying to burn him to a cinder. What she had feared had happened. The truth she had tried in vain to get from her husband had finally come out. A traitor, that was what her husband was! Her immediate instinct was one of revenge, but she kept it under control for the moment. Never in her worst nightmares could she have imagined that something so horrible could happen to her. To a Fedeli.
�
�Alfredo Prestipino is dead!’ she cried.
The words hit the captain like a bullet.
‘Signora, your husband is well, and is waiting for you in our offices.’
‘Captain, you haven’t understood! Or are you just pretending not to understand? If what you tell me is true, then Alfredo Prestipino has gone mad. And I have no intention of living with a madman. Mad people should be in asylums, with other mad people. As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead. He doesn’t exist, not for me, not for my daughter.’ She had uttered this condemnation in a steady voice, stressing every word.
‘But, signora, your husband isn’t dead. He wants to make a new life . . . with you. He’s made the right choice, believe me. Come with me . . .’
‘Really, signora . . .’ the marshal said, intervening to support the captain.
But the woman did not give him time to finish his sentence. The blood was boiling in her veins.
‘You can go now,’ she said. ‘My daughter and I are not moving from here. Captain, tell Signor Prestipino that for us he no longer exists. We have wiped him out of our lives, as of today.’
Her eyes had turned ice-cold. Foti tried to say something, but she immediately cut him off.
‘I have nothing to add, Captain. Don’t make me waste my time. And you shouldn’t waste your time either, you must have more important things to do . . .’
‘I’ll pass on what you said. But I think you’re making a mistake. ’
‘It’s not for you to judge, Captain. You just have to do your job. There’s only one person who has made a mistake here, and it’s him . . .’ This time she did not even utter the name. Her husband had become him. ‘He no longer exists for us,’ she said again, with venom in her eyes.
The captain and the marshal looked at each other. Neither of them had expected this reaction. Not even the marshal who, as commander of the local barracks, was familiar with the mindset of the place.
Angela Fedeli saw them to the door.
Hurriedly.
Then the tomblike silence returned.
Angela was quick to react.
She threw on an old woollen jacket and went out.
A Death In Calabria Page 23