Omerta (7 page)

It was at this dinner that Colonel Valerius Aprile invited his family to attend the confirmation of his twelve-year-old son, in New York City, two months hence. His wife had insisted on a big celebration at her family’s old church. It was in the Don’s newly transformed character to accept this invitation.

A
nd so on a cold December Sunday noon, bright with a lemon-colored light, the Aprile family went to Saint Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue, where the brilliant sunshine etched the image of that great cathedral into the streets around it. Don Raymonde Aprile, Valerius and his wife, Marcantonio, anxious for a quick getaway, and Nicole, beautiful in black, watched the cardinal himself, red-hatted and sipping wine, give Communion and administer Heaven’s admonitory ceremonial slap on the cheek.

It was a sweet and mysterious pleasure to see the boys on the brink of puberty, girls ripening into nubility in their white gowns with the red silk scarves draped around, marching down the aisles of the cathedral, stone angels and saints watching over them. Confirming that they would serve God for the rest of their lives. Nicole had tears in her eyes, though she didn’t believe a word the cardinal was saying. She laughed to herself.

Out on the steps of the cathedral, the children shed their robes and showed off their hidden finery. The girls in frail cobwebby white lace dresses, the boys in their dark suits, glaring white shirts, and traditional red neckties knitted at their throats to ward off the Devil.

Don Aprile emerged from the church, Astorre on one side, Marcantonio on the other. The children milled around in a circle, Valerius and his wife proudly holding their son’s gown as a photographer snapped their picture. Don Aprile began to descend the steps alone. He breathed in the air. It was a glorious day; he felt so alive and alert. And when his newly confirmed grandson came over to hug him, he patted his head affectionately and put a huge gold coin in the boy’s palm—the traditional gift on a child’s confirmation day. Then with a generous hand he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of smaller gold coins to give to the other boys and girls. He was gratified by their shouts of joy and indeed by being in the city itself, its tall gray stone buildings as sweet as the trees. He was quite alone, only Astorre a few paces behind. He looked down at the stone steps in front of him, then paused a moment as a huge black car pulled up as if to receive him.

I
n Brightwaters that Sunday morning Heskow got up early and went to get baked goods and the newspapers. He stored the stolen car in the garage, a huge black sedan packed with the guns and masks and boxes of ammunition. He checked the tires, the gas and oil, and the braking lights. Perfect. He went back into the house to wake up Franky and Stace, but of course they were already up and Stace had the coffee ready.

They ate breakfast in silence and read the Sunday papers. Franky checked the college basketball scores.

At ten o’clock Stace said to Heskow, “The car ready?” and Heskow said, “All set.”

They got into the car and left, Franky sitting up front with Heskow, Stace in the back. The trip to the city would take an hour, so they would have an extra hour to kill. The important thing was to be on time.

In the car Franky checked the guns. Stace tried on one of the masks, little white shells attached to side strings, so that they could hang them around their necks until they had to put them on at the last moment.

They drove into the city listening to opera on the radio. Heskow was an excellent driver, conservative, steady-paced, no disturbing acceleration or deceleration. He always left a good space in front and back. Stace gave a little grunt of approval, which lifted part of the strain; they were tense but not jittery. They knew they had to be perfect. They couldn’t miss the shot.

Heskow weaved slowly through the city; he seemed to catch every red light. Then he turned onto Fifth Avenue and waited half a block from the cathedral’s great doors. The church bells began to ring, the sound clanging against the surrounding steel skyscrapers. Heskow started up the motor again. All three men watched the children swirling out into the streets. It worried them.

Stace murmured, “Franky, the head shot.” Then they saw the Don come out, walk ahead of the men on either side of him, and begin to descend the steps. He seemed to look directly at them.

“Masks,” Heskow said. He accelerated slightly, and Franky put his hand on the door handle. His left hand cradled the Uzi, ready to come out onto the sidewalk.

The car speeded up and stopped as the Don reached the last step. Stace jumped out of the backseat onto the street, the car between him and his target. In one quick move he rested his gun on the roof. He shot two-handed. He only fired twice.

The first bullet hit the Don square in the forehead. The second bullet tore out his throat. His blood spurted all over the sidewalk, showering yellow sunlight with pink drops.

At the same time Franky, on the sidewalk, fired a long burst of his Uzi over the heads of the crowd.

Then both men were back in the car and Heskow screeched down the avenue. Minutes later they were driving through the tunnel and then onto the little airport, where a private jet took them aboard.

A
t the sound of the first shot Valerius hurled his son and wife to the ground and covered them with his body. He actually saw nothing that happened. Neither did Nicole, who stared at her father with astonishment. Marcantonio looked down in disbelief. The reality was so different from the staged fiction of his TV dramas. The shot to the Don’s forehead had split it apart like a melon so that you could see a slosh of brains and blood inside. The shot in the throat had hacked away the flesh in a jagged chunk so that he looked as if he had been hit with a meat cleaver. And there was an enormous amount of blood on the pavement around him. More blood than you could imagine in a human body. Marcantonio saw the two men with eggshell masks over their faces; he also saw the guns in their hands, but they seemed unreal. He could not have given any details about their clothing, their hair. He was paralyzed with shock. He could not even have said if they were black or white, naked or clothed. They could have been ten feet tall or two.

But Astorre had been alert as soon as the black sedan stopped. He saw Stace fire his gun and thought the left hand pulled the trigger. He saw Franky fire the Uzi, and that was definitely left-handed. He caught a fleeting glance at the driver, a round-headed man, obviously heavy. The two shooters moved with the grace of well-conditioned athletes. As Astorre dropped to the sidewalk, he reached out to pull the Don down with him, but he was a fraction of a second too late. And now he was covered with the Don’s blood.

Then he saw the children move like a whirlwind of terror, a huge red dot at the center of it. They were screaming. He saw the Don splayed over the steps as if death had disjointed his skeleton itself. And he felt an enormous dread of what all this would do to his life and the lives of those dearest to him.

Nicole came to stand over the Don’s body. Her knees folded against her will, and she kneeled next to him. Silently, she reached out to touch her father’s bloody throat. And then she wept as if she would weep forever.

T
HE ASSASSINATION
of Don Raymonde Aprile was an astounding event to the members of his former world. Who would dare to risk killing such a man, and to what purpose? He had given away his empire; there was no realm to steal. Dead, he could no longer lavish his beneficent gifts or use his influence to help someone unfortunate with the law or fate.

Could it be some long-postponed revenge? Was there some hidden gain that would come to light? Of course, there might be a woman, but he had been a widower for close to thirty years and had never been seen with a woman; he was not regarded as an admirer of female beauty. The Don’s children were above suspicion. Also, this was a professional hit, and they did not have the contacts.

So his killing was not only a mystery but almost sacrilegious. A man who had inspired so much fear, who had gone unharmed by the law and jackals alike while he ruled a vast criminal empire for over thirty years—how could he be brought so to death? And what an irony, when he had finally found the path of righteousness and placed himself under the protection of society, that he would live for only three short years.

What was even more strange was the lack of any longtime furor after the Don’s death. The media soon deserted the story, the police were secretive, and the FBI shrugged it off as a local matter. It seemed as if all the fame and power of Don Aprile had been washed away in his mere three years of retirement.

The underground world showed no interest. There were no retaliatory murders—all the Don’s friends and former loyal vassals seemed to have forgotten him. Even the Don’s children seemed to have put the whole affair behind them and accepted their father’s fate.

No one seemed to care—no one except Kurt Cilke.

K
urt Cilke, FBI agent in charge in New York, decided to take a hand in the case, though it was strictly a local homicide for the NYPD. He decided to interview the Aprile family.

A month after the Don’s funeral, Cilke took his deputy agent, Bill Boxton, with him to call on Marcantonio Aprile. They had to be careful of Marcantonio. He was head of programming of a major TV network and had a lot of clout in Washington. A polite phone call arranged an appointment through his secretary.

Marcantonio received them in his plush office suite at the network’s midtown headquarters. He greeted them graciously, offering them coffee, which they refused. He was a tall, handsome man with creamy olive skin, exquisitely dressed in a dark suit and an extraordinary pink-and-red tie manufactured by a designer whose ties were favored by TV anchors and hosts.

Cilke said, “We’re helping out with the investigation of your father’s death. Do you have knowledge of anyone who would bear him ill will?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” Marcantonio said, smiling. “My father kept us all at a distance, even his grandchildren. We grew up completely outside his circle of business.” He gave them a small apologetic wave of his hand.

Cilke didn’t like that gesture. “What do you think was the reason for that?” he asked.

“You gentlemen know his past history,” Marcantonio said seriously. “He didn’t want any of his children to be involved in his activities. We were sent away to school and to college to make our own place in the world. He never came to our homes for dinner. He came to our graduations; that was it. And of course, when we understood, we were grateful.”

Cilke said, “You rose awfully fast to your position. Did he maybe help you out a little?”

For the first time Marcantonio was less than affable.

“Never. It’s not unusual in my profession for young men to rise quickly. My father sent me to the best schools and gave me a generous living allowance. I used that money to develop dramatic properties, and I made the right choices.”

“And your father was happy with that?” Cilke asked. He was watching the man closely, trying to read his every expression.

“I don’t think he really understood what I was doing, but yes,” Marcantonio said wryly.

“You know,” Cilke said, “I chased your father for twenty years and could never catch him. He was a very smart man.”

“Well, we never could either,” Marcantonio said. “My brother, my sister, or me.”

Cilke said, laughing as if at a joke, “And you have no feeling of Sicilian vengeance? Would you pursue anything of that kind?”

“Certainly not,” Marcantonio said. “My father brought us up not to think that way. But I hope you catch his killer.”

“How about his will?” Cilke asked. “He died a very rich man.”

“You’ll have to ask my sister, Nicole, about that,” Marcantonio said. “She’s the executor.”

“But you do know what’s in it?”

“Sure,” Marcantonio said. His voice was steely.

Boxton broke in. “And you can’t think of anyone at all who might wish to do him harm?”

“No,” Marcantonio said. “If I had a name, I’d tell you.”

“OK,” Cilke said. “I’ll leave you my card. Just in case.”

B
efore Cilke went on to talk to the Don’s two other children, he decided to pay a call on the city’s chief of detectives. Since he wanted no official record, he invited Paul Di Benedetto to one of the fanciest Italian restaurants on the East Side. Di Benedetto loved the perks of the high life, as long as he didn’t have to dent his wallet.

The two of them had often done business over the years, and Cilke always enjoyed his company. Now he was watching Paul sample everything.

“So,” Di Benedetto said, “the feds don’t often spring for such a fancy meal. What is it that you want?”

Cilke said, “That was a
great
meal. Right?”

Di Benedetto shrugged with heavy shoulders, like the roll of a wave. Then he smiled a little maliciously. For such a tough-looking guy, he had a great smile. It transformed his face into that of some beloved Disney character.

“Kurt,” he said, “this place is full of shit. It’s run by aliens from outer space. Sure, they make the food look Italian, they make it smell Italian, but it tastes like goo from Mars. These guys are aliens, I’m telling you.”

Cilke laughed. “Hey, but the wine is good.”

“It all tastes like medicine to me unless it’s guinea red mixed with cream soda.”

“You’re a hard man to please,” Cilke said.

“No,” Di Benedetto said. “I’m easy to please. That’s the whole problem.”

Cilke sighed. “Two hundred bucks of government money shot to shit.”

“Oh, no,” Di Benedetto replied. “I appreciate the gesture. Now, what’s up?”

Cilke ordered espresso for both of them. Then he said, “I’m investigating the Don Aprile killing. A case of yours, Paul. We kept tabs on him for years and nothing. He retires, lives straight. He has nothing anybody wants. So why the killing? A very dangerous thing for anybody to do.”