Campanelli: Sentinel

by Frederick H. Crook

  “Great,” Marcus proclaimed as he accessed the car radio.

  Their relief arrived in short order and no movement of DeSilva’s vehicles had yet occurred. Campanelli gave the fresh detectives orders to call him by telephone once DeSilva made a move and to follow him when he did.

  Marcus dropped Frank at home and then drove to his own in Campanelli’s cruiser. Frank walked under a clear, starry sky toward the door of his condominium with his mind in a storm of thoughts. Luke and Old Bill were inside their first floor residence, their windows aglow with light filtering through the drapes.

  Frank ambled up the stairs and entered his condo. His mind was in such a fog that he barely noticed that he had pushed his door shut too hard. It slammed and shook the framed pictures adorning the wall. Their rattle help snap him out of his distraction, but only for a moment. He slipped the sport coat from his back and draped it across the dining room table.

  Pouring a glass of water, Campanelli downed half then lay on the couch. Bourbon would do no good this evening. He was already dehydrated from the stakeout and it would do nothing to help him sleep. Questions ran through his mind like the great freight trains that used to run frequently across the country.

  Why hasn’t Sebastian replied to the visual report of DeSilva’s show? Is Mayor Jameson still going through with this stupid public arrest idea?

  No answers came to him no matter how many times he asked them of himself. In time, he drifted to a light, tenuous sleep.

  Some unknown amount of time later, the phone rang, shattering the peacefulness of the residence. Frank awoke instantly and reached out blindly for the receiver. Having placed it within arm’s length, he found it and pulled it from the cradle before the bell got another chance.

  “Campanelli,” he breathed and sat up.

  “Sir,” the young detective said, “it’s Nash. Sorry to call so late. DeSilva, a body guard and driver just got inside the limousine. They’re pulling away now.”

  “Okay, Nash,” Frank said. He heard the detective’s partner command the police cruiser to start its engine. “Don’t be hasty. Stay put a minute.”

  “We’re tracking that car now…heading north on State. Wait until he’s a block away?”

  “Exactly. Good man,” Campanelli nodded. “You actually saw DeSilva himself get in the car?”

  “Yessir,” Nash confirmed.

  “Great,” Frank went on. “I know you’re tracking it, but keep it in visual range. Make sure DeSilva doesn’t get out of the car. If he does, call me. What time is it?”

  “Twelve-ten, a.m., sir,” Nash chirped.

  “Thanks, now get on it.”

  “Yessir,” the young detective answered and ended the call.

  Frank resisted the temptation to activate his implant and get on the CPD server to track the car right along with them. He knew that he needed to trust the men under him, but it was hard. He had not yet had the opportunity to meet Nash, let alone the partner, whose name he could not remember.

  Campanelli made a mental note to have some sort of meeting with the entire Sentinel Division to introduce himself. It felt odd to be considered the second in command without having had that done, but there had been no time.

  He lay back down, but did not sleep. In what felt like twenty minutes or so, the phone rang again. Frank snapped it up. “Yeah.”

  “Sir? Nash.”

  “Tell me a story, Nash.”

  “He went home, sir,” the detective said as if he had been let down.

  “Really? You didn’t let the car out of your sight?”

  “No, sir,” Nash confirmed. “The car went straight to DeSilva’s house, rolled right into the driveway and we saw him walk inside.”

  “Very good,” Frank commended. “Keep on him. If he leaves, follow. If you come to the end of your shift, don’t leave until relief arrives. Got it?”

  “We’re on ‘im,” Nash pledged.

  Frank ended the call and, realizing that he had left the RadarCane in his jacket, felt his way to bed. He lay awake for some time, thinking about various ways to keep the rally from happening. He knew that if he went against his mayor’s wishes that it might very well damage his career, but that did not matter. The city would be safer if they could arrest the HV preacher between now and Saturday.

  Eventually, sleep did come, but it would prove to be a rough night even though the phone would remain silent until morning.

  III

  Friday came and Campanelli’s Sentinel detectives continued their surveillance of Del Taylor, Fillipo Ignatola and Maximilian DeSilva.

  Del Taylor went to work at his usual time. From an empty office on the eighteenth floor of The Park Monroe, Detectives Hank Lyman and Daryl Davies watched and tried to listen to Taylor’s office in the One Twenty-Two South Michigan building. The shifty lawyer had sound deadeners mounted on his windows similar to those Beritoni had used on his condominium, but Taylor’s were less effective considering the much shorter distance between the structures. However, the named partner’s office took up the entire north side of that floor and his desk had been placed on the northeast corner, giving him a perfect view of the unkempt parks and the lake. As a result, few words could be discerned by the CPD spy device, though the detectives could recognize the man’s voice by its tone. Taylor’s shades were not drawn completely either, so it was a cinch to keep an eye on him. It did make for a very uneventful and boring day for Lyman and Davies.

  The movements of Fillipo Ignatola were watched by Detectives Jorge Chavez and Charles Morgan, who had the far more dangerous task of trying to follow the gangster’s limousine through the worst parts of Little Italy. With airborne drones being unavailable, Chavez had to drive parallel to the suspect vehicle from blocks away, tracking the big antique car via satellite. While it was the intent to keep Ignatola in view, it was impossible without exposing the officers. The mobster did not leave the city and never came close to O’Hare International or the abandoned Midway Airport. By the end of the day, Fillipo had been seen in public many times before retiring for the night in his own home.

  Campanelli and Williams resumed their surveillance of Maximilian DeSilva that Friday morning, relieving Nash and his partner from their overnight watch. DeSilva’s mansion was a large, tree ensconced property on the thirty-three hundred block of Cottage Grove Avenue, an area that had remained largely comprised of parkland scattered with apartment buildings. Built on the former site of a luxury high-rise, the mansion was of recent construction. Like DeSilva’s church, both were expansive in size, but bland in design. Built for functionality, the long, two-story home featured an off-white stucco exterior with functional gray roofing tiles.

  From the parking space in front of an apartment complex adjacent to the DeSilva home, Frank and Marcus had a perfect view of the driveway, the white limousine and the garage, where presumably the Ferrari lay in waiting.

  The pair sat in the cruiser for much of the day, getting relief from unmarked CPD units when they could. By late afternoon, there was little activity noted at the home. The big white car never moved and, since there were no services scheduled to be held at the church on Fridays, Frank thought it possible that Maximilian DeSilva was not planning on leaving the house at all until the following morning when the rally was scheduled to happen.

  At one point during the late afternoon when their idle conversation had all but ceased, Frank suddenly said, “I wonder if the preacher is onto us.”

  “What? How?” Williams replied after clearing his throat.

  “I don’t know,” Campanelli admitted with a dismissive wave of his hand, “I just felt as if he knows we’re out here, waiting for the excuse to arrest him and he’s decided to button-up until tomorrow.”

  “I suppose it’s possible…,” Marcus started.

  “It’s like he knows that the mayor wants to wait until tomorrow’s rally, but that I’m here just ready to bust him at the first opportunity.”

  “Are you saying that he knows that we know,” Wi
lliams smiled, “and that you know that he knows that we know?”

  Frank sighed but smiled thinly as he slowly nodded his head, “That’s about right.”

  At six p.m., they were relieved by another cruiser and called it a night. Frank dropped Marcus off at District One and went home. He was pleasantly surprised to find Tamara and dinner waiting for him. They both sat down to eat and it was twenty minutes before Frank realized that he had been doing more talking than eating. He rose from the table to reheat his plate.

  “Frank,” Tamara broke in as she sat back with her wineglass in her hand, “there might not be anything to worry about here. The mayor isn’t stupid from what I’ve seen.”

  “That’s right,” Campanelli pressed, “he’s not. That’s what’s bugging me.”

  Frank had no sooner sat down with his hot spaghetti when the phone rang.

  “That’s probably your boss, now,” Billingsley said and raised her glass.

  Snatching his glass of bourbon from the table, Frank strode into the living room and picked up the receiver in mid-ring. “Campanelli.”

  “Frank.”

  “Yeah. Rothgery?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s going on?” Frank detected a strong tone of regret in the man’s voice. “Something wrong?”

  “Um, I’m afraid so, Frank.”

  “Spill it,” he returned and took a swig of his drink as he muted the HV, which had been playing the evening’s newsfeed.

  “I got a call from my doctor friend a few minutes ago,” H. Lincoln uttered.

  “Okay,” Frank said through tightened teeth. His mind raced through dark possibilities and came up with the answer before Rothgery even got to the point. Campanelli felt the blood drain from his face and he froze.

  “The Perpetuamivir shot didn’t take for the Whethers girl, Frank.”

  “She’s…gone?” Frank whispered.

  “The house is quarantined. The entire foster family is very, very ill,” Lincoln went on.

  The other end of the phone was silent for several seconds. In the background, Rothgery heard Tamara call Frank’s name and ask if everything was all right.

  “She passed earlier this afternoon,” Lincoln dropped the bomb though he spoke in the gentlest manner he could. “I’m so sorry, Frank. The shot was either too late or part of that bad batch.”

  “I see,” Campanelli whispered after recouping his breath. “Thanks for calling, Lincoln.”

  “Sure, Frank,” Rothgery returned lamely. Nothing he said would have been helpful and he knew it. He dropped the line after saying ‘goodbye’.

  The Captain of Detectives stood for several seconds with the receiver still at his ear, listening to nothing. He stared at the holographic projection of the news program, not comprehending a single image that fluttered by.

  “Frank?” Tam ventured. Her instincts told her that the news was not about the current case, but something else entirely. She stood and had taken a step toward him just as the man snapped.

  The tumbler of bourbon passed through the projected HV image, briefly scattering the light emitted from the set into every direction before the glass collided with the outer wall beyond it, just inches below the window. Shattered glass and the remaining golden fluid rebounded into the air in a myriad of color, creating a mural of brilliant light that belied the emotion of its origin.

  Amongst the flying glass shards, Frank spewed a string of profanity that emptied his lungs at such a volume that Tam’s audio receptors reacted to suppress the assault.

  “Frank!” she shouted, full of concern and fear for the man. She spread her hands out questioningly and, for a moment, froze in her tracks.

  The rage that had been triggered by the phone call was not satisfied. He dropped the receiver onto the floor and, without having decided to do so, fell into a squat, clutched the edge of the coffee table and launched it into the air with the ascending power of his entire body. The heavy wooden piece flipped end over end and crashed into the far wall before landing on its end upon the carpeted floor. The antique telephone, having lost its resting place, danced into the air and fell onto the couch, unharmed.

  “Frank!” Billingsley shrieked.

  With effort, he stifled his rampage and stood with his fists dangling simply at his sides, working his lungs to catch his breath.

  Tam approached gingerly, as if the man were the detonator to a bomb. Her eyes had begun to tear, distorting her vision as she circumnavigated the couch. Stepping past the upended table, she moved slowly forward and came to a stop several feet in front of him.

  She whispered his name, trying to steal his attention from the nothingness into which he stared. His chest pumped with effort as his body mechanically processed oxygen through his mouth. Tam stepped closer as she took in the sight of him. The expression upon his reddened face was a horrible mixture of anger and grief and, for several seconds, she thought he may collapse.

  “Frank?” she whispered again.

  Slowly, he returned to the ‘now’ of the moment. His eyes blinked and he silently acknowledged her presence. Tamara dared to embrace him, but it was several minutes before his body relaxed enough to reciprocate. It was several more minutes before he could form the words enough to tell her what had happened.

  Together, they grieved for a child neither had met.

  The evening turned to the dead of night and Tamara alone slept in the bedroom. For several hours, Frank’s mind could find no way to shut down the many trains of thought that rolled through. He remained seated upon his couch for the night, paying little attention to the all-night broadcast of re-runs on the HV. Eventually, he forced himself to lie down and sometime later, he drifted in and out of periods of sleep so short they did not shut down his implant until he ordered it to discontinue.

  ***

  The morning of Saturday, May the seventeenth came with Tam nudging his arm.

  “Frank,” she said just above a whisper, “it’s time to get up.”

  He thought he detected some nervousness in her voice. “Okay,” he mumbled.

  “I made breakfast,” she said in a stronger tone. “Come eat.” She floated away before he could get a look of her.

  For a moment, he remained lying on the couch as he waited for his CAPS-Link to awaken. The thoughts of Sarah Whethers leeched back into the forefront of his mind. In an attempt to dismiss them and move on, he quickly established communications with the CPD server and found that Sebastian had replied to his clandestine video of DeSilva’s show. He opened the file and read.

  “Your infiltration of Maximilian DeSilva’s proceedings has been quite insightful, Captain. The mayor and I both send our thanks and congratulations. As a result of this, we have made several adjustments to the security detail that will be present during the rally. We have recommended to all officers in the mission email that body armor is to be worn and all plain clothes are to include vests.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Campanelli spat as he left the couch.

  “What is it?” Tamara called from the kitchen.

  “The mayor’s going through with this,” he called back as he sifted through his closet.

  “He’s a damn fool,” she proclaimed.

  Frank looked to her as he shuffled to the bedroom and saw that she was nearly in tears. “I agree,” he said and went to his closet.

  Tam followed him. “You should call in sick,” she suggested earnestly as the spatula trembled in her hand with its business end pointed toward his chest.

  “You know better than that,” he said levelly.

  “Do I? Do I?!”

  “Yes,” Frank answered and stepped to her, “you do.” He took her hands in his, spatula and all, and planted a kiss on her lips. “Everything will be fine.”

  “All I know is that I’m supposed to keep all this knowledge to myself while I go on with my day,” she rambled. “I’m supposed to serve customers like it’s just another Saturday…knowing that you’re so upset…while this…rally or whatever this DeS
ilva asshole wants to call it is broadcast on the HV’s.”

  “I know.”

  “Just how the hell am I supposed to not break into a panic right there in my restaurant, knowing that you’re in the middle of a…a…a powder keg of…stupidity?!” she asked in a fragile voice.

  “You’ll find a way,” Campanelli assured her as gently as he could. “You’re not the first woman to ever see a loved one go into harm’s way.”

  “Oh, ‘loved one’, huh?” she hissed and placed her hands on her hips. “You presume a lot, mister!”

  “Do I? Do I?” he mocked and forced a fragile smile.

  Tam laughed through a pent up tear and said, “You don’t. I love you, Frank.”

  “I love you, too,” he said in complete, plain honesty.

  “Come eat,” she directed and tugged him to the table by the hand.

  Frank ate breakfast quickly and prepared for the day. He placed his armored vest over an undershirt and fastened it, careful to keep it out of Tamara’s view. He knew that she would feel it under his shirt and jacket when she departed, but he wanted to soften the shock of its presence as much as possible.

  Once his holster and jacket were on, Frank left the bedroom, fiddling with his tie as he walked. He found that Tam had cleaned up after cooking the eggs and bacon and was putting on her jacket. Seeing the time, he realized that she had to open her diner.

  Tamara Billingsley frowned adorably, crinkling the corners of her mouth. Her eyes passed over him and centered on his puffy torso. She stepped forward and helped straighten his tie. Her eyes met Frank’s and after a moment, she rapped on his chest with a curled up fist. Confirming the presence of the body armor, her eyes welled.

  “It’s orders,” Campanelli insisted and embraced her. Her reaction was unnecessary but understandable. While the armored vests could do little against rifle rounds or some of the larger caliber explosive handgun rounds, which included his police issued eleven millimeter, the vest would soften the blow of EMP rifles and antique firearms using traditional ammunition.