The snow was falling, thick and heavy, the windshield wipers screeching under the load. Luka drove into the private road and smiled at Graziella through the mirror. She was looking excitedly out the window of the limousine, and Teresa, in the front, sent her window gliding down.
"What is this, a hotel?"
"No, it's a private residence."
The neatly clipped hedges of the drive opened onto a sprawling, snow-blanketed lawn before the white-pillared house. It had belonged to Paul Carolla, although he had never actually lived there. It had been his dream, his step into high society, his proof of his success.
The house had been ready for occupancy the week before he fled the States. It had remained waiting for more than a year and a half, and now Luka had inherited the estate, Carolla's dream home in the exclusive Hamptons on Long Island. He owned the house, the vast gardens, the stables and yards, outright, although he had been unaware of this until he had opened Carolla's safety-deposit box. He had never been interested in the contents; he had simply wanted to put his percentage from the Barzini deal into safekeeping.
The women stepped from the limo, wide-eyed with wonder and delight. Luka was almost weeping, so thrilled was he with his secret. His excitement was marred only by the fact that Sophia was not with them.
The snow swirled around him, and he laughed, wiping it from his face. With an elegant, sweeping bow, he proudly handed Graziella the front door key.
"It is my gift, my gift to you all. And here is the deed, signed over to you, Mama Graziella Luciano."
Graziella clapped her hands to her face and said that she couldn't possibly accept such a gift, but Teresa, at her side, laughed and said that if Graziella didn't want it, she, for one, would gladly accept on her behalf. All Graziella could say, over and over, was " Bella, bella ..."
They stood in the domed hallway, looking up at the chandelier. Teresa slipped an arm around Graziella. "Well, Mama, this is more in your line, isn't it? Do you think this place is fit for the Luciano women?"
Graziella nodded, the tears streaming down her face. "This is what Papa would have wanted for you all . . . Oh, yes, this he would be proud of. Bella, bella . . . Johnny, come, let me thank you."
She took him in her arms and held him, kissing his face until he drew away. "For you, Mama, it's all for you, and for Sophia, too. Now, let me show you around."
Teresa slipped her arm through his. "This must have cost a fortune. Are you serious? I mean, are you giving it to us?"
He nodded, looking more boyish than ever. "We can be a family, all of us together. ..."
Teresa smiled, but as they walked up the stairs to see the bedrooms, she tried to calculate the value of the property. "Who did it belong to? It looks as if it were recently renovated," she said.
Luka smiled happily. "It belonged to some rich banker who died before he could move in. It was sold lock, stock, and barrel."
"Is it rented, Johnny? Have you taken a lease on it?"
He shook his head. "No, I bought it. . . . Now, this is the master suite. . . ."
The women followed him from room to room, but Teresa began lagging behind, touching the tapestries, looking at the chandeliers, the paintings, and feeling the thick wool carpets beneath her feet.
Nothing appeared to have been used, even in the vast kitchen. Every pan and plate was new; some things even had price tags on them. Teresa calculated that the contents of the house were worth a hundred times more than they had given Luka, so how had he come by the house? If he did own it, as he said, why had he given it to Graziella? Nothing made sense. It was all eerie. Something was wrong. . . . She wished Sophia were with them.
While Graziella and Rosa continued to the next floor, Teresa returned to the front hall and opened the envelope containing the deed. It was, as Luka said, in Graziella's name. She carried it into the living room, pausing to take in the wonderful antique furniture, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lawns. She listened for the voices upstairs, then hurried to the telephone. All she had to do was call the real estate agents, who could tell her. . . . But the phone had not yet been connected.
Pirelli had been talking for almost two hours. The bottle of wine had been consumed, his cigarette pack emptied. Sophia had not interrupted once, just sat with her eyes downcast, as if concentrating on a small spot on the carpet. Her glass of water was still half full, and although Pirelli had offered her cigarettes, she had smoked only the one she had lit at the beginning of the interview, stubbing it out after a few moments. Her hands remained clasped in her lap.
Pirelli had told her everything he could possibly recall about his search for Luka Carolla. Now he felt drained; his voice was hoarse. He had left nothing to her imagination, describing in detail the strength the killer needed to inflict such wounds. Even Nino's bizarre death seemed to leave her unmoved. He had expected more, and now he felt depressed and sickened, so emotionally drained that his head throbbed. He wanted to shout at her, but all he could do was look helplessly at his friend.
The silence within the room was ominous, and he sighed. Slowly she looked up to meet his eyes; then she looked down again. After what seemed an endless delay she smoothed her skirt, pressing her palms flat against her thighs. "I—"
He leaned forward, waiting.
"Everything you have told me shocks me, frightens me more than I can put into words, but I cannot see how I can help you. Believe me, I sincerely wish that I could, but even knowing everything, I am still unable to give you any assistance. I have never to my knowledge met Luka Carolla; however, I will most assuredly take precautions and warn my family."
Pirelli met her eyes; they seemed so expressionless that it was hard to believe they had shone with love only that morning. He moved a fraction closer.
"Sophia, we are sure you had nothing to do with Nino Fabio's murder. ..."
She continued to stare into his face.
"You have stated that you met Celeste Morvanno outside the building. But what we have not told you is that Celeste, when brought in for questioning, saw a wanted poster and a photograph on the wall of the police station and stated that the man in the photograph and the man driving your car were one and the same. She swore this under oath, and that is why we both are in New York."
Sophia continued to look directly at him, waiting.
"Sophia, the photograph, the picture Celeste picked out, was of Luka Carolla."
A reaction at last, a sharp intake of breath, the only sign that his words had affected her. She seemed to shake her head slighdy; then, as Pirelli waited for something further, she bowed her head again, once more concentrating on her hands in her lap.
His voice became very quiet. "The other piece of information I have withheld until now is that Luka Carolla is known to use an alias. When he checked into a hotel before Paul Carolla was killed, and when he booked a flight out of Italy, he used the name Johnny Moreno, the same Christian name, at least, as your driver."
Both men watched her intently. She was unnervingly still. When she spoke, her voice was huskier, even deeper than before, but without a tremor. She lifted her beautiful head.
"Do you have this picture, the police composite? I think, if I could see it, I would be able to tell you if the driver—if the driver was—" her voice faded, and she almost whispered the name—"Luka Carolla."
Gennaro took the photograph from his briefcase and passed it to her. She studied it, then handed it back. He passed her the composite, and again she spent some time looking at it, giving Pirelli the opportunity to watch her.
Her profile seemed carved in stone; but her full mouth with the dark lipstick was open a fraction, and he saw her tongue lick her top lip. It was a small movement; he would have missed it, if he were not watching her so closely. Suddenly she looked up, her eyes so dark they seemed pupils. "I am afraid there is no resemblance between my driver and this man in the drawing. Celeste was mistaken. But then I am sure that while we were talking, the driver was actually in the car. It has a tinted w
indshield."
Pirelli leaned closer. "Please look at the picture again, Sophia. The police composite was made up from a number of witnesses' descriptions, but it is the man we want. Look at it closely. Was he the man you hired to drive for you?"
She bent her head to look at the picture of the man who had killed her babies, Luka Carolla alias Johnny Moreno. Both detectives sat poised, waiting.
Why isn't she answering? Pirelli thought. Why? His head throbbed with tension.
Gennaro coughed, breaking the awful, tense silence. It had lasted only a few seconds, but in that time Sophia made her decision. There would be no turning back. She knew where Luka was, knew who he was, and he belonged to the Luciano women.
She set the composite down with care. "No, this is not my driver. His hair was reddish, he was perhaps younger, but I am sure when I speak to my mother-in-law, she will be able to give you his name and no doubt the address of his family."
Gennaro looked to Pirelli for his lead; there was nothing more. He rose to his feet, placing his empty wineglass on the tray.
"Thank you for your statement, Signora Luciano. I presume if it should be necessary for me to contact you again, and Signora Graziella, I will find you at this address?"
Sophia stood up and told him she would be staying with Teresa until she found alternative accommodation and would certainly forward any new address. She walked them to the door, thanked them both for coming, and shook both men's hands.
Gennaro was too close for Pirelli to say anything personal. All he could do was smile; he received, in return, a frozen stare. Sophia was untouchable; her hand resting in his was cold, alien. He felt he would never be allowed to come close to her again.
The men walked slowly down the stairs, hearing the door close behind them. Sophia had waited until they were almost halfway down before she slid the chain across the lock.
Unhurriedly, as if in a trance, she went into the bathroom-She didn't retch. The vomit seemed to spew out of her belly one long stream. She brushed her teeth and returned to the bedroom, put the phone back on the hook. Then she sat at the study desk and waited for Luka Carolla, alias Johnny Moreno, to call. And she feared for the women.
More than an hour later the ringing began. She picked up the phone.
"Sophia, is that you?"
"Hello, Teresa."
"Are you all right? Did everything go okay?"
"Yes, where are you?"
Teresa told her about the house, how strange it was that Johnny had said he owned it. "Sophia, it's worth millions, and he's given the deed to Graziella."
"Where is he now, Teresa?" Sophia tried to keep the panic from her voice.
"He insisted on driving back to pick you up. Listen, we all brought our gowns, you know, the ones we wore at the Sans Souci, kind of for a celebration dinner—"
"Teresa, is the phone cut off at the house? Why are you calling from a pay booth?"
"It isn't connected yet. We're at a local supermarket. When we're finished here, Rosa wants a bathing suit. We're filling up the pool. . . . Hello? Are you there, Sophia?"
"How long will he be? When did he leave?"
"Hours ago. Are you okay? You sound kind of uptight. Did it go okay with Pirelli?"
"He stayed for hours. I had to leave the phone off the hook."
"I know. We couldn't get through. . . . Listen, I don't know about this house. . . . Sophia, is anything wrong?"
"No . . . I'll explain everything when I see you. Now can I speak to Mama for a moment?"
Graziella came on the line and began to describe the house they were staying in, but Sophia interrupted her. "Mama, listen to me. You once had a gardener, a young boy with reddish hair who used to work for you. Can you recall his name?"
"What?"
A gardener, Mama, he had red hair—"
"Oh » si, Giulio! He is Adina's nephew. Now he has a taxi firm in Palermo. You know the Excelsior Hotel? Papa bought him his first car . . . Giulio Bellomo."
"Grazie, Mama, give me Adina's telephone number in Mondello."
Graziella didn't have it, but she instructed Sophia to look for her telephone book in one of her dresser drawers in the bedroom.
Sophia searched the drawers and found the photographs that used to adorn the piano at the Villa Rivera. She looked at each one in turn: her little boys; her wedding to Constantino; another of Teresa and Filippo holding Rosa's hand when she was a toddler.
She found an old photo, brown with age, of Roberto Luciano as a young man. The black eyes stared, unsmiling, from a handsome, arrogant face that was very different from the photo of him and his wife on their wedding day. Last was the familiar face of Michael, the same as the one that had hung on the walls of the Villa Rivera. She touched it fleetingly with the tips of her fingers before she turned to the little worn book.
Adina answered the phone and wept as soon as she heard Sophia's voice. She grew quiet when Sophia assured her that they were fine but needed help. Very slowly Sophia outlined the favor she wanted, the debt that could be repaid to Don Roberto's widow. She simply required Giulio Bellomo to fix his payment books to show himself as the driver of the Lucianos' Rolls-Royce. She also wanted him to go to Milan and familiarize himself with the route from her apartment to Nino Fabio's warehouse. She was not satisfied until Adina had repeated the instructions three times. Then Sophia told her that she must prepare herself for possible questions from the carabinieri, that Giulio must not deviate from the story told by Sophia. It was imperative; it could affect Graziella's life.
Sophia then placed a call to Pirelli's hotel, knowing that he would not be there. She left a message for him to the effect that Graziella's recollection was that the driver was called Giulio Bellomo, nicknamed Johnny, and supplied his address.
Sophia began to remove all the personal papers from Teresa's study, packing anything that seemed to be of importance into her briefcase. She then went to each room, searching drawers and bedside tables, removing everything she thought necessary. She did not want to take too much; it was imperative she did not make Johnny—Luka—suspicious, but she had to make sure she took everything important so they would never have to return to the apartment again.
Sophia's hoped-for freedom was over. She knew now she would never be free of the Lucianos; they would cling to her like a curse. But now she no longer felt dragged down by the fact; it was as if she were standing outside herself, watching, gently denying any fear.
Pirelli opened a new package of cigarettes. Gennaro, sitting next to him on a barstool, gave him a sidelong glance. In front of them stood a row of empty glasses.
"Maybe we should grab a sandwich? What do you think?"
Pirelli gave him a sour look and gulped his whiskey down without bothering to reply.
"What's the next move, Joe? What's next?"
Pirelli hunched over the bar. "I don't know."
Gennaro stared into his drink. "You know, the only time I saw any kind of reaction from her was when you said the name Johnny Moreno. She seemed to kind of tense up, but I couldn't see her face. But say it was him at Fabio's place, I mean, if he had somehow wormed his way into driving for her, do you think even after everything you told her, she still would have denied it?"
Pirelli sniffed and hunched further over the bar. "You got any kids?" "No."
"Well, I've got one, a boy, and if he had been shot and my wife were told who had done it, even if she'd robbed a fucking bank with him, you think she wouldn't do something, say
something?"
"Maybe your wife would, but then she's not a Luciano."
"Jesus Christ, what the hell difference does that make? Sophia’s a woman, a mother. You should have seen her when I first met her. She wanted the killer then, even accused me of not trying to find him because she was a Luciano. . . . Well, "now she knows all there is to know. If she wanted him caught before, stands to reason she wants him even worse now. If she'd recognized him, do you think she wouldn't have said? Wouldn't have reacted? Your witness has to
have been wrong."
He ordered another round of drinks. Gennaro shook his head, refusing the refill. "You still gonna see what you can get from the Barzini tip?"
With a nod Pirelli knocked his drink back. "Yeah, while I'm here, I'll do whatever I can. You gonna hang around to see the old lady? Do you need to now?"
Gennaro shrugged. "Nah, it's not worth it. I can get the next flight back. With the expenses that cheap bastard handed out, I can't afford to stay. Besides, I reckon you'd like an excuse to go back and see the beautiful Sophia, huh?"
"What?"
"Come on, you still expect me to believe your meeting was accidental? A quiet supper, and you didn't even try to make her? I would have if I were in your shoes. Christ, what a pair of legs—"
Pirelli interrupted by waving his hand to the bartender. He snapped, "You've got it wrong. You don't make women like Sophia Luciano."
"Maybe, but I wouldn't blame you for trying."
Pirelli glared and turned back toward the bartender. He tossed some dollars on the bar to cover the tab, then picked up his coat. "Don't push it, Gennaro, or you'll get that bowl of peanuts rammed down your throat. Call the hotel, see if there's any messages, and I'll grab a cab."
It was freezing, the snow pelting down. Cab after cab splashed past, and Pirelli, frustrated, turned his fur collar up around his ears. Every cab that passed was taken or had the off duty sign up. He was actually standing within yards of the entrance to the Luciano apartment, but he couldn't bring himself to look in its direction.
Heading down the street, no more than a hundred yards away and hemmed in by the traffic, Luka Carolla impatiently inched the rented limo forward. He was within moments of the apartment block when an empty taxi turned out of a side street, its availability sign lit up. Pirelli stepped into the road to hail it as Gennaro, holding a newspaper over his head, ran from the bar.
"Hey, Joe, she's already called the hotel."
Halfway into the taxi, Pirelli stopped and turned.
"What?"
"Sophia Luciano—she left a message."
Pirelli's heart stopped. "For me?"
BELLA MAFIA Page 51
