Graziella blinked and looked down at her cup. The thought of being left here alone hurt her more than she could have imagined.
Teresa left the room without looking at Luka but asked him to go with her to the study.
Rosa began to clear the table, carrying the dishes out to the kitchen. Graziella remained at the table. Rosa returned and began to fold the tablecloth.
"Is Sophia coming back, Rosa?"
"Yes, of course. There is so much to be done, you know, but I'm looking forward to going home."
"I shall miss you."
"But why? You'll be with us. We won't let you go; we need you. And besides, we're your family. When everything's settled, we'll have money, we'll buy a big apartment. I know you don't like what Mama is doing, but it's for the best, for our future. Mama's doing this for all of us, you must know that. All you've got to do is tell her she looks good blond! Okay?"
Graziella held her arms wide, and Rosa went to her, hugged her tight. "I love you, Grandma. Don't be scared; we won't leave you alone."
"There's your money, Mr. Moreno. Want to count it?"
Teresa tossed the envelope on the desk. Luka slipped it into his back pocket. He hesitated, then said quietly, "Rocco works for the Corleone family."
"Thank you, Mr. Moreno. What time will you leave?"
Luka's voice was soft, persuasive. "Signora Luciano, please take care. One kilo of heroin will make a million dollars. The people who want your space, your trading name, will be junk dealers, and when they learn that you intend shopping around for the highest offer, the only valid contract will be the one to protect your life. The Corleones have sent their representative, Giuseppe Rocco, to see you personally. They have already bought this villa; there is no one who dares argue with them. They can offer you, Signora Luciano, any price they choose, and you would be wise to take it."
Teresa was unnerved by his knowledge of what she was trying to do. "Did you go through all our private papers, Mr. Moreno?"
Now he looked up, stared directly at her. His eyes, a moment ago so pale, were now a brilliant blue, but totally expressionless. Then a small, tantalizing, cherubic smile moved on his lips.
The sound of the doorbell interrupted them. Teresa crossed quickly to the window, but he was ahead of her. He lifted the blind, then let it snap back into place.
As Giuseppe Rocco was being ushered into the study, Luka hurried across the hall, through the kitchen and into the garden. He could see Rocco's waiting car, the bodyguard leaning casually against the porch, cleaning his nails.
Rosa could see how much of the overgrown garden had been cleared. She smiled at him. "You certainly did a lot of work while we were away."
He stuffed his hands deep in his pants pockets and kept his distance from her. Rosa moved closer. "When are you going?" she asked.
"Today, maybe this afternoon."
For a moment she looked disappointed. Then she stuck her arms out like a tightrope walker and balanced along the edge of the small ditch he had dug in preparation for seeds. But he was paying no attention, for he had spotted the nose of the rented car he had hidden in the bushes. He had forgotten he had left it there. His body tensed, and he cursed himself.
Luka knew he had to get rid of the car, and fast. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts about it that when Rosa innocently reached out to touch the gold heart at his neck, he reacted instinctively, twisting her roughly away from him. Her head crashed against the fence, and her face puckered with fear.
He berated himself for his foolishness, but she smiled and said it was all right. He took her hand away from her reddening cheek, concerned at first, but then he found himself fascinated by her soft, fresh skin. Her arms slipped around his waist, pulling him toward her. He offered no resistance, just bent his head and kissed her. It was a soft kiss, childish, passionless.
Graziella appeared at the kitchen door, wearing an overcoat and carrying a trowel. Luka waved as if the embrace had never occurred. He turned back to Rosa.
"I am going to clear the kitchen garden." He blinked against the bright winter sun and shaded his face.
Rosa was struck by the vivid color of Luka's eyes, and she
smiled. "You have the bluest eyes I have ever seen."
He turned away from her, hearing his beloved Giorgio's voice: "You've got the bluest eyes, Luka. Come here, let me see. . . . No, don't look away. Let me see your eyes. . .
Rosa watched the strange sadness moving across his face as he whispered, "Your eyes are like soft blue flowers. . . ."
She laughed. "Mine? No, mine are brown. What flowers are mine?"
He cocked his head; she could not know that he was hearing Giorgio. "Forget-me-nots."
"What are they?"
He had never played this kind of bantering game before. He stepped closer, lifting his hand to touch her cheek, exactly as Giorgio had done. "You know why they are called forget-me-nots, Rosa?"
She shook her head, and he moved closer. "Once, long ago, Rosa, a young man fell in love with a beautiful lady, and on the bank of a river she saw these small blue flowers. It was dangerous, but because she said she liked them and because they matched the color of her eyes, he climbed down to pick her a flower. The closer he went to the river, the steeper the bank became. He reached out his hand like so . . ."
He bent forward, leaning farther and farther. "He caught a single flower. Then he fell, tumbled into the wild waters. As he was swept away he held up his hand, with the little blue flower, and called out, 'Forget me not!' " He half fell forward, then stumbled and turned back to smile at her.
"Is that a true story?"
He nodded.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"He was swept away in the water. He drowned."
"You're putting me on."
Luka laughed. "No, it's a true story. Giorgio told me." He sprang away from her then, knowing he had made a mistake.
"Who's Giorgio?"
Luka backed away, and she could feel his sadness, hear it in his soft, whispered reply: "My brother."
He turned and headed toward the kitchen.
Teresa saw him approach the kitchen and was about to call to him when she saw Rosa, who had followed him.
"Rosa, take your grandmother into town to get the groceries. I've got some paper work to see to, and I want to call Sophia. We'll go over to the factory this afternoon."
Rosa helped Graziella down the front steps. As soon as they were gone, Teresa gestured for Luka to follow her into the study. When she spoke, her voice was strained, edgy.
"Rocco laughed at my proposition. The Corleones want us to finalize the sale of the villa. They will cover our debts and pay what they feel is a substantial amount to ensure that the Luciano women live in comfort—comfort, not luxury. But what they are offering is an insult. I have until this evening, when Rocco returns, to make up my mind. The amount decreases with every day that I do not agree to their terms."
She started twisting her wedding ring around. Finally she looked directly at Luka. "He said that no other family would oppose them, that I had no alternative but to accept their offer. I want to fight them, Mr. Moreno. If need be, I'll go to the government."
"They are the government. Take whatever they offer."
Her hands were shaking, and she was close to tears as she poured herself a brandy, but when she faced him again, the fear was gone.
"There was an offer sent to Mario Domino from a man called Michele Barzini. It's ten times the Corleones' offer. Have you ever heard of him?"
Luka's eyes narrowed, and he nodded. "Barzini's a middleman, you know, a negotiator. He works out of New York, but I don't know which family he is affiliated with."
Teresa began to pace the study. "But if we all travel to New York, we can get to him? If necessary, ask for his protection? Then, if he agrees to buy us out, on whoever's behalf, they can handle the situation here. All I want is our rightful inheritance. We haven't come this far to be cheated, robbed, after all we have done."
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Luka remained impassive. Teresa continued, wringing her hands nervously. "We will need someone to protect us, someone we can trust. You know everything there is to know about our situation, and I know enough about you to have you charged with murder. As an incentive, we will pay you first the money from the pearls and then, when we go to New York and the deal is done, five percent more of everything we make. Then you are free to do as you wish."
Luka did not reply. She opened a drawer, took out the gun Luka had taken from Dante's nightclub, and laid it on the desk.
"Do we have a deal, Mr. Moreno?" Her eyes were bright, alert, her body tense and waiting.
She was surprised by his gentleness, even more by the light, childish kiss he gave her cheek. "We have a deal, Signora Luciano. You will not regret it, I give you my word. I will do anything to repay all of you for your kindness. You can trust me. ..."
Luka hummed to himself as he made his way back to his room. He let himself in and lay on the bed, then sat up as he remembered the newspaper. Quickly he retrieved it from beneath the mattress. He had taken it before Graziella had awakened.
There on the front page was the story: POLICE STEP UP HUNT FOR SUSPECT LUKA CAROLLA. The paper reran the accounts of the Paluso killing, the Lucianos, and the shooting of Paul Carolla.
As Luka skimmed the article, he found nothing that even hinted at any knowledge of his whereabouts. What really worried him was the picture of him and the description. He held the picture beside his face, examining them both in the mirror, convincing himself that no one would recognize him with his new haircut. The face in the picture had long blond hair, but the description was good, including the height. The age was wrong, they thought he was much older, but he didn't like the suggestion that he could be taken for an American. He tore the paper into scraps, beginning to wonder just how safe he was at the villa. Had the others seen the article? He paced up and down the room, thinking about the car at the gate. It was not well enough hidden; he had to get rid of it. If, as Graziella had suggested, they were to get a guard, he'd spot it immediately. Luka opened the high window and climbed out.
CHAPTER 17
Commissario Pirelli now had details of Luka Carolla's driver's license, which had been faxed to the States, and a description of his car. A flood of telephone calls was still coming in from the public.
The press conference had paid off faster than they had anticipated; one of the calls had come from the owner of the motel where Luka had stayed.
Police headquarters seemed to be buzzing. The police now had verification from forensic that the prints on the orange juice glass and the unused bullet at the Armadillo Club matched those on the gun found at the monastery.
Ancora had to sit down. "Jesus, this is getting out of hand. If we keep at it, we'll close every unsolved murder for the last ten years. This means that fucking Luka Carolla was at Dante's that night, could even have killed him."
Pirelli was on his way out when the phone rang. Ancora reached over the desk and snatched it up, then signaled to Pirelli to stay. "Okay, we'll get someone there. . . . Yeah, don't let anyone touch it." He put the phone down. "We've got the car he rented. It's on the outskirts of Palermo, driven into a field. The guy knows it wasn't there last night, so it must have been dumped in the last few hours. Means our man is still here."
Pirelli punched the air with his fists. "Now we're moving! Get that car towed in as fast as possible. I'll be at the hotel."
By the time Pirelli and his men arrived at the small hotel the room was already being stripped. Everything that could be removed was taken to the forensic laboratories. They had a long, arduous task ahead of them because the room had been rented to three occupants since Luka's stay.
The owner of the hotel, sweating with nerves, was driven to headquarters, where he was questioned for more than three hours. He had little information to give, having seen Luka Carolla only twice: once when he signed in and once when they had passed each other in the hallway. But Pirelli now had his most valuable lead: Luka's signature in the register as "J. Moreno."
Nevertheless, another piece of information confused and delayed the issue. Luka, alias Moreno, the hotel owner assured the police, was not blond but dark-haired.
Pirelli sighed. "You're sure?"
The man nodded. "He was dark. When he signed in, I couldn't see his face too good; he wore a straw hat and sunglasses."
"Describe them?"
"Well, the hat was kinda brownish and—"
"No, no, the glasses. What sort were they?"
The man shrugged. "Sunglasses, you know, the kind with mirrors in them; you can see your own face, but you can't see their eyes."
"So, let's go to the second time you saw him. . . ."
The man thought hard. Then: "It was the same day they shot that guy at the trial. I was going up the stairs, about seven-thirty, maybe later, in the morning. He passed this close." He spread his hands about a foot apart, then continued. "So I got a clear look at him. He didn't have those sunglasses on or the hat. He was carrying some kind of parcel, and he didn't reply when I said good morning. He just walked on, so I just looked over the banister, watched him leave. I thought, Rude bastard. . . . His hair was real dark, almost black."
Pirelli nodded and leaned forward. "But you saw the composite, and here, take a look, the man's obviously very blond, so why did you call us?"
The man shook his head and shrugged. "The face . . . the eyes more'n anything else. I remember them; they were blue, you know, those real pale blue eyes. . . ."
Pirelli watched as Bruno ushered the man out. There was nothing he could do but wait to see what forensic came up with on the hotel.
Ancora barged in. "You wanna see the Fiat? It was set on fire, but the guys are working on it. We got lucky; fire centered on the engine and the seats, but on the driver's door it looks like bloodstains. Can't tell as yet."
A fax came through from the States; Luka Carolla's driver's license was a fake. With time on his hands, Pirelli went in search of Mincelli and found him standing in his office having a screaming match with someone on the other end of the phone. Seeing Pirelli, he slammed the phone down.
"You really landed me in the shit. That was the oily bastard from C-eleven. They've got some big burglary on, and we've got virtually every man down in the labs, elbow deep."
Pirelli sat down and started picking up Mincelli's pens. "So, you checked out the times of death of the Lucianos and whether it was possible for someone to be in both places that night?"
"Yep. The two Luciano kids were killed nine to nine-thirty, the men not until ten-thirty. If your man was driving, he could do it easily . . . and here, this will make your day."
The ballistics report now verified that the magnum had killed one of the victims, the waiter at the restaurant. The other victim, the chef, had been shot with a gun of a different caliber.
Pirelli whistled. "This guy has taken out more people than the Ripper. It's unbelievable."
Ancora and Pirelli moved down the wide stone staircase and out into the yard behind headquarters. The pens for suspect vehicles were on the other side. They stepped over the cordon surrounding the Fiat.
"They've got prints from the glove compartment, thumb and forefinger," Ancora announced. "The rest, they think, was wiped out in the fire. The blood group is type O, Rh negative, and there was quite a lot of it. The blood group is common; but I asked if there was enough blood to think our man was badly injured, and they said possibly. You know they never take a chance."
Pirelli walked around the car. "Let's go up to the labs, see if they've got an ID on the fingerprints."
Pirelli breathed down the lab technician's neck as he laid the fingerprints on the slide, then mounted it in the microscope. He looked up and nodded. "Looks like the same prints taken from the glass and the bullet. See for yourself. ..."
Pirelli squinted into the eyepiece. "Now we need only one thing." He moved the glass aside. "The owner of these babies."
Soph
ia Luciano arrived back at the villa earlier than expected and went in search of Teresa. She found her in the study, with Luka.
Sophia stood in the doorway and addressed herself to Luka. "Do you mind leaving us? I need to talk to Teresa."
Luka left quickly, giving Sophia a smile, which was ignored. But as he passed her, she caught his arm. "Your hair . . ."
He ran the flat of his hand over the crew cut. "Graziella and Adina cut my dye off. . . . You like it?"
Sophia raised an eyebrow. "Graziella?" She turned to Teresa. "He's making himself very much at home here, isn't he?" She turned back to Luka. "Close the door, please."
As he shut the door, Sophia sat down. "What's been going on?"
Teresa was a little edgy. "A lot . . . Everything go all right in Rome? I wasn't expecting you so soon."
"Obviously."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I thought we'd agreed to pay him off? And here he is, sitting chatting away. Graziella cutting his hair. Next thing we know he'll be eating with us. He's no good. You have to get rid of him. You promised."
"We may need him."
"Oh, come on, Teresa, need him?"
"Did you arrange to sell your apartment?"
"Yes, at least that was simple enough. It's on the market. But Nino Fabio refused to see me. Then I received this by hand from his lawyers about an hour later. He wants his designs returned, all of them that are still in my possession."
Teresa read the lawyer's letter. "He wants his chunk of flesh, doesn't he? Not satisfied with ripping you off for years, he's trying to block you from starting up again. Did you find out if he was the one who stole the machines?"
"How could I? He wouldn't even see me. He wouldn't have dared treat me like this when Constantino was alive."
Teresa settled her glasses on her nose. "Listen, we have more important things to discuss. We seem to have really sent some shock waves through the families. They think there must be someone behind us, you know, overseeing all the work and so on, perhaps even financing us, and they—"
BELLA MAFIA Page 36
