'I think Mamma should have you back, my darling.' Alberta surrendered the still crying child to Pia.
'She'll get used to you,' replied her younger sister, glancing at her watch and then immediately putting the child to her left breast.
Alberta flinched as she watched the greedy baby latch itself into position. 'Doesn't that hurt?'
'A little. Sometimes she gets too eager and chews with her gums.'
'Oh, my God! It's too painful to even think about.' Alberta rubbed her own breast as though she could physically feel the pain. 'I think I'll go for a cigarette.'
Pia thought of saying something but checked herself. She'd only managed to kick the habit after she'd found out she was pregnant, so she knew she didn't really have the right to preach. She smiled dotingly at her baby as her sister grabbed her coat and headed outside.
The street was short and filled with cheap apartments that wouldn't argue at being called slums. The Spanish Quarter had beautiful historic homes but they were not in the area where Pia lived. The engine of an unmarked police Fiat idled not far from the front door, two cops in the front, as always, drinking coffee, eating junk and chain-smoking. For once they were early. It made a change. She lit up and smiled at them; the driver raised a hand in acknowledgement, blue-grey smoke clouding his face.
Alicia Madonna was beautiful. If Alberta had a child, she wanted it to be exactly like her niece. Though, given the state of her life, she knew there was little chance of her meeting someone and settling down.
The driver's door of the Fiat opened and a detective waved her over. Dangling from his right hand was a police radio, pulled tight on a coil of black curly wire attached to the dashboard. Alberta saw a dozen cops a week, and they all had that same edgy, scruffy look to them. She'd liked the one who had driven her over from Assisi, where she'd been relocated after the Valsi trial. His name was Dario and he'd been as big as a house and smelled of pine and fruit. This new one looked similar but had an even nicer smile and wore old-fashioned Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses. It made him look like a tall Tom Cruise from his Top Gun days.
'Buon giorno, mi chiamo Satriano, Detective Paolo Satriano. My Capitano needs to talk to you.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'We have a little problem with your transport.'
'What do I do?' asked Alberta, staring at the police radio he put in her hand.
'You press here. Keep it pressed while you talk.' He created a burst of static as he showed her how to click a button on the side. 'Please sit in the vehicle, so you can hear through the speaker.'
Alberta slid into the driver's seat, noticing the cop's eyes roam over her legs as she adjusted her skirt and squeezed in.
He smiled politely and closed the door. Not as handsome as the last cop she'd seen, but that smile already had her hooked.
'Pronto? ' she said, holding down the button in the way he'd shown her.
It didn't work.
The radio was a fake.
So too was the policeman.
The driver leaned against the car door and drew on his cigarette. His big frame blocked any view from outside. In the same movement, a hand snaked from the rear seat and clamped across Alberta's mouth. Simultaneously, the other man in the passenger seat slid out a gun, clicked off the safety and pushed it into her stomach.
11
Greenwich Village, New York City 'No more Dr Seuss, not tonight,' insisted Nancy King, doing her best to look serious as Zack begged for another bedtime story.
She kissed him on the tip of his nose, then swung her legs off his bed in the spare room at his grandparents' home.
'Sleep well, baby, and I'll read you some more tomorrow.'
'Night, Mommy! I love you.'
'Love you too, honey.' Nancy blew a kiss from her hand as she reached the doorway but didn't turn out the light. Zack would no longer sleep in the dark. Not since his nightmares about Daddy's work and the Black River Killer.
Downstairs, her father Harry sliced a slab of beef while her mom added roast potatoes and vegetables to willow-patterned plates that Nancy had been eating off since she was Zack's age.
'You have any mustard?' Jack was rummaging among the dishes, glasses and bottles that filled their old mahogany dining table.
'French and English. Behind the gravy,' said his mother-in-law.
Nancy joined them. 'That little guy doesn't look too sleepy. We might have a visit in a few minutes.'
As they finally tucked into the food, Nancy and her folks spoon-fed nostalgia to each other and Jack's thoughts slipped to Luciano Creed.
Was Creed a bungling amateur profiler who'd wrongly mistaken runaway women for murder victims? Was he the jilted lover – or, more probably, the unwanted admirer – of Francesca Di Lauro – and was he obsessed with finding her? Or was he something even worse – was he right? Were there a number of unsolved disappearances that the police in Naples for some reason – scarce resources, lack of interest – hadn't properly investigated?
'Could you pass me the wine, honey?' Nancy pointed to a bottle of Brunello that had come from a vineyard less than ten kilometres from their home in Tuscany.
A further thought distracted Jack. He remembered working a case in Queens – a hospital porter had called in at a precinct house with a tip-off on where to find a murdered youth. Said he'd overheard two out-of-state youths talking about a murder while they ate in a burger bar. Cops had followed up and dug a thirty-year-old black man from beneath steel in an old warehouse. Eventually, the white porter turned out to be the killer. And the dead guy hadn't been his first black victim. He'd contacted the cops with the bogus story of the youths because he'd killed three times before and 'wasn't getting the recognition he'd deserved '. The world was full of weirdoes, and those who killed for fame sometimes went as far as injecting themselves into the heart of the inquiry.
Nancy tried again. This time waggling a wine glass in her fingers. 'Could you please pass me the wine, honey?'
'What? Yeah, sure.' Jack grabbed the bottle and poured its rich red liquid into the sparkling glass. 'Sorry.'
His wife smiled, but he was already far away again. Tomorrow morning he'd go and see Creed. There were questions he just couldn't leave unanswered.
12
Napoli del nord Scampia's hollow-eyed skyscrapers cast slim shadows over the old Fiat gliding through town. Alberta Tortoricci took in the grim vista as she headed into her darkest nightmare. By the time the real cops had arrived to escort her back to her home in Assisi the fake ones had pulled into the grounds of one of the area's many disused factories. The huge building was derelict and bare of branded signage. Buckled and broken chain-link fencing ran all around it. Dogs sniffed garbage and lifted their heads as they passed.
Alberta's hands had been tied and her mouth gagged. But they'd made no attempt to blindfold her. There was no need. She wasn't going to live to identify them.
They dragged her down the side of the old factory. Her feet slipped on sodden cardboard boxes that had rotted in the rain. A metal door jerked back in rusted spasms and they pushed Alberta into the cold, damp twilight of the factory. Grey light drizzled through dozens of small windows high off the ground. Across in the corner of the room, in soft silhouette, she saw a man sitting on a slatted fold-up chair.
'Buon giorno, Alberta,' said a voice that leached the blood from her heart.
She recognized it as Bruno Valsi's.
'Please, sit down. I've been waiting. Waiting five years for you.'
Valsi stood up and stepped away as his men forced Alberta down on to the chair. Unseen fingers refastened her hands around the back of it and then bound her feet to its front legs.
'I'm sorry to be so impolite, but you've got to be tied. Otherwise, the sheer amount of pain that I'm going to inflict upon you will throw you to the ground.' Valsi snapped his fingers, summoning one of the two henchmen who'd brought her.
Alberta never saw the hammer in his hand.
Without any backswing he crashed its flat metal head into her gums and tee
th.
The shock was instant. A dull crack. An explosion of pain in her skull.
Pieces of broken teeth jammed at the back of her mouth. She had to swallow jagged bone in order to breathe. Other teeth were hideously bent back at their roots. Blood and saliva drooled down her chest.
'Cantante! ' spat Valsi. His eyes were on fire.
Alberta knew what was going to happen next. The police had warned her about it. She'd seen it in her nightmares. The hand of the henchman reappeared. His fingers fumbled in her mouth. And then, she felt the acidic tang of metal on her tongue. Pliers. She could see the end of them as he squeezed tight and pulled the tongue through her smashed teeth. Punishment for the cantanti, those who sang to the authorities, was always the same. They had their tongues cut out. Then, almost as absolution for the sin of speaking to the police, the sign of the cross was razored across their lips.
The pain was unbearable. Her vision fogged as a switchblade clicked open and the henchman sawed off as much of the pink muscle as he could.
'Vaffanculo! ' he swore as Alberta's blood spurted on to him. He slashed a crucifix across her skin, backed away and deposited the severed tongue in a handkerchief held for him in the leather-gloved palm of Bruno Valsi. Blood dripped and balled up on the dusty factory floor.
Valsi studied his new pink present, then folded the white cotton gently around it. 'Va bene,' he said unemotionally. 'Sal, bring me her present.'
The grey man at his side smiled and disappeared into the shadows.
'You like jewellery, don't you, Alberta?' Valsi grinned as he circled her bloodied face. 'Of course you do. All girls like jewellery. Well, you'll die for this piece – literally – it was designed just for you.'
Alberta Tortoricci couldn't see what they were doing. The room was too dark and her eyes were blinded by tears and pain.
'It's a special designer necklace.' Valsi hovered over her.
She was more frightened now than she'd ever been in her life. But she was determined not to show it. Alberta shut her eyes and tried to distract herself from what was happening. She conjured up images of her first day at school.
Blue dress, white top, hair in pigtails, new brown shoes.
'It's a necklace; our Frankenstein necklace.' He looped a thick steel collar around her neck. Wire flexes trailed from both sides.
Her first kiss – Roberto Bassetti, thirteen years old – his mouth tasted of liquorice.
'This jewellery is unique, Alberta, rather like the testimony you gave in court, you being the only witness against me.'
Valsi fell silent as he concentrated on fastening two bolts at either side of what were semi-circular steel strips that overlapped each other and had been punched with holes to accommodate the bolts.
First boyfriend – Armando Rossi, seventeen – they rode his Lambretta. She'd leaned her face against his back and wrapped her arms around his waist.
'Beautiful. Bellissimo. It fits perfectly. You'll look a dream. Well, my dream at least. You see, five years is a hell of a long time to think about revenge. Because that's what this is about, Alberta, revenge – pure and simple…'
First true love – Bernardo Santo – a man ten years older than her, a man who'd always smelled of forests, a man she should have married and had children with.
'Sockets, please.'
Wires were handed to two goons. Valsi squatted, so that he was at Alberta's eye level.
'I hope the voltage is good. We've rewired it especially for you. Too little and the current will cook slowly through your neck until your head drops off. Too much and it may explode. Pop! Neither is a nice way to die.'
Die!
Alberta's powers to distract herself were gone now. There was no past to dip into.
No more firsts to go through.
Only lasts.
The last moments of her life.
Valsi smiled in mock sympathy and touched her cheek. 'Hey, enough of these sad looks! You know you have to die, Alberta. I must show the polizia what happens when they exploit people like you. All informatori must know what awaits them if they ever try to do the same.'
Valsi paused and watched for fear on her face. He was saddened that there was none. Brave bitch. Brave, arrogant bitch.
'Sal, throw the switch!'
The air buzzed and hummed.
Alberta's body went into spasm. Her eyes bulged and her head sagged as her nerves became paralysed.
'Jesus, what a stink!' Valsi wafted a hand playfully in front of his face. The room filled with the smell of burning flesh. The henchmen coughed and laughed. Coarse, meaty sounds like they were choking on beer during a good joke. Alberta was dribbling blood.
But she still wasn't dead. Even as her internal organs baked from the electric charge, life still flickered within her.
Valsi squatted on his heels again. Stared into her eyes. 'Not long now, you're frying nicely.'
Alberta's skin was crimson.
Her flesh was starting to split.
Suddenly, a gush of blood and boiling stomach contents bubbled from her mouth.
One of the goons gagged.
Sal the Snake had left the electric box and stood beside Valsi. He shook his head and smiled. What a sight.
'She's dead,' said Valsi. 'Don't waste any more juice on the bitch. Sal, get her body out of here and destroy what's left of it. Set fire to it so the cops don't find any of our traces, then leave it where it'll be found within the next few days.'
13
New York City Jack seldom slept past six, so it was no chore to cross town and be at Creed's hotel before seven. He stamped snow on a large rubber mat opposite a cheap reception desk staffed by a plump woman in her forties. 'I'm looking for a guest of yours – Luciano Creed. Could you call his room for me?'
Brenda Libowicz had worked receptions in fifteen different hotels in New York City and she could smell cop all over her early morning visitor. 'NYPD?'
Jack smiled in due appreciation of her observational skills. 'Ex-FBI. Is it that obvious?'
'That it is,' Brenda smiled warmly. 'Only cops and feds get to the point that quickly. Normal people usually manage a hello, a please or even a remark about how cold it is.'
'Normal people?' laughed Jack.
'No offence. You know what I mean.'
'None taken.' He nodded at her computer. 'Any chance of ringing my Mr Creed?'
'None,' she said, flatly. 'He left town last night. We called him a cab for the airport.'
'You remember when?'
'Let's see. I think it would be about eight. Yep, that's right. JFK was still shut but Newark had reopened a runway around five.'
Jack frowned. 'Was he due to check out so soon?'
Brenda finally needed the computer. She typed an entry and pulled up his record. 'No, he was down originally for another two days. Only told us yesterday that he was leaving early.'
'Can I see his bill, please?' He stressed the please.
She pulled a printout from a tray and handed it over. Jack made a note of the home address, though he doubted it was real. There was no CAP- Codice di Avviamento Postale – the Italian equivalent of the postcode, and the province was Ogliona, which he was certain didn't exist. 'He pay cash or card?'
'Cash. Big wad of Uncle Sams.'
Jack read the rest of the bill. 'Media services. What's that, Internet?'
She shook her head. 'No. It's a nice way of billing a fella for the porn channels.'
'You know what he watched?'
'Sure. He was here four days and he bought the twenty-four-hour non-stop adult service. Watched the lot.'
Jack raised an eyebrow and passed the bill back.
'He was a real sleazeball. Gave me the shivers. He done something?'
'Not sure.' Jack glanced at the clock behind her head. 'I guess his room's not been cleaned?'
She laughed. 'You guessed right. Maid don't start til ten. You want to look, I suppose.'
'You mind?'
'Not at all.' Brenda bobbed benea
th the counter and eventually produced the key card to Creed's room. 'Second floor. Number two-twelve. Stairs right behind you and to the left.'
'Thanks. I appreciate this.'
'Enough to buy me coffee sometime?'
Jack took the key, but not the bait. 'Would love to, but my wife wouldn't approve. And anyway, I really don't know if I would be safe with someone who reads people as well as you do.' He winked and headed for the stairs.
'Safe?' she shouted. 'Oh, believe me, mister, safe is the last thing you'd be!'
He could still hear her laughing when he reached the landing of the second floor and let himself into Creed's old room. It was small and stank of an unflushed toilet, old carpets and no ventilation. In the tiny en-suite bathroom he picked up a plastic waste bin. He collected another from near a big old-fashioned boxy TV that virtually rested on the edge of a sagging single bed. He pulled off a dirty duvet and emptied the bins on to the grey-white base sheet.
There were sweet wrappers, empty Coke and beer cans, a half-empty plastic bottle of hotel body lotion, numerous tissues that looked stiff from semen, several pages from magazines that had been ripped out and then torn into small pieces. Some hotel paper that had been written or drawn on had also been torn up into pieces no bigger than a postage stamp. Anything ripped this small had to be of significance.
Jack was desperate to examine the pieces of paper and magazine but had no evidence gloves. He returned to the bathroom and found what he was looking for – a shower cap. He opened it up, put his hands inside and used it like clumsy mittens.
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