Eyes closed, head tilted back, he turned up the heat but still couldn't soak the smell of Poggioreale from his pores nor banish the jail's demons from his memory. Prison didn't just affect you, it seeped through your skin and twisted itself into your DNA. It altered you forever.
Valsi felt edgy. Permanently edgy. One blink away from an outburst of violence.
He pulled on a white towelling robe and struggled to get used to its softness as he headed to the bedroom.
Could he fuck her? Should he fuck her? Hell, did he even need to bother with this shit?
Gina sensed his dark mood. 'You look tired, baby, come here and let me look after you.' She pulled back the crisp white bed linen so he could slip in beside her.
Valsi could smell the sheets, sharp and fresh with a tang of lemon. Again this unaccustomed luxury rankled. He sat on the edge of the bed. He and his wife were only inches apart, but there may as well have been miles between them. 'We need to talk.' He bowed his head and focused on the strange-smelling sheets. 'I don't want there to be any confusion about how things are between us.'
She reached out to take his hand. Wanted him to know that she understood his awkwardness. Valsi moved it away.
He had made up his mind that he was going to put the record straight, lay down the new rules, right from the start. 'Gina, I think you know I will always be a good father to Enzo, and I will always provide for you and for my son.'
His wife smiled. 'I know you will, Bruno. You are a good man and we both love you so much…'
'Let me finish!' His dark eyes grew wide and cold. 'We both know that a marriage is forever. But you have become a fat ugly woman while I have been in prison. So fat that you sicken me. Have you looked at yourself?'
Gina was shocked.
She knew she wasn't the shape she'd been when he was arrested, but surely she didn't deserve this? The rejection stung. She pulled the covers up over her arms, an involuntary sign of retreat that she hated as soon as she realized she'd done it.
'Yes, please do that. Cover yourself up, you disgust me. Chiattona.' Valsi contemptuously flicked the rest of the covers up at her.
Gina's temper snapped. No one insulted her like that. 'How dare you fucking speak to me like this!' She jumped out of the bed and stood right up close to him. 'Who the hell do you think -'
Valsi grabbed her face. The fingers of his right hand dug into her skin as he squeezed hard. 'Shut the fuck up and listen. And don't talk back to me.' He pushed her on to the bed.
Gina sprang at him. Inches from his face. Her eyes flashed defiance. 'Don't you ever touch me! You bastard! You so much as lay a fucking finger on me and my father will kill you.'
Valsi laughed at her. Laughed and then slapped her with the back of his hand. A hard flat blow across her stomach. It knocked the wind out of her. She doubled up over the bed and wheezed to catch her breath.
'Have you learned nothing from the last time I had to punish you? Are you now stupid as well as fat and ugly?'
Gina's pain was deep and dull. The blow ached all the way through to her spine. She struggled to breathe.
Valsi sat down and leaned over her. 'Your father has just promoted me, made me Capo Zona. He's done that because he fears me and respects me. Now is the time for you to be a good daughter and wife and respect him and fear me as well. Because if you cause any problems between us, if you become a scissionista, then you could end up getting both yourself and your father killed. You understand what I mean, don't you?'
Gina Valsi fully understood. Scissione was the Neapolitan term for a split within a Family, a scissored division, brought about by scissionisti. Faida was the result – internecine warfare – usually bloody, brutal and relentless.
You can't be foolish, Gina. Don't create a bloodbath. This outburst is understandable. Bruno is adjusting to life outside prison. Don't make too much of it. Imagine how difficult all this must be for him.
Bruno could see her thinking things over. He brushed hair from her face and spoke more gently. 'If you are asked, you will tell your father, your family and our friends, that we have the model marriage, and that I am the perfect loving husband and father. And I will tell everyone what a wonderful wife and mother you are. This is a marriage of convenience. Nonetheless it is a marriage, and marriage must be forever. Have I made myself clear?'
Gina Valsi nodded. She didn't want to be beaten again. She'd learned the hard way that Bruno would hurt her in places where the bruises would never show. And there was another thing she knew. For some mad, crazy reason, deep down she still loved him, and probably always would.
8
New York City Shiny's restaurant was famous for its truffle-flavoured sturgeon and Kumamoto oyster and quail egg shooters. And those were the main reasons Jack had picked it for his rendezvous with Luciano Creed. His restaurant-owning wife had given him strict instructions to sample as much as possible and come away with both lunch and dinner menus. 'Steal them if you have to!' she joked as she kissed him goodbye. 'And if you can get tips from the chef on how he makes the shooters, then tonight I'll put a smile on your face wider than the Hudson.'
It was smack on one o'clock when Creed walked through the door. He stamped snow on the doormat. Jack – always early for meetings – sipped still water without ice and watched him squint around the room before spotting him.
'Hi, I didn't see you at first,' said Creed enthusiastically, as he settled into a chair and put a plastic folder on the tabletop.
'Buon giorno, come stai?' said Jack amiably, noticing Creed wasn't only wearing exactly the same clothes as the day before, but he smelled as though he'd been in them for the past year.
'Aah, parli Italiano?'
Jack laughed and raised a defensive hand. 'I understand quite a lot, but I'm not so hot on the chat. All those irregular verbs and rule exceptions, they finally saw off my patience.'
'So you don't help out in your wife's restaurant – in San Quirico, isn't it?'
Jack's warmness faded. It was no secret that the former FBI man and his family had taken on the restaur ant, but it certainly wasn't a big or famous hotel, so Creed must have been doing personal research. 'Yes, it is. But how do you know about it?'
'Like I said yesterday, I have come to New York to see you at the conference, and for you to look at this case.' He tapped the plastic document folder in front of him. 'So I do my research on you. I use Google, and I look at your website. And I see lots about you, then I use the MSN and the Yahoo and the Lycos and -'
'I get the picture,' said Jack, growing bored. 'Shall we look at the menu and order?'
'I take the spicy crab as an appetizer and the robata – the skewered meat – they recommend that as a house speciality.'
'You Googled this restaurant too?'
'Yes. I didn't want to waste time looking at a menu. You said you would give me one more hour of your time, and now…' Creed glanced at his watch, 'we have only fifty-seven minutes left and I want to make every second count.'
Jack motioned to Creed's document file. 'Then let's get going.'
'Si.' The young Italian quickly produced papers and passed them across the table. 'I made copies in the hotel. You have a map of the area in Naples marked with all the places the girls lived. And you can see also the times when they were seen.'
Jack looked at the papers and saw dates for the first time. It made his blood boil. Creed had been holding back on him. 'Luciano, I now understand why your cops in Naples aren't giving you house room. These disappearances are all cold cases. In fact, they're so damn cold they're deep-frozen. They go back, what, five, maybe six years?'
Creed was unflustered. 'Yes, some more than six. From memory, the first disappearance was a little over eight years ago. But why is this important? A murder is still a murder, no matter when it happened.'
Jack was exasperated. 'Can you prove that even one of these women has been killed? Were any homicide investigations launched at the time of any of the disappearances?'
Creed remained u
nfazed. He shook his head, then dug in his file and produced more paperwork. 'Victimology,' he announced. 'Please listen to me and then tell me this is only coincidence.' He handed over another sheet of paper and counted off his points on outstretched fingers: 'All of the women had long hair, lived within twenty kilometres of each other, probably went to the same clubs and bars in Naples.' Creed stopped to make sure Jack was following him. 'As I said to you yesterday, Mr King, none of them packed clothes, none withdrew money, none told any friends they were running away and none seemed to have anything to run away from.'
Jack softened. 'And the police haven't investigated this? I don't believe that.'
'Separately, yes,' said Creed, 'but not as one single case. Not with the thought that one person might have abducted and killed them.'
There were lots of details still missing. 'I imagine many young women run away from Naples. No doubt the prettier ones run furthest and have more chance of staying away. No disrespect, but I'm told Naples is not exactly the nicest place in Italy.'
Creed shrugged. 'In Naples there are no jobs. Many people live in what you call slums. Their homes are likely to be broken into, their cars stolen. And the Camorra kills many people every month. What sane young woman would not want to grow wings and fly from this city?'
'Indeed. That's exactly my point.'
'But, Mr King, this pattern that I have shown you, this does not happen all the time. These kind of women don't just vanish in this way.'
As food came and went Jack gave him room to build his case. 'You mentioned the Camorra – you think the mob is involved in this?'
Creed huffed out a laugh. 'They are involved in everything. They run Naples. They control everything from the milk you drink to the rubbish you toss away. Do you know anything about them?'
Jack didn't show his offence. 'It's some time since general crime intel reports fell on my desk but I know about them.'
'Without the Camorra, Naples and Campania would fall apart. They're not just a crime organization, they're a social welfare network. They're the brains and wallet of most businesses. That's why we don't talk about the Camorra, we talk about the System. Where I was brought up, you had more chance of getting a job from the System than from the state. For every member of the Cosa Nostra in Italy there are now half a dozen Camorristi. They are everywhere. Everyone is somehow connected. And they want to be connected. If you're part of the System you don't worry about jobs, paying the rent, feeding your family. You're made for life. The man who killed these women may be in the System, he may not. The point is, he's a killer and he's still free.'
Thoughts clicked into place in Jack's mind, a confusing Rubik's cube of criminal puzzles. Were the women just missing, or were they dead? Was this so-called System responsible for their disappearances, or just a backdrop to everything? Was Luciano Creed really what he seemed, or maybe something even more unpleasant?
Jack picked up the bill from a white china plate. As the waitress slotted his credit card into a reader, he noticed Creed openly checking her out, his stare so intense it almost sucked sweat from her skin.
Hunter's eyes. Cold and hungry, no softness, not even a flicker of warmth.
The machine buzzed. Jack signed. The waitress smiled and thanked him for the tip. As she walked away, Creed swung round in his chair and drank in the last of her before she disappeared into the kitchen.
'Some women might think that rude,' said Jack, unable to let it pass.
'There is no harm in me looking.' Creed grinned a yellow smile. 'And no shame in it. We all think about fucking; it is our basic instinct to find a mate and breed. I don't believe it is healthy to deny it.'
Jack sipped at his San Pellegrino. 'You sound like a caveman. I think most of us have become a little more advanced than that.'
'As you said in your speech, Mr King, our fantasies and feelings are hidden like icebergs. But you and me, well, we're profilers, aren't we? We know what hidden thoughts men have. We divide the world into women worth fucking, and women who we'd rather die than fuck.'
Jack was uncomfortable, but stayed polite. 'I think we're about done here. Can I keep these documents you copied for me?'
Creed leaned over the table. 'I want you to come to Naples with me. I just need two days of your time to show you things.'
'Can't be done, sorry.'
'Five women, Mr King: Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi, Gloria Pirandello and Francesca Di Lauro. The last of these, Francesca, I knew her personally.'
Jack stood up from the table and picked up the papers. The emphasis on personally explained a lot. He could well imagine why anyone who was the object of Creed's attention might want to vanish from his life and never be traced. 'I'll ask one of my friends in the national profiling unit in Rome to look into your findings. If you're right, then they'll help and I'll give my opinions. If you're wrong, then thankfully, you and I will never speak or meet again. Now I'm going. Enjoy the rest of your stay in New York.'
9
Hotel Le Sirenuse, Positano Salvatore Giacomo, aka Sal the Snake, and his boss, Fredo 'The Don' Finelli sat by the restaurant window, talking in hushed voices while looking out over the bay of Positano. Bruno Valsi weighed them up as he walked their way.
The old man, dapper in blue Prada pinstripes, raised his hand and summoned a waitress as Valsi sat down. 'I don't have long. I must attend meetings in the city, so let's discuss only what matters.'
'As you wish, Don Fredo.' The newly appointed Capo Zona respectfully nodded.
'Operations in our eastern sector will now be run by you. These are mainly the entertainment and the garbage collection and disposal businesses. Sal will take you through the books and show you the revenue splits that will come directly to me and what may be kept by yourself and your crew, when you have picked them.'
Valsi let the offer sink in. Garbage collection and disposal in Naples had long been Camorra controlled and it was profitable. The economics were simple. The more toxic, the more deadly, the more profitable. But even the bottom-end business of just clearing factory and business trash was also booming. Right now, garbage was piled two metres high on many street corners as the clans in the System battled with councils for control of contracts and areas. 'I know this business is profitable. Good money, no doubt, and I will take care of it. But please tell me of the entertainment interests that we have. I need some glamour as well as sacks of garbage.'
Finelli smiled. 'There are five nightclubs and six restaurants. Pepe's accounts will be sent over to you. There are also several escort businesses, including two new online agencies. Our porn output is small, but we have both film pirating and magazine production.'
'Glamour aplenty.'
'Indeed. There are also some run-down businesses that need attention, particularly camping and holiday-villa sites. They are spread between Naples and Herculaneum, and Herculaneum and Pompeii.'
'My favourite place as a child,' said Valsi. 'I know so much about Pompeii that I could get a job there as a tour guide.'
'Let's hope it doesn't come to that,' the Don smiled. 'It's a good time for you to take over these businesses. Pepe Capucci was going soft. We need to squeeze the margins, generate some more cash. If Pepe hadn't given himself a heart attack I'm sure, in the end, he would have given me one.' The old man put his hand on Valsi's arm. 'But squeeze gently. Do it with charm, Bruno. Our Family are not known as bullies. We provide jobs and incomes in many parts of our district. I want to keep respect and goodwill.'
'I understand,' said Valsi.
Don Fredo dipped into his jacket and produced a small, slim brown envelope. 'There is something in there to get you on your feet again.'
Valsi looked surprised. 'You were very generous when I was in prison. I know Gina is your daughter as well as my wife, but we were more than well provided for.'
'Bruno, please don't insult me by questioning my gift.'
Valsi took the hint. He used a table knife to slit the envelope.
'You will find somet
hing more than money in there,' added the old man.
Valsi pulled out four undated cheques totalling €200,000. He quickly did some calculations. On top of the monthly wages of €5,000 that he'd received while in jail, he'd now pocketed a total of half a million for his five years inside.
Loyalty money. Money to buy you. To curb your ambition. 'You are most kind,' he said, nodding politely as he folded away the cheques.
'You missed something.' Don Fredo spoke over the cup as he sipped his espresso. 'I think you will find another enclosure in there.'
Valsi tipped the envelope and shook it. A slip of paper fluttered on to the table. On it was a name that was painfully familiar to him. And an address that he'd been long searching for.
Finelli dabbed his lips with a white linen napkin. 'It can be done quickly. Salvatore has the men ready and waiting for you. I'm sure you'll feel much better when it's over.'
10
I Quartieri Spagnoli, Napoli One-week-old Alicia Madonna Galotti screamed at the top of her tiny lungs as new aunt, Alberta, took her from her mother and gently rocked her.
The 38-year-old shushed her sister's baby, then raised the tiny head in the palm of her left hand and lovingly kissed it. Babies smelled so good. Well, at least they did when they'd just been washed and powdered. The child's skin was wonderfully wrinkled. As soft and warm as velvet. She had pale hazelnut eyes, the colour of the teddy bear that Alberta Tortoricci had brought her, along with three irresistible dresses and a gel teething ring. Alberta stroked a fuzz of jet-black hair that would one day cascade through the hands of besotted boys who would pledge their lives to her. Or, at least, that's what Alberta hoped as she sat in her sister's lounge. During the five years she'd been in the witness protection programme, set up for her since Bruno Valsi's conviction, she'd only visited once. Such isolation made her feel like she'd been punished for her bravery. Alberta had been a junior partner in one of the city's oldest accounting and auditing firms. She'd made the near fatal mistake of turning to the police when her bosses had refused to explain, or let her correct, a series of worrying entries in the books of several Finelli businesses. Her diligence had put her at risk and, on one occasion, brought her face-to-face with Valsi. Playing with a cut-throat razor in his hand, he'd told her that there was no point her having a good head for figures if he had to hack it off and feed it to a pen of pigs.
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