Pirelli left the office early to meet the radiologist. As he waited for the elderly Signora Brunelli in the small, neat apartment, he wondered if this was a waste of time. What good would anything he learned be to him in the present situation? He lit a cigarette and searched for an ashtray; he finally dropped the match into a dolphin-shaped bowl.
Signora Brunelli walked painfully slowly into the room. After he had helped her sit down, she asked why he was so interested in a patient she had seen more than fifteen years ago. With total honesty he told her that he didn't really know; it was just that anything he could find out about the young man he was trying to trace might, in the long run, help his investigation.
Signora Brunelli stared at the faded photograph of the orphans that Brother Thomas had given him. Her hands shook as she took out a magnifying glass and studied the picture for a considerable time, moving the glass from one face to the next.
"The boy ringed with red, the blond child—I am sure he is the one I x-rayed."
Pirelli nodded as he took the photograph back. "It was, as you so rightly said, a long time ago. You must have had hundreds, if not thousands, of patients. Do you remember them all?"
"No, no, of course not, but sometimes children stay in your mind longer, particularly children in that little boy's condition. Also, and possibly the reason I recall him, is that he had swallowed a . . ." She pursed her lips as she tried to remember, then nodded her head. "Yes, it was some kind of locket. They had tried to take it from him, and he had swallowed it. It showed up clearly on the x-ray. We were worried that it might cause a stoppage of his bowels, but there was no need to operate." "What condition was he in?"
Again she pursed her lips. "It was a long time ago. ... I had to do a number of X rays. . . . Skull, he had a fractured skull, the type of injury caused by consistent ..." She demonstrated a motion like a karate blow. "I also remember his shoulder, his left shoulder, was dislocated, and the arm broken. You know, a child's bones are very supple, but there were complications because his injuries had been left unattended for so long a time."
"You have an exceptional memory, signora."
"Thank you. It is just that this child was so pitiful. He had been sexually abused, tormented, I would say. It was horrifying, he was not more than five or six years old, and his body was skeleton thin, covered with scars and bruises." She shook her head. Even now, all these years later, the memory disgusted her, upset her.
Pirelli remained silent for a moment before asking if she had spoken to the boy. She looked at him in surprise.
"Oh, no, Commissario Pirelli. The child was dumb. I may be wrong, of course, but I am sure the boy was a mute."
It was an incredible coincidence. As Pirelli drove back to headquarters, the engine of his Fiat began to make strange noises. He kept on driving but used the back streets in case he broke down. The car chugged and chuffed, and smoke began pouring out of the engine.
He stopped and lifted the hood, then realized that not fifteen yards away down the back street was a small repair and car rental shop.
Pirelli wandered across to a mechanic who was working under an old Fiat. Showing his ID, he asked if the mechanic could drop everything and fix his car for him. The man turned out to be the owner, and as he slid from underneath the car, he asked Pirelli if there was any word on his own car.
Pirelli, puzzled, looked at him. The owner persisted. "It's been five days. Haven't you traced it yet?"
Pirelli shook his head. "I'm not with traffic. What's the problem? Stolen, was it?"
"Yeah, five days late back from rental. I sent in a report, but I've heard nothing. American, and he's not at the address he put down."
In the hope of getting his car fixed quickly, Pirelli prom-
ised to pass the papers to the right department. Then he saw the name.
The driving license particulars were in a neat, clear print. The car had been rented by Luka Carolla.
Through the window Adina watched the car pause yet again. Three times it had cruised past the villa gates. This time it turned into the drive.
A young man wearing dark glasses and a navy blue suit stepped from the Alfa Romeo, walked casually up the steps to the porch, and rang the bell. Then he pressed his face against the stained glass, trying to see into the hall.
"Who is it, Adina?" Graziella made her way slowly down the stairs.
"Shall I answer, signora?"
"Yes, yes, quickly."
Graziella turned to look up the stairs. Luka remained on the first landing, peering over the banister.
The man leaned against the doorframe and smiled at Graziella. "Signora Luciano, allow me to introduce myself. I am Giuseppe Rocco. My father was a great friend of Don Roberto. May I come in? Thank you, thank you ..."
Graziella could not recall the young man's father, but she gestured for him to follow her into the living room. She offered sherry, coffee, or tea, but he refused. He sat in the center of the sofa and placed his expensive leather briefcase on the floor beside his highly polished black shoes. His eyes, behind the dark glasses, roamed everywhere while his lips continued to smile.
"Sadly, my father died more than two years ago. I now work for the Corleones; I handle their real estate business. May I give you my card, Signora Luciano?"
Graziella gazed at the neat white card, then tapped it against her hand. "If you have come to discuss business, then you must speak with my daughter-in-law. Are you interested in leasing the factory? Is that why you're here?"
"Pardon?"
Graziella blushed. She was uncertain of Teresa's plans, so she quickly changed the subject. "Are you sure I cannot offer you tea? Some lemonade? I made it myself."
"Thank you, a lemonade would be most refreshing."
Left alone, Rocco was like an eel, slithering around the room, picking things up, turning over papers. Then he walked out into the hall.
The stairs creaked. Luka winced and slipped into the nearest room. Rocco almost caught him; he knew someone had been on the stairs, and he paused, listening. Rocco moved quickly to the study and had the audacity to try to enter, but the door was locked. Again he listened intently at the foot of the stairs, then walked into the kitchen.
Graziella was startled by his sudden appearance. "You've met Adina, my housekeeper, Signor?" She handed him the lemonade, unable to recall his name.
"Giuseppe Rocco." He smiled and sipped the lemonade. "This is very nice, refreshing." He stared at Adina, then back to Graziella. "Is your daughter-in-law at home?"
"Teresa is at the tile factory. If you would like to leave a message, I will make sure she receives it."
Rocco smiled and put his half-finished lemonade on the wooden table. "What time is she expected home, Signora Luciano?"
"Maybe five o'clock, maybe later. She is very busy."
"Then perhaps you would tell her that I called and that I would like to talk with her as soon as possible. My clients are the purchasers of the villa, and they would like to discuss immediate occupancy. Thank you for seeing me and for that delicious lemonade."
He removed his glasses. His eyes were strangely unfocused, with deep red pressure marks around the sockets. He replaced the glasses quickly, and with a small bow and a slight click of his polished heels, he saw himself out.
After watching Rocco drive slowly away from the villa, Luka turned from the bedroom window and noticed the big bed with the wooden posts, draped in a dust cover. He recognized it as the room where the two little boys had been murdered. His body tensed, the adrenaline pumping through him, making him as alert as a cat. He moved quickly and silently upstairs to his own room, his breath hissing through clenched teeth.
He unbuttoned his shirt and eased the bandage from his shoulder. The scab was larger than the bullet hole, but the swelling had subsided, leaving only a dark bruise over most of his shoulder. He flexed his muscles and felt the stiffness of his fingers. The shoulder had bothered him since it was broken when he was a child. Now it felt as if small grains of s
and were grinding together, but it was healed well enough to leave the bandage off.
He searched the room for a small pair of scissors. Then, watching his actions in the mirror, he began, clumsily, to cut the stitches. Suddenly he whirled, scissors raised in a reflex gesture of protection, but he dropped his arms immediately when he saw that it was Graziella who had entered the room.
Her arms were full of clothes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. These are for you. They were Michael's."
She put the clothes on the bed and turned to him. A drop of blood trickled down his arm from where he had cut the first stitch, and she hurried to him with motherly concern.
Luka sat at the kitchen table while Graziella and Adina fussed with hot water and antiseptic. Adina cut the stitches, using a razor-sharp kitchen knife, then pulled the thread away with tweezers. He clenched his teeth as he felt each stitch go, and tears smarted in his eyes. Finally he felt a pad with cool disinfectant cream placed on the wound, and Adina cut strips of adhesive to hold it in place.
When he was bandaged, Graziella cupped his face in her hands and gently kissed his forehead. "What a brave boy you are. It's all over now."
Slowly Luka lifted his arms, slipped them around her, and rested his head against her breasts. Her hand stroked his hair with feather-light touches, and his grip tightened. He had never felt so safe, so protected, in his entire life.
Graziella's hand patted Luka's bare back, and she froze. Her fingers traced the scars; she released him to look at his back.
"My God, your back, what happened? Look, Adina, the scars . . . Mother of God, Johnny, who did this to you?"
Adina gasped at the sight, the deep scars crisscrossed in weals, rough where they ran together in ridges, leaving deep, stretched white lines.
Luka backed away, grabbing his shirt. "It was nothing—"
"Nothing? I have never seen such scars. What happened? How did you injure yourself like that?"
Luka tried to put his shirt on but needed Graziella's help.
She kissed him again. "It hurts you to remember, yes?" She began to button his shirt for him.
He nodded; then, feeling safer with his shirt on, he lied. "It was a water-skiing accident. I fell off and got caught in the propeller of the speedboat."
"Oh, you poor boy. You are lucky to be alive, no?"
"I guess so . . . yes, I guess so."
Graziella nodded her sympathy, then smiled. "You know, your hair looks like—Have you seen Rosa's hair? She cut it herself."
He smiled, and Graziella tutted. "You young people, when you've got something God gave you, you want to ruin it. Now, sit down, and let Adina give you a haircut."
Luka ran his fingers through his hair and gave a boyish laugh. Adina opened a drawer and brought out a pair of scissors and an old tablecloth. Graziella pulled out a chair.
"Come on, sit down, we'll make you look handsome; we'll cut off that color."
Luka asked Adina, "You know how to cut hair?"
"Oh, si, Signor Johnny, I have a sister who is a hairdresser, and I taught her everything she knows. Sit . . . See my hair? I cut my hair."
Adina's hair was what could only be described as a basin
cut.
Graziella gave him a wink. "I'll make sure she cuts it good. I'll watch, tell her what to do. I'll get Don Roberto's clippers from the bedroom."
Graziella was not gone more than a few minutes, but when she came back, she gasped. Adina had chopped off all the dye, leaving small sprouts of blond hair sticking up. "Adina, what have you done?"
"Cut the dye off, like you told me to."
Luka looked up, bits of hair covering his face and shoulders. "She's fast, I'll give her that."
The two old women fussed and argued while Luka sat passively, not even complaining when Adina cut his neck as she
shaved it. Then they stood back to review their handiwork.
Graziella blew the hair from his eyes. "I don't think you will like it, but when it grows a bit, you will. ..."
The three trooped into the hall, and Luka stood in front of the big mirror. There was no sign of any hair dye; in fact, there was very little sign of hair at all. Adina had given him what was virtually a crew cut, a very short, slightly lopsided crew cut.
"What do you think?"
Luka tipped his head slightly, then smiled a beautiful, slow smile. His pale blue eyes twinkled. "I think I look like I just got out of prison."
Graziella put her hands to her cheeks. She looked so upset that he bent and kissed her. She reached out and touched his hair.
"My son Michael was as blond as you. For a moment you had such a look of him, don't you think, Adina?"
Adina was busily trimming bits off her own hair. She turned, scissors in hand.
"Signora, would you like me to trim your hair?"
Graziella ran into the kitchen, squealing like a girl. "No, heaven forbid! One prisoner is enough!"
Adina caught Luka's arm and whispered, "If the signora asks you to go for a drive, refuse. She is crazy in the car; she has no license." She nodded, her lips pursed, and followed Graziella into the kitchen.
Luka giggled, stared at himself, then hurried after them, not wanting to leave them, wanting to feel their warmth, their affection.
He stood, smiling, in the doorway while they argued about which one was going to make his lunch. He went up and put his arms around Graziella from behind.
"We will sit in the garden, yes, Johnny?"
Adina hurried to get Graziella an old coat and brought another for Luka. "It's cold; you don't want to catch a cold. . . ."
He put the coat on and followed Graziella, then turned back to say, "I like my haircut, Adina; it's a very good, professional cut. Short, yes, but with great style."
Luka and Graziella sat side by side on the swing chair in the garden, both wrapped in their heavy coats. The ground was covered in white frost. Adina opened the kitchen window and heard them talking.
"I was just thinking, soon it will be Christmas." Graziella sighed.
"You like Christmas?"
Her eyes filled with tears. "I used to, with all my family around me. Now . . . what a terribly empty day it will be. No sons, no grandchildren . . . You see that big tree?" She pointed to a big elm. "That was where we would hang the lights, and Papa, when the boys were young, would creep out and hang their stockings in the tree. And on Christmas morning, oh, how they would run, shouting, calling up at our window that Santa Claus had come. . . . My grandchildren, too . . . This Christmas there will be no one waiting for Santa to come."
Luka took her hand gently in his and held it to his lips. "Don't cry, please don't cry."
From the kitchen Adina saw the gesture and smiled.
The women's first priority on reaching Rome was to sort through Sophia's stack of mail. Teresa needed no more evidence that her sister-in-law was in even worse financial trouble than she had stated.
They toured the workrooms, which lay as dormant as the Lucianos' warehouses in Palermo. Bales of cloth stood where they had been delivered. The machines were covered in dust.
Teresa carried with her the papers on the sale of the warehouse and asked Sophia about the other business Domino had cited. Sophia hesitated, then shrugged; why not let her see everything? She checked the drawer of the reception desk and found the keys.
"Follow me. I had no idea this place existed until my so-called partner showed it to me. It was apparently very lucrative, so it shows how hopeless I must have been as a businesswoman."
They crossed the yard to another small door. Rosa pointed to some men watching from the building opposite and snickered at their wolf whistles. Teresa turned sharply, looking from Rosa to the workmen.
"Rosa, don't encourage them."
Sophia smiled. "She's young. Besides, she looks very pretty."
"She is also still in mourning. Rosa, don't look."
Rosa gave Sophia a tiny wink and lowered her head modestly.
Sophia tried one key a
fter another before she found the right one. Teresa was almost breathing down her neck.
"So this wasn't connected with your boutiques?"
"Well, in a way. They used my business as a cover. This is a cheap mail-order business. . . . You'll see what I mean when I show you the stock."
"And you never knew anything about it?"
Sophia sighed. "No, Teresa, I have just said I didn't know anything about it. I had no idea."
"I don't understand."
Sophia paused on the stairs and looked down at her. "Because they didn't want me to. I believed I was doing everything on my own, all separate from the Lucianos, making my own money, when in truth I was doing nothing. Don Roberto financed me, via Constantino. It was very simple. I used their accountants, their business managers. My boutiques were a cover; they lost money. But they used them, used me."
"And you never suspected?"
Sophia opened the door into the sweatshop. "No, I never suspected."
She was astonished when Teresa suddenly put an arm around her. "Bastards, huh? You must have felt sick."
"I think 'betrayed' is more the word. My husband used me. Papa, too. What does it matter? I failed. They treated me as if I were a child, and the boutiques my toys."
She led them into the cavernous empty room. It had been stripped of all the machines, and Sophia gave a humorless laugh. "There were about thirty girls working on machines in here. As you can see, when I paid them off, they took everything they could lay their hands on. Either them or the disgusting manager."
"Your so-called partner must have had a hand in this," Teresa said. "Those machines were worth a fortune."
Sophia agreed. "I guess he felt he could do exactly as he wanted. There was no one to be afraid of anymore."
There was still some discarded stock left, some hanging out of the boxes. Rosa picked up a pair of frilly panties. "Oh,
I love these, and look at this nightie! Oh, Sophia, they're gorgeous."
Sophia looked at Teresa, and they burst out laughing. "Rosa, they are disgusting, cheap crap. Look at the colors, and it's all nylon. Still, take what you want."
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