BELLA MAFIA (28 page)

Graziella rose to her feet. Her control was superhuman. "I am well aware of how the government works. . . . Thank you, signor, for having the decency to come and see me personally. As you said, you are very busy, so I do not wish to delay you any longer. ..."

Adina entered the hall as soon as she heard the bell ring, but Graziella was already ushering Emanuel out. As the door closed behind him, he was still apologizing.

Graziella beckoned to Adina to follow her. "I must contact all my daughters; they must be here. They must return to Palermo immediately." Her face was like a mask. "They are going to free Paul Carolla."

Paul Carolla sat opposite his visitor and talked to him via the telephone.

"I'm gonna walk. They got no fuckin' chance, an' it's all legal. Two more months an' my time is up. Are my guys worth their fuckin' dough? You should have been in court, fuckin' uproar."

Enrico Dante's smile froze on his face. He had been running Carolla's businesses, handling the contracts, the transfer of the money, and siphoning much into his own pockets in the certainty that Carolla would never be freed. He would have a lot of explaining to do.

"Eh, you okay? What's the matter?"

Dante's voice was an octave higher than usual. "Nothin',

Paulie, it's the best news, maybe make up for some of the bad—"

Carolla's face changed; the ratlike eyes hardened. "Everything gain' through okay? You got problems?"

"No, no, everything's on course, just gonna be a bit of delay. The lawyer, the Lucianos' executor, he's dead."

"Who the fuck bumped him off?"

"It was a heart attack. So until the replacement takes over, we can't move. We got deeds but no signatures, an' Domino had agreed prices but nothin's signed and sealed. . . . We got in first, but this'll give the other families time to move in."

"I was first, you mean. I've been buying up Luciano's territory for fuckin' years, an' he never realized. How long before you know?"

"I dunno."

"Well, find out, I want that waterfront, the docks. I'm not interested in all the other crap. Get movin' on it. Up the price if necessary, right? Everythin' else okay?"

"Sure, we got no problems."

"Good . . . Now, listen, what d'ya know about a cop called Pirelli?"

Dante squinted and dabbed at his neck with a handkerchief. "Pirelli? Never heard of him."

"He keeps asking to see me, wants to question me about that Paluso kid. . . . You know, the jail cleaner's kid that got blown away. How come I'm gettin' more information inside this shithole than you're gettin' outside?"

"I was in Rome."

Carolla stared hard, saw that Dante was uncomfortable. "Well, just as long as you're not spreading my dough around, you'll be okay."

Dante pushed his chair back, but Carolla snapped that he wasn't through yet. "My kid, Luka, he got back to the States?"

"I haven't beard nothin' about him," Dante confessed.

Carolla banged the glass between them with his fist. "Find out. I don't want him anywhere near. I'm gonna walk outta here, hear me? Check it out an' do it fast."

Commissario Joseph Pirelli had reinterviewed every suspect, checked every statement, and all he had come up with so far, after questioning the one witness to the shooting of little Julio Paluso, was that the driver of the unidentified car was possibly young, might have been blond, and was perhaps wearing mirrored sunglasses. That was why the witness hadn't seen his face. . . .

Pirelli had so far not managed to arrange an interview with Carolla, but given the possibility of Carolla's being freed, he had put the pressure on and been rewarded with a six o'clock meeting—along with Carolla's lawyer.

The meeting took place in a guarded room. Carolla was already seated when Pirelli entered.

The inspector briefly acknowledged Dr. Ulliano, Carolla's attorney, who embarked on a small, helpful speech about how his client had already assisted in every way possible in a case that obviously had nothing to do with him whatsoever since he was locked in his cell at the time of the crime.

Pirelli lit a cigarette and tossed the match in the ashtray. "I am fully aware of Signor Carolla's incarceration, but we have important new evidence that could involve Signor Carolla. We now have a good description of the killer."

Pirelli saw the dark eyes harden, the quick glance from Carolla to his attorney. He continued. "You stated that Giuseppe Paluso was cleaning the cell, with the door open. You asked if he would take a message out, is that correct? Knowing it was against the law?"

Carolla pursed his lips. "Look, you got my statement. I admitted I wanted the guy to take out a message—"

"Just the one message, or did you hope Paluso would become a regular carrier?"

Carolla leaned forward. "You read my statement; it's all in my statement. I wanted to get a message to my business associate. That was all."

"And when Paluso refused?"

Carolla laughed and spread his fat hands. "I got uptight, I admit it. I said a few things, maybe made a few threats. You get that way inside."

"So you made a few threats?" Pirelli turned the pages of Carolla's statement, then picked up a notepad. " 'You got family. You got a wife. You got—' Do I need to continue? You admit you made these threats?"

Carolla shrugged and shot another glance at Ulliano. "Like

I said, in the heat of the moment I might have said certain things, but I don't remember."

Pirelli's voice was very soft. "You don't-remember. You made a threat against a man's wife, his family, and two days later, two days, his nine-year-old son, nine years old, Signor Carolla, was shot at point-blank range. It blew his head off. Have you seen the photos?"

He pushed the gruesome picture of the murdered child across the table, but Carolla averted his face, turning to Ulliano. "What the fuck is this? Get this guy outta here."

"I say when this interview is over, Signor Carolla, I say, understand? You made a threat, and two days later—"

"I had nothin' to do with that fuckin' kid. You know what it's been like for me in this pigsty? Since that happened, I can't even take a shower without some fucker wants to slit my throat. I can't eat—"

"But you admit it's a coincidence? Now, we have recordings of all your telephone conversations with every visitor. . . . Did you at any time mention this, shall we say, 'problem' you were having with the cleaner?"

Carolla rose to his feet. "I've had enough. This is bullshit. You say you got a witness, a suspect; then you
know
I'm innocent. I got an alibi, one you nor anyone else can do anything about. Go bring in your witness, and go fuck yourself."

With care Pirelli packed away his papers. "Thank you for your time, Signor Carolla. I will need to question you again."

After Carolla had been taken back to his cell, Pirelli stayed in the room. He had gained nothing but a gut feeling that Carolla had ordered the boy's death. He had no recordings of the visits, none existed. But now he would check and double-check every single person who had visited Carolla since the time of his arrest.

Carolla's paranoia increased as alone in his cell, he went over everything Pirelli had said. He clenched his fists and punched at the wall until his knuckles bled, seeing his son's face in the concrete. Then he banged on his cell door. He had to make a phone call.

Teresa was out of breath as she reached her apartment door. The elevator was yet again out of order. No amount of tenants' complaints seemed to get it fixed. Clutching a bag of groceries, she fumbled for her keys, then jammed her elbow against the doorbell.

It rang and rang until finally she dumped the shopping bag on the floor and searched her handbag. The door opened, and Rosa stood there, a towel wrapped around her head.

"Didn't you hear the bell?"

"I was washing my hair."

Teresa kicked the door shut behind her. Rosa made no effort to help her with the shopping bag but went straight back to the bathroom.

Teresa almost missed the cable. She dropped the groceries and ripped the envelope open. "Rosa! Rosa!" She ran down the corridor. "Rosa, it's come, it's here! It's from Graziella, look, look. . . . We've got to go to Palermo, first flight. Jesus Christ!"

Teresa stared, openmouthed. "What have you done? Dear God, what have you done?"

Rosa backed away from her. She had cut her hair, hacked it into jagged pieces, the top so short it was like a crew cut. But worse, it was bright orange; at least, some if it was.

Rosa ran her hand over her hair. "I cut it."

"I can see that! Why?"

Rosa shrugged, keeping well away from her mother. Teresa waved the cable at her. "We are going to Sicily, we've got to get to Palermo, and you
cut your hair!”
She turned and ran back down the corridor.

"Where are you going? Mama?"

"To get you a goddamn wig! If Graziella sees you like that . . . Oh, how could you? How could you do that to me?"

"It's
my
hair, Mama."

"You're
my
daughter! You're Graziella's granddaughter. What's she going to think? You go and pack, right now!"

She slammed out of the apartment. Rosa picked up the cable, which said little:
return to Palermo urgent, first plane. graziella luciano.

Sophia received a phone call in Rome. Graziella sounded distant and would say little except that Sophia must be at the Villa Rivera the next day. She would not discuss anything on the telephone.

Paul Carolla had to wait two and a half hours before the telephone was made available for him to call Enrico Dante. He said little, just that it was imperative that Dante visit him.

Pirelli was staying in a rented apartment in the center of Palermo. The vast rooms were sparsely furnished with heavy baroque antiques. But at least the mosaic-tiled floors were cool to his bare feet.

He padded around the kitchen, making himself a mug of coffee and a sandwich, then carried them to the cavernous dining room and put them on the huge oval table. His gun holster was empty, and the sweat stains on his shirt disgusted him, so he peeled it off and chucked it in a corner. His body was tough and muscular, he looked younger than his forty-one years, but tonight he felt much older. He was tired, his eyes hurt, but he was determined to go through the list of Carolla's visitors over the past sixteen months before getting some sleep. The faster he got on with the Paluso case, the sooner he could return to Milan. His wife had hardly spoken to him since he had canceled their vacation. He had suggested that she go with their son, but she had shouted that the whole point of the damn vacation was for them to be together. He checked his watch; it was after midnight, and he had forgotten to call her, as usual. He'd do it first thing in the morning.

He began working backward; the visitors around the date of the murder were obviously the most important. He would soon discover if the same names recurred over the months.

Luka Carolla stood staring at the neat rows of bamboo canes. His job was finished, but whatever he had hoped to feel at its completion, perhaps relief, had not happened.

He returned to his cell and packed his few possessions, adding the robe and sandals at the last minute. He was ready to leave, but he still had to return to the chapel.

His heart began to pound as he crept along the stone corridor. The fear, the darkness that Father Angelo talked of filled him, weighing him down.

The heavy oak door creaked open, and he winced. But the silence was as heavy as the darkness. He put his bag down, and moved soundlessly up the aisle.

The crypt was lit by a single shaft of moonlight. The Christ figurine on the mighty cross shone; the wounds were deep shadows. Luka moved closer and closer. In the darkness his hair was like a halo, his lean, chiseled features like an angel's. Fear swamped him, making his feet leaden, each step forced, unnatural. He could not, no matter how he tried, move to the cross, climb up as he had done. He could not move. . . .

Brother Guido, watching from his hiding place behind the carved screen to the right of the cross, was almost afraid to breathe. He had been praying when Luka entered and had bent lower until he peered like a thief through the fretwork. The boy's beauty was almost ethereal. He stood with his face slightly tilted, his body straight, poised like a statue, and Guido dared not move.

The sound was very soft, like a moan on a slight intake of breath. Guido realized it was a word; Luka was saying, "No," repeating it as if in terrible pain. Guido could not stand it a moment longer; he stood up.

He could not recall, later, if he actually spoke Luka's name, but the boy's reaction was like an electric shock. He snarled, lips pulled back. His face twisted like a cat's, and he spit, hissed. . . . He began moving backward into the darkness.