As he opened the car door, the parking attendant called out something to him. He looked around, but the attendant had bent down out of sight. Barzini slammed the door and started the engine, then turned and slung his arm along the back of the seat as he reversed. He heard something fall off the rear seat, and after pushing the gear lever to the park position, he leaned over to see what it was.
In the dim light of the garage he could not see clearly, so he opened the glove compartment, took out a flashlight, and shone it on the floor behind his seat. Still unable to see, he put his hand down to feel what had fallen. He grasped some kind of fiber and pulled.
The material was human hair, attached to the severed head of Harry Barzini, his cousin.
Panic-stricken, a scream strangled in his throat, Barzini struggled out of his jacket and threw it over the dismembered head. Then he fumbled to open the trunk of the car.
The stench made him retch. He became hysterical, gibbering and shaking, and the head slipped from his shaking hands, rolling like a ball beneath the car.
Barzini had to get down on his hands and knees on the oil-streaked concrete floor to retrieve it. His fingers inched toward the ghastly, glaring face. He drew it close by some strands of hair. Panting with the horror, he threw it into the trunk and slammed the lid down, but it sprang open again. He forced it down until the lock caught, then ran back to the elevator.
The parking attendant looked at Barzini, then back to the Lincoln, parked halfway across the exit lane.
"Mr. Barzini? Sir, you want me to move your car? Everything okay, Mr. Barzini?"
The elevator door closed, and the attendant made his way slowly to the Lincoln. Barzini's keys were still in the ignition.
He opened the door and drove the car the few feet back into the bay. He climbed out, locked the door, and was about to return to his duties when he looked at his hands. They were sticky, stinking. . . . Slowly he walked around the car to the back and bent down to see dark fingermarks all along the bodywork where Barzini had tried desperately to shut the trunk. He looked at the elevator, then back at the car, the keys dangling in his hand. . . .
The hysterical Barzini got back to his apartment just as Salerno was about to let himself in. He dragged Salerno inside. "Get some guys, have my car towed away, dumped, set alight. Where nobody can find it, understand me?"
"What happened, you had an accident?"
"Just fuckin' listen . . . The Luciano women are crazy motherfuckers. I've gotta pay them."
"What? I thought they were paid off by now."
"Just do what I tell you."
"The deal was a straight cut. What's gone wrong? You try something?" Salerno knew by Barzini's face that he had and shook his head. "When are you gonna learn, Mike? They already got stuff bein' shipped from Colombia into Palermo, but they got noplace to store it and ship it, so you're in shit if they don't get the Luciano property. What the fuck did you try?"
"Just get out of here and do what I tell you. Get my car towed out."
As Michele Barzini climbed into a taxi at the front of the Plaza Hotel, police cars were arriving at the entrance to the underground garage. His car was cordoned off, and a sheet covered the open trunk, concealing the remains of his relative.
Salerno turned tail as soon as he saw the cops. He tried to call Barzini from the hotel lobby, but just missed him.
The police were already at Barzini's apartment by the time Salerno returned to it. He overheard Elsa Barzini telling them that her husband was lunching at the Four Seasons. . . .
*
Barzini was ten minutes late arriving at the Four Seasons. He seemed composed as he walked up the wide staircase, carrying a black leather attache case, but when he sat down at his table, the sweat showed on his forehead.
Teresa smiled and said everything had gone smoothly. She passed him the thick folder of documents.
Barzini gestured to the wine waiter and asked Teresa, "You want wine? Mineral water?"
"White wine."
Barzini looked over the wine list, snapped the leather-bound pages shut. "Gimme a large bourbon on the rocks and number seventeen." He turned to Teresa again. "What'll you have?"
"The fresh salmon, please."
He examined the menu and looked at the still-hovering waiter.
"Dish of the day, no appetizer, thanks."
Then he moved his cutlery aside and opened the folder. He perused each paper, checking it thoroughly, not giving her a hint of what he felt. But the sweat formed a shining film across his upper lip.
His bourbon was placed on the table. His eyes glued to the documents, Barzini picked up the drink and all but downed it in one gulp. The wine waiter brought the bottle, and Barzini gestured to him to open it, not even looking to check the order.
He paused over one paper, flicked back to see if it connected with another, then continued, satisfied. He looked up as the waiter filled his wineglass, and then he stiffened.
Two uniformed police officers had entered the restaurant and were walking up the wide staircase. One called to the maitre d' to join them. Barzini's eyes, behind the glasses, blinked furiously. The maitre d' turned toward his table and pointed; the officers headed toward Barzini.
He turned, with a look of loathing, to Teresa. "You bitch, you set me up, you fucking whore!"
Barzini erupted into motion, hurling the big table up, sending the glasses and crockery cascading to the floor, and made an insane dash for the stairs.
He ran into the street, into the traffic, zigzagging among the cars as they swerved to avoid him. As the police officers gave chase, he ran directly into the path of a yellow cab. . . . His body was thrown into the air, over the front of the cab, and into the path of a delivery truck coming the opposite way. He bounced like a rag doll.
Luka, sitting in his parked car waiting for Teresa, watched the accident in stunned amazement.
Teresa saw it all through the vast windows overlooking the street. She slipped the documents into Barzini's case and clasped it under her arm, putting her handbag on top. In the commotion, with people running in and out of the restaurant, no one noticed her leave.
She walked straight to the waiting car and slipped into the backseat. The engine was already running.
As they pulled away, Luka said, "You see that guy get it from the truck. Looked like a dummy being chucked about."
"It was Barzini. Cops walked in, and he ran for it."
Luka grinned. "How come? Is the food that bad?"
She smiled and clutched the briefcase.
"Convenient, eh?" Luka said as he drove out into the mainstream of traffic.
"You could say that. Our money's in here, and I've still got the documents. I think we'd better get home."
Pirelli was in the middle of a coughing fit, his face gradually turning puce. His office door opened, and Inspector Carlo Gesu Gennaro smiled at him.
Pirelli gesticulated wildly. "Oh, man, I'm giving up smoking before it kills me."
"You said that four years ago when we worked together. Any hope of some coffee?"
Thick black coffee was brought in, and the two men lit up, filling the air-conditioned office with fine blue smoke that drifted out through the air vents.
Gennaro offered his condolences on the Palermo situation, and Pirelli shrugged. "I'll get him one day. How're things with you?"
Gennaro shrugged. "Oh, so-so. As I said, I'm on the Nino Fabio case, and I need to find Sophia Luciano. Seems she sold her apartment in Rome. On December 16, 1987, the day of the murder, she had an afternoon appointment with Fabio, and
everyone within earshot heard them having one hell of a row. She accused Fabio of bankrupting her, and she wanted to use some of his designs to open up her business again. He refused to help her. Interesting now; all Fabio's drawings, designs, whatever you call them, are missing, as is Signora Sophia, and I got no joy at the old Luciano headquarters. Place has been torn to the ground ... So, what can you do for me? Know any way I can get in touch with her?"
Pirelli poured more coffee. "You think she had something to do with it?"
Gennaro shrugged and accepted a refill. He heaped sugar into the cup, stirring it slowly with a plastic spoon already bent from use. "I doubt it. Looked like a real sicko at work, and it appears that Fabio was into being beaten and chained, liked his rough trade. Maybe the drawings were stolen to put us off the scent. All the same, I'll have to talk to her, just for elimination, you know."
Pirelli nodded. "I know she was in Palermo just before Christmas, for Graziella Luciano's court hearing. But I don't know where she is now."
Gennaro spilled coffee on his shirt and swore. He took out a grubby handkerchief to dry the spot.
"That suspect you're after, still no idea where he's run to?"
"Carolla? If I knew, I wouldn't be here."
Gennaro gave Pirelli a sidelong look. "Well, it's because of him that I'm here, that and trying to trace Sophia Luciano."
Pirelli was like a bird of prey. "You got something on him?"
"Maybe . . . We questioned Fabio's employees. There were more than thirty, but one of them, Celeste Morvanno, was in the hospital having a kid, so I didn't get to her until two days ago. She saw Sophia Luciano outside Nino's building, talking to a chauffeur."
Pirelli sighed. "Get to the point."
"Well, she's sitting in my office, right? I ask her to describe the guy so I could check if it was the same man the other witnesses saw. Well, she starts to hem and haw, then she gets up and walks over to the bulletin board. She points at the picture of Luka Carolla."
"What?"
"Hang on. 'I think this is him,' she says, 'but this photograph is more like him.' The photograph, Joe, is the one you sent around after the composite; they're both pinned up on my board."
Pirelli rocked backward and forward in his chair. "How much can you depend on this witness?"
"Not that much. It was a good three weeks after the event, but she came in of her own volition. There's no material gain. I mean, she doesn't even work at Fabio's anymore."
Gennaro rummaged in his briefcase, eventually pulled out a dog-eared folder. He tossed over some large black-and-white photos of the corpse. "Like I said, the guy that did it was a real sicko. You can see by the stains on the carpet Fabio bled to death. We found him parked among his dummies."
Pirelli stared in distaste at the photos, and Gennaro suggested that perhaps a real drink was in order.
It was not until Pirelli had downed a beer that he told Gennaro he had actually been with Sophia on the night Nino Fabio was murdered.
Gennaro gaped, and Pirelli gave him a dirty look. "We went to the opera, okay? But she was with me at the time you reckon Fabio was murdered."
Gennaro gave him a sly look. "Did you see any sign of the chauffeur?"
Pirelli's mind reeled. He lit a cigarette. He had seen the chauffeur but not paid him much attention, could not recall seeing his face. His started to sweat. Jesus Christ, had Luka Carolla been driving Sophia Luciano's Rolls?
His voice gave no hint of his turmoil. "No, I never saw him."
"How about when she took her mother-in-law to the trial? Any sign of him then?"
Pirelli dragged at his cigarette. He couldn't remember. At the time he had been too involved with his feelings for Sophia.
No . . . No, I didn't see anyone with her but her mother-in- law, Graziella Luciano."
Gennaro watched Pirelli order another drink, a brandy this time. "You okay, Joe?"
Pirelli smirked. "Yeah, like someone took a shot at my belly. I m trying to keep my head from falling off. . . . You sure about this chauffeur guy?" The drinks were brought, and Gennaro sat silently until the waiter had gone. "Joe, I'm asking you straight, and you'd better tell me because if I unearth anything, you'll be left covered in shit. . . . You and this Luciano woman, don't give me any crap about opera, you got something going with her?"
Pirelli stubbed out his cigarette. "I was investigating the murder of her two kids, for chrissake. Of course, I saw her, on more than one occasion, but it was on the level. I happened to be in Milan the same time as she was. We met accidentally and . . . that's all there was to it. If it wasn't, I'd tell you, okay? I guess I'm her alibi. She couldn't have been anywhere near Fabio's place when he was murdered."
Gennaro sniffed. "That's not to say she didn't get someone to do it for her." Pirelli's assistant in Milan, Eugenio Muratte, worked through his lunch hour while his chief and Gennaro sat in the bar. He joined them after an hour. He had been unable to trace the whereabouts of Sophia Luciano or her mother-in-law. But he could try Teresa Luciano in New York to see if she could help them.
Pirelli gave the go-ahead to call the NYPD and also suggested that he take the file on Nino Fabio and run it through the computer to check for any other homicides of a similar nature in the past five years.
The two men continued their liquid lunch. By the time they returned to Pirelli's office they realized they were hungry and sent out for some sandwiches.
There was a memo on Pirelli's desk to say that they would soon have Teresa Luciano's phone number in New York. When Eugenio returned, beaming, they both presumed he had it. But what he actually had was something far more important to Pirelli.
Pirelli scanned the telex from Palermo, then slumped back in his seat. "Listen . . . I've got the proof I needed. Luka Carolla's surfaced in the U.S."
He paced the room as he read aloud, " 'Aware that you are,' et cetera, et cetera, et cetera 'Manhattan State Bank, private boxes, one box listed as number four-five-six . . . after extensive inquiries was found to be owned by Paul Carolla, now deceased. The last will and testament of Paul Carolla,' et cetera, et cetera, 'New York City, named his son, Giorgio Carolla, as his sole heir. On December 28, 1987, the ownership of the box was transferred by court order to G. L. Carolla, to await collection. G. L. Carolla took possession of the contents of private bank box four-five-six, property of the Manhattan—' Jesus Christ! 'December 28, 1987.' That was one week ago!"
Gennaro thought Pirelli was about to kiss him. "What the hell does it mean?"
"G. L. Carolla is Luka Carolla, and I've got to be there before those bastards let him slip away. . . ."
Gennaro returned to his own headquarters, hoping to squeeze a flight to New York out of his bosses. Pirelli also harassed his superiors. He was granted an economy-class ticket to New York, plus three days' expenses. When Gennaro received his go-ahead, the two men arranged to travel together.
In New York the women divided the money, but not without argument. Rosa insisted on having her share separate from Teresa's. Then Graziella said she wanted to divide hers among them all; she wanted nothing for herself. In the end Teresa banked her money, and Sophia and Rosa banked theirs, insisting that Graziella take at least a quarter. They each traveled to a different bank, but only Teresa knew that they still retained the documents.
Luka made a call from a pay phone to Peter Salerno, requesting he arrange a meeting with Barzini's so-called partners. He was careful to make no mention of the Luciano women, sure that Barzini's phone would be tapped. Teresa stood beside the phone booth, listening.
"My clients are still interested in doing the same deal. They still have the documents and wish to do business." Luka could not repress a smile as he continued. "You see, they still have no cash, so they need to move quickly."
Salerno was sure that Barzini had cashed the banker's draft nd paid the widows, but he didn't say so. He simply stated that he would contact the parties involved. It would take a few days to set up a meeting. And he added, quietly and courteously, that he would require payment for his efforts.
Luka finally agreed to 2 percent of the final sum.
the waiter had gone. "Joe, I'm asking you straight, and you'd better tell me because if I unearth anything, you'll be left covered in shit. . . . You and this Luciano woman, don't give me any crap about opera, you got something going with her?"
Pirelli stubbed out his cigarette. "I was investigating the
murder of her two kids, for chrissake. Of course, I saw her, on more than one occasion, but it was on the level. I happened to be in Milan the same time as she was. We met accidentally and . . . that's all there was to it. If it wasn't, I'd tell you, okay? I guess I'm her alibi. She couldn't have been anywhere near Fabio's place when he was murdered."
Gennaro sniffed. "That's not to say she didn't get someone to do it for her."
Pirelli's assistant in Milan, Eugenio Muratte, worked through his lunch hour while his chief and Gennaro sat in the bar. He joined them after an hour. He had been unable to trace the whereabouts of Sophia Luciano or her mother-in-law. But he could try Teresa Luciano in New York to see if she could help them.
Pirelli gave the go-ahead to call the NYPD and also suggested that he take the file on Nino Fabio and run it through the computer to check for any other homicides of a similar nature in the past five years.
The two men continued their liquid lunch. By the time they returned to Pirelli's office they realized they were hungry and sent out for some sandwiches.
There was a memo on Pirelli's desk to say that they would soon have Teresa Luciano's phone number in New York. When Eugenio returned, beaming, they both presumed he had it. But what he actually had was something far more important to Pirelli.
Pirelli scanned the telex from Palermo, then slumped back in his seat. "Listen . . . I've got the proof I needed. Luka Carolla's surfaced in the U.S."
He paced the room as he read aloud, " 'Aware that you are,' et cetera, et cetera, et cetera 'Manhattan State Bank, private boxes, one box listed as number four-five-six . . . after extensive inquiries was found to be owned by Paul Carolla, now deceased. The last will and testament of Paul Carolla,' et cetera, et cetera, 'New York City, named his son, Giorgio Carolla, as his sole heir. On December 28, 1987, the ownership of the box was transferred by court order to G. L. Carolla, to await collection. G. L. Carolla took possession of the contents of private bank box four-five-six, property of the Manhattan—' Jesus Christ 'December 28, 1987.' That was one week ago!"
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