by Unknown
Jack held up a hand. ‘Okay, can we run those last few slides again, please? I just want to see something, maybe it ties in with what the Professoressa just told us.’
Susanna repeated the shuffle and Jack moved close to the projector screen. Bright light caught his face and cast a giant shadow of his head on the screen before he backed off. ‘As you can see, Sal is right-handed. Look here, when he checks Franco’s neck for a pulse.’ The slide moved on. ‘Now, when he stoops to move Franco to check on Paolo – see the flash of leather strapping? That’s because he’s wearing a shoulder holster under his right arm. Not his left arm. This is so he can pull a gun left-handed. Probably means it’s a twin holster rig and this is his back-up gun. Only rednecks and real pros carry two weapons. And as you don’t have too many rednecks out here, we can assume this guy is a pro and knows how to use them both. Most likely – very likely – this guy’s carrying twin handguns.’
‘Ten minutes’ break everyone,’ shouted Sylvia. Jack didn’t have to say what he was thinking. Everyone was on the same wavelength. Find Sal the Snake. Find out if his guns are Glocks and whether the bullets match the murders.
The room emptied, but Jack hung back and asked for ten minutes. He wanted some time on his own. Time to figure out the link between Sal and Valsi.
He could hear the overhead neon strip lights buzzing as he forced himself to focus.
Nothing came.
He looked again at the victims’ names. Their lives reduced to black ink on white boards. He dismissed the male victims. Sex was usually the key. Usually the area where offenders left their clearest psychological clues. He switched to the board listing all the murdered and missing women.
Francesca Di Lauro (24) – dead (burned)
Gloria Pirandello (19) – dead (burned)
Patricia Calvi (19) – dead (burned)
Luisa Banotti (20) – dead (burned)
Kristen Petrov (24) – dead (burned)
Alberta Tortoricci (38) – dead (burned)
Donna Rizzi (19) – Missing, presumed dead
No matter how hard Jack tried he couldn’t see a connection to Salvatore Giacomo, or a reason for the burnings. And the only obvious connections to Valsi were Tortoricci, who’d testified against him, and Petrov, who worked for him and may well have had an affair with him. According to Lorenzo, Sal was fifty. It was unlikely he’d have moved in the same social circles as the women. But, of course, it was possible that Valsi would have done. Valsi was, what? Twenty-seven? At the time of their disappearances he could have been pretty much the same age.
There was another thing that couldn’t be ignored. A gap of five years between the most recent murders – Tortoricci and Petrov – and the last victim, Francesca Di Lauro. That morning Sylvia had told him what Bernadetta Di Lauro had said about her daughter dating a married man. Was Valsi that man? A married man. The father of the unborn child she carried? There was no evidence to support it, but it was certainly possible. Sylvia said she could never have imagined Creed and Francesca together, but it wasn’t so hard to picture the handsome Valsi with the beautiful Francesca. But why kill her? Jack was sure many Camorristi had bastard children all over the place. Hardly a killing matter.
And then it hit him.
The missing piece.
The mystery link that pulled it all together.
102
Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli
Gina Valsi arrived at her father’s home at the same time that a police search team with a warrant was arresting a security guard who’d tried to stop them getting in.
Claudio Mancini had been dispatched with Jack in tow. Other search teams were crawling all over Valsi’s home in Camaldoli and Sal’s apartment in Napoli Capodichino.
‘What’s this? What the fuck’s going on?’ Gina barked at them as she slammed the driver’s door of the X5.
‘We’ve got a warrant.’ Mancini pulled the paperwork from inside his jacket.
Gina waved him away. ‘That won’t be worth wiping your ass on when my father comes.’ The look on his face pulled her up.
It was true. The stuff that Sal had been saying was really true. Her knees went weak, then buckled.
‘Here, let me help you.’ Mancini took her arm and steadied her.
Somehow she made it to a metal seat beneath a window near the front door. She sat there in shock as the carabinieri officers filed into her father’s home.
Mancini lowered himself down beside her. ‘Signora Valsi, your father and his driver have been killed. Their car was destroyed in an explosion, a car bomb, about three kilometres from here. I’m very sorry.’
Gina heard him through some kind of cotton wool. She knew what he was saying and knew that it was true, but the shock was so great, she felt nothing.
He’d never be killed, her father had promised her that. Everything would be all right. Everything would be fine. He’d reassured her so many times that she’d actually believed it.
And now? Now he was gone. Bam! As quick as that.
What next? What were she and Enzo to do?
Enzo.
‘My child! Where’s my child?’
Gina was in the house in seconds. ‘Enzo! Enzo, where are you?’ She hit the stairs two at a time. ‘Elena! Elena, are you there?’ Where was that damned childminder?
Mancini and Jack waited patiently in the hallway.
Eventually, Gina came down, her face grey with fear. ‘Where’s my son?’
Jack watched her every move. Watched her eyes settle on him and work out that he was the key to everything that happened next. It had been his suggestion to take her child away, keep the boy separated from his mother. Not nice. Not compassionate. Jack knew all that. But he also knew he was going to need every ounce of leverage for what was going to come next.
The cops were still all over the Don’s home when Sal drove up the hillside. There was just too much heat to go all the way up to the place and see for himself what had happened. He hit the brakes and did a U-turn. Thumped the steering wheel as he straightened up. His whole world was upside down. Crazy shit was happening now. And it would get crazier. It always did after a Capo had been killed. At times like this you either watched, or you played. Sal was a player.
Next stop, Valsi’s place. The skunk would have his tail up and would be hiding there. Two miles from the Don’s home, Sal became aware that he was being followed. Navy-blue Fiat Strada, new model, maybe a year old, but he couldn’t make the plates. Thirty minutes later as he approached Valsi’s home in Camaldoli, it was still in his rear-view mirror.
A white forensic tent jutted out from the frontage of Valsi’s place. Carabinieri officers chatted and smoked in front of it. One peered skyward and hoped it wouldn’t rain again. The scene confused Sal. He’d expected to see Camorristi outside, not carabinieri. There’d clearly been other casualties that he didn’t yet know about.
The Fiat was three cars back as Sal rolled on past and, fifty metres later, took a right. Around the corner he floored the Merc and pulled a quick left. Tyres squealed. A glance in the mirror just before he finished the turn told him the Fiat was overtaking the second car back. Someone was definitely tailing him, and he had a feeling it wasn’t the cops. The Merc straightened up and the smell of rubber wafted through the air con. Sal ripped through the gears along Via Terracina, his speed jumping from 60 to 80 to 120kph. In the rear-view mirror, the Fiat was struggling but still within sight. Ospedale San Paolo flashed past on his left. He was topping 160kph as he approached the sharp left-hander into Via Cupa Vicinale Terracina. Sal swung hard right and then cut left, hoping his racing line wasn’t too tight. The Merc redlined and screamed as he changed down gears. The back end kicked out – but, despite what it looked like, Sal still had full control. He sighted the traffic parked up ahead, then deliberately slammed the brakes on and prepared for the Merc to plough into a parked car.
Sal flipped the driver’s door open just before the impact. Air bags ballooned. He found just enough room to
slip on to the sidewalk. He kicked the door shut and rolled up tight against the parked car. Seconds later the blue Fiat slid past and slammed on its brakes.
Lying on the hard stone, Sal slipped off the safeties on both Glocks. A clunk and grind of gears announced that the Fiat was reversing back up to the Merc. Sal had never seen the occupants, but he was sure he knew who they were and what they wanted. Engine still running, they got out.
Sal lay flat and watched them from beneath the Merc.
They were both square to the passenger door. The air bags meant they couldn’t see anything inside the vehicle.
Someone tugged at the passenger-door handle to open up for a better view. Within half a second he was vertical, firing through the driver’s window with both Glocks.
Within two beats of their hearts he’d emptied ten rounds from his fists. He stepped quickly on to the crunched nose of the Merc.
The men were already down. Wounded and bleeding. One was dead, face down, crimson jelly in the grime and grit. The other was on his back, twitching and gargling blood. The Glock in Sal’s left hand jerked again, five more rounds. The gargling stopped.
He dropped over the other side of the Merc and chugged more shots into the bodies and heads of the men on the floor.
Take no chances. Doubly sure equals doubly dead.
The bodies didn’t move.
He didn’t recognize the guy on his back. He rolled the other stiff to look at him. Romano Ivetta. Dead as a fucking dodo. Hoo-fucking-ray!
Sal didn’t waste any more time. He holstered the Glocks. Walked over Ivetta’s body to the still-running Fiat, slipped inside and drove off.
103
Stazione dei carabinieri, Castello di Cisterna
The closest thing to sympathy that Gina Valsi got was a cup of tea. Even then it was cold. She’d been taken to the carabinieri headquarters on the east of the city where the Murder Squad was based.
Claudio Mancini spent an hour with her in the Interview Room, tape rolling, questions flying. He kicked off by asking about her father. Where had he been going that morning? Who’d known of his movements? The usual stuff. Then they moved on to the more exotic. His line of work, his enemies, who might have wanted him dead. Every ten minutes Gina demanded to see her son and each outburst got the same deadpan answer: she’d have to wait.
The door swung open and for the sake of the tape Mancini announced Jack King’s entrance.
‘Signora, may I add my own commiserations? I’m very sorry for your loss.’ The profiler settled comfortably into a chair opposite her. Her eyes followed a brown folder that he placed on the table. Jack interlocked his fingers and rested his hands on top of it. ‘I’m here helping the carabinieri to solve a series of murders of young women. I think you may have known some of them.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Gina looked confused.
He opened up the folder, slid out a photograph and turned it towards her. ‘This is Francesca Di Lauro. Name mean anything to you?’
Gina shook her head. ‘No. Why, should it?’
Jack didn’t say anything. He took out several other photographs and lined them up in a separate row. Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi and Gloria Pirandello.
Gina’s gaze slid over them, their dark eyes and mixed expressions looking back up from the table at her. She bit at a thumbnail then turned the picture of Francesca back towards Jack. ‘I don’t know her but I’ve seen her face. In the papers, right? On television. She’s the woman they found somewhere out near Pompeii.’
Jack steepled his fingers again. ‘A pretty young woman. Like all the others. Much prettier than you. Do you think that’s why Bruno chose her?’
Gina looked away. She knew she looked stressed. She could feel her face flush, her heartbeat quicken. She understood what he was driving at. He hadn’t said it, but she knew.
‘Gina. Gina, look at me.’
Her eyes locked on his.
Defiance? Pressure? Certainly not complete innocence. Jack decoded the signals. ‘Lady, the way you just reacted, the fact that you can’t say anything, tells me that I’m right. You do know this woman.’ He slapped his hand firmly down on Francesca’s photograph. Gina flinched. ‘You know her and you know all the others on this table. Francesca Di Lauro had an affair with your husband and you killed her.’
‘No!’ snapped Gina. ‘That’s ridiculous. I’m not going to say anything else until I have a lawyer. I want a lawyer here.’ She chewed hard on another nail. Jack sat in silence and let her stew. ‘I agreed to answer questions about my father, but not this. This is ridiculous.’
Still Jack said nothing. He leaned back, tilted his chair on to the rear legs, drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and watched the pressure grow. Only when Gina looked straight into his eyes did he play his final card.
‘Kris-ten Pet-rov.’ He said the name slowly as he put the photograph down. Watched the reaction in her eyes. The pain caused a twitch in the corner of her mouth. Gina couldn’t help but glance down at the photograph. Her face said it all. So that’s what she looked like. Bruno’s latest. The little bitch he’d sent text messages to.
‘I’ve no problem getting you that lawyer,’ said Jack calmly, ‘but here’s the deal. If we stop now and he turns you into Sleeping Beauty, then I promise you, you’ll never see your son again.’
Gina looked up from Kristen’s picture and glared at him. Could he do that? Would he do that?
‘Worse than that, Gina, your husband will get custody of Enzo, while you go to prison for a long time. A very long time.’
Gina’s head was aching, throbbing like crazy. So much in one day. So much in the future – that she could lose.
Now Jack wouldn’t rest. Wouldn’t give her a moment to think. He just piled on the pressure. ‘Listen, Gina. I know you were involved in the murders of Kristen and Francesca, just as you were involved in the murders of all the other women. But I also know you didn’t actually take their lives. You had someone do it for you, didn’t you? Give up the real killer and maybe you can come out of this with the kind of sentence that will give you a chance to see some of the rest of your son’s life.’
Gina looked up at him. She was about to make the biggest decision of her life.
‘What’s it to be, Gina? You going to roll the dice and risk spending the rest of your life without Enzo? Or do we get the name?’
Centro città, Napoli
A navy-blue carabinieri squad car fell into the traffic behind the Lexus.
‘Amateurs. They don’t have a fucking clue.’ Valsi scoffed at them as he watched in the passenger-door mirror. ‘Fucking morons.’
‘They want to be seen,’ snapped Mazerelli. ‘They’ve been glued to us since Rocco’s. Waited outside the tailor’s until we came out.’
‘I’ll glue their heads to the top of their car, then they’ll be able to see.’
Mazerelli ignored the remark. ‘They want you to know that they’re going to breathe down your neck every minute of your day now.’ He checked the rear-view and could see the squad car had at least two officers in it. ‘They’ll turn up the pressure any chance they get. Hope you’ll crack, make a mistake.’
Valsi turned towards the consigliere. ‘I can’t even spell mistake, let alone make one.’
‘Seriously, Bruno, they’re going to be all over you. Pisano will have taps on your phones. They’ll have spooks with laser listening devices in every parked car you go past. You can trust no one.’
‘And you, Ricardo?’
Mazerelli pretended not to understand. ‘And me, what?’
Valsi smiled. ‘You know what I mean. Can I trust you? But you choose to avoid answering. That means you haven’t made your mind up yet. You’re not quite sure where the balance of power truly lies. You’re a cautious man, Ricardo. Maybe that makes you a good one to have around. Or maybe it makes you a danger – and one that should be quickly eliminated.’
Mazerelli swallowed. He knew Valsi was unarmed, but given his psychopathic te
ndencies anything was still possible. ‘Like I just said, you’re going to have to assume that the carabinieri are listening to everything you say, everywhere you say it. And that includes right here and right now. Those amateurs as you call them might be recording this conversation. This car might even be bugged.’
The Capo fell silent. The creepy lawyer was right. Pisano’s nose was up and he was sniffing for a bitch like a dog on heat. He found himself patting the headrest, searching the visors, the dashboard, the door frames, the floor carpets.
Mazerelli pulled out his portable electronic bug detector. ‘It’s been swept. This thing beeps if there are bugs within a mile. We’re safe.’ He pulled the Lexus into the avenue where his penthouse was. The squad car was still on their tail. ‘There’s a security expert I use for the apartment; I will get him to give you one of these hand-helds as well.’
‘Your place is safe to speak?’
‘Safe as can be. Besides, we do have client-lawyer privilege, but I need to talk to you about that.’
Valsi relaxed as they pulled up to the security gates of the apartment block. Mazerelli thumbed the remote to open the gates. He felt reassured by seeing Ivetta’s car parked outside on the street. He’d done a good job. Very soon he’d buy him a Ferrari or a Lamborghini.
The carabinieri patrol cruised level. Valsi leaned over and jammed down the horn on the Lexus. ‘Fuck you all!’ He flicked a finger at them as they carried on past. ‘Fucking amateurs,’ he said to a horrified Mazerelli.
The lawyer’s eyes widened. Not out of shock at Valsi’s outburst. But at the sight of the guns at his window.
Sal the Snake opened up with both Glocks.
Mazerelli and Valsi were dead before the gates had swung open. They were history long before the squad car screeched to a halt and jammed up the traffic as they tried to turn around.
Before he left, Sal pulled a third gun. The one Valsi had made fun of him with on his birthday. The bullet from the limited edition pearl-handled Ultimate Vaquero blew a hole right through the Capo’s viper tattoo and down through his heart.
