BELLA MAFIA (39 page)

"That is a very nice painting."

She turned to stare at the large oil, a puzzled expression on her face. "You like it?"

He looked properly at the painting; it was dreadful, a group of men slaughtering a pig. "No. I don't know why I said that."

"It's a pig being slaughtered."

"Yes, I see that now."

He stood up as Teresa entered with Rosa behind her. He shook hands with each of them.

Sophia, Teresa, and Rosa sat at the long polished table like schoolchildren, their hands clasped neatly in front of them. He tried to put them at their ease, smiling and assuring them he had not come to arrest Signora Luciano, but they remained silent. He refused coffee but asked their permission to smoke. Sophia accepted a cigarette from him. As he leaned across the table to light it for her, Teresa and Rosa could see that her hand was shaking. Uneasy looks passed between them.

"Have you run out of your Turkish cigarettes?" Pirelli inquired.

Sophia inhaled the smoke. "Yes, I must get some. Thank you."

"I know a good tobacconist. I'll have some sent to you."

"That won't be necessary."

He opened his briefcase and took out a small notebook, then searched his pockets and brought out a fountain pen. "I apologize for calling on you unexpectedly and at such an hour, but I wondered if you would mind answering a few questions."

He hesitated, looking around, and Teresa placed a heavy crystal ashtray in front of him. He thanked her and continued. "I will not detain you long. Allow me to give you some good news."

He told them that the judge had overthrown the defense counsel's pleas for the defendants' statements to be read in court and that sentences on the accused would be heard next week.

"So Paul Carolla would not have been freed?" asked Teresa.

"No . . . As a matter of fact, it is concerning Paul Carolla that I am here. We are trying to trace a man we wish to interview. His name is Luka Carolla."

He looked at each of them in turn, but there was no reaction. He went on. "Have you ever heard of him? Possibly even met him? He is Paul Carolla's son."

Sophia shook her head and seemed to look to Teresa for permission before she spoke. "I never met Paul Carolla. This man . . . Luka? Is he suspected of the murder of my children?"

Pirelli gave her a concerned look and chose his words carefully. "I am afraid that investigation is not the reason I am here. This is an entirely different matter. At this moment we simply wish to interview Luka Carolla. So far we have been unable to trace him."

He paused, and they looked directly at him, waiting expectantly.

"Carolla's son had apparently been visiting a monastery. It was the only address the lawyers had for him, but unfortunately he has left."

The women froze as Graziella walked into the room, and Pirelli rose to his feet. He kissed her hand and gestured for her to be seated, drawing out a chair next to his own.

"Are you arresting me?"

"No, no, signora, it is a very informal call. It's just that we have the name of a possible suspect in the Paluso child's killing."

Graziella listened as he told her of the search for Luka Carolla, asking if she had ever seen him or knew of his whereabouts. She told him she was not even aware that Carolla had a son.

Pirelli replied that the police had only just discovered Luka Carolla's existence themselves when Paul Carolla had suggested that his son be questioned.

Teresa leaned forward. "You mean, Paul Carolla implicated his own son?"

Pirelli nodded and tapped the edge of his notebook with his pen. "I think at the time Carolla would have implicated his own mother had she been alive. The case was going against him; the tragic murders of your family, the death of the Paluso child, and the mounting accusations in the press placed him under enormous pressure in the jail."

Sophia's cigarette ash dropped on the table, and she brushed it away. Graziella asked if Pirelli had any knowledge of who had killed Carolla.

"I am not on that investigation, signora, but I believe they are making headway."

"So they make headway in finding the killer of the man who murdered my children, but there seems to be no one continuing our investigation. Why have we not been visited before, kept abreast of what is happening?"

"As I have said, Signora Luciano, I am not—"

"Yes, you are not involved . . . Who is? I do not believe the carabinieri know anything. This trial will end, but still the murderers walk free, just as it has always been. . . ."

Pirelli saw the hatred in her eyes, washed-out blue eyes like chips of ice. He looked at the still faces of the women and bowed his head. "I believe that the man who shot Carolla was a professional. Ballistic reports have suggested that the gun was special, a custom-made single-shot gun, possibly disguised as a walking cane. The killer carried it undetected into the courthouse. Perhaps he was hired by one of the families that suspected Carolla was cracking under the strain. It was even suggested that the Luciano family—"

"Ah, now we have it. You are not here to question us about this Paluso murder. The reason is you think we are involved; you believe we had something to do with the man who murdered Paul Carolla."

Graziella pushed her chair back and stood up. She was shaking, her whole body trembled, and the others rose from the table almost in unison. Teresa put a protective arm around Graziella's shoulders; the old woman was, for a moment, unable to speak.

Her chest heaved, but she pushed Teresa's arm away and turned to face Pirelli, who rose slowly to his feet. "My daughters had no knowledge of my attempt to kill Paul Carolla. This I have said in my statement. No one assisted me, no one knew of my intentions, and I swear before God and the Holy Virgin that it is the only criminal act I have ever committed in my life—"

Pirelli interrupted her. "Please, Signora Luciano, I had no intention of—"

Teresa could not keep quiet. She looked at him with contempt. "No intention of what, Commissario? Why don't you actually ask us, ask us if we hired an assassin to kill Carolla? Do you think if we had even considered it, we would have let Mama go into that courtroom? What do you take us for? What kind of people do you think we are?"

Pirelli stared hard, then reached for his raincoat. "You must realize, these questions are bound to be asked. Whoever killed Paul Carolla escaped because of the hysteria surrounding Signora Luciano's attempt. I had no intention of insulting you, and I apologize; but I am investigating the death of a nine-year-old child."

Sophia stepped forward then. "And my children? They don't concern you, do they?"

Pirelli faced them. "I am pursuing this investigation to the best of my ability. . . . Thank you for your time."

Pirelli put his hand out to shake Graziella's, but she turned and walked toward the door. She paused and said, "My daughters will show you out, Commissario."

Teresa picked up his notebook and glanced at it. The doodle on the page was a picture of a walking cane. She closed the book and held it out to him.

"There was one more thing I wanted to ask you," said Pirelli.

The women stood side by side, waiting. Pirelli flipped his notebook open and turned a few pages, then snapped it shut and said questioningly, "Enrico Dante?"

Teresa pressed her hand into the small of Sophia's back.

Pirelli continued. "He was an associate of Paul Carolla. Does his name mean anything to you?"

Teresa shook her head. "I have never heard of him."

He looked at each of them, then strode into the hall. Teresa opened the front door, and he walked out without another word.

As the door closed behind him, he went slowly down the steps. He paused for a moment, then continued along the gravel drive. He had left his car outside the gates. He stopped suddenly and turned back to look at the sprawling villa, the gardens, the groves. . . . The hood of a dark blue car, a Fiat similar to his own and in no better condition, was just protruding through the bushes. He gave it no more than a cursory glance. His mind was elsewhere, because he knew that what Sophia had said was right. The Luciano murders were, to him, on a par with the hundreds of Mafia vendetta murders that occurred all the time. At least their dog-eat-dog methods cleared some of the filth from the streets.

Back at headquarters, Pirelli opened the file cabinet and flicked through it. He withdrew the file with the photograph of Sophia Luciano's children. After removing everything from his bulletin board, he pinned the photo up.

"So it's true, you're taking on the Lucianos?"

Pirelli gave Ancora a puzzled look. "How do you know? I've only just thought about it."

Ancora shrugged. "Well, the rumor is that Mincelli's off the case, you're on it. Milan's given the go-ahead for you to stay. I thought it was just a rumor. I mean, I know you want to get home."

Pirelli smiled, shaking his head. "The little bastard, he must have worked overtime, an' you know what? I'm gonna make him sorry for the day he went behind my back."

Ancora placed two reports on the desk. "Young Bruno's done some good work. We think, though we're not sure, that the weapon was a shooting cane, made in the early eighteenth century. The top part is a horse's head, and it comes apart in three pieces."

Pirelli snatched the paper. "What are you talking about?"

"The weapon used to kill Carolla."

"You've found it?"

Ancora shook his head. "No, but here's a report of a theft from the Villa Palagonia. It was broken into, and the only thing stolen was this old shooting cane."

Pirelli read the report of the stolen gun. "It hadn't been fired for sixty, seventy years. If this is the one, someone must have worked his butt off."

Ancora nodded. "Stolen the night before Carolla was shot. We've got Bruno checking out all the gunsmiths capable of carrying out that kind of work."

Pirelli was leaving, fast. At the door he turned. "Get that over to Mincelli's crowd; get them to do the legwork. You get over to the Villa Palagonia, take the composite of Luka Carolla, see if he was there."

He paused, frowning. "Also get some ID from records, those two corpses at the Armadillo Club. Take their mug shots with you and see if anyone recognizes them and . . . start checking out car rental firms, garages, see if our boy rented a car."

Ancora sighed. He wondered what Pirelli himself was going to be doing.

He was faxing the police in the States, requesting a check on schools, colleges, etc., in the area of Paul Carolla's last known address. Perhaps someone could come up with a recent photo.

Graziella, dressed in mourning, found Sophia lying on her bed. She had obviously been crying, and Graziella kissed her gently. "I am going to the mausoleum. Will you join me?"

Sophia shook her head. "No, Mama, I have a headache. Maybe Rosa will go with you."

"I would like you to accompany me."

Tears trickled down Sophia's cheeks, but she made no sound of weeping. Graziella went to the window and opened the shutters a crack. The sunlight streamed in, and Sophia put her hands across her face.

Graziella's voice was firm. "They do not care about your babies, Sophia. That Pirelli was only interested in Carolla. Well, I thank God for his killer. At least he gave us justice, may God forgive me. I would like you to come, and I will wait downstairs for you."

Graziella paused a moment by the bedside table and looked at the bottle of tablets. It was open, and some of the small yellow pills were lying loose on the tabletop. She said nothing.

Graziella and Sophia stood side by side at the mausoleum gate. Red paint had been scrawled over the walls: "
Mafioso finito
. . . Bastards ..."

The two women went to the taps and filled cans of water to try to wash the paint off the walls. Sophia searched for a stone, dipped it in the water, and started scrubbing at the paint, rubbing so hard that she could feel her fingers getting raw, but she couldn't stop.

Graziella's voice calling her name over and over eventually made her stop. "It's all right, my love, see? See, it's all gone now; it's clean. Come inside, let us go inside."

Sophia struggled against Graziella, twisting away from her. "No, no, don't make me go inside, Mama, please. . . ."

Confused by Sophia's hysteria, Graziella released her hold, and entered alone. Sophia clung to the railings. Her mouth was dry, she couldn't swallow, and she began to search her pockets frantically. She needed something to calm her, she needed— needed . . .

An old man appeared, carrying a bucket and scrubbing brush. "Signora Luciano, I didn't want you to see this. I don't know when it happened. I care for these graves as if they were my own family."

Sophia could not speak. She turned to the gates as Graziella reappeared. The old man kissed her hand, near to tears himself. She drew her veil down over her face and thanked him, then held her hand out to Sophia. The caretaker bowed, apologizing again and promising to guard the tomb with his life.

He was still apologizing as they walked slowly along the white-pebbled lanes, past the tombs, and eventually to the main path.