BELLA MAFIA

by Lynda La Plante

  "I'm afraid this is probably not what you are used to. My apologies."

  Again that delightful laugh.

  "The bar is nicer, if you would prefer ..."

  "This is fine, Commissario, really."

  The waiter brought their coffee, shivering as the night was getting really cold. Sophia snuggled into her fur coat. She was beginning to feel lightheaded. . . . She raised a hand and called the waiter back.

  "I've changed my mind. I would like a brandy."

  Pirelli promptly handed her his, and she sipped it, feeling it warm inside her. He offered sugar, and she shook her head. He put two spoonfuls into his own coffee and stirred it.

  "You said there were some new developments, Commissario?"

  He tilted his head. "Joe, please . . ." He coughed and fingered his tie. "Yes . . . They are connected to your case, specifically to your children." He wanted to reach for her hand when he saw the way the sadness swept over her face. She turned away, her perfect profile motionless.

  "I think we found the gun today."

  "Do you know who it belongs to?"

  "Not as yet, but it won't take long. It was a forty-four magnum, and we have a strong lead on the killer. We think the same man also killed Paul Carolla." He had said more than he had intended, but he went on. "We believe it is Luka Carolla, Paul Carolla's son, signora, and any day now we will arrest him."

  Sophia turned to face him. What he was saying was that the American boy hiding in the villa could not have killed Carolla. Moreno had, after all, been telling them the truth. . . . She relaxed slightly and sipped the brandy.

  "So you have been able to trace him? When you came to the house, you were trying to find him."

  Pirelli pursed his lips, careful now. "We can trace anyone, find anyone, especially now with all the computer equipment. Data are easier to pass from country to country, town to town; fingerprints can be faxed in seconds."

  He had changed the subject purposely, wondering if she would still ask after Luka Carolla, but she had a frown on her face. "You mean, you can trace, for example, a child who has been missing for years? Does all this computerization help with that?"

  Pirelli thought for a moment, then nodded. "I guess so. . . . What it actually does is give more people access to information. The computers themselves cannot do the tracing; they provide the shortcuts. You pump in data, everything you know, about your lost child, for example, send it to Rome, and it can be dispersed all over Italy, over the world if necessary. That would have taken years in the old days, but now ... a few hours."

  "And does everyone have access to these computers?"

  "No, no . . . But if, say, we take this lost child again, if it becomes an investigation, then, of course, we can use all the facilities open to us. . . ."

  Sophia nodded, then looked at him. "You have coffee on your top lip."

  He raised his eyebrows and wiped his mouth. "Clear?"

  She nodded, stubbing out her cigarette, deep in thought. Pirelli tried to lift her mood. He laughed. "It's not as bad as spinach caught between the teeth. You know that feeling when you get home and find one tooth black with spinach? What always amazes me is why nobody ever tells you. ... I mean, everyone must have noticed but said nothing. ..."

  Sophia giggled, and he leaned over toward her. "You have the most infectious, wonderful laugh. . . . Will you have another brandy?"

  She agreed, saying that afterward she really must go.

  The waiter was just bringing their bill, and they sent him back for more brandy. Pirelli was racking his brains for something witty and original to say. Sophia was feeling the effects of the Valium and the brandy, enjoying the sensation of not caring.

  She realized he had asked her a question and looked at him. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

  "Nothing that is worth repeating; you were miles away."

  She tilted her head—it was a habit she had—and her eyes were sparkling. She leaned forward on her elbow. "You know, when I was about fifteen, I used to work in a cafe like this one, cleaning the tables and washing dishes."

  "You did?"

  She laughed, letting her coat fall open as if she didn't feel the night air. Her cheeks were flushed; he didn't think anyone could be so beautiful. . . . She crooked her finger for him to come closer, and he could smell her perfume, a light scent of fresh flowers.

  "One of my earliest memories is of my mother. . . . Have you ever heard of a Toni perm? They used to call them that after the war, Toni?"

  He nodded, though he had no idea what she was talking about; he just loved the sound of her husky voice, loved the fact that she had beckoned him closer. With both elbows on the table he was close enough to see her flawless skin, her perfect white teeth. His mind was working overtime, wondering how he could make the move to kiss her. He had never wanted to hold a woman so much in his entire life.

  She was saying, "My mama was so desperate to have her hair permed; she had long, dark, straight hair, like mine."

  "How long is your hair?"

  "Oh . . ." She gestured with her hand almost to her hip and continued talking, but he was seeing her naked, with her long hair splayed across a pillow. . . . She wore it in such a severe style, drawn back from her face, but he liked that. He sighed; he liked everything about this woman. He realized she was still talking.

  "So they agreed, and she was in there for hours and hours. I was only about six or seven. She came out with all these curls, and she looked so pretty, so happy, but then she strapped this board around her, you know, a sandwich board? She was advertising the hair salon. I had to give out the leaflets to the passersby while she strode up and down the street, up and down. . . ."

  He smiled. "She must have wanted that permanent very badly."

  His heart was thudding in his chest as two tears, two absolutely perfect pear-shaped tears, rolled down her cheeks. "Yes, she did. I don't think she felt any humiliation. I did. As young as I was, I felt it so deeply. I was so ashamed for her, you understand?"

  Pirelli nodded, and she continued. "Well, I stuffed these terrible little pamphlets into every refuse bin I could see. All the time men were jeering at her, women pointing and snickering. 'Mama,' I said, 'Take it off, please, people are laughing, look,' and she answered, 'Yes, I know, but I have got the best perm in Sicily for nothing.' But it wasn't. I paid for it; she paid for it."

  She sat back, turning her face away. "I have no idea why I told you that. Maybe so you would understand that I have not always had wealth, not always eaten in the finest restaurants. We were very poor. My mama had nothing, not even a husband. ..."

  "And you used to wait on tables?"

  "Yes ... it was a roadside cafe." She breathed in deeply, staring ahead for a moment before she looked back to him. "I must be very boring, and I must go."

  Pirelli jumped to his feet and went into the cafe to pay the bill. She waited for him outside; he could see her with her back to the brightly lit window. On a sudden frivolous impulse, he pointed to the vase of flowers on the counter and delved into his pocket. "How much?"

  Highly embarrassed, Pirelli presented the flowers to Sophia, realizing only as he did so that they were plastic. "Well, I have managed to make an utter fool of myself."

  She held them in her arms, smiling. "No, I am touched. They will keep forever. . . . Thank you."

  He walked her to her car and remonstrated with her for not locking it, but she pointed out that he had been with her and so was partly to blame. He opened the door for her.

  "Would you have dinner with me, Sophia? May I call you Sophia?"

  "I'm going to Rome. ..."

  "Forever?"

  "No, but I don't know how long I will be gone."

  "Will you be there for Christmas?"

  She was very close to him, bending to get into the car, and she straightened. "Christmas?" Her large, dark eyes lowered, and he could see her thick, dark lashes.

  She uses no makeup, he thought. Then he heard her whisper, "Oh, God, it will be
Christmastime soon. . . ."

  Her eyes were like a frightened child's as the grief engulfed her. At first he couldn't see what had distressed her to such an extent.

  Her voice was a soft, pleading moan. "My babies . . . my babies ..."

  Suddenly he understood. Christmas would be a nightmare for her, with all the tinsel and bustle. It was for children, and Sophia's were gone. He hardly realized he had taken her in his arms. He was holding her tightly, saying over and over that it would be all right, it would be all right, he was there. . . . She clung to him, the soft fur feeling like silk against his cheek.

  He never knew how it happened, but suddenly he was kissing her, to comfort her. His lips had found hers. . . . She turned her face away, pressing her cheek into his coat. His body was on fire; he had never experienced such passion or tenderness. She remained in his arms for an eternity; then he gradually felt her draw away.

  He helped her into the car and tucked her coat in. "Will you have dinner with me?"

  She searched for the car keys, without replying.

  "I'll come to Rome, to Turkey, wherever you want."

  She put the keys in the ignition and started the car. When she turned to him, it was as if she were a stranger. He was desperate to keep her with him a few moments longer.

  "I read today that you and your sister-in-law are starting up the business again. You must promise me to take care, great care, and if you ever need me . . . Look, let me give you my card; this is my direct line, any hour of the day or night. And this is my home phone number."

  He was talking fast, scribbling his number on the card. He handed it to her through the window, and her hand felt icy to his touch. She didn't look at the card but slipped it into her pocket.

  "You have been very kind, but I think it best if we forget this ever happened. Good night."

  She drove off fast, and he stood like a lost soul, completely devastated. Around his feet were the plastic flowers.

  Sophia entered the house soundlessly and had crept to the foot of the stairs when Teresa came out of the study.

  "Where in God's name have you been?"

  "Out. I needed some air."

  "You've been gone hours; it's half past two in the morning."

  Sophia paused on the staircase, looking down at Teresa. "You are not my jailer. If I want to go out for some air, then I will."

  "No, you won't."

  Sophia snapped, "What did you say?"

  "I said from now on you tell me where you are going, is that understood?"

  Sophia kept her voice low, but the anger was all there. "Just who do you think you're talking to? What right have you to speak to me as if I were a child?"

  "Right now, every right. Where did you go?"

  "I went for a drive, and this you will really love, I had a brandy—no, two brandies—with Commissario Pirelli. You want to make something of that?"

  "Did you tell him anything?"

  Sophia threw her coat off. "I was sitting in my car, and he came up and asked me if I would like a drink because he had some information. He was going to come here tomorrow, so rather than have him in the house with your precious Moreno, I agreed to have a drink. They have the gun that killed my babies. They also believe that whoever killed my sons also shot Paul Carolla; it's the same man, the one he was asking about when he first came here. Paul Carolla's own son, Luka. . . . And they are about to make an arrest, which leaves that creature upstairs in the clear."

  Teresa sighed with relief. "You think he was telling you the truth?"

  "Why would he lie? Here, he gave me this card; call him for yourself. We all are going to Rome tomorrow, and thanks to what he told me, I, for one, will feel a lot better about leaving Moreno here with Mama."

  "And you never mentioned Moreno?"

  "I did not mention Moreno, I said not a word about the gun, I said nothing. . . . Now, would it be all right if I went to bed? I'm tired; it's been a long day."

  "I'll come to Rome with you tomorrow."

  Sophia was on the stairs. She didn't even turn. "Fine, what do you want me to do, applaud? Good night." A few minutes later Teresa crept carefully into her own bedroom. Rosa was fast asleep, lying on her belly, her arms splayed out. Teresa climbed into bed and pulled the duvet around her. But she couldn't sleep; the arguments and disagreements were getting harder to handle. Perhaps the trip would help them get on a better footing. At least Johnny Moreno had turned out to be just what he had told them; it meant he would be easier to get rid of. As soon as she sold the pearls, she would pay him off. A few more days, and they would be ready to sell everything; a few more days, she told herself, and it would all be over.

  CHAPTER 16

  Pirelli had lit a fire under the overworked and harassed Inspector Giulio Mincelli. Accusations were flying about inadequate reports and loss of evidence. Pirelli's eyebrows, famed for telegraphing his moods, were permanently in a single line: danger zone.

  He had no verification of the exact times of the Luciano deaths, so he could not ascertain if a killer could have been in both places, the Villa Rivera and the San Lorenzo restaurant. But the major and most frustrating of all his problems was that there was still no trace of the only suspect to date, Luka Carolla.

  The gun Luka had left at the monastery was definitely the one used to kill both the Luciano children and the Paluso child, but there was no confirmation of its use at the restaurant. However, with the evidence that was mounting against him, the hunt for Luka had to be stepped up.

  The morning paper ran yet another article accusing the police of doing nothing to find the killer of the jail cleaner's son. The Palermo chief walked in unannounced, carrying the paper.

  "You read this?" He tossed the newspaper on the table, took his horn-rimmed glasses from their case, and looked over the many photographs pinned on the wall. "That the wall of death everyone's talking about?"

  Pirelli shrugged, waited for the chief to spew out whatever he had come in for. The chief continued. "You serious about this Luka Carolla character? You really think it's feasible that he's involved in every one of these?"

  Pirelli nodded. "I think he's psychotic, very dangerous, kills indiscriminately. We know he was not alone at the San Lorenzo, but I'm certain he was involved. And we have the weapon, his weapon, the magnum."

  The shiny-suited figure remained firmly planted in front of the bulletin board. "A few officers are getting pissed off about your using the forensic and ballistics teams at all hours, giving them no time for any other cases. There's a backlog building up. . . . You've got Ancora, the young what's 'is name, Bruno di Mazzo, and now Mincelli and his men working alongside you. That's more than ten men. How long is this going to go on for? If you know your suspect, haul him in."

  "I'm trying. Believe me, I'm trying. We just can't get a trace on him."

  "I gathered that, so I've called a press conference this afternoon. We'll have to give them something, and you must have enough to—"

  "We've got the warrants, but we can't find the bastard."

  "You need that boy picked up fast. So we'll get all the help we can and try to flush him out."

  Pirelli was getting uptight. "Every uniformed man's got the composite, every hotel, hospital, we've had men—"

  "I know, I know how many men, Joe, and you've found no trace. So we'll pull out all the stops and try to flush him out. That includes the prisons; see if there's anyone inside who can help, and we'll make a deal. This city is a sewer, Joe, and it's getting clogged up. You can't have much more time; I'm sorry, but I need my men back."

  "You canceled all leaves?"

  "I did, and it's not gone down well. You wanted to go back to Milan for the weekend? Get your wife to come here; we can't afford the time."

  "Okay," said Pirelli, "but I'm still not sure about the press."

  "You're not sure, Joe, if he's even still in Sicily, right? We're going to the press."

  "I hear you. It would help me if you could put pressure on in the States; someone som
ewhere must have a recent photograph of him. He lived there for more than ten years."

  "I'll see what I can do. Look, I don't want this to sound like I'm running you down. Far from it. You're doing one hell of a job, and I wish you could be here permanently; but the sole reason we were able to get you was that we were short of men, and you're taking up even more of them. The security for the trial, which, in case you are not aware, is still going strong, is using all the extra men I shipped in. I know the Paluso case is connected to all the others, and I know why you need everyone, but as I said, the gutters are overflowing. We have to move on."

  Pirelli had begun making notes for the press conference when Bruno rushed in.

  "This was on Mincelli's desk, came in three days ago. I don't know what the hell is going on with him. It's from the St. Sebastian Hospital, the medical report on Giorgio Carolla. As soon as I got it, I went over to main records. There's a passport application in Giorgio Carolla's name, dated January 25, 1974, plus a copy of his birth certificate. I checked back; when the application went in, Giorgio Carolla was already dead. But now we've got a passport number; the U.S. must be able to track him down. Reason we got no trace of Luka Carolla is he was never registered. And we're out by several years; Giorgio was older than Luka. Giorgio was born in 1959, Luka in '62 or '63. All Carolla did when he adopted Luka and so far there's no legal documentation of that either, was to use his dead son's papers."

  Pirelli beamed. The intercom light flicked on for his call, but he didn't notice it. "Okay, let's start over again. Get back to New York; tell them we're out by maybe three or four years. Now they've got to be able to give us something, school—Christ, kid had to go to school, didn't he? Get them to check all the schools around Carolla's known addresses. We've got to trace someone who knows him, maybe get a more recent photograph."

  Pirelli finally noticed the flashing light on the intercom and picked up the call. There was more good news. After weeks of inquiries, Pirelli's friend had come up with a radiologist from the old Holy Nazareth Hospital who remembered a child being brought into the X-ray department, one fitting the description of the boy now known as Luka Carolla.