“You really need a haircut?” Marcus asked in disbelief.
“Yeah. A shave, too,” Frank confirmed and exited the car once he had scanned the windows of the buildings around them.
“I’m so glad you had me put the vest on for this,” Williams drilled sarcastically as they approached the establishment’s front door.
With his hand on the knob, Campanelli turned and said in a near-whisper. “You know, for an ex-Navy Seal, you whine a lot.”
“I retired for a reason, Frank, not to go from one war zone to another.”
Campanelli had no reply other than the slightest of grins as he opened the barbershop door. The warped wood creaked with age as its full-length window rattled with the sudden movement. A brass bell rung from its mount as the door struck it.
From a back room a tall figure emerged. Dressed in a white dress shirt with blue stripes, a black vest and matching pants, the proprietor was the very vision of an old fashioned barber. His own hair, though heavily salted with age, was perfectly sculpted. High in the front in a near pompadour style with a dove tail at the back, the look exuded confidence as much as it did a feeling of nostalgia.
“Ilario Ardella,” Frank greeted as he stepped to meet the man in front of one of two ornately chromed barber’s chairs.
“That’s me,” he returned reservedly but shook the offered hand. He eyed his next customer with a mild sense of recognition. “How you doin’ today?” he greeted.
“Fine, just fine. It’s Frank,” he reminded the older man. “Frank Campanelli.”
Ilario brightened at the name. “Ah! Yeah, yeah. ‘A course! Been a while.”
“Sure has,” Frank agreed as he removed his sport coat, revealing his shoulder holster. He introduced Marcus Williams as he hung the jacket on a coatrack. The two men shook hands.
Campanelli sat in the barber chair furthest from the door and Ardella draped him in a pristinely white sheet. Marcus took a seat in one of the beaten leather chairs along the opposite wall, keeping an eye on the cruiser parked out front.
“Shave and a cut, please, Ilario,” Campanelli requested aloud. He held the older man’s eyes for a moment longer and reached out to him with his CAPS-Link device, for he knew that Ardello was so equipped. As the barber accepted the detective’s internal communication, another customer entered the small shop.
Frank quickly measured him as a concern. The new arrival was the youngest one in the room, looking to be about twenty-five. He was dressed in clothes a little too nice for the neighborhood and wore an expression of barely contained aggression and obvious suspicion. His shiny black shoes clicked along the checkered vinyl tile as he made his way to a chair not very far from Williams.
“Hey, how you doin’?” the barber greeted in his reserved but friendly manner.
“Bene, Ilario,” the customer replied, sounding more pleasant than his facial expression appeared.
To Frank’s audio receptors, Ilario transmitted in a voice sanitized of personal inflections, “His name’s Alberto Francesco, a made man. Too young for an implant.”
“Good,” Campanelli sent back in kind. “Is anyone onto yours, yet?”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Ilario answered. “As far as everyone in the neighborhood knows, I’m just an old, dumb ex-mobster barber.” He spoke aloud for the benefit of the spy. “You wanted a shave, right?”
“Yep.”
Ilario raised the chair and reclined it, then turned to the counter behind him and retrieved a small bottle of shaving oil. He splashed some of it on one hand, replaced the bottle and rubbed his hands together. He then applied the oil to Frank’s waiting face.
“What brings you out here, detective?”
“We’re looking for someone you may still be in a position to have heard about,” Frank explained in silence.
“Who might that be?” Ilario replied and reached for the shaving cream.
“A man named Jimmy Antony.”
“I thought so,” Ardello sent as he applied the cream with a soft brush. He held Frank’s gaze for a second; not too long to make sure he was not giving a telltale sign that they were communicating clandestinely. Frank closed his eyes to not give it away.
“What have you heard, Ilario?”
“Are we keeping the sideburns, sir?” Ardello asked as the brush clanked in its bowl. “Antony’s in big trouble with Ignatola over a big time bust over at the airport in DuPage. He got caught trying to smuggle a family.”
“Yes, please,” Campanelli confirmed. “I was there.”
“Figures. Anyway, Phil blames Jimmy for it. Ignatola’s lieutenant was in here yesterday with a couple of his men. They were yacking about it,” Ilario explained as he brought out the razor and tilted Frank’s chin upward.
“Ignatola’s got just the one trafficking crew?”
“Yes. The family was just breaking into the racket. They had only exported maybe a dozen customers when Antony got sloppy.”
Frank kept the death of Officer Albert Kelly out of the conversation for the moment. “His lawyer got him sprung before we could pin him with participating in the shooting.”
“I heard,” Ilario confirmed as he swiped the razor against a towel to clean it. “He’s lying real low somewhere. Ignatola’s people want him dead.”
“Do they have any clues to where he might be?”
“How much you want I should take off here?” the barber asked as he brought up the chair. “Nope,” he sent.
“Just a light trim, please,” Frank answered. He looked to Marcus, who was feigning interest in a paper magazine. The mob spy was doing the same. “You sure?”
“As shit.” The barber’s clipper buzzed to life and was skillfully guided over Campanelli’s cranium.
Frank thought a moment as his already short hair was made even shorter. Mentioning the dead officer might press Ardello to give him what he needed, but it might shut the man up instead. His very presence in this neighborhood was enough to tip off the Ignatola organization and he did not wish to get the old barber into trouble with them. Their methods of solving problems were usually permanent. The arrival of the spy was actually to Ardello’s benefit, for if he was to report that nothing was said and it was still a belief that he had no implant with which to communicate, it would merely look as if Campanelli stopped by for a haircut while in the neighborhood.
As Ardello went over his work with a comb and clippers, Frank noticed a squad car roll slowly by the window. It had been the only street traffic since their arrival. A few minutes went by and, as Ilario came close to finishing, Campanelli took a chance.
“You know that one of ours was found dead the day of the DuPage Airport arrests, right?”
“There was rumor that a rat was found,” the barber sent, drawing a sharp glance of annoyance from his customer. “Their words, Frank, not mine.”
“Did any of your customers speak of who shot the undercover officer?”
Ilario halted in his work and set the clippers and comb down on the counter. Stepping around to face his customer, he touched his chin to have the man lift his face. As he checked the height of each of Frank’s sideburns, he sent, “Antony’s your cop killer.”
Campanelli’s heart sank and despite being closely watched by the spy, he shut his eyes against a swell of anger that he fought hard to keep from spreading to the rest of his face. Not only had Jimmy Antony been a human trafficker and had shot at Campanelli, but he was Kelly’s murderer.
“The ballistics of the Antony’s firearm did not match the rounds found in our dead man.”
“What can I say, Frank?” Ardello shot a brief glance into his customer’s face. “Most guys own more than one gun.”
“How reliable is your source?” Campanelli inquired.
“Almost from the top. Ignatola ordered it,” Ardello explained as he again went to the counter for the bottle of hair tonic and another comb. “Also, there was talk that Iggy himself is not the money behind the trafficking operation. His crew just takes car
e of the day-to-day ground stuff. Money man owns the planes.”
“Who’s the money man?”
“Can’t help you there. No name was mentioned.” The barber was finished. He removed the sheet and brushed the tiny hairs from the back of Frank’s neck. “Okay, you’re all set,” Ilario announced.
“What do I owe you?” Frank asked as he stretched on the way for his jacket.
“A c-note.”
Campanelli looked the barber over as he put on the jacket. Considering the economy, a hundred dollars for a shave and a haircut was reasonable. Reaching for his wallet, he paid the man, giving him an extra twenty as a tip.
“Thank you, Ilario,” Frank praised with a satisfied smile. “First rate work as always.”
Ardello could tell from the sincere expression on the detective’s face that he meant to thank him for the information as well as the haircut. “Don’t be such a stranger, Frank.”
“I’ll see you,” Campanelli promised and gave the barber his scout salute. Nodding to Williams, his partner dropped the magazine back onto the coffee table and followed Frank through the door, giving Ardello a pleasant nod while keeping the young mob spy in view in the mirrors.
Frank was not surprised to note a pair of suspicious looking men loitering on the corner to his left. Both wore sunglasses and were, like the spy inside the barbershop, well dressed. They turned their heads toward the two policemen as they stepped out, but the gazes were indirect. The men put on a good show, pretending that they were involved in an interesting conversation and had not noticed the policemen. Campanelli stepped to the driver’s side of the cruiser and got in. When Williams entered and had affixed his seatbelt, Frank wasted no time in getting the cruiser moving down the street.
Marcus called dispatch to update their location as Frank turned north at the next street. As they went, he kept his eyes moving, checking out every pedestrian and as many windows and doorways as he possibly could.
“So, what was that all about?” Williams asked.
“I got a haircut,” Frank answered as if the big man were a small child.
“Frank,” Marcus pressed.
“Okay, okay. The barber is Ilario Ardello, an ex-mobster that was connected to another family when he was younger. Ignatola took over the territory and Ardello turned to a milder life of crime.”
“What would that be?” Williams asked.
“He became a bookie. Still is, but since all we have left is baseball and hockey outside a’ school sports, he never made much money.”
“So he cuts hair.”
“He keeps a low profile because no one in the Ignatola family knows who he used to be connected to. He’s a snitch that keeps the fact that he has an implant, very, very quiet,” Frank explained as he stopped for a working stop light. He activated the autodrive and turned to Marcus. “In exchange for us not leaking his past, every once in a while a detective goes over there and gets a haircut. He gets a lot of Ignatola family business in that shop because he happens to be about the greatest barber left in the city.”
“Are you telling me that you two had a conversation about our case?”
“You know, Marcus,” Frank said as if about to spill a secret, “you’re smarter than you look.” He smiled and pulled out a cigarette from his jacket pocket. The light turned green and the cruiser continued on its way.
“Nice. So what? What did he have to say?” Marcus said as he let his window down a few inches.
Campanelli lit his cigarette and shut the NYPD lighter hard. It clinked sharply. “Antony shot Detective Kelly,” he said with disgust and opened his window.
Marcus cussed harshly and slammed his fist into the door panel.
“That’s about right,” Frank agreed and went on to explain the rest of the conversation with Ardello.
“So, is the Ignatola family still going to do the trafficking for this…whoever?” Marcus asked after some contemplation.
“Who knows?” Frank replied in an exhalation of smoke which swirled thickly on its way through his open window. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of hiring new drivers. We didn’t catch their pilots. The guys we picked up with Antony aren’t talking. We don’t know how the Whethers family was going to be moved from the DuPage Airport or where they were going. All the aircraft there were legit.”
“Well, what do we do next, Frank?”
“We wait. We search,” he said and added lowly, “and we go to a funeral.”
***
The next morning arrived in a shroud of gray. The clouds threatened heavy storms and the air was almost cold, considering the mild weather that had come before it.
Frank Campanelli prepared for the dismal Tuesday’s proceedings in utter quiet. He had not even turned on the HV for the morning news. Once showered, he retrieved his dress uniform from the bedroom closet, the one with the wool coat adorned with the gold aiguillette over the left shoulder. He removed the plastic garment bag and with a heavy sigh, began to dress.
As he snatched the cap from the closet shelf, he considered the possibility of rain and took its transparent cover along as well. He stepped to the bathroom mirror, placed the cap on his head and gave a slight adjustment to the checkerboard hatband. Nearly forgetting about the possible showers, Frank stopped just short of closing his front door behind him before heading quickly back to the bedroom to retrieve his CPD slicker.
McKay and his dog were not attending the front door. It was almost eight in the morning, so Luke and Old Bill were most likely on a walk. Though he had wanted to thank McKay for the work on the sink, their absence was a relief to Campanelli, who did not wish to explain the reason for his mode of dress.
The drive to the funeral home was short, only nine blocks away. As usual, most of the spaces on both sides of the street in front and along the side streets were taken up by police cars and motorcycles.
Frank sat a moment before getting out of the car. This is the third one and its only May, he thought. Campanelli was no stranger to funerals as he had been an officer a longer time in New York City than here in Chicago. Every time he attended one, his mind would take him back to all of the others. If he thought about it too long his thoughts would return to the one most painful and personal.
As if he had received an electrifying graze from a pulse rifle, Campanelli got out of the car. He set his cap upon his head as he walked toward the funeral home and took comfort in the shade which settled over his eyes. He removed his white gloves from his coat pocket and pulled them on, but found no solace in their protection.
Marcus met him inside and when it had come time for the procession to Rosehill Cemetery, his partner rode with him. The mood was somber for all, but Campanelli felt the rekindling of the anger over the lightning quick release of Kelly’s murderer. In addition to Williams, Frank had informed Vanek of what he had found out from the old barber, but it was to remain quiet until it could be proven. It was some time into the drive to Rosehill before Campanelli realized that his partner was feeling the same way.
Frank had set the cruiser to follow the convoy of vehicles and glanced over to Marcus. Like he had done, Marcus kept his cap on. His eyes stared hard and forward, partially protected by the brim from the blue and white strobes which blazed brightly out into the overcast day.
Campanelli drew a hard breath and pushed it away. “You okay?”
Marcus said nothing as he gave a sharp nod.
Frank started to reach for a cigarette and tilted his head in annoyance when he realized that he had none with him.
“We have to find Antony, Frank.”
“Yeah.”
A city block went by their windows unnoticed.
“I swear she knows that her husband’s shooter was let go,” Marcus hollowly.
Frank understood his partner to mean the widow of the man lying in the lead car. Barbara Kelly, a woman Frank had met once, was a demure, mild-mannered woman with dark hair and sharp facial features which became eloquent when she smiled. Today, however, Barbara’s expre
ssion was hardened as a granite bluff with more anger than sorrow. She had avoided making eye contact with most of the people that he had seen her conversing with, but when she had given a glance into their faces her eyes were little daggers that slashed before darting back to the comfort afforded by a white handkerchief.
“I only told you and Vanek,” Frank said.
“I know,” Williams conceded, “but did you see her?”
“Yeah, she’s mad her husband’s gone. I know that feeling,” he said too harshly.
Marcus turned from the mesmerizing lights and met his older partner’s gaze. He nodded in understanding then looked away.
The procession turned into Rosehill and stopped. The ceremony proceeded once the pallbearers set the flag-draped coffin upon the stand. As he stood in his place amongst the other officers in attendance, Frank found himself watching Barbara Kelly closely. The widow appeared as angry as he felt. Though she shed many tears throughout the morning, she wiped each one away as if it were an annoying insect. The only time her expression surrendered to complete sorrow was when the flag was folded and presented to her. She broke to near collapse and the women on either side of her, most likely sisters, leaned in to hold her upright in a tight embrace.
The rifles were fired into the air as the rain speckled dark wood coffin reflected the rays of the muted sun. When the gunfire faded the casket began to lower into the rectangular hole as the bagpiper played his lonesome tune. The officers saluted.
Despite Frank’s lack of religious convictions, he bit the inside of his mouth to keep his eyes from tearing. Cheating, he ordered his implant to block the sound, which it could only do to a certain degree. He needed to distract his mind, so he composed a message for Williams.
“Meet me at District One as soon as you can after this,” he sent.
“We’re not going to the luncheon?” was Williams’s reply.
“We have a murderer to catch.”
***
It was two thirty in the afternoon, just three hours after Al Kelly’s funeral. The rain had stopped and the sun did much to dry the streets. Frank was perusing the case files from his terminal at the District One station. Like many of the desks around his, it was not used very much. It was clean except perhaps for a light layer of dust on the two dimensional computer monitor. Many of the desks in the detective squad room were unassigned and though he had never known the place to be fully occupied, he had noticed that manpower had dwindled over the past year and a half. According to intradepartmental reports, the amount of officers and detectives had remained the same for years. From his personal count, the station was down ten officers since the beginning of 2110. Three were deceased and seven others resigned.
Campanelli: Sentinel Page 6