Pirelli read the report of the stolen gun. "It hadn't been fired for sixty, seventy years. If this is the one, someone must have worked his butt off."
Ancora nodded. "Stolen the night before Carolla was shot. We've got Bruno checking out all the gunsmiths capable of carrying out that kind of work."
Pirelli was leaving, fast. At the door he turned. "Get that over to Mincelli's crowd; get them to do the legwork. You get over to the Villa Palagonia, take the composite of Luka Carolla, see if he was there."
He paused, frowning. "Also get some ID from records, those two corpses at the Armadillo Club. Take their mug shots with you and see if anyone recognizes them and . . . start checking out car rental firms, garages, see if our boy rented a car."
Ancora sighed. He wondered what Pirelli himself was going to be doing.
He was faxing the police in the States, requesting a check on schools, colleges, etc., in the area of Paul Carolla's last known address. Perhaps someone could come up with a recent photo.
Graziella, dressed in mourning, found Sophia lying on her bed. She had obviously been crying, and Graziella kissed her gently. "I am going to the mausoleum. Will you join me?"
Sophia shook her head. "No, Mama, I have a headache. Maybe Rosa will go with you."
"I would like you to accompany me."
Tears trickled down Sophia's cheeks, but she made no sound of weeping. Graziella went to the window and opened the shutters a crack. The sunlight streamed in, and Sophia put her hands across her face.
Graziella's voice was firm. "They do not care about your babies, Sophia. That Pirelli was only interested in Carolla. Well, I thank God for his killer. At least he gave us justice, may God forgive me. I would like you to come, and I will wait downstairs for you."
Graziella paused a moment by the bedside table and looked at the bottle of tablets. It was open, and some of the small yellow pills were lying loose on the tabletop. She said nothing.
Graziella and Sophia stood side by side at the mausoleum gate. Red paint had been scrawled over the walls: "Mafioso finito . . . Bastards ..."
The two women went to the taps and filled cans of water to try to wash the paint off the walls. Sophia searched for a stone, dipped it in the water, and started scrubbing at the paint, rubbing so hard that she could feel her fingers getting raw, but she couldn't stop.
Graziella's voice calling her name over and over eventually made her stop. "It's all right, my love, see? See, it's all gone now; it's clean. Come inside, let us go inside."
Sophia struggled against Graziella, twisting away from her. "No, no, don't make me go inside, Mama, please. . . ."
Confused by Sophia's hysteria, Graziella released her hold, and entered alone. Sophia clung to the railings. Her mouth was dry, she couldn't swallow, and she began to search her pockets frantically. She needed something to calm her, she needed— needed . . .
An old man appeared, carrying a bucket and scrubbing brush. "Signora Luciano, I didn't want you to see this. I don't know when it happened. I care for these graves as if they were my own family."
Sophia could not speak. She turned to the gates as Graziella reappeared. The old man kissed her hand, near to tears himself. She drew her veil down over her face and thanked him, then held her hand out to Sophia. The caretaker bowed, apologizing again and promising to guard the tomb with his life.
He was still apologizing as they walked slowly along the white-pebbled lanes, past the tombs, and eventually to the main path.
Sophia slipped her hand into the crook of Graziella's arm.
"Mama, I want to tell you something. Michael—"
Graziella gripped Sophia's hand tightly, squeezing her fingers. "You know what Rosa said to me the other night? She said, 'Grandma, it's different for you, because you are old.' Well, Sophia, let me tell you, I feel the pain now as sharply for Michael as for your babies. I think, What a terrible waste. I have outlived my sons, my husband, my grandsons; everything I produced has died, and the only thing I have to remind me that they lived is my pain. It no longer makes me weep; it no longer brings tears; it is just proof of what I had, of what I lost, my family."
Graziella wiped her dry eyes, then sighed. "All we have is little Rosa."
Pirelli rubbed his eyes, which were red-rimmed from reading the Luciano files, and answered the telephone as Bruno brought in a single sheet of typed paper. He held his hand out for it as he listened to the caller; there was no record of a Luka Carolla leaving Sicily or Rome in the last three months. "What's this?"
"From Enrico Dante's place, found on the floor of his office. Whoever robbed the place made a good job of it, but that was left or dropped. Looks like a list of properties. The ones underlined all belong to the Luciano family, and Enrico Dante worked for Carolla. They also found this; it'd been dropped beside the bar."
Pirelli took the bullet and turned it over in his hand, rubbing the point. "Looks like it's been drilled."
"Yes, but it also matches the bullet fragments taken out of Paul Carolla. This one hasn't been fired."
Pirelli sucked in his breath. "Anything on the prints of that glass they found?"
"No one who's got a record. Could have been a customer, but the orange juice it contained was spilled all over the floor. . . Oh, yeah, there was something else, don't know if it's of any interest. There was a clear print, in the blood around the bar, of a woman's high-heeled shoe."
Pirelli held the bullet, rubbing his finger over the minute drilled rings, then shot to his feet. "Get this back to the lab; get them to check the fragments of bullets from the Luciano children, see if the grooves match these. I want to know if the same drill was used."
Bruno paused. "Christ Almighty, you think it's the same guy?"
"It's a possibility, and it looks like we've got some kind of
contract killer who likes to leave his calling card."
"What do you want me to do about that list?"
"Leave it with me. Oh, and get me the train timetables. I'm going back to that monastery to see if we can get anything more on this Luka character."
"You think he's the bastard?"
"I don't know, but I want him found."
Luka stared at Sophia, dull-eyed, as she spooned the soup into his mouth. He managed only three mouthfuls before he slumped back against the pillow.
Teresa opened the door and whispered, "You'd better come down to the study; there's something I want to show you. Leave him, come on."
Sophia put her finger to her lips to indicate that he was sleeping and followed. Teresa closed the door and locked it.
Luka waited a moment before he slowly eased himself into a sitting position, gritting his teeth against the pain burning in his shoulder. He inched the bedclothes away from him and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. He could not stand and flopped back against the pillows.
"Shut the door after you," said Teresa, and Sophia kicked it closed.
"He took only a couple of mouthfuls," said Sophia. "Rosa crushed up two Seconal and sprinkled them over the top. . . . Did you hear me?"
Teresa opened the desk drawer. "Yes, yes . . . This was in his bag, Moreno's bag. The one we brought the papers in from the club? Now, watch."
She picked up the first part of the cane, the section with the horse's head, then slotted the second piece into position. "It's a single-bullet gun, see? The horse's head is where you fix the bullet, safety catch is the ear, and you fire it by pulling the head back. . . . Acts as a trigger. Moreno is the killer, Sophia; he has to be. It's almost exactly the weapon Commissario Pirelli described, isn't it?"
Sophia had to sit down. "What are we going to do?"
"Keep it. As soon as he's well, he's out. We pay him off, just as we agreed." "What? Are you mad? If this gun is his, he's murdered two men, Teresa. We have to get Pirelli back here, and if you don't, then I will."
"You can't."
"It won't just be me; it'll be all of us. We are harboring a killer; we're withholding evidence."
"But with Carolla dead, with Dante dead, we all are going to benefit. We'll just pay him off as soon as he's well."
"Pay him off with what? The few hundred dollars that were in that bag? Do you think he'll be satisfied with that? He could blackmail us. Think of the hold he has over us! If we keep him here, we are as guilty as he is. We have to call the police."
"Fine, you want to call Pirelli? Go ahead, explain why you never told him about Moreno when he was here. You were at the club; you knew that he had to have shot Dante. If he also shot Carolla, then we should give him a goddamn medal! Call Pirelli, go on. Get me arrested while you're at it."
Teresa's eyes frightened Sophia, because beneath all the bravado there was something else; she could sense it.
"What have you done?"
Teresa was almost in tears. "I did it for us." She took her glasses off and rested her head in her hands. "I did it for us."
"What?"
Teresa fumbled with the dial of the safe and swung the door open. It was stacked with bundles of bank notes, dollars, and lire in thick bundles.
"I took all the money from Dante's safe when I searched for my purse. That was why I brought the bag back. It's all used notes; it can't be traced."
Too shocked to speak, Sophia stared first at the cash, then at Teresa's frightened face.
"We had no cash, Sophia, we need this money, and who's to say it's not ours anyway? He can't blackmail us because we could have him arrested."
"How much is there?"
At least Sophia was not shouting. Teresa felt more confident. "Enough to start clearing up the docks and warehouses. Enough to prepare everything to sell. We can't get a good price with everything the way it is, rundown. We need this money to put the buildings in order, pay workers to clear the filth, the rotting cargoes. I've been making lists of everything that has to be done, estimating the costs, and—"
Sophia interrupted. "I don't want any part of it, Teresa. I can hardly believe what you've done. . . . How do you think Mama and Rosa will feel?"
"Why tell them? They don't have to know, especially Mama. She's got to go before the magistrates. She needs us all here; she needs you."
Sophia shook her head. "Don't try that tactic, Teresa. You stole that money, and it's on your head."
"Fine, it's on my head, I'll handle it. I'll make sure we all get what's due to us, and that is all I care about, Sophia. This is family business."
Sophia leaned over the desk and spit, "The family is in the graveyard, Teresa. Just leave me out of it, and get rid of that boy upstairs, or so help me God, I will call the police." It was after midnight, and Rosa sat reading by Luka's bed. She checked the time, then felt his forehead, relieved that his temperature had gone down. Her bookmark slipped from between the pages, and she knelt to retrieve it. As she straightened up, she saw something glittering beneath the bed. The small gold heart dangling on the fine gold chain was covered in dust; she blew it clean, then dropped it into a small glass bowl on the chest of drawers.
CHAPTER 14
Luka had been at the villa for two days, sleeping most of the time and eating little. On the third day he was feeling strong enough to want to bathe.
Teresa was surprised and a little afraid when she discovered his room empty.
"Where is he?" she whispered to Rosa.
Rosa had changed Luka's bed, piling the dirty linen on the floor. "He's taking a bath."
"Go tell him to get out, and hurry. Your grandmother thinks it's you in the bathroom. Go on, quickly. I'll finish the bed."
Rosa picked up the small heart and chain from the chest of drawers. "I found this under his bed. I don't know if it's his or maybe was left by a maid. See, it's a little heart—"
Teresa took it from her. "Go along. I'll help him back to bed."
Luka opened the bathroom door, wearing a terry-cloth robe that had once belonged to Roberto Luciano. It swamped his slender frame, making him look even more boyish. He was weak
from the effort of bathing and drying himself, and he clung to the door handle for support.
When Teresa reached the landing, she found Rosa still hovering with her arms full of laundry. Keeping her voice low, she ordered her daughter, "Go downstairs, and put that in the machine yourself. Don't let Adina see it."
Luka moved slowly and cautiously along the landing, supporting himself on the wall. By the time he reached his door he was exhausted.
Teresa offered to help him, but he recoiled from her, so she stepped aside as he entered the small room. She had opened a window, and Luka sat on the freshly made bed. He lifted the pillow and searched beneath it.
"I have the gun, Mr. Moreno."
He turned to her with a puzzled expression, then touched his neck. "My chain, my gold chain . . ."
"Is this it? Rosa found it; she thought it might have belonged to a maid."
"No, it's mine."
She watched as he twisted the chain around his fingers, nervously. She asked, "How are you feeling?"
"Much better. My shoulder doesn't hurt so much now."
"How long do you think you need to stay here?"
"Until I feel strong enough to leave."
"We had Commissario Pirelli here asking questions. . . . He knows nothing, but we know you killed Dante. Did you kill Paul Carolla?"
Luka gazed at her innocently. "Who?"
"Paul Carolla. He was shot during his trial."
Luka lay back and closed his eyes. He could feel her looking at him. This one was different from the others. This one had cold eyes, and he didn't like her.
Teresa moved closer to the bed. "The police think there is a connection between the two murders. If you did kill Carolla, we will never give you away. I think we might even congratulate you."
He opened his eyes and turned to face her. His voice was soft. "I did not kill this man. I have never heard of him."
She gave a humorless, twisted smile. "I think you did. I have not only the gun from under your pillow, but the other one, too, the one that looks like a walking cane. It was in the bag we brought from Dante's club—"
She was caught by the expression in his strange ice-blue eyes. "What bag? I don't have a bag. You must be mistaken."
Teresa raised her eyebrows and smiled. "No? Don't lie to us, Mr. Moreno." She left the room and closed the door behind her.
As he heard the key turn in the lock, his body curled into a fetal position. The gold chain was wrapped so tightly around his knuckles that it broke the skin. "Please, don't lock me in. . . . Please don't."
Teresa stood on the landing outside, the key in her hand, and listened to the muffled sobs. She began to walk slowly down the stairs. Could they be wrong about him? She shook her head.
As she came to Sophia's room, she tapped on the door. Sophia called her in. She was lying on her bed, the room in darkness.
"I want to talk to you and Rosa downstairs," Teresa whispered.
Sophia didn't answer; she was listening to the faint sound of weeping. "What's that? Can you hear it? Is it Moreno?"
Keeping her voice low, Teresa said, "Yes . . . Oh, God, do you think Mama can hear?" She stepped out on the landing, looked upward, listening. The muffled sobs were like those of a child. She was about to go upstairs when the weeping stopped. She listened for a moment longer, then rejoined Sophia.
"It's okay, he's stopped. You know, I think I was wrong about him. Maybe he shot Dante in self-defense, but well, I doubt if he'd have the guts to kill Carolla. Seems like a wimp to me . . . And I suspect it was Dante's bag, not Moreno's. After all, it was his club. If it's true, it should ease your conscience about harboring a mass murderer, Sophia? Did you hear what I said?"
Sophia sighed and nodded. "Let me wash up. I'll meet you downstairs, Teresa."
In the silence they heard it again, very faint but clear: the eerie sound of weeping, like a child's.
Teresa sat behind the desk with a stack of printed posters in front of her. Rosa had pulled her chair close to the desk, and
/> Sophia was sitting slightly to one side, looking over one of the handwritten posters.
"They go up on every wall, in the docks, the warehouses, in the streets," Teresa said. "I want every man who ever worked for Don Roberto to read them. I'll pull every string I know to get these men back working for us. We do it together, all of us, and we use any tactic we can, even make them feel so guilty they will at least give us—"
She was interrupted by Graziella, who walked slowly and sedately into the room, carrying a vase of fresh flowers. As she put it down on the desk, she picked up one of the posters, read it very slowly, then pursed her lips.
"These men all work with other families; it will cause trouble. Not just for them but for you, all of you. Hasn't there been enough death in this family without asking for more?"
Teresa was growing impatient. "They owe us, Mama. For years Don Roberto gave them employment."
Graziella surprised them then with the cold, hard edge in her voice. "But he is dead, Teresa. You are not head of this family. I am, and I refuse to let this theatrical gesture continue."
"We need you with us, Mama, would like you with us. If you refuse, that is your prerogative, but we are going ahead whether you like it or not."
The stench of warehouses full of rotten oranges left in their cargo boxes was like an open sewer. Rats scurried across dank floors. The cargo boats rusted in their dry docks. Rows of trucks, their tires slashed and canvas tops ripped, stood abandoned, their paintwork blistered by the sun. Engines had been stolen; almost every removable part was gone. The wanton neglect was heartbreaking.
The once-flourishing tile factory was shuttered, thick dust from the tiles covering even the offices. Windows were shattered, and the place had been broken into so many times there was hardly a room left intact.
The women were silent, but their sight-seeing tour was not over. They drove out to the massive canning factory, towering above the desolate yards, then to the groves themselves. Now they were witness to mile upon mile of dying trees, orange, lemon, and olive, their fruit rotting, fly-infested and stinking. The sprinklers had rusted, the irrigation canals were filled with dead fruit, and the flies hummed in thick clouds above the trees. Graffiti could be seen, written in the dust and painted across the walls: "Mafioso finito. Bastardo Luciano . . ."
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