Pirelli rang the bell by the door for someone to escort Father Angelo away, but Father Angelo was not finished.
"There is something more I must tell you. That darkness in Luka . . . He had been sexually abused as a child. Do you understand what I am saying?"
Guido overheard the last few words as he entered the room. Father Angelo acknowledged his presence but persisted. "Whatever happened to him made him terrified of small spaces, of being locked in. He would become hysterical, violent even, and for the first few years he was here we were unable to get him to enter the chapel. He had a terror of the chapel and would become physically sick if we attempted to take him there for prayers. . . . Gradually this phobia subsided, and he would, though not frequently, go to mass. I believe that whatever sins were committed against Luka were within the confines of a holy place. May God forgive me, but that is what I believe."
Guido, flushing deeply, would not meet Pirelli's eyes. He fussed with the walker.
Almost as an afterthought, Pirelli asked, "Did you speak with Luka before he left, Father?"
The old man shook his head. "No . . . No, I did not. Brother Guido was the last one of us to see him. Our poor deceased Brother Louis was in a very nervous state. He once believed we had a circus in the courtyard and more recently that Christ has arisen in the chapel. He died shortly afterward. Perhaps he did in truth see Our Lord embracing him."
He inched toward the door, then paused, with his back to Pirelli. "Luka did not even bid me good-bye. . . . Have a safe return journey, Commissario."
"One moment, Brother Guido . . . Could you spare me a few minutes after you have seen to Father Angelo?"
As he waited for Guido to return, Pirelli felt drained and cold. The dampness of the room, coupled with the overpowering sadness of Father Angelo, made him long to breathe fresh, clean air—either that or smoke a cigarette! But he could hear Brother Guido approaching.
The young monk's nervousness was very apparent. Pirelli noted the tension in his hands as they plucked at his robe.
"You were the last to see Luka. Why did you never mention this before?"
"I did not think it was important."
"It might be. Brother Guido, I believe Luka Carolla is a very dangerous man. I am sure he has killed at least one child, and he possibly murdered his father, Paul Carolla."
Guido gasped. His eyes blinked rapidly, and he slumped into the chair, putting his hands over his face as he spoke. "The night Luka left, I was in the chapel, close to the crypt. I was kneeling in prayer, and he didn't see me."
Pirelli rested his hand on the monk's shoulder, encouraging him to continue.
"I saw him enter and put down his bag, the small leather bag I told you of. He moved up the aisle; I was about to call out, say something to let him know I was there—"
"But you didn't?"
Guido shook his head. "He stood so still, facing the cross, and ... his face, it was like watching a statue. I have never seen such stillness, such—"
His shoulders trembled. Pirelli could feel it through the rough robe. Guido was whispering, "Such exquisite beauty. His face was like a carving, like Christ Himself." He crossed himself quickly.
Pirelli released his hold and moved away. "What happened then?" He repeated his question, this time more sharply. "What happened?"
"I stood up, revealing my presence, and he reacted like a wild animal. He hissed ... a terrible hissing sound, and backed away down the aisle into the darkness, until I could no longer see him. He then said something blasphemous; I beg you not to ask me to repeat it. I heard the doors open, and he was gone."
"Taking only the small bag? You didn't see the other case you described?"
Guido sobbed, "No . . ."
Pirelli made the sign of the cross before following Guido up the stone steps to the crypt. He edged around the massive wooden cross and looked up. At first he saw nothing, but then Guido switched on his flashlight.
Pirelli walked into the ballistics section of the forensic laboratory. He handed over the gun case he had taken from the monastery. "I want this checked out now, and I want the rifling matched against the bullets used in the Luciano children's murder and the Paluso murder, and I want it done by tonight."
The technician moaned, but he carried the case to a long trestle table where three men were working. Pirelli followed.
"Did you come up with anything from the gunsmith's?"
The assistant paused. "The reports with Inspector Mincelli."
"Give me a rundown."
"Well, as far as I can remember, it's all in the report."
"I heard you the first time," Pirelli snapped.
The assistant took a file from a cabinet. "The unused cartridge found in the Armadillo Club was the same type used to blow Carolla's head off. The fragments taken from the corpse had the same drilled grooves as the unused bullet, and we verified that they had been made with a drill found at the gunsmith's. Similar grooves, also made by the same type of drill but not the same one, were found on the bullet fragments taken from the Luciano and Paluso children."
Pirelli interrupted. "Got any idea of the type of gun used in the kids' murders? Could the bullets have been fired from a forty-four magnum? I brought one in. It's loaded, two bullets in the chamber."
The assistant slammed the filing cabinet shut. "Look, we are working overtime down here. There're more fragments of bullets around here than you've had hot dinners. If the gun you brought in is the one, then, when we've checked it out, I'll let you know. It's not our job to make guesses."
Pirelli gave the assistant a hard look and turned to walk out. The man called after him, "What about prints from the weapon you brought in? You want it checked for prints?"
Pirelli hesitated, then gave a tight nod. He had been so eager to bring his find in that he had forgotten. "Yeah, no one's touched it."
"Except you, right? You must have handled it to find out it was still loaded?"
Pirelli flushed. "Yeah . . . You've got my prints, so you can eliminate them, and . . . you're doing a great job."
The assistant muttered an obscenity under his breath as Pirelli walked out.
Pirelli was irritated to find Ancora using his typewriter again. "Don't you have an office of your own?"
Ancora grinned. "Not anymore. It's a shoebox at the end of the corridor. Had a good day?"
"Yep, and it's not over. Take a look at this. . . . An old brother at the monastery gave it to me, very furtively. There's a photograph of Luka at twelve, maybe thirteen. Get it blown up, may help. And he's got very distinctive blond hair all right, almost albino, blue eyes, about five-ten and a half to eleven. According to Brother Guido, he's pretty strong."
Ancora looked at the photo and wrinkled his nose. "Jesus Christ, is this a kid, the one in the wheelchair?"
"Yep, that's Paul Carolla's son, Giorgio."
Ancora's mouth fell open. Pirelli nodded at the photo. "Luka was adopted by Carolla when he was twelve or thirteen. No one's too sure of his exact age; they've got no birth certificate. But Carolla adopted him, took him to America after that poor, malformed creature died." Suddenly he picked up the phone and dialed records. "It's Pirelli. Do you think you could trace the records of a kid arrested in July 1968?"
The voice at the other end of the phone laughed and told him, humorously, to fuck off.
"I'm serious. All I've got is that he was blond, named Luka. I've got no surname, but he was in a bad way, brought in with a bunch of kids working the waterfront. He needed hospital treatment. Would have been about five or six years old."
"You got an arresting officer?"
"Nope, but the hospital was the Nazareth."
"Oh, come on, Pirelli, that burned down ten years ago."
"I know, but do what you can." Pirelli hung up and swiveled his chair. Only then did he notice the memos in his in tray. He picked them up, read them carefully, and leaned back, closing his eyes.
"Sweet Jesus ..."
Ancora looked over. "That came
in this morning. It's from the Luciano file. Must have come loose."
Pirelli shook his head. "I don't believe this! It says the chef from the San Lorenzo, the restaurant where the Lucianos were all poisoned, was shot, according to ballistics, with a Heckler and Koch. The other . . . How old is this? When was this report done?"
Ancora shrugged. "Must be months back. What, eight, nine months old?"
Pirelli turned over the page. "Second waiter was shot in the back of the head. Weapon, a forty-four magnum."
"They found the bodyguard stuffed down a well, but he'd been cracked over the head. There was no trace of the extra staff, the dishwasher, but they think he must have been a plant, you know, to get them into the place. There were three, possibly four men on the hit, judging by the footprints around the well. Joe—Joe, you listening?"
Pirelli was standing poised, his mouth open. "You're not gonna believe this ... I just brought in a weapon from the monastery, and it's Luka Carolla's, and it's a forty-four—magnum."
It was Ancora's turn to gape. "You're kidding?"
"No fucking way . . . Get back to the labs; they've given no details of the bullets in this report. Find out if they were marked, you know, with drills, like the others."
Ancora got on the phone as Pirelli started to pace the office. He was sweating. The Paluso boy, the two Luciano children, Paul Carolla, the restaurant staff—had their killer left his calling card on all these murders, the telltale scratches on the bullets? Could the same man have been responsible for the poisonings of Roberto Luciano and his sons?
"Hey, man, take it easy. . . . Take it easy, this is crazy," Pirelli said aloud.
"That's the first sign, talking to yourself." Ancora was getting no reply. He dialed again.
Pirelli pointed to the wall where the photographs were displayed. "I want pictures of all the Lucianos up there and of everyone else murdered at the restaurant. I want Paul Carolla up there. ... I want to see all their faces. Because I think they were all, and I mean all, killed by the same man."
"What are you, crazy?"
"No, I'm not, but I think their killer must be."
He got up and crossed the room to stand directly in front of the Luciano children's photo. "Look at the way he's positioned those two babies—shot them and then turned them to face each other, put their arms around each other as if they were sleeping."
The two men stared at the pitiful Carlo and Nunzio. Then they looked at the tragic Paluso boy, lying beside his bicycle in the gutter, his face a mass of blood, the back of his scalp blown away. The ice cream he had been holding had melted and mingled with his blood on the pavement. Pirelli chewed his lips. "The Luciano children were killed at what time? Nine, nine-fifteen, yes?"
"They weren't discovered until eleven o'clock, I think Lemme check ..."
Pirelli rubbed his hair until it stood on end. "The Lucian men were not discovered until after eleven, but their bodies were still warm. . . . The chef, the staff, you got a time 01 them?"
Ancora's hands flew over the files, slammed one drawer shut, and opened another. He took out a file and thumbed through it, turning page after page. Impatiently Pirelli snatched the file and dropped it; the papers scattered on the floor. H swore, got down on his knees, and scrabbled around until h triumphantly held aloft the page he wanted.
"Now, let's see ..." He got to his feet and threw hi hands in the air. "There's no time; this report's only half fin ished. What the fuck have those guys been doing? Get me Min celli on the phone. . . . Never mind, I'll go up."
About to slam out of the office, Pirelli paused. "Did you read about the Luciano women? What do you think is going on?"
Ancora shrugged. "The docks are swarming with men clearing the warehouses. They must have some big shot behind them, smells like trouble to me."
Pirelli nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
"That's the problem with this city: We can see trouble coming, but we're all too busy to do anything about it. Those women should watch out for themselves; something's going down. . . . You want a word of advice? Don't get involved we've got enough going on. You start looking for—"
Pirelli had already left. Ancora sighed, turning to look a the bulletin board, then glanced back at the confusion of paper covering the desk. Pirelli was very good at unearthing evidence but it was always up to Ancora to check it out. Still, he had t admit that he and Pirelli had moved things forward at a gallop But Ancora had the uncomfortable feeling that the horse was out of control.
CHAPTER 15
For eight weeks work went on around the clock. The canning factory was cleared and swept, the machinery put back into running order, and the tile factory, offices and warehouses, were made ready for occupation. The delivery trucks and even the typewriters were repaired.
Teresa worked herself to near exhaustion, driving a heavy truck from one location to the next, overseeing the workers and paying out the cash—always cash—and it was Teresa who ordered supplies, organized the painters and glaziers.
Rosa and Sophia worked well as a team. They were in charge of the twenty women cleaners and the army of men who were doing the heavy clearing, ferrying them from one place to the next. The women needed careful handling because they fought among themselves, argued about who should do which tasks, and complained if they thought they were doing men's work.
Rosa began to enjoy driving a pickup truck, wearing an old pair of overalls and a cloth cap, while Sophia spent her time hiring industrial cleaning machines and mechanical diggers, because along with the general cleanup they needed to uproot dead trees and remove tons of rotting fruit from the orchards. The sprinklers were repaired in readiness for the next season.
The three women worked from five in the morning until the last light of the evening. On occasion, when the factory's generators were restored, they stayed until after ten. They would arrive home at different times, baths would be run, food eaten. Then they would collapse into their beds exhausted, too tired to argue. They used a rotation system for taking care of their so-called houseguest, and he had been warned not to attempt to leave his room or to be discovered by Graziella.
Graziella shopped and cooked, helped wash their work clothes, and took their lunches to them in the factory. She enjoyed feeling a part of it all but knew not to meddle because Teresa's temper would make her own rise. Rather than stir up trouble, she kept herself busy.
One afternoon she returned home earlier than usual. Adina was at the market, and the house, she presumed, was empty. She decided to take a nap and was about to lie down when she heard a creak. A little afraid, she listened, then crept to her door. Someone was moving slowly down the stairs from the top floor. She inched her door open.
Luka had not heard Graziella return. As he made his way down the stairs, he checked each room, familiarizing himself with the layout. He passed Rosa and Teresa's room with its two single beds. Sophia's room had been left with the curtains drawn; he saw the pill bottles, the unmade bed.
He continued along the landing and was almost caught; Graziella was just going into her bedroom. He moved quickly into the nearest room, wincing as the door creaked badly. The room was obviously unoccupied; he left the door ajar and peeked out, listening. All was silent. He looked around at the small, neat bedroom with the sports equipment, the guitar with loose strings, the old posters on the wall.
He was just about to leave when he heard Graziella calling for Adina. He saw her pass along the landing and lean over the banister.
"Adina? Are you home?"
Through the gap he saw Graziella turn and stare toward him, at the partly open door. He had no idea that it was unusual, that he was in Michael's room and that Michael's door was always closed.
Slowly Graziella crossed the landing and pushed the door wider, wider. . . . There was no hiding place. He was caught, trapped, in the center of the room. But the scream he had expected didn't come. Instead, she stared at him and continued walking into the room.
"Who are you?" she whispere
d. "Who are you?"
"Don't be afraid," he stuttered. "I won't harm you. They know about me, I work for them, don't be afraid. . . . They said I could stay here, do you understand me?" Luka had spoken in English and was afraid she had not understood.
"Teresa? Did she say you could have this room?"
"No, no . . . Upstairs. I had a fall—see, I've injured my shoulder."
"But you're American?"
"Didn't they tell you about me?"
She was staring at him, moving closer and closer. "No, nobody told me. How did you get in?"
"They gave me a key."
"They should have told me; you gave me a fright. What is your name?"
"Johnny."
"You are in my son's room."
She came closer, staring into his face, then looked at his shoulder. "Did you break your collarbone?"
He put his hand across his chest. "I guess so, kinda wrenched it when I fell—fell onto a rusty nail."
"You want me to take a look?"
"No, they've done it up for me. . . . But I'm hungry."
She nodded and gestured for him to leave the room, closed the door behind them. "What part of America are you from?"
"New York."
When Adina arrived home and let herself into the kitchen, she was surprised to discover Graziella sitting with a strange boy, each enjoying a large dish of pasta.
But when Teresa returned, hours later, there was a different Graziella waiting, an irate one who didn't even wait for her to take her coat off.
"I want to talk, Teresa. I don't mind your using Papa's study as your own, but when you want someone to stay, you ask me. You don't let strangers come to this house without my permission, you understand? You don't know where he came from, who he knows, and you never let anyone have a key."
Teresa was so stunned she was hardly able to follow Graziella's meaning. "Wait, wait, Mama, what are you talking about?"
BELLA MAFIA Page 31