Viper

by Unknown

  Raimondi told him. And he told him his price for ensuring that the information never crossed another investigator’s desk. ‘I have Antonio Castellani’s dossier, with its diary entries and photographs. I also have details of where Signor Castellani stashed weapons given to him by Fredo Finelli and his Family members. And, I have detailed accounts of money extorted from Antonio Castellani over more than a decade.’

  Mazerelli picked up his drink and looked unperturbed. ‘Ramblings of an old man. Not enough to raise a warrant, let alone bring a case to trial. And even if you got that far, you would be gambling that Signor Castellani’s health held out. He is, after all, quite aged and could die at any moment.’

  ‘I also have video-taped testimony – made by myself – of Signor Castellani. Should it ever be needed,’ he lied.

  Mazerelli swirled the ice in his glass. ‘And for this you want one million euros in untraceable cash?’

  ‘I do.’

  The two men studied each other. Mazerelli wondered whether the cop was wired and it was all a trap. Raimondi wondered whether he had stepped out of his depth and made a mistake that would get him killed.

  ‘I think our meeting is over,’ said the lawyer.

  Raimondi was shocked. This wasn’t at all what he’d planned. He stalled for time. ‘I haven’t finished my drink yet.’

  The consigliere rose from his chair and gestured to the door. ‘Take it with you. I have plenty of glasses.’

  The policeman put the drink down. ‘You promised me the surveillance tapes. I’d like them now.’

  ‘Lieutenant, you come in here making preposterous suggestions about my employer, most of which constitute defamation of his good character, then you demand a million euros for worthless rubbish. You’re lucky to be leaving without a lawsuit, let alone with testimony of your offensive visit.’

  Raimondi stood up, shook the creases out of his suit trousers and in one swift movement grabbed Mazerelli by the throat. He banged the consigliere against the wall. Knocked the breath out of him. ‘Now listen, you sweet-mouthed motherfucker, the price has just gone up to two million. And, unless you give me the recordings, I’m going to pull your balls off, stick them in your mouth and make you swallow a whole lot more than your pride.’ Raimondi thumped him against the wall one more time, then let him go. ‘Don’t piss me around. This is a serious offer, so take it seriously.’

  Mazerelli doubled up, red-faced and coughing for air. He was still wheezing when he reached the cupboard in the hallway and ejected the disc from the surveillance unit’s recorder.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Raimondi as Mazerelli handed it over. ‘Two million. One month. Give your boss the message. And tell him not to even think about trying to get at me. If he does, then everything I told you about will be in my boss’s hands within an hour of such foolishness.’ He opened the front door and was halfway through it when he turned back. ‘One final thing; Antonio Castellani and his family get to stay where they are. No evictions and no further intimidation.’

  82

  San Giorgio a Cremano, La Baia di Napoli

  Freshly showered, smelling of apple and swaddled in a white towelling robe, Sylvia Tomms relaxed at her dressing table and dried her hair before going to bed. She’d always had a brutally honest streak and, as she glanced in the mirror, she had to concede she wasn’t looking her best these days.

  ‘You are a pig! Look at yourself! How did this happen?’ She squinted at the lines beneath her eyes, then painfully tweezed hairs from a brow that she thought horses might have trouble jumping over.

  Having chastised herself for going to seed, she determined to get as much beauty sleep as possible.

  Unmade and unwashed for almost a month, her bed had never looked so good. She crawled in and curled up. Pulled the duvet tight so she created the illusion she was being held. Sleep came quickly.

  It engulfed her. Wrapped itself around her like the warm musky arm of a man who’d just made love to her. She floated. Drifted far, far away. Floated back to when she was seven years old and with her father in his boat. It was her first sailing trip and she remembered almost crying when he made her wear that ugly orange life jacket. They were on Lake Starnberg. The Wetterstein Alps towered up in the background. Water, distilled from Ice Age glaciers, shone crystal blue beneath a high midday sun. A soft breeze stroked her face. Her father’s hands guided hers up and down the ropes as the sail swung and the craft flew across the lake. She missed him. Missed him so much that she often dreamt that he was still alive. Just a phone call away.

  And then the phone rang.

  Her heart banged and her eyes blinked open.

  Within two rings she answered, ‘Pronto! ’

  It was eight a.m. The precious night’s rest had already gone.

  ‘Sylvia, it’s Marianna. You’d better come by the labs as soon as you can. I have those ballistics and forensics reports you wanted – and I’m afraid they don’t make easy reading.’

  83

  ROS Quartiere Generale, Napoli

  Unlike Sylvia, Jack had not slept well. He was still yawning when the driver dropped him outside Lorenzo Pisano’s office. Armed guards patrolled the outside of the carabinieri building and questioned him at length before he was let into reception, let alone escorted to the anti-Camorra unit.

  The major had already been in for more than an hour. A childless marriage in his late twenties had ended in divorce in his early forties. Now work was all he had left.

  They made little small talk and got straight down to business – Bruno Valsi’s criminal record and his family history.

  ‘Take a look at these.’ Lorenzo dropped the rap sheet and briefing notes in front of Jack. ‘Valsi was a real problem kid in a real problem area. You want caffè?’

  ‘Sure – whatever you’ve got. Espresso, if possible, please.’

  Lorenzo fired up an ancient Gaggia in the corner of his office. ‘Valsi’s father died in some industrial accident, when he was a baby. His mother brought him up on her own.’

  ‘Anything more on his father’s death?’

  ‘Not much. I can dig around and find the full details. I know a boiler blew. One of those decrepit gas and oil combination jobs. It exploded and old man Valsi and two of his workmates died in a fire at the back of the factory.’

  Jack digested the facts. Could such a tragedy become a future trigger for offending? He certainly couldn’t rule it out. Was there a tenuous link there with fire and suffering?

  Lorenzo shovelled freshly ground Arabica into the machine and sniffed at the last teaspoon before closing the container. ‘Valsi lived most of his life in Scampia, an area that’s been a Camorra stronghold for as long as I can remember. It’s the kind of place that brands you, inks a tattoo on your soul. Tortoricci’s body was found less than a kilometre from where Valsi was born.’

  ‘Stupid question, but Forensics didn’t find anything to link Valsi to the woman or the body?’

  ‘Not a thing. I had the labs run comparison tests with Valsi’s fingerprints, his DNA profile and all the trace evidence. I’ve also asked for his dabs and DNA to be checked against all the trace evidence in the Castellani campsite murders. So far, nothing.’

  Jack wasn’t surprised. Thugs as brutal as Valsi were usually careful thugs. He flicked through more of the rap sheet. ‘Back in his early childhood, he was arrested several times but never charged. We talking routine stop and search, or was he lawyered-up even then?’

  Lorenzo laughed. ‘Camorra do that. For the good kids, they treat them good, get them top briefs. Other kids, the ones they don’t want, they disown, let them get wasted. The cream of the crop are looked after, though. They make them feel protected and have them back on the streets before Sesame Street has finished. Valsi was cream – crème de la crème. He ran “errands” and pushed drugs before he even pushed a bike. But prior to the big witness intimidation case that put him away, we never got a mark against him.’

  ‘A boy soldier?’

  ‘Sì, picio
tto. The Camorra has armies of them across Campania. They rope in kids like Valsi and soon they’re willing to kill in return for a new Vespa. Children are the cheapest contract killers you can hire.’

  Jack read the sheet again. Assault against a male – charges dropped. Assault against three other men – charges dropped. ‘These aborted charges – we talking fists or weapons?’

  ‘Early ones were fists. Street fights, bar fights. Polizia did catch him with a weapon once. A semi-automatic. Beretta, I think. They even got as far as charging him.’

  ‘And?’

  Lorenzo smiled. ‘The gun disappeared before the ink had even dried on the crime sheet. No evidence, no case. They never even got it in front of a magistrate.’

  ‘I understand. We’ve got our share of bent cops back home.’

  ‘Hasn’t everyone?’ He tapped the rap sheet. ‘Gets even more interesting as he gets older. In his late teens, he wounded a guy. It was the father of a girl he was dating. Old man had had a few drinks and told Valsi he should stay away from his daughter, said she deserved better than drug-dealing scum like him. Valsi beat him senseless and then left him on a kitchen seat with a knife through his pants and a testicle pinned to the chair.’

  Jack couldn’t help but grimace.

  ‘Sliced him up so bad that the guy had to have one of his balls removed.’

  Jack flicked through the rest of the notes. There were police black and whites buried in there of Valsi as a kid and as a teenager. He looked young and innocent. No hint of the evil within. Jack had seen dozens of pictures of apple-fresh kids who their mothers worshipped. Perfect sons. They’d all grown up to become monsters far worse than Valsi.

  ‘Have you got anything against him for attacks on women, or was it all macho shit?’

  ‘Some of both.’ Lorenzo drew breath as he recalled his next story. ‘Same girl. When she did finally come to her senses and dumped him, was kidnapped and taken to an old school building. There, six of Valsi’s goons sat on her arms, legs and chest while he personally sewed up her vagina.’

  ‘Christ! And you couldn’t put him away for that?’

  Lorenzo shrugged. ‘Wish we could’ve. Kid didn’t even come to us. We heard it on the street. Local doctor who treated her even denied he’d seen her for as much as a cold. We guessed Valsi had threatened to do much worse to anyone who said anything.’

  Jack looked down at the photographs again. Strong face, good teeth, most women would probably say he had nice eyes. All proof that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. ‘How old was he at this time?’

  ‘I think the coffee’s about there.’ Lorenzo headed back to the Gaggia. ‘He was eighteen, maybe nineteen. Not long after that he hooked up with Gina Finelli.’

  ‘Don Fredo’s daughter?’

  ‘The very same. Not that she had much of a calming influence on him. Sometimes marriage and babies settle a guy down. Not Bruno. His reputation for meanness and cruelty just kept growing. We all heaved a sigh of relief when we took him down. Now the bastard is back out there, the air is poisoned again. You want sugar?’

  ‘No, thanks. Thick and black’s fine.’ Jack searched for more pictures. ‘You got surveillance on him at the moment?’

  ‘Best we can. But he’s savvy. And we don’t have unlimited funds. Plus, there aren’t many officers keen for that kind of chore.’

  Jack found a couple of long-range telephoto pics at the back of the briefing pack. They were all similar. Smart suit jacket dangling over his right shoulder, crisp expensive shirt partly opened, sunglasses on, head turned to the side. The guy sure took a good shot.

  ‘Here you go.’ Lorenzo handed over a small off-white espresso cup.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Thoughts as thick and dark as the coffee brewed inside the profiler’s head. Bruno Valsi was clearly an egotist, confident and sure of his power. He was also a brutal sadist, devoid of emotion. Worse than all that, he was clever and charismatic enough to command others to follow him. The Tortoricci case was proof that he was the kind of man who could torture and kill a woman. The cold, efficient and breathtakingly arrogant murder of Sorrentino was also very much his style. All in all, he was a formidable package of trouble.

  ‘You’re thinking that you want to interview this guy?’ asked Lorenzo.

  Jack looked up from the photographs and sipped the espresso. It was hot, sharp and good. ‘No, not at all. I’m thinking I want to interview his wife.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘Valsi won’t tell us anything more than his records already do, or his father-in-law already did. But get me half an hour with his wife and I promise you we’ll have everything we need on him.’

  ‘Finish your coffee, and we’ll fix it. I know exactly where she’s going to be this morning.’

  84

  RIS, Raggruppamento Carabinieri per la Investigazioni Scientifiche, Napoli

  Sylvia couldn’t believe what she’d heard. She pushed the files back across the table to her friend and looked dismayed.

  ‘All results are progress. Think of the positives,’ said Marianna Della Fratte.

  Sylvia flipped open a notebook and rubbed the ballpoint up and down on the page to get it to write. ‘Go through it again – the good news and bad news. Maybe second time around it comes out better.’

  ‘Gladly. Which do you want first?’

  ‘The good.’

  ‘The ammunition in both the Sorrentino case and the Pompeii shootings is the same.’

  Sylvia scribbled. ‘Fine – same ammo, so maybe the same offender. The two cases are linked.’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘Now it turns bad. Give me the small print again.’

  ‘The slug dug out of the ceiling at Sorrentino’s apartment is a Remington nine-millimetre JHP.’

  ‘Jacketed Hollow Point, right? The nasty kind where the nose of the bullet flares out and makes a mess on penetration.’

  ‘The very same. Ballistics think it came from a Glock. It matches the rounds that killed your couple in the car.’

  Sylvia scribbled in silence for a moment, then asked, ‘To be clear, this means it’s the same shooter?’

  Marianna’s half-smile said it wasn’t going to be that simple. ‘This is where it loses shape. The bullets that killed the woman in the pit – and the two lovers, Novello and Valdrano – were the same ammunition that killed Sorrentino, but, and it’s a big but, the bullet that killed Sorrentino was not fired from the same gun. The same type of gun, yes. But most definitely not the same gun.’

  Sylvia put her pen down. ‘So, same ammo at both crime scenes, but two entirely different guns?’

  Marianna frowned. ‘Not entirely different. Ballistics say all the bullets were fired from Glocks – they can tell from the rifling – but…’

  ‘But different Glocks?’

  ‘But different Glocks.’

  Sylvia made some more notes. Then pushed on with her questions. ‘How different? I mean, just what are we talking about here?’

  ‘Same make. All the bullets came from a Glock 19 – or, to be precise, two 19s. You know the model?’

  Sylvia nodded hesitantly. ‘Enough to pick it out in a crowd, but I’ve never fired one. We’re all Berettas.’

  ‘They’re standard issue in Israel and the US, particularly loved by the NYPD and Shabak. USAF is also fond of them. It’s a serious piece of kit.’

  ‘The attraction being?’

  ‘Size. It may be the only time men brag about having something small. It’s especially good for concealed use.’

  ‘So it’s a weapon of choice for an assassin as well as a cop?’

  ‘You got it.’

  Sylvia drummed her pen on her notebook. ‘Right now, what you’re telling me is pointing – no, let me correct myself – is jabbing a huge finger of accusation at Bruno Valsi, a sadistic young Camorrista who’s blipped on to our radar.’

  ‘That would make sense. Camorra links with the US are good, and they’ve always had a penchant for f
oreign weapons.’

  ‘Okay, so let’s go on to the DNA and trace-evidence reports.’ Sylvia turned a fresh page and braced herself to hear the findings again.

  Marianna shuffled files and spread out three separate sheets. ‘Easy one first. Paolo Falconi. He comes up clean everywhere. No DNA or finger-print matches with any of the victims or crime scenes.’

  Sylvia allowed herself a slight smile. It was good to at least eliminate someone.

  Marianna picked up another sheet of her report. ‘Now then, Franco Castellani. This is a different story. We got clear DNA profiles from his bed sheets. The things were so crawling with evidence they could have walked to the scopes themselves.’

  Sylvia pretended to hurl.

  ‘Franco’s DNA is all over the car where Rosa Novello and Filippo Valdrano were killed, and all over the pit where the woman was burned. But there wasn’t a trace of him at Sorrentino’s apartment.’

  Sylvia weighed up the two out of three strikes against Franco. On what she’d just heard, a court would probably convict him of the killings of Novello, Valdrano and the Jane Doe in the pit, but wouldn’t entertain a case against him for Sorrentino. Yet she and Jack were both sure that whoever had killed the first three also killed Sorrentino. She was full of questions. ‘Our profiler mentioned that he thought there might also be DNA on the door frame. He had some theory about the killer taunting Rosa while she was in the back of the car.’

  ‘I don’t know about the taunting, but he was certainly right about the DNA.’ Marianna ran a finger down the columns and paragraphs. ‘We found genomic DNA on the window and door frame in dried saliva spittle. It was fresh enough to obtain a good amplified profile.’

  ‘And?’

  Marianna read Sylvia’s mind. ‘It’s not Franco Castellani’s DNA. And so far, our databases have drawn a blank on any match with a convicted offender.’

  Sylvia scraped her fingers through her hair. That cut was certainly long overdue. ‘So Franco was in that car – beyond a doubt?’