A Promise of Ruin

by Cuyler Overholt

  She shrugged.

  “Have the police been here?”

  “They came last night after you left. They wanted us to tell them our stories, and agree to be witnesses against the men who took us.”

  Something in her expression made me ask, “And did you?”

  Her lips twitched. “I wanted to.”

  “But?”

  She looked down at her hands. “But I couldn’t. If there was only me to think of, I would have.” She looked up again, her eyes pleading. “But I can’t bear to bring Antonio further shame by telling all the world what they did.”

  “I see,” I said, struggling to hide my disappointment, galled that Velloca had managed to infect her with such self-loathing that she couldn’t even seek justice against him. “What about the others?”

  “Francesca talked to them. She said she would speak in court as well. But the others…” She shook her head. “They are too afraid Un-Occhio and his men will come after them.”

  “Well, it’s all right,” I told her. “Francesca and I will testify against Velloca. The rest of you have been through enough already.”

  “I don’t wish you to think me a coward.”

  “I could never think you a coward. I think you’re one of the strongest, most courageous women I’ve ever met.”

  She recoiled at my words. “I’m not strong! If I was strong, I would have killed myself like Lucia.”

  “Please don’t say that, Teresa. It takes tremendous strength to go on living after life has dealt you such a blow.” It wasn’t uncommon, I knew, for victims of violent crime to blame themselves for what had happened to them. At school, we’d been taught that this was a side effect of our need to believe we exerted control over our lives. Few of us would have the courage to get out of bed in the morning, after all, if we didn’t fundamentally believe that the world was an orderly and predictable place, where following the rules would ensure that we were treated fairly. An unfortunate corollary of this belief was that if the world treated us unfairly, we must have done something to deserve it.

  “What reason do I have to go on living, now that I have lost everything?” Teresa asked. “I live only because I haven’t the courage to die.”

  “You still have a great deal to live for. Including, perhaps, a marriage with Antonio. You can’t know unless you give him a chance.”

  “It isn’t possible,” she said, staring stubbornly at the table top.

  “Would it help you to know that Antonio will never see the photographs?”

  She looked up sharply.

  I pulled the envelope from my bag and laid it on the table between us.

  “You found them?” she whispered, making no move to take it.

  I nodded, noting the glimmer of hope in her eyes. “I haven’t looked at them.”

  She reached slowly for the envelope and pulled it toward her. Opening it with stiff fingers, she peered into the packet for half a heartbeat—then shut the flap and dropped it back onto the table.

  “Antonio will never see them, Teresa,” I said. “Un-Occhio has failed.”

  She shook her head, her face pale. “It doesn’t matter. Antonio and I both know I am no longer fit to be the wife of any man.”

  “Because someone violated you against your will? How can you be held accountable for that?”

  “Because…I let it happen,” she rasped, the words catching in her throat.

  “It wasn’t your fault! What if it had been your friend or your sister who was taken instead? Would you blame her for what some wicked man forced her to do?”

  She frowned, registering surprise and confusion at my question.

  “Well, would you?” I pressed.

  “But if I hadn’t gone with him into the carriage—”

  “Antonio was late! It was entirely reasonable for you to believe he’d sent someone to fetch you. Good Lord, if you have to blame someone, between the two of you, blame Antonio.”

  “I could never blame Antonio!”

  I slapped my hands against the tabletop. “Then blame Un-Occhio! Blame the monster who did this to you!”

  Her eyes fixed on mine, wide and unblinking.

  “Oh, Teresa,” I implored. “Be angry! Be angry at him for what he did.”

  Her breath left her in a long exhale. She looked down at the envelope, her lips compressing into a thin line. Opening the flap once more, she drew out one of the mounted photographs. Her nostrils flared as her gaze jumped around the image. She looked up at me, then back at the photograph. I held my breath, watching as a storm gathered across her features. Suddenly, she grasped the photograph by its top edge and started twisting it in both hands, until a rip appeared in the middle. She pulled harder, ripping it several more inches. Frustrated by the stiff backing, she snatched the knife from the cheese plate and stabbed and sliced at the image, tearing off pieces and crushing them in her fingers, until all that remained was a pile of mangled strips on the table. She put down the knife and stared, panting, at the wreckage.

  I could hear the steady murmur of the women willowing out in the front room, and the muted din of horns and engines on the street outside. Inside the kitchen, however, time seemed to have stopped for a moment, as if to settle and cool. I imagined I could see Teresa growing lighter, steadier, as the hatred she’d been aiming toward herself began to turn like a lumbering sea vessel and point in a new direction.

  “What do you say to burning the rest?” I asked after a moment.

  She looked up at me, eyes shining at the prospect.

  I opened the stove’s firebox and threw some more coal on the grate. She waited until the flames were roaring and then slid the pictures in, one by one. I caught only glimpses of what they contained, but it was enough to make me thankful that Antonio would never set eyes on them. We listened in silence to the crackle of burning card stock, breathing in acrid chemicals as the photographs were reduced to ash.

  “Burn in hell,” Teresa whispered as the last one was consumed.

  • • •

  I was tired by the time I arrived at the Italian Legion thirty minutes later—bone-tired, despite the fact that Maurice had delivered me directly to the door. If I’d been my own patient, I would have chastised myself for taking on too much too soon. But I couldn’t stop now, with Velloca’s comeuppance so close at hand.

  To my surprise, Simon was sitting with Detective Cassidi in the Legion’s office when I arrived. Both men stood as I entered.

  “Thank you for coming, Dr. Summerford,” Cassidi said, pulling another chair in front of his desk. “I asked Mr. Shaw to come by as well, to provide us with corroborating evidence for the arraignment.”

  “Have you rounded up Velloca’s men?” I asked Cassidi as we all sat down.

  “Two of our detectives started canvassing the neighbors around the stable early this morning. They were able to identify the men who worked there as Marco Nucci and Pietro “Gallo” Gaspari. Based on Francesca Ragusa’s deposition, we obtained arrest warrants for both men. We also contacted the police in Centreville and Elizabethport, on the chance they’d try to sell the stolen vans to Pardello’s known buyers there. A few hours ago, we heard from the Centreville police. They have apprehended Nucci and are returning him to the city. He should be arriving at any moment.”

  “Oh, well done, Detective,” I said.

  “What about the other one? Gallo?” Simon asked.

  “Nothing yet. We haven’t been able to locate the woman, Claudia, either. But it’s only a matter of time.”

  “And Velloca?” I prompted. “I assume he’s been arrested by now?”

  The detective pursed his lips. “There, we have a problem, I’m afraid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Ragusa confirmed that Nucci, Gallo, and Claudia were all involved in her abduction from the pier and subsequent confinement. But
she wasn’t able to provide any evidence against Velloca. In fact, she’d never even heard of him. I’m hoping that you may be able to give us what we need.”

  I frowned, not sure what I could tell him that Francesca already hadn’t. “Like what?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me your version of events, from the time you left the pier,” he said, pulling his memorandum book toward him.

  I glanced at Simon. I would have preferred not to rehash the sordid details of my experience in his presence. But I supposed he’d have to hear them sooner or later, and if providing them to the detective would ensure Velloca’s arrest, it might as well be sooner. “Well, as I believe Officer Branagan already told you, we decided to follow the carriage when it looked as though none of your men were tailing it,” I began.

  “For that, I must apologize,” the detective broke in. “With Ellis Island and the Barge Office to cover as well, we could post only one man at the Thirty-Fourth Street pier. The couple Detective Silva followed turned out to be brother and sister. The detective was most distraught when he learned what had happened.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not his fault. There were simply too many people to keep track of. In any event, when we didn’t see a tail we followed the carriage ourselves, up to the plant on Thirty-Ninth Street, where Officer Branagan went inside to investigate and was captured. I was discovered shortly afterward and taken through a side door into the building.”

  “By Donato and Gallo,” Cassidi said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did you see anyone else inside the building?” Cassidi asked.

  “I heard someone behind me, but I couldn’t see him.”

  “Why is that?”

  With another glance at Simon, I answered reluctantly, “Because I was dragged backward into the building and then held down on the floor. So I was never able to look behind me. But I know it was Nucci, because Gallo called to him by name to get the van.”

  “And as far as you know, there was no one else but Nucci behind you?”

  “As far as I know. Then Gallo put a chloroformed rag over my face, and when I came to, I was in the van with Francesca. I could hear Nucci and Gallo talking up front.”

  I told him about being brought up to the tack room at the stable, and everything I’d seen and heard there, and explained how I’d come to suspect Velloca. “And then, when we were finishing supper, we learned that they’d been ordered to move us out at midnight.”

  “Who gave this order?”

  “Gallo. He came running in while we were eating and relayed the information to the others. I assumed he’d been to see Velloca.”

  “But Velloca didn’t come himself.”

  I shook my head.

  “And in the entire time you were there, no one mentioned Velloca by name?”

  “No.”

  “All right,” he said with a frown. “What happened next?”

  “Then Nucci and Gallo took us all back upstairs…” I hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “And told Francesca and me to take off our clothes.”

  A strangled oath escaped Simon.

  Cassidi looked from Simon to me. “I’m sorry, Doctor. This must be uncomfortable for you. Perhaps you’d like Mr. Shaw to wait outside?”

  “No, it’s all right.” I lifted my chin, reminding myself that I had no reason to feel ashamed. “Then the man Nucci attempted some unwanted familiarity, and I dissuaded him by stabbing him in the eye with Officer Branagan’s call box key. When he took exception, Claudia pulled him off of me, reminding him that Velloca was entitled to first crack at all the new girls.”

  The detective paused in his scribbling to look at me askance.

  “Pardon me if I’ve shocked you.”

  “Not at all,” he said stiffly. “I appreciate your directness.”

  Simon’s jaw appeared to have turned to stone. “I’d like to have a little chat with Mr. Nucci when he arrives,” he told Cassidi.

  “I’m sure you would,” the detective replied, eying him warily. “But you’re going to have to leave the questioning to the police.” He turned back to me. “Now, Dr. Summerford, if you would continue?”

  “There isn’t much more to tell. We could hear the men working on the carriages and bringing down the horses. At one point, I tried to call out the window to some passersby and was tied to the radiator for my trouble. A short time later, I heard a great commotion, and then Simon burst through the door, followed by Donato a few minutes later. I believe you know the rest.”

  “So you never saw Velloca at any time during your captivity,” the detective concluded.

  “No, but I met him before, and I can tell you that he matches Teresa’s description perfectly, right down to his silver ring.”

  He dropped his pencil onto the notebook. “I’m afraid that’s not good enough.”

  “Good enough for what?”

  “To obtain a warrant for his arrest.”

  I gaped at him. “How can that be?”

  “To obtain a warrant, we need to show both that a crime was committed and that there are reasonable grounds to believe Velloca committed it. Without an affidavit from one of his victims, we can do neither.”

  “But you know exactly what he did! Teresa told me, and I’ve told you!”

  “We need to hear it from the victim herself, or at least from someone who witnessed the crime. And unfortunately, neither Miss Casoria or any of the others who were there before you are willing to speak to us.”

  “But Francesca and I have testified that we were abducted by Nucci and Gallo, who we know were working for Velloca…”

  He shook his head, cutting me off. “We don’t as yet have any proof establishing a connection between Velloca and the others.”

  “The stable is in Pardello’s name,” Simon reminded me, “and we’ve got nothing else proving that he was involved with what was going on there.”

  I wracked my brain, trying to think of what proof we did have. One of Antonio’s workmen had followed Velloca from his home to the stable, I remembered; that would constitute firsthand knowledge. But he hadn’t witnessed any crime, and in any event, it was clear from my conversation with Antonio’s mother that no one in the Fabroni coterie was going to confirm anything for the police. “Teresa told me the reason her abductor was called Un-Occhio was because he only had a single testicle,” I told them. “It should be simple enough to ascertain whether Velloca is similarly deficient.”

  “Not if he hasn’t been arrested,” Cassidi said. “We can’t drag anyone we want off the street and strip him of his clothes. Besides, as I said, Miss Casoria won’t testify—as to her attacker’s ‘deficiency’ or anything else.”

  “What about the soup then?” I tried. “I told you, his son complained that it was too salty at his flat. The soup they fed us at the stable was salty too. And it was in exactly the same type of lard pail.”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” Cassidi said wearily, “but if I attempt to get an arrest warrant based on some salty soup…” He shook his head.

  I sat back, crossing my arms. “You did question him last night?”

  “I did.”

  “Then tell me, how does he claim to make a living if he has no involvement with the stable?”

  “He told me he’s a real estate agent. I looked into it. He has an office on 116th Street, three doors down from the stable.”

  “Well, isn’t that convenient,” I scoffed. “Did you ask to see a history of his recent transactions?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not against the law to be a poor salesman.”

  I sighed in frustration. “Maybe you could arrest him for something else then. Have you considered that he might be the man behind the Spider bombings?”

  “It’s possible, but we’ve seen nothing to suggest he is. We searched the stable from top to
bottom and found no evidence of bomb making or any other illegal activity.”

  “So Velloca is going to remain at large,” I said in disbelief. “That’s what you’re telling me.”

  “I understand your frustration, Doctor. It’s something I must deal with every day. But don’t worry; it’s only a matter of time before we find the evidence we need.”

  I rubbed my face, horrified to think that Velloca could still go free. And then it came to me. “Wait,” I said, raising my head. “You said before that you needed testimony from one of his victims or from someone who’d seen him carrying out the crime, is that correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  I nodded with satisfaction. “Then you need to speak to Morris Stimitz.”

  Cassidi cocked an eyebrow.

  “Velloca hired Stimitz to take pictures of him and Teresa, in flagrante delicto.”

  “In what?” the detective asked with a frown.

  “The sexual act,” Simon answered.

  “Which was clearly against her will,” I added.

  “And you know this how?” Cassidi asked me.

  “Teresa told me. She remembered his name, and I looked him up in the business directory. He has a studio on 102nd Street.”

  Cassidi stroked his chin. “If this is true, we can arrest him for taking pornographic photographs and then offer him a reduced sentence for his testimony against Velloca.”

  I sat back in relief.

  “And of course,” he went on, “we can use the photographs themselves as evidence, assuming he still has them in his possession.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I said. “The photographs are gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  I explained how I’d tricked Stimitz into giving me the images and that Teresa and I had burned them shortly after.

  “But there will still be the negatives,” the detective said.

  “I’m afraid not. I destroyed those as well.” Seeing his obvious disappointment, I said, “It didn’t occur to me you’d need them as evidence. I thought the testimony from Francesca and me would be more than sufficient. And knowing that the images existed was driving Teresa mad.”