Campanelli: Sentinel

by Frederick H. Crook

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Church of the Divine Intervention!” he boomed, elongating the last two words to earn a blast of joyous cheering from the crowd.

  Feeling obliged to fit in undetected, Frank joined in with a loud, “Woo! Yeah!” This was immediately followed by a vigorous clapping of his hands. Seeing his older partner’s ploy, Marcus joined in.

  The music augmented to include a quickly paced bass guitar riff, followed by a rhythm and a lead guitar and organ. The announcer shouted even louder to be heard when he introduced the preacher.

  “And now!! The Reverend Max-eee-mil-yuuuun DeeeSiiilvaaaa!!”

  To this, the audience became loud enough that Frank’s audio receptors tripped, intercepting and defeating any sound above his preset eighty decibel limit.

  The great maroon curtains parted, revealing the immaculately dressed minister. He pranced to the front edge of the stage, where, leaning down, he shook the hands of anyone that reached out. This drew a few screams from various areas of the theater, to which Frank rolled his eyes.

  This was seen by Williams, who sent, “Careful, Frank. Your cynicism will give us away.”

  Campanelli turned to his taller partner and gave him a sideways grin.

  “Good evening, Chicago!” howled DeSilva. His audience screeched and screamed their returned greeting. “God bless you all and welcome!”

  More howling from the crowd.

  DeSilva began his show by leading a prayer to which all parroted. Frank had never been a religious man and doubted very much that he would ever become one, but he had no issues with his fellow man’s beliefs, no matter what they were. The only thing that offended the detective was when religion was used as an excuse for discrimination, violence or malfeasance. The man on stage was a fraud and Campanelli was sickened by the fact that he and his partner were likely the only ones in the building that knew it.

  Frank set his CAPS-Link to record everything that he heard and saw and, as the show progressed, he realized that the preacher had become only part of the attraction. It was the frenzied, mindless allegiance of the crowd all around them that he found truly disturbing. As DeSilva’s oration turned once again to the anti-mayoral rhetoric, many in the audience robotically answered the reverend’s emotion-churning accusations with threatening rumbles of nonsense that fueled their leader’s phony rage.

  It was essentially the same routine that Campanelli and Williams had witnessed on the HV broadcasts. Though there was nothing different about what DeSilva was spewing, this audience’s reaction to his words was raw and vulgar, an aspect that was sanitized from the broadcasts. This discovery shocked Campanelli and, as he snuck a glance up to his partner, he saw that it was not lost on him. Williams’s eyes were widened in surprise and, though he tried hard to not look out of place, it would be evident to any true follower of DeSilva’s that gave the big man any close scrutiny that he appeared offended and ill-at-ease.

  Thirty minutes went by and Frank knew by experience that another hour and a half of this was yet to come. At the next musical interlude, designed to cover the time spent for the HV station to run commercials, Frank elbowed his partner and jerked his head to beg him to follow.

  “Excuse me,” Campanelli said in his best, kindest tone to the younger man at his left, “my friend is ill.”

  “Oh, sure,” answered the man. He smiled and stood up along with the woman next to him, allowing Frank and Marcus to pass. Minutes earlier, these same two people cursed the name of the mayor and the Chicago Police Department at the prompting of DeSilva.

  “You’re ill. Let’s move,” Campanelli thought and transmitted.

  “It’s about time I got sick,” Marcus replied.

  The two men made their way out of the main amphitheater and were met by another usher. “Is everything okay, brothers? You’ll miss the rest of the show and the offerin’ plate.”

  “Sorry,” Frank replied and jerked his thumb behind him to implicate Marcus, “Bad Kung Pao Chicken.”

  Hearing this, Marcus quickly adapted an expression of agony and placed a mighty hand upon his belly. Wisely, the usher smiled and let it go, offering a speedy “God bless you” and a farewell.

  Williams dropped the sick act once they had reached the sidewalk and matched his Captain’s speedy pace back to the cruiser. Frank got in on the passenger side, letting Williams continue to command the car.

  “What now?” Marcus asked.

  “I’m sending the recording I just made of that debacle to Sebastian,” Campanelli answered with a tap to his temple. “If our mayor wants to arrest DeSilva in public, in front of people worked up like that, he’s crazy.”

  “It is asking for trouble,” Williams concurred.

  “In the meantime,” Frank went on after he had sent the file, “we monitor DeSilva’s vehicles. He’s still a flight risk.”

  ***

  Frank had Marcus drive the cruiser around the corner and into the alley behind the Church of the Divine Intervention. He wanted to inspect the area where the satellite service tracked the tour bus, two vans and two out of the three limousines. From the cluster of red dots on the dashboard screen, all were parked closely together inside the vast building near a large overhead door on the east side. After finding the door closed, Frank directed his partner to park amongst the cars in the lot across the street from the church, which was attached to a vacant, nondescript factory. It was also the location of the third limousine, to which they had parked within sight. There the two detectives sat, talking and watching the limo and the computer monitor.

  It soon became eight thirty in the evening and Campanelli, trying to make sure he kept all the possibilities in his head covered, considered sending a unit to DeSilva’s home to verify the presence of the Ferrari. He fumbled through the internet pages they had opened to find the DeSilva residence.

  “Frank, he’s here,” Marcus objected, “and not going anywhere without us seeing him.” He knew full well the number of officers and detective units on duty that night and was aware of how many they had taken up for the surveillance of the three men. The Sentinel Division did have other cases.

  “I know, just let me have a closer look at that car,” Frank went on. He found the house represented in simple shapes and lines and zoomed in on the red dot which represented the exotic Italian car. “It’s in the garage, too.”

  “According to the car’s history, only DeSilva himself drives it,” Williams provided. “It was last used four days ago.”

  “Okay,” Frank conceded, feeling satisfied that he had discounted another possibility.

  Lyman and Davies had reported in more than an hour earlier and had followed Del Taylor to a restaurant and then home. The two detectives were relieved by another pair and had gone home themselves.

  Detectives Tomlinson and Miskowski remained in visual range of Fillipo Ignatola and his entourage. The brash gangster sat in a large corner booth, seemingly unworried about any assassination attempts. Campanelli knew Ignatola was not a stupid man; there was simply no one in Chicago strong enough or crazy enough to oppose him. Miskowski’s report indicated that the bald-headed and immensely overweight sixty-year-old had lead his audience through three courses of fine Italian cuisine, not including dessert, and was putting down plenty of wine as he puffed on a giant brown cigar. Fillipo appeared in good spirits, Tomas Miskowski added, laughing heartily throughout the evening as he remained the center of attention.

  Campanelli was perplexed that neither Taylor nor Ignatola were showing signs of concern over the missing Beritoni. Their routines appeared public and carefree. Frank felt that, between the two, Del Taylor would be more likely to show concern. The lack of reaction to the junior partner’s arrest was quite perplexing.

  As the two detectives sat, Campanelli sifted through the computer’s open vehicle tracking pages. The Italian restaurant: Ignatola’s limousine remained in the parking lot. Church of the Divine Intervention: Tour bus, two vans, two limos inside, one limo outside. The Park Monroe: Taylor’s Cadil
lac remained in the condo’s parking garage. DeSilva’s home: The eighty-year-old Italian roadster had not moved an inch.

  “Frank,” Marcus spoke up after his Captain had fiddled through the images for an unknown number of times, “you’re starting to make me ill.”

  “Maybe after this rally thing on Saturday, you should take some time off,” Frank said flippantly then suddenly stopped fiddling with the computer. His hand dropped to his lap and his jaw slackened.

  “What?” Williams asked of his partner. For a fleeting moment in time, the ex-Navy Seal was afraid that he would have to apply his military trained lifesaving skills.

  Campanelli held up a finger for quiet and addressed the cruiser’s computer. “New window. Get me Taylor, Taylor & Packey’s website.”

  “Yes, sir,” the male computer voice responded. In a moment, the web page appeared, showing several people in suits sitting around a conference table and appearing to have a rather serious conversation. Two of the five people were Del Taylor and Gianfranco Beritoni.

  Frank touched a finger to the screen, selecting the option for contact information. Finding Beritoni’s office number, Campanelli tapped the option to call it.

  “One moment please,” the computer said, “I am attempting the connection.”

  “Frank,” Marcus piped up, “what in the world are you doing? No one’s going to be there.”

  “Exactly,” the Captain of Detectives replied.

  “Then what…?”

  “Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of Gianfranco Beritoni,” said the recorded voice of the attorney, “I am out of the office for a few days of vacation beginning Wednesday, May fourteenth. I will be returning on Monday, the nineteenth. Please leave a…”

  “Son of a bitch!” Williams exclaimed as his boss ended the call.

  “Well, that answers the question as to why no one seems concerned about his not showing up to work.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Marcus asked the air.

  “Hey, I’m here, too,” Campanelli explained. “I didn’t think of it until just now.”

  “So, we arrested him on his way back to the condo to pack? To go where?”

  “I don’t think that’s important, Marcus,” Frank explained. “We got him and Antony before they had a chance to split town.”

  “That little sneak never told us,” Williams complained.

  “Why should he have? A lawyer rarely volunteers information for free,” Campanelli said deliberately as he turned his attention to a group of people heading to their cars. Soon, the parking lot would be empty, save for Campanelli’s cruiser and the limousine. “This simplifies things for us.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, there’s a lot less of a chance that our three suspects know we’re onto them.”

  ***

  DeSilva followed his bodyguard into his office. The towel he had been given by a stagehand was wet with sweat and smeared with makeup. Maximilian’s brilliantly white hair was now besmirched at his forehead, sending tuffs of it to float out ahead of him like antennae. Having taken his suit jacket off just after leaving the stage, his white shirt was stained at the armpits and small of the back.

  “Quite a crowd tonight, sir,” the bodyguard said as he closed the wooden office door behind them.

  “Not really, Steve,” DeSilva dismissed with a curt wave. “But Sunday after the rally should be very good. You’ll see. We’ll even have to open up the balcony.” DeSilva walked around his giant mahogany desk and took a seat in his thickly padded leather chair. It hissed as his weight came down upon it.

  “Drink, sir?” Steve Enos offered.

  “You know it,” Maximilian confirmed and let out a breath of relief. “I wonder what the take was tonight,” he thought aloud.

  Enos sidled to a cabinet set within a great bookcase made of dark cherry wood. Opening a panel, the bar was revealed. He picked out a crystal tumbler and poured Scotch from a decanter. Once done, he handed it to his employer and stood adjacent to the desk.

  “Yes, sir,” DeSilva said after a few sips, “just wait until Sunday, Steve. We’re gonna rake in the cash. Might even buy another plane…ha!”

  “That would be fantastic, Mister DeSilva,” the guard said as someone knocked upon the door. Enos strode to answer it. Opening it only an inch, he had a brief exchange with the knocker. DeSilva looked on with interest, his eyelids drawn to slits of suspicion. “One minute,” Enos said and closed the door.

  “Who is it?” Maximilian inquired in a whisper.

  “An usher, sir,” Enos explained as he took several steps from the door. “He says he saw someone in the audience tonight. He thinks you should know about it.”

  “Crap,” DeSilva hissed as he stashed the unfinished alcohol in a drawer. He waved a hand impatiently at the bodyguard, who quickly closed the bar. “See him in.”

  Enos went back to the door, opened it and waved the usher inside. A lanky man somewhere in his thirties stepped in. DeSilva recognized him as someone who worked for him, but not by name.

  “Come in, my son!” DeSilva called out cheerily. He stood and outstretched a hand across his desk. The employee speedily went to meet it.

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir,” the usher said nervously. DeSilva noted the cheap suit and the self-inflicted haircut, but he smiled toothily through his observations and offered the man to sit.

  “What can I do for you…?” DeSilva said leadingly as he retook his airy chair.

  “Barry Howardson, sir,” the cheap suit provided.

  “You know,” Maximilian said laughingly, “I almost called you, Larry. Sorry ‘bout that, but you know how it is,” he lied.

  “Of course, Reverend DeSilva,” the usher nodded. “I understand completely.”

  “Now, whatever can I do for you, son?”

  “Well, sir,” Howardson began, “I ran into someone that I hoped to never see again. A policeman.”

  “All are welcome in the Church of the Divine Intervention, Barry,” DeSilva pointed out with the right amount of admonition.

  “Yessir,” Barry agreed quickly, “but I think he was the one mentioned on the news. The detective that the chief of the Sentinel Division said was now his second-in-command.”

  “Well, now,” Maximilian shot a quick look at his bodyguard, who knew Enos well enough to see that the news surprised him, “I do believe I know who you mean. I did see that on the news.”

  “His name is Campanelli. I don’t remember his first name. He and another man, I’m thinkin’ it was his partner, they left the theater early,” Howardson continued. “Claimed the big guy was sick, but I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t you think so, Barry?” DeSilva asked in a kindly voice.

  “Well, see, I met Campanelli before. He was on a murder case a couple years back. It happened in my building. He interviewed me.”

  “I take it that you were not guilty, so he letcha’ go?” DeSilva laughed, encouraging Enos to join in, which he did.

  Howardson smiled grandly, “Yessir,” he explained and chuckled, “I was just a witness. Anyway, I thought their behavior was pretty odd, so I walked outside behind ‘em, an’ I watched ‘em get in their police car and they drove it aroun’ an’ parked near your white car. You know, the one in the parking lot?”

  “Yes, Barry,” DeSilva smiled widely, but had lost much humor, “I do know which one you mean.”

  “And they’re just sittin’ in there, now,” Barry Howardson said and threw up his hands in wonderment. “I just don’t know what to make of it, you know? I mean, what in the world is a Sentinel Division detective doin’ checkin’ us out? We’re more against migration to that planet than they are,” Howardson finished with a comical expression of wide-eyed confusion stamped upon his plain, unremarkable face.

  DeSilva almost laughed, but he suppressed it by placing his eyes on Enos’s face. “Well, who knows, my son?” Maximilian drawled. “All I know is that we want our police force to act responsibly. To go after the g
uilty sinners that are involved in this devilish human trafficking,” DeSilva went on, playing his part of a preacher to the limit. “Perhaps I will have the opportunity to talk with this Detective Campanelli once we leave here tonight. I’m sure there must be some reason they are here instead of elsewhere.”

  “They should be doin’ their job,” Howardson said harshly, “insteada’ jus’ camping out there in the parkin’ lot. I’ve a mind to go right up to ‘em an’ tell ‘em so!”

  “No, my son, no,” DeSilva waved off. “Let me talk to them tonight. If I cannot, then I will mention it at the rally on Saturday. Will you be there with me?”

  “Oh, yessir,” Barry promised.

  “Bless you, my son!” Reverend Maximilian shouted to the ceiling and stood.

  “And bless you, sir!” Howardson answered. He hopped up from his chair and reached out to shake the preacher’s hand once again. Doing so, he thanked DeSilva and Enos and left, happy as a clam in sauce.

  “Well, Steve,” DeSilva said once he had retrieved his Scotch and taken his seat, “I think we’ve been found out.”

  “Iggy’s man talked!” Enos boomed. “Sir, we have to get you off this rock.”

  “Not just yet, Steve,” DeSilva wagged a finger from the hand which clutched his glass. “Yes, the plan has changed, but this is an opportunity,” the reverend’s eyes grew wide in thought. “Vanek was right about this Campanelli. We can’t say he didn’t warn us.”

  “Do you want me to find this cop and take care of him?” the loyal bodyguard asked.

  “No, Steve,” DeSilva waved the suggestion away, “I think we need to send a message to the city. It’s going to take a few more men.”

  ***

  By nine forty-five, the crowd had long gone. The “DeSilva Show,” as Frank had labeled it, had ended more than an hour ago. There was no sign of anyone approaching the limousine in the lot and the red dots indicating the other cars on the cruiser’s screen had not moved.

  “What do you say we call in for a relief crew and head home?” Marcus recommended more than inquired after a hearty yawn.

  “I’m starting to think that’s a good idea,” Campanelli replied as he stifled a yawn of his own.