Killing Pace

by Douglas Schofield

  Laura stepped through the doorway.

  The first person she saw was a tall, pallid-faced man with a receding hairline. He was standing just inside the adjoining door. Wary and watchful.

  He looked nothing like a cop.

  “Thank you for joining us, Ms. Pace,” a calm male voice said from the far end of the room. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you.”

  Sitting in a chair by the window was an older man with a shock of iron-gray hair and a grave and unmoving face. He was wearing a blue blazer and holding a coffee mug in one hand.

  Laura recognized Dominic Lanza from a grainy photograph she’d found online.

  Dumbfounded, she wheeled on Scott Jardine.

  “You’re part of this?”

  Jardine looked vaguely ill. “Yeah. But for a good cause. Just listen.”

  “Do have a seat, Ms. Pace.” Lanza indicated a chair that was positioned near his own. “My colleague and I are not here to harm you. To help you feel safe, Detective Jardine volunteered his services as—shall we say—our mediator.”

  “You’re Dominic Lanza.”

  “I am. And the quiet gentleman behind you is my assistant, Carlo Barbieri.”

  Her eyes blazed. “You had me kidnapped, framed me for murder, and sent me to die in a swamp … and now you want mediation?”

  Jardine interposed. “What did I say, Laura? Please just listen.”

  “There is something you need to understand, Ms. Pace,” Lanza said. “I was not responsible for your earlier abduction. But I believe I know who was. I would be grateful if you would hear me out.”

  Laura gaped up at him. He looked absolutely sincere.

  Her mind struggled with competing concepts.

  You’re listening to a mob boss. These people extort. They lie. They kill.

  Scott Jardine—a police detective you respect—arranged this meeting.

  She strode over to the offered chair and sat down.

  Across the room, Jardine and Barbieri took up positions against opposite walls.

  “First,” Lanza opened, “my apologies. I was made aware that you had certain plans for me. Plans based upon a misconception about my role in your recent hardships. I realized it was important for us to meet and clear the air. But, being aware of your formidable skills, it was necessary to take somewhat elaborate measures to secure your attention. For that, we can thank Detective Jardine.”

  Laura was reminded of a few things about Dominic Lanza that she’d picked up online. College educated. Extremely intelligent. One daughter, living in Texas, married to an architect. If Lanza was head of a criminal organization—and this small experience tended to confirm that—the internet had also been right about the man’s legendary manners. The only dissonant note was the dropped left eyelid with which his impeccable diction was delivered.

  Resigned, and now deeply curious, she nodded acceptance of his apology.

  “I am aware of your former profession, and of the investigation you were conducting in Italy. I don’t mind telling you this right now: Mr. Nelthorp did have a business relationship with me, but only for auto parts. I say this in the presence of Detective Jardine because I know that is not why he is here, and because he kindly allowed Carlo to search him, so we know he is not wearing a recording device.”

  “Auto parts. You mean the shipments from Catania.”

  “Yes. Obviously, I don’t appreciate your interference in that enterprise. But I do admire your tenacity.”

  Laura wasn’t quite ready to accept the admiration of a mob boss, polite or otherwise. She responded with silence and a level gaze.

  “But you must understand. My organization has never been involved in baby stealing. Traffico di bambini is an abomination.”

  She was tempted to point out the moral schizophrenia of being disgusted by baby laundering but not by the possibility of babies dying in car accidents caused by defective brake pads, but obviously this was not the time.

  “Nelthorp hid that side of his business from me,” Lanza continued. “He was working with another organization … the one that tried to kill you.”

  “Which time?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “In Catania. Back in January. I was at a restaurant with Nelthorp. We were sitting at a sidewalk table. He said he was sorry; he’d thought we could be friends. I asked him what had changed his mind. He said, ‘Not what. Who. Dominic Lanza.’ A second later, a van pulled up and a couple of hoods tried to grab me. He knew they were coming.”

  “That was you?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I read the newspapers. The articles mentioned an American woman who turned the tables on some kidnappers.”

  “I had backup. We got one of them, but his partner and the driver got away. My point is, Mr. Lanza, Nelthorp gave me your name seconds before I was attacked. And those men who got away were the same men who grabbed me in Palm Beach and murdered the Edens.”

  “Which supports my point, Ms. Pace. When Nelthorp used my name, was your investigation closing in on him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he suspect that?”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  Lanza nodded knowingly. “He dropped my name in case you were wired.”

  “I was.”

  “And … in case anything went wrong, which it did. His partner was making sure everything came back on me.”

  “Partner?”

  “Antonio Mazzara.” He saw the recognition on her face. “You know that name?”

  “I saw certain intelligence reports,” she lied. “In Sicily.”

  Dominic grunted. “Then you’ll know he’s been running the Mazzara organization from an Italian prison for the last fourteen years.”

  Laura’s answering nod was another lie.

  “He has crews in Sicily and over here. The Brooklyn branch is run by his nephew, Gustavo. They use one of the old New York families for cover and stay out of sight. And it fits that they’d try to shift attention onto me. Antonio hates me.”

  “Why?”

  Lanza smiled. “You’ll have to wait for my memoirs.” He rose from his chair. “We’ll be leaving now. Good luck.”

  Laura made a quick decision. “Before you go … I want to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “A video. Detective Jardine has already seen it. It’s on my phone”—she gestured toward the open door to her unit—“in my jacket.”

  Jardine went to retrieve the phone.

  She logged on and the screen came to life. There they were again … the two men brushing past the crib … the shriek … the gunshots … the thug reaching for the monitor, his ferret eyes and acne-blotched face filling the screen.

  “Stop there,” Dominic said.

  Laura froze the screen.

  Barbieri was standing behind them. “Boss…”

  “Danny Quintavalle,” Dominic muttered.

  “He works for Mazzara,” Barbieri explained.

  Laura noticed the expression on Lanza’s face. “There’s something else. Something you’re not saying.”

  “You’re very perceptive.”

  “What is it?”

  “Quintavalle used to work for us. We’ve been looking for him.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “It can be, Ms. Pace. If circumstances require.”

  At least he’s not hiding it … even with Scott listening.

  “Well, Mr. Lanza, you can stop looking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was killed in a head-on collision on February sixth. I was there.”

  Jardine’s phone pinged. Lanza shot him a sharp look. Jardine glanced at a text on his screen. “You gentlemen will want to leave now.”

  “We understand,” Lanza said. “Thank you, Detective.”

  And then they were gone.

  * * *

  Jardine led Laura back into her unit.

  “Okay, Scott. Explain!”

  “Explain what?�
��

  “Are you kidding? That meeting! You being here! How did—?”

  “Later! Grab whatever you need. We need to move fast.”

  The urgency in his voice, the concern on his face—suddenly she knew. From the initial shock and puzzlement of witnessing him “mediate” a meeting between her and a Mafia padrone, her comprehension now graduated to a whole new level. Scott Jardine was risking everything—his career, maybe even his life—for her.

  Risking everything for Laura Pace, a woman he barely knew.

  Don’t argue! Go with it!

  There wasn’t much to pack and Laura was ready in minutes. He led her through the breezeway to an unmarked police unit that was parked in the alley behind the motel.

  She tugged at his arm. “My bike’s gone! I left it right here.”

  “Taken care of,” he replied cryptically. He opened the front passenger door. “C’mon. We’re running out of time.”

  Jardine peeled out of the alley and swung on to Route 27, heading south with his make-believe prisoner seated next to him.

  “If I’m in custody, why didn’t you put me in the back?”

  “That might be noticed.”

  “By?”

  “By busybody citizens.”

  He remained closemouthed for several miles.

  Finally, fed up with his silence, she tried again. “Ready to explain all this now?”

  “Just wait.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “My motorbike. What happened to it?”

  “It’s safe.”

  As they sifted down a forty-mile-long straight stretch of US 27, heading for its intersection with Interstate 75, she tried again. “This silent treatment. A little bit of revenge going on here?”

  “Yeah, Laura. A little bit.” He drew a deep breath. “Waiting for your next contact … waiting for little pieces of the truth … waiting, waiting. Meanwhile, getting continually harassed by the feds. Then forced to get down in the dirt with a mob boss just to make sure you don’t get killed. Yeah, maybe it’s your turn to wonder what the hell is going on.” He stiffened, peering at the traffic ahead. “Get out of sight. Now!”

  “What?”

  “NOW!”

  She slid down. Seconds later, three black SUVs whipped past, heading north.

  “Okay, it’s clear.”

  She sat up and craned to look. “If that’s what I think it is…”

  “It is.”

  “I’m not really under arrest, am I? What are you really doing, Scott?”

  “Sticking my neck out for you! So will you please shut up and let me drive?”

  She studied his profile, intent on the road. There was something … a dampness at the corner of his eye. She watched him wipe it away with the back of his hand.

  “I promise to shut up if you’ll answer one more question,” she said quietly.

  “What is it?”

  “When did you decide to cross the line? To help me?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Twenty-three hours ago.”

  Laura stayed quiet for the rest of the trip. She didn’t even ask where they were going. By the time they blew past the I-75 ramp that would have taken them west, directly to Naples, she was no longer paying attention.

  By then, her mind had drifted back to the monitor.

  And the crib.

  And the baby she had lost.

  30

  The house stood at the end of a wooded, brick-paved cul-de-sac in the Silver Bluff area of northeast Coconut Grove. As their vehicle entered the driveway, the door to one section of a three-car garage rose. Jardine drove straight in and parked next to a late-model Range Rover. The door descended behind them.

  He led Laura through a door and guided her along a hallway of polished wood into a vast living room. It was not just lushly furnished, it was opulent, overloaded with furnishings and artwork to draw the eye and overpower the senses.

  Comfortably ensconced on an ornate couch, with her legs neatly tucked up, was Renate Richter.

  Laura threw a look at Scott. All she got in response was a clenched jaw.

  So that’s why you weren’t talking.

  Renate gestured at the other end of the couch. Laura sat. Jardine took a chair nearby.

  Laura locked cold eyes on Renate. “You told Dominic Lanza where to find me.”

  “I did. And I also told Detective Jardine. Together, we have just prevented you from getting yourself arrested. Or killed.”

  After what had just happened, Laura was in no position to argue. She took a deep breath. “I accept that. Thank you. But how did you know? How did you know it wasn’t Lanza?”

  “After our meeting at Realmonte, after you called to say you would help, I didn’t hear from you. You failed to report anything you had learned about the infant trafficking that Gaetano and I had brought to your attention. I didn’t know if you had made progress. Then I saw the Interpol Red Notice for Conrad Nelthorp. The metadata referred to smuggling offenses at the Port of Catania, and probable links to the Italian-American Mafia. I had already located your apartment in Catania, so I sent Gaetano to find you. You weren’t there. He asked at the port, but got no cooperation. He worried that if he was too persistent with his questions, he might arouse unwelcome suspicions. Then we learned that the American consul in Palermo had died under suspicious circumstances. I eventually tracked you to Florida, but before I could make contact through a secure channel, you disappeared. The next thing I heard, you were a fugitive, wanted for murder.

  “Shortly after you disappeared, Gaetano called me. Through the church, he was acquainted with Silvio Lanza, a prominent landowner in central Sicily. Silvio and Dominic Lanza are first cousins. Silvio had heard through his own network of sources that Nelthorp was being sought for two reasons: counterfeit goods smuggling and”—she faltered—“there was an Italian expression he used for it.”

  “Traffico di bambini.”

  “That was it. According to Gaetano, when Silvio learned that the Lanza family was suspected of these activities, he was deeply insulted. He called Dominic to ask him about it, and was told what I am sure you were told today. Although Silvio Lanza has not led an exemplary life, he remains a religious man. He was aware that Gaetano was somehow associated with the Vatican, so he invited him to his home for a private discussion. He admitted nothing about the fake goods arrangement, but he insisted that Gaetano assure his superiors in Rome that no member of the Lanza family in Italy or America had ever been involved in human trafficking. Gaetano delivered that message to the Vatican, as requested. He also delivered it to me.”

  Laura saw where this was heading. “You were going to tell me all this when I hung up on you.”

  “I was.”

  “I destroyed the SIM card.”

  “I guessed that, because I tried to call you back.” A pause, then she continued. “The counterfeit goods trade may have been a big part of your mission in Sicily, but you must understand that it barely registers at the U.N. We leave those investigations to international law enforcement and the World Trade Organization. On the other hand, stopping human trafficking of any description is one of our top priorities. After Gaetano told me about his meeting with Silvio, I used our intelligence resources to identify Nelthorp’s residence in Trieste and then track the ownership. We established that it is owned by a Swiss company. The Swiss company is owned by a company in the British Virgin Islands, and that company is owned, in turn, by an Italian company registered with the chamber of commerce in Palermo. The sole director and shareholder of that company is a man named Rocco Russo. Mr. Russo happens to be a second-generation avvocato to a Cosa Nostra family in Palermo called—”

  “Mazzara.”

  “You know this?”

  “Lanza gave us a name. Gustavo Mazzara.”

  At that moment, a thickset blond man materialized in the doorway.

  “Come in, Rolf,” Renate said. “Meet our guest. Laura, this is Rolf Karppa. He works
with me. He has brought your motorbike.”

  “It’s in the garage,” he told Laura. “But I suggest you don’t use it unless we can arrange for new number plates.”

  “You all knew where I was staying in Clewiston!” Laura left her seat, suddenly agitated. Renate and Scott exchanged a glance and stood up. “Why didn’t one of you just come to my door? Explain the facts of life? Why the show-and-tell with Dominic Lanza?”

  Renate replied, “Because—how do you say it in English?—you needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth. We can’t afford—you can’t afford—to waste any more time chasing false leads. After our interrupted telephone call, would you have believed it from me?”

  “Probably not. But what if it had all gone wrong? This is the Mafia! Scott and I could have ended up dead!”

  “No. You’re worth more to Lanza alive. But we were ready for that contingency.”

  “Ready, how?”

  “Rolf and Paolo were monitoring the meeting from unit three.”

  “Who’s Paolo?”

  “You’ll meet him in a minute. He’s making dinner.”

  Laura stared at Renate Richter. She stared at Rolf Karppa. She stared at Scott Jardine.

  Detective Scott Jardine.

  It was all too surreal.

  “The feds on the highway…”

  “It took your Homeland people a few days, but this morning they told the FBI that you might be using an old alias that had never been retired: Barbara Hyatt. Rolf and I visited Scott and persuaded him to help extract you. I stayed here to monitor the FBI radio traffic. And Rolf stayed behind in Clewiston after you and Scott left to record the event. Show her.”

  Rolf passed his cell phone to Laura. A video played. There was the sprawling rust-colored motel in Clewiston, the office, the Coke machine, the marquis proclaiming CLEAN ROOMS HBO FREE COFFEE HIGH-SPEED INTERNET. Judging by the angle, the film was shot from the laundromat across the street.

  A few seconds passed, and suddenly the lifeless scene erupted with activity. Black SUVs and marked police units pulled into the parking lot. Through the passageway to the alley, she could see other emergency units arriving behind the motel. A team of agents, suited up and armed with assault rifles, closed on Laura’s unit. One agent ran to the office and reemerged seconds later. He used a key card to unlock the door to her unit and the cops piled in.