Frame-Up (16 page)

"Now laugh … go on, laugh, like you laughed by the school," I hiss,
forcing his head up painfully, my anger taking over. He moans, gasping
for breath. "I could easily kill you now. One jerk and I break your neck."
I give his head a little twist.

"Please, no," he grunts.

"Why shouldn’t I? I warned you the other day to keep away from the
girls. You didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now?"

"
Si,
signorina. Please don’t kill me." He is back to the formal ‘
Lei
’.

"No, I won’t, because you will now work with me rather than against
me."

I release his hair and get up. He turns over to sit.

"Give me your other knife," I order.

"I don’t have another knife."

"You want all your front teeth smashed in? The knife!" I hold out a
hand.

He reaches for the instep of his left boot.

"Slowly, no sudden movements!" I warn.

He slides a small, thin blade from the boot.

"Hold it by the blade and pass it to me."

He does.

"Where is your gun?" I question.

"I don’t have …," he starts and then changes his mind. "In my suitcase
over there."

"All right. Go over there, kneel down, and open it slowly."

Again he follows my instructions. When the suitcase is open, I say:
"Uncover the gun, take it by the barrel and hand it to me."

He seems to hesitate for a second.

"Don’t even think of anything silly if you don’t want to live the rest of
your life as a eunuch."

He removes several pieces of underwear, grabs a small handgun by its
barrel and passes it to me. I slip off the security, assuming that he would
hardly have the gun unloaded.

"Now get up slowly … Sit on this soft chair." I point to the right.

He does. While not letting him out of sight, I retrieve the first knife I
dropped. Then I return, standing about five feet in front of him, the gun
in my hand.

"And now, listen carefully. I will say it only once … I do not have the
two million pounds that Signor Carvaggio was cheated out of. I am as
much a victim of this scam as he is. Somebody fed me a false rumor,
managed to get it confirmed to me by a third party, and then bought the
Sanvino shares and sold them a day later for a two million windfall. The
police have shown me the bank account over which the transactions were
executed. It’s in the name of I-Consolidated. As a result of Signor
Carvaggio’s accusations, the police questioned me. The only way to clear
my name is to find out who did it. Once I know, Signor Carvaggio can
claim his money from them … So, harming any of my relatives or me will
not get his money back. And you know as well as I that if you fail to get
that money, your life is worth nothing. Your own people won’t tolerate
a failure." I briefly pause. "You got that all?"

He nods.

"I have currently three likely suspects who could have done that scam,
and your ill-informed and ill-advised actions have kept me from finding
firm evidence that pinpoints to the culprit. So rather than work against
me, I want you to work with me. Are we agreed so far?"

"Yes, signorina."

"So you will leave my relatives alone and you will convince Signor
Carvaggio of the wisdom of working with me."

"Yes, signorina."

I lock eyes with him. After two seconds or so, he lowers his gaze.

"What’s your name?"

"Fausto."

"Fausto what?"

"Fausto Bergamini."

"Fausto, I’m willing to help you get that money, but I warn you. Don’t
even think of trying to cross me because trying is all you’ll manage. I can
kill you barehanded with a single blow, and I won’t hesitate to do it if you
make the slightest wrong move. You got that?"

"Yes, signorina." He says it without the slightest hesitation. I have
never seen an arrogant guy like him transform into a subdued underling.
I reckon that this is the reaction of low-ranking members when
confronted by a superior force. It’s bred into them by their Mafia culture.

"Fausto, I ask you again. Are you willing to cooperate with me? Do
what I ask you to do?"

"Yes, signorina."

For a moment I hesitate whether I should make him swear to it by the
Mafia code of honor. But I doubt that this would make any difference.
Also swearing to an outsider may not be binding. "OK. This is my
tentative plan. Over the next few days and nights we will try to pinpoint
who the likely culprits are. I will hack into their computer files to see if
I can trace any suspicious fund transfers or e-mails, while you will
shadow them. I want to know what cars they drive, with whom they
associate, what their movements are. We may have to break into their
homes to search for evidence. When the time comes, I may even ask you
to rough one or the other up, see if something falls out when they are
shaken. That should be right up your business."

For the first time a smile flits across his blood splattered face. He
needs to be cleaned up.

"Before we get down to business, let’s clean you up now. Take your
shirt off and wash yourself."

He rises slowly and looks at me questioningly.

"The bathroom," I say pointing with the gun.

He takes off his jacket.

"Give it to me. I’ll rinse out the blood," I say, securing the gun and
sticking it under the elastic of my pants.

He removes his shirt and hands it to me too. He has an impressive
torso. I follow him into the bathroom. While he washes his face, I soak
the shirt in a layer of cold water in the bathtub. Then I check the jacket
for blood. There are some small drops on the left lapel and left cuff. I
rinse them out and dry the cloth with the bath-towel. He could have
attacked me then, but doesn’t. He is studying his face in the mirror,
touching his nose gingerly.

"Fausto, there is nothing that can be done about the nose. It will heal
by itself."

He murmurs something I don’t catch.

"Is the cut in your hand still bleeding?"

He checks it and shakes his head.

"And now get dressed. And have the shirt cleaned by the hotel laundry
service."

I hand him the jacket.

Two minutes later, he has donned a clean shirt and is putting on his
jacket.

"And now you will drive me to my apartment, where I will give you
the details of the first person I want you to shadow." Then I hold out his
two knives. He seems puzzled. "They are of no use to me. My hands and
feet are my weapons, but I’ll keep the gun for now. You’ll get it back
when we are through."

He takes the two blades almost hesitantly. I can see that he is
thoroughly confused by the blatant audacity of my action, but a new sense
of appreciation appears on his face, as he looks at me for several seconds.
Then he quickly inserts the smaller one in the instep of his left boot, while
the other disappears up inside his left cuff.

On the way to my apartment, I get him to talk about himself. He is
reluctant at first, but then opens up. He grew up in one of the Camorra
controlled suburbs of Naples, steeped in the Mafia culture. He has two
younger sisters.

"Aren’t you afraid for their future? From what I’ve read, they might
be the ones punished if you are accused of a violation of your code of
honor."

He shrugs his shoulders. "That’s life. They are proud of me and my
older brother."

Is he really unconcerned or simply resigned, accepting of their fate?

At the apartment, I disinfect the cut at the thumb and place a plaster on
it. Then I cut out Long’s small face photo on the Lewis’ employee list and
write his home and work address on its back, the likely places where he
eats lunch and drinks after work, and the car he was driving about a
month ago. "Right now, all I want is to know whether he has a different
car and with whom he associates. You have a camera? No? A local cell
phone?"

He shakes his head again.

"I’ll lend you mine."

I fetch my small digital camera and the card cell phone, including its
charger, the police returned to me, and briefly explain how to use both.
I enter the number of my iPhone into the old cell phone memory.

"This is the number you can reach me at any time. If anything unusual
happens, I want you to report it. Keep it on all the time, so I can reach
you. Recharge it every night. And take telephoto shots of the people Long
associates with."

When we part at six o’clock, we shake hands in Continental fashion.
My grip is rather firmer than usual, another message to take me seriously.
In fact, the change in his demeanor toward me is startling. Gone is his
superior attitude. He treats me like somebody who has the right to
command him, always addressing me as ‘signorina’.

Wednesday, 7:10 p.m.

After a hot shower, a change of clothing, and a small snack of cheese and
crackers, I call my dad from my cell phone. He is extremely upset about
what happened that afternoon. I have the vague sense that he blames me,
which I can easily understand. I tell him that I confronted the
mafioso
in
his own hotel room after the incident. "I am quite certain that he now
believes that I am as much a victim of this scam as his boss. I got his
promise that he will make no attempts to harm any of you. He even
agreed to help me find the real culprit."

"But can you trust him? He may simply have said that to deceive you."

"That’s a possibility I can’t discount. For this reason I still think that
it would be a good idea for Lucy and the girls to go into hiding."
Although I’m pretty convinced that Fausto won’t turn on me, at least as
long as he believes that we will recover the money, I pray that dad will
now agree to send the girl’s to Lucy’s parents.

He hesitates for a moment. "Yes, Cecilia, I’m afraid you are right,
although I hate to have them possibly miss several weeks of school."

I give an audible sigh of relief. "Thank you, dad. Look, the girls are
smart and Lucy can teach them. They won’t fall behind … One other
thing, dad. Make sure nobody knows where they go. Make up some story
for the neighbors, even for the school, as well as for the people in your
office."

"We will, and, Ceci, be careful. The guy is still a
mafioso
."

"I will watch my back carefully, dad, I will."

Only after I hang up does it fully sink in how dad’s willingness to take
the girls to safety lifts a heavy worry off my mind

I few minutes later, I’m off to see Sally. Not only do I want to hear
what happened at the family planning clinic, but I also want to make sure
that Mr. Harper is keeping to his promise. Didn’t I promise that to the
girl? Besides, I’ve taken I liking for her.

Mrs. Harper ushers me in and then calls up the stairs: "Sally, Miss
Walker is here."

The girl comes rushing down within seconds, and we spontaneously
hug. She looks fine. That’s reassuring. Mr. Harper gets out of his soft
chair when we enter the living room. The television is going. He turns the
sound down with the remote. We shake hands. He invites me to sit, and
the three sit in a circle around me.

"And how are things?" I ask.

He responds: "Good! Aren’t they, Sally? She did her homework
without having to be reminded."

She beams. "Yes, dad."

"Good." I give the girl a smile. "Tell me what happened at the clinic."

It is Mrs. Harper who answers. "They checked Sally thoroughly and
said she is fine. They want to take another blood test in three weeks, and
they gave her the pill."

Mr. Harper seems visibly embarrassed by the talk. He clears his throat
and says: "Ahh, Miss Walker, you said that you’re a City stockbroker.
Ahh …"

"Yes, I am."

"You see, I thought it would be wise to invest in some shares, ahh,
rather than simply leave the money in a savings account. But now with
the financial crisis, … the share prices have tumbled, and I wonder now
whether I should hold on to them, ahh, or sell them. You understand?
Everybody tells me to sell before they go down even further. Ahh, you
don’t mind me asking you, seeing that you’re an expert."