by Nele Neuhaus
De Lancie lunged out of the interrogation room, his bloodshot eyes bulging out of his face.
“What is this bullshit!” he roared. “Am I surrounded by idiots?”
The police doctor who just happened to be there at that time of night ran past them, followed by van Mieren and the other officers. De Lancie’s gaze fell on Nick.
“This suits your plans exactly!” he said spitefully.
“No, not at all,” Nick replied. “He would’ve been far more useful to us alive. Good night, John.”
“Go to hell!” de Lancie growled after the mayor. Despite his fear, he was secretly relieved that Cesare Vitali was dead. Now he only had to deal with a corpse instead of keeping a guilty criminal from going to the slammer.
“This stinks to high heaven,” Nick said as they walked up the stairs.
“De Lancie will try to cover up this whole thing,” Frank said. “If your suspicion that he’s Vitali’s man is correct, then he won’t let the truth come out under any circumstances.”
“Shit.” Nick stopped, contemplating this. “And we have no way of preventing it.”
“Yes, we do,” Frank replied. “They can’t cover it up if Cesare Vitali’s arrest and confession is covered in tomorrow’s newspaper.”
“Tomorrow’s newspapers are already printed.”
“Crews from NBC and NY-1 are waiting outside.”
Nick thought for a moment, and then he grinned.
“Okay. That’s how we do it. Come on, Frank.”
John de Lancie didn’t get a wink of sleep that night. When he entered the US Attorney’s Office building on St. Andrews Plaza behind the federal court on Foley Square at nine on Sunday morning, he felt absolutely exhausted. Shortly after the medical examiner determined Cesare Vitali’s death and issued the death certificate, de Lancie left the police station through the back exit. He had no desire to face the vultures from the press and was glad that he didn’t run into Kostidis again. It wasn’t Cesare Vitali who gave de Lancie stomach pains, but the fear that the mayor saw right through him. An agitated crowd bombarding him with questions was waiting outside his office, but he forced his way through indignantly.
“What’s going on here?” he asked his assistant irritably. “Why are all these people here?”
“But you were there last night,” the woman replied in surprise. “Didn’t you watch television this morning? Yesterday’s incident in the Bronx is the lead story on every channel!”
An uneasy feeling overcame de Lancie. He opened the door to his expansive, mahogany-paneled office. Autographed head shots of Ronald Reagan, George Bush, and J. Edgar Hoover hung on its walls. De Lancie stared at the television screen, which stood on his bookshelf alongside his legal books. Almost instantly, Nick Kostidis appeared on the screen, standing on the steps of the Forty-First Precinct police station. That same second, de Lancie realized that he had made a grave mistake leaving the building through the back exit. He had ceded the stage to Kostidis without a fight, and the media-obsessed mayor naturally took advantage of it.
“As the mayor of this city, I’m responsible for the safety of its citizens,” Kostidis was saying. De Lancie felt a murderous rage, but it quickly gave way to a feeling of helplessness. “I cannot and will not allow ruthless criminals to terrorize law-abiding citizens in this way. This group of six young men attempted to set an apartment building on fire—a building in which many families live. One of them was shot by the police after he critically wounded an officer in the line of duty. The other five perpetrators were arrested.”
“Is it true that Sergio Vitali’s son is among them?” a young female reporter asked.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Kostidis replied. Standing there in the drizzling rain, unshaven in his leather jacket, he fit the image of a man who sacrificed himself for his constituents. De Lancie reluctantly acknowledged that Kostidis was anything but a bland politician. Time and again, Kostidis managed to turn even the most trivial incidents into media events. In contrast to his predecessors, the many other politicians who seemed artificial in front of a camera or microphone, Kostidis seemed completely authentic. His enemies cynically called him a gifted actor who was a better fit for Hollywood than New York. But they also had to admit that he was the most popular mayor since Fiorello LaGuardia.
“Is that why you’re here now, Mayor Kostidis?” one of the reporters asked. As usual, Kostidis didn’t shy away from telling the truth.
Or what he believes to be the truth, de Lancie thought bitterly.
“Yes, this is one of the reasons. We’ve had reason to believe that Mr. Vitali was involved in numerous recent raids on apartment buildings in the Bronx, and the participation by his son Cesare in last night’s events offers conclusive evidence. Cesare confessed that he and his accomplices acted under someone’s orders. Real-estate speculators keep trying to oust tenants from their homes in order to raze those buildings and repurpose the properties. This is pure terror, which I won’t tolerate in my city!”
Kostidis’s eyes sparked angrily.
“It is a well-known fact,” one of the reporters began, “that you and Mr. Vitali aren’t close friends—”
“This is nothing personal!” the mayor interrupted the journalist. “I fought vehemently against any type of crime during my tenure as US attorney, and the fight continues to this day. As mayor, I am responsible for the safety of the citizens of our city. It makes no difference if the son of Mr. Vitali or anyone else is involved.”
“US Attorney de Lancie is also here tonight. It seems as if this case is a political issue.”
“Without a doubt, this arrest has a heightened political profile due to the involvement of the son of such a well-known figure as Sergio Vitali,” Kostidis said plainly. “At the very least this could prove Vitali’s connection to illegal business, even if he continues to deny it publicly and invest large sums of money in protecting his image.”
He spoke with confidence and eloquence. His lively facial expressions and gestures said more than he expressed in words. He was careful not to communicate his suspicions directly, but the way he spoke allowed viewers to connect the dots.
“Besides, I believe that Mr. de Lancie shares my opinion that this case should not be handled any differently than that of any other perpetrator. A prominent name doesn’t protect a criminal from the full force of the law.”
De Lancie felt by turns hot and cold. That goddamned son of a bitch! If only lightning would strike him down. He couldn’t have possibly handled this in a more clever way. Kostidis was once again the public hero, the tireless fighter against crime. He had succeeded in portraying Vitali as a ruthless real-estate speculator without explicitly attacking him, and he didn’t even mention that Cesare Vitali was dead. Things had gone from bad to worse. De Lancie felt sick, and a stomach ulcer caused him stabbing pain.
“Isn’t this great news?” his assistant asked. “It looks like we finally caught hold of solid evidence against Vitali!”
For decades, Sergio Vitali had been considered the archenemy of the US Attorney’s Office, with mountains of files piled up in its basement.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than stand around here,” de Lancie snarled at her. His assistant threw him a surprised look. She’d assumed that her boss would be happy, but the exact opposite appeared to be the case.
“Get out of here!” De Lancie pressed his hand against his abdomen. After she closed the door behind her, he staggered over to his desk and sank into his chair. These goddamn stomach pains were going to tear him apart. The telephone rang. John de Lancie picked it up with a sigh.
“That’s your idea of help?” The sound of Massimo Vitali’s cold voice reverberated in his ear. “You were really great. The only thing I can say is that my father made a bad investment in you.”
“Listen!” de Lancie yelled. “I’m sorry. Kostidis was already there when I arrived. There was nothing I could do. I tried everything, but—”
“You screwed up,” Massimo Vita
li interrupted him coolly. “I only hope that you know what you have to do now. There could be unpleasant consequences for you if you don’t at least control the damage you caused.”
“But—”
The line was dead. This arrogant bastard had just hung up on him! De Lancie buried his face in his hands. He understood the threat all too well. Once it became public knowledge that he’d accepted money from Vitali, he would be finished forever. He would have no choice but to put a revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger. What demon had possessed him—who had never before had any trouble with the law—to get involved with Sergio Vitali? He had risked everything he had worked so hard for.
He raised his head and stared into the mayor’s face on the screen. What could he even do with this situation? Kostidis made the headlines of the day, and as the US attorney, he could hardly side with a man who had been chased by his own agency for years. Above all, de Lancie couldn’t afford to raise any suspicions with his staff. He needed to play the role that everyone expected of him, whether he liked it or not—a role into which Nick Kostidis had forced him. Had the mayor really seen right through him last night? Sometimes I wonder which side you’re on…
How could he let his guard down in front of Kostidis, of all people! He was in a tight spot now. He had to help Vitali or he was finished. But this help mustn’t be too obvious. There had to be a way to save face and still do Vitali a favor. Vitali was not his biggest problem. It was Nick Kostidis—the mayor of New York.
Alex also had a sleepless night. She had been pacing the halls of her apartment ever since Sergio’s driver dropped her off at home. Her whole body trembled, and she only managed to calm down somewhat after three glasses of straight vodka. She wasn’t shocked by the gunshots fired in her direction from the moving car, but rather the crystal-clear realization that she had gotten herself into a situation she couldn’t get out of. If she went to Kostidis to tell him what he wanted to know, Sergio would find out and have her killed just as he did with David Zuckerman. Quitting her job and leaving the country seemed like the only solution. Maybe she could find a new job in Singapore or Japan, as far away as possible from Sergio and the menacing men she saw in that dark Brooklyn warehouse. But how could she move on knowing that Sergio was free and ordering others killed with impunity? Wasn’t it her civic duty to try and prevent this? She thought about Kostidis’s words on Christmas Day at the Downeys’ house. I had the impression that you would have the courage to do the right thing…
She flinched as she saw Nick Kostidis come onto the screen. He stood in front of a police station surrounded by reporters, and his dark eyes seemed to being looking directly at her. Pleading. Demanding. Compelling. This man was just as hard to read as Sergio. Alex didn’t trust him. There were so many secrets, and the truth behind these secrets seemed far more complex and dangerous than Alex had ever imagined. Alex was so lost in thought that she didn’t even hear what Kostidis was talking about. Now she turned up the volume. Sergio’s son Cesare had been arrested last night.
“We’ve suspected for a long time that Mr. Vitali was involved in the numerous raids on Bronx apartment buildings,” the mayor said, “and the participation by his son Cesare in last night’s events offers conclusive evidence.”
Alex groped for her pack of cigarettes. When she realized that it was empty, she crumpled it impatiently. One of the reporters asked Kostidis whether he believed that there was a connection between the assassination attempt on Vitali and the drug bust at the Brooklyn port.
“I was informed that Mr. Vitali was apparently involved in a shooting incident last night,” Kostidis said—it seemed to Alex that he was looking straight at her. “Eyewitnesses reported that someone shot at Vitali and his companions from a moving vehicle outside a restaurant on Fifty-First Street. However, we don’t know anything about the perpetrators or their motives. We don’t even know if Vitali was injured or if he is even alive.”
“Oh my God,” Alex murmured, wrapping her arms around her knees. If she hadn’t reacted so fast, Sergio would probably be dead now. Mayor Kostidis certainly wouldn’t be too sad about that.
Nelson and Massimo were waiting outside the clinic room door to speak with Sergio. Anxiety was etched across their faces.
“Doctor, when can I speak to my father?” Massimo asked Dr. Sutton.
“It’ll take a little more time,” the doctor said. “He needs plenty of rest after the operation and his extreme blood loss.”
“I can’t wait!” Massimo struggled to keep his voice down. “My brother killed himself last night. My father is the only person who can tell me what I should do now.”
“Martin,” Nelson van Mieren interjected, “the situation is really very serious.”
The doctor gave in, and Massimo opened the door of the clinic room, with Nelson in tow.
“Papa!” The young man stepped to Sergio’s bed; he was terrified when he saw how bad his father looked. The injury hadn’t looked that serious to him on Saturday night. Now, all the machines and tubes made Massimo even more nervous. Until yesterday he hadn’t the slightest idea what his father actually did all day, and was only vaguely familiar with the fatal consequences of one wrong decision. Massimo had been confident that it would be no big deal if his father were sidelined for a few days. But the events of the last forty-eight hours had proved the young man wrong. He felt like a listless sailor on a ship lost at sea with no captain. His younger brother’s arrest and sudden death had such broad implications that Massimo was frightened. There was public speculation connecting his father with the illegal eviction campaigns and the drug seizure at the port. The reporters were talking about an underworld war with the Colombian drug cartel, and Massimo didn’t know what to do. Three men who worked for his father were shot at the port last night. The situation was spinning out of control.
“Massimo,” Sergio said in a fragile voice.
“Yes, Papa, it’s me. How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” Sergio replied. “Where’s Nelson?”
“I’m here!”
“You were right,” Sergio murmured. “Ortega didn’t hesitate long.”
The lawyer saw how bad Sergio’s condition actually was and hesitated to report on the new problems that had emerged.
“Massimo, did you tell your mother what happened?”
“Yes, I did. But…” He fell silent and quickly exchanged a look with Nelson.
“But what?” Sergio’s gaze wandered from Massimo to Nelson and back to his eldest son. He saw their gray faces and knew that something was wrong.
“What happened?” he asked in a flat voice.
“Cesare’s dead,” Massimo responded. He and Nelson took turns as they described what had transpired, beginning with Cesare’s arrest, the scene with Kostidis and de Lancie at the police station, Cesare’s suicide, the three men shot down at the port, and the wild media speculations.
Sergio was silent as they told him everything. He needed time to put the pieces together. For a moment, he was tempted to give in to the feeling of weakness inside him. Cesare didn’t commit suicide. There was no way that he would do that, he was too much of a coward. He was responsible for the boy’s death, because he’d given Luca the unmistakable order to ensure that Cesare never spilled the beans. How could he have known that this situation would actually arise? He had been annoyed with his youngest son many times; it was painful for him to accept that Cesare was a good-for-nothing. But despite everything, Cesare was his own flesh and blood—his son—and now he was dead.
“What should we do now, Papa?” Massimo asked, verging on desperation.
“Above all, you need to maintain your composure,” Sergio replied, “no matter what else happens. Take cover and wait. No rash actions. What about de Lancie? Is he still on our side?”
“I think so,” Massimo replied.
“But Kostidis is running wild,” Nelson remarked. “He senses his chance to finally get to you.”
“Yes, I can imagine that.” Sergio f
rowned in thought. He needed to reassert his control as quickly as possible before any irreversible damage was done.
“Does Constanzia already know about Cesare?”
“Yes,” Massimo nodded, “it’s all over the TV. Domenico’s with her. She completely collapsed. She says that…”
He stopped and looked down to the ground, ill at ease. Sergio knew that Constanzia had loved the youngest and weakest of their sons more than the other two. He could easily imagine what kind of scene was unfolding at his house.
“What does she say?” he asked harshly.
“She says,” Massimo inhaled deeply and struggled to look into his father’s eyes, “that you had him killed.”
Sergio’s fingers seized the bedcovers. Constanzia knew him better than he realized.
“That’s nonsense,” Nelson said. “Your father has been in this clinic since Saturday night!”
“Papa, I know that you never thought much of Cesare,” Massimo said, his voice pleading, “but I told Mama that you’d never do such a thing. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Papa?”
“Of course, I’ve done nothing of the sort.”
Massimo seemed relieved, but Nelson still had something on his mind.
“Before Cesare hung himself,” he said, “he told the cops that they raided the building on Silvio’s order. They arrested him yesterday.”
Sergio closed his eyes. Cesare really didn’t understand anything, not even the most important law that they lived by—the code of silence, omertà.
“They won’t be able to use his confession,” Nelson continued, “because it was made under coercion.”
“It’s too late now anyway,” Sergio answered in a rough voice. “Cesare’s dead and nothing will change that. We need to approach things differently.”
Thinking clearly was an incredible strain for him.
“Find someone to claim that he shot at me,” he said hoarsely, “and think about a plausible reason. We need to publicly announce that the shots fired at me have nothing to do with Ortega. Nelson, bail Silvio out of jail.”