A hand touched his shoulder. 'Can I please speak with you a minute, Mr King?' The request came from the thin, pale-faced man that Jack had spotted on the front row. Standing, the guy was barely five-five. Jack guessed he was in his late twenties, though the dark shadow of his beard made him look older. His frame was almost skeletal. Eyes black and empty. Teeth so poor you could tell straight away that he wasn't American. And there was something else; a bitter-sweet stink of salty body sweat that made Jack wince. 'Sure. Will it take long? Only, I need to find the men's room.'
The man looked over his shoulder. 'It's around here.' The accent was now recognizably Italian. 'Come, I'll show you.' He headed off so quickly that Jack had little option but to follow.
'Thanks,' said the profiler, as his escort held the door and then followed him in. Jack used the urinal, all the time conscious of the strange Italian standing by the washbasins, watching and waiting for him.
Think I've hooked myself some serious creep, he thought as he washed, then dried his hands beneath a blower.
'You want to talk here? 'Cause I thought maybe outside would be better?' Jack motioned outside, his patience already wearing thin.
The Italian got the message. He opened the wash-room door and found a space in the crowded lobby. 'I am Luciano Creed.' He extended his hand.
Jack shook it. It was limp and sweaty. 'Pleased to meet you, Luciano. Now, how can I help?' He fought an impolite urge to wipe his hand on his trousers.
'I work in Naples. I'm a psychology graduate…'
A female theatre worker in tight red jeans walked by. 'I am being, how you say…' he stammered, 'on attachment to the police there.' He was so distracted by the woman that he dried up completely. His head even swivelled as she walked past.
'How can I help?' repeated Jack, irritation now obvious in his voice.
Creed gathered his thoughts. He unzipped an unfashionable blue checked cardigan and pulled out a polythene document case that had been tucked partly down his pants and pressed close to his chest. 'I came all the way to New York to hear your lecture and to show you these.'
Jack grimaced. Work was supposed to end today. One speech and then a chill-out Christmas at Nancy's mom and dad's. That's what he'd promised her.
'I'm sorry, buddy, you're probably about to show the wrong thing to the wrong guy at the wrong time.'
Creed ignored him. 'Five women, all reported as missing. I think there's more to it than that, more than just missing.' He unzipped the case and produced a map of the Bay of Naples. 'I've mapped seventy different aspects of behaviour in the five cases, used Multidimensional Scalogram Analysis to combine variables and connections in the incidents. I'm sure they are connected.'
Jack was well versed in geographical profiling. He'd studied what the Brits and the Germans had been doing with Dragnet and he'd been particularly impressed by the Canadians and their Criminal Geographic Targeting programmes.
'Look at these papers and tell me what you think.' Creed held them out. Jack tried not to look. Finally, he took them and glanced down at the map.
Red dots marked Casavatore, Santa Lucia, Barra, Soccavo and Ponticelli. At first glance there was no obvious connection. Then, like old-fashioned photographic paper developing in a darkroom tray, Jack saw the links. None of the women's homes were very close together; they probably didn't know each other. The marked sites were spread across the outskirts of Naples, and all were served by fast motorway routes spreading north, south, east and west. Their killer – if indeed there was one – most likely met them in Naples itself, offered them lifts home. Maybe he picked them up at nightclubs, perhaps he was a cab driver, or even knew them personally and they felt comfortable enough to travel willingly with him. The A56 beltway bisected the map. He guessed that at night you could travel fast down there and likewise along the A1 and A3 that ran off it. Jack looked up at Creed. 'In non-scientific, non-sociolinguistic language, just tell me straight, why do you think these women aren't just walk-aways?'
Creed stepped forward and talked excitedly. His voice, basted in garlic, was hushed and confidential. 'Five women, all within a twenty-kilometre radius of each other; none prostitutes, all respectable; none showing any previous signs that they wanted to leave the neighbourhood.' He paused and saw the interest register in Jack's eyes. He took a slip of paper with their names written on it and pressed it into the profiler's hand. 'Mr King, none of these women, not a single one of them, took any clothing or personal possessions with them when they disappeared.'
Jack's face showed surprise. He didn't want to get sucked in, but he couldn't help seeing red flags. He looked down at the slip of paper and the list of five names. 'What do the cops in Naples say? If your case is that convincing, then I guess they're all over it?'
'Mr King, every day there are so many murders in Naples that there is no time to look for those who are merely missing.'
Jack made one last effort to block him off. He glanced pointedly at his watch. 'I'm sorry, but I have to go. The weather's really bad and I've gotta make a family dinner.'
Creed snatched the mapped papers and returned them to the plastic wallet. His face was red with anger. 'I have come all the way to New York to ask for your help.' He nodded in the direction of Jack's hand and the list of names. 'Those women are dead. I know they are dead. And if you turn your back on me now, then more will die and both you and I will feel like we have blood on our hands. Of that I promise you.'
5
Hotel Le Sirenuse, Positano Ten thousand euros' worth of fireworks exploded across the Bay of Naples. Italy's hottest boy band sang their own special version of 'Happy Birthday'. Under patio heaters beside a shimmering pool, crowds laughed and cheered as streamers and balloons filled the night sky. But none of this made six-year-old Enzo Valsi crack a smile. Most kids would have thought they were in heaven, but the only moment light came to the youngster's eyes was when a waiter slipped while carrying a tray of white wine. The birthday boy's life, young and tender as it still was, had already been corrupted and bled of its innocence. He lived in a world where the bogeymen were real. So real that it was inevitable that one day they'd turn up, spilling out of cars with smiles on their faces and machine pistols in their hands.
Another volley of fireworks exploded in the pitch-black sky, illuminating the jumble of multicoloured houses that climbed up the hillside of Positano. The boy band signed napkins and made eyes at waitresses. Across the pool, Bruno Valsi ruffled his son's hair and kissed him goodnight. His wife Gina, the boy's nanny and an armed bodyguard the size of a garage took him away. His father didn't even look back as he joined the other men filtering into the brightly lit hotel.
The private dining room of the eighteenth-century palazzo had been electronically swept and declared clean of any listening devices. Armed Camorristi stood at every doorway. More sat in cars on the driveway and approach roads, pistols and sandwiches on their laps.
Inside the elegant dining room, gang boss Fredo Finelli chimed a spoon against a crystal champagne glass. The table had been laid for fourteen people, the most trusted and highly rewarded of the Finelli Family. To Don Fredo's right sat Salvatore 'The Snake' Giacomo, a strongly built, grey-faced man in his late forties. A man who for more than two decades had been Fredo's Luogotenente, his fixer and personal bodyguard. No one was quite sure whether his nickname had come from his association with the clan and its distinctive viper tattoo, or because he once chose to slowly and sadistically strangle a victim using a length of metal chain. On Fredo's other flank was his consigliere, his business and legal adviser, Ricardo Mazerelli. The forty-eight-year-old lawyer had been a senior official in the city's mayoral office until he'd lost his job during a rare but successful police clampdown on local authority corruption.
'Gentlemen, please fill your glasses,' commanded Fredo, 'for tonight there is much toasting and much celebrating to be done.'
Bruno Valsi sat at the opposite end of the table. He studied the faces of his fellow Camorristi, wondering how they fel
t about his return.
'The first of my toasts,' continued Fredo, 'is to loyalty. My father once told me that friendship is like silver but loyalty is like gold, and the years have proved him right. Gentlemen, your loyalty to our Family and ours to each other is golden; please raise your glasses in honour of our collective loyalty. Salute!'
Across the white linen tabletop Valsi joined in the responding chorus and noticed Ricardo Mazerelli's piercing blue eyes looking him over, assessing him for future reference. They both nodded amiably at each other, but neither broke their gaze until Don Fredo spoke again.
'Five years ago, my son-in-law Bruno showed the depth of his loyalty. He made a personal sacrifice to protect me and to protect this Family. That sacrifice cost him half a decade of his life. Today, he is returned to us and tonight we recognize that sacrifice and we reward it. Bruno, please come here.' The old man extended his hands. Valsi rose from his seat and walked towards the top of the table. Clapping broke out and became hard and tribal, the crowd timing their slaps to match Valsi's steps, then accelerating the rhythm into a crescendo as he and Finelli warmly embraced each other.
Finelli patted down the applause. 'In recognition of his loyalty to all of us, I am pleased to announce that Bruno Valsi is now elevated to the rank of Capo Zona.'
Again the applause rang out, harder and warmer. But Valsi could see coldness in the eyes of a few of the older soldiers. Being made Capo Zona meant you had a specific geographic region to exploit. You could raise money for the Family and take a healthy share for yourself. It also meant being given the chance to assemble your own crew, a sort of family within the Family, and this was what worried the older Camorristi.
Don Fredo was also watching. His expert eyes examined the other Capi: Angelico d'Arezzo, Giotto Fiorentino and Ambrogio Rotoletti. They were impassive. Their hearts and minds still needed winning. They were older, much older than Valsi, but they would give him a chance, albeit a small one. Finelli broke from his assessment and addressed them all: 'Bruno Valsi will take over the Family's eastern sector, the one richest in what we call our entertainment business. These are the responsibilities that were carried out by Pepe Capucci, before his heart attack last month. Bruno has been given the right to assemble his own crew and he has told me he will announce who they are within the next few days. So, my Uomini d'Onore, my dear gentlemen of honour, please raise your glasses and toast the successful future of my son-in-law, Bruno Valsi, this Family's youngest ever Capo Zona.'
Chairs slid back, the men rose and held their glasses high. 'Salute, Bruno!'
Don Fredo embraced Valsi again and then clapped him as the toast finished. As the smiling Capo returned to his seat, Don Fredo added one final footnote to his speech, something he hadn't previously discussed with Valsi in the drive from Poggioreale jail. 'Bruno, I have another gift for you; something to help you with your new business interests.'
Valsi's smile slid away. In his line of business there was no such thing as a pleasant surprise.
Don Fredo extended his right arm and put his hand on the shoulder of Sal the Snake. 'Salvatore, my personal friend and loyal Luogotenente, has generously volunteered to join you in your new business team. He will help you establish yourself. I know his special experience and skills will ensure everything goes according to both our plans.'
6
Carnegie Hall, New York City Luciano Creed was still smiling when he slipped into the Starbucks next door to Carnegie Hall. Jack King had grudgingly relented and agreed to see him again. One more meeting – tomorrow, for one hour max – then they'd be done. Well, Creed was certain Jack wouldn't be done so quickly. The Italian took a double espresso and sat in the window to drink it. He enjoyed staring out of the big glass pane, watching people flood by.
Not people, just women. Men were mere flotsam.
King had been right; you could never judge people from the measly ten per cent that they showed in public. It's the ninety per cent of ourselves that we keep hidden that is most interesting.
Creed liked the idea of comparing himself to an iceberg. Cool. Surprising. Powerful. It summed him up perfectly. He ran King's lecture over in his head. It had been worth travelling over for. Well worth meeting the great Jack King. What was it that he had said that had most impressed him?
Thought, Feeling, Action – the three things to concentrate on. Creed let the words swim in his head. He was acting like most everyone else in Star-bucks, just sitting there getting warm, hiding from the bitter blizzard blowing outside. But right now he was thinking about how you would abduct and kill a woman.
His eyes settled on a petite blonde who'd stopped in front of the window. She was trying to find a cellphone ringing in her purse. Nice face. Nice shape. Easy prey.
Her long blue coat was tightly tailored, hugging her waist and flowing fashionably down to knee-length black boots. He imagined her naked but with the boots still on, his hands around her slender hips as he pressed her against him. Skin on skin. Skin on leather.
He was sure she would have a small tight ass and firm legs. An ass he'd want to slowly explore with his tiny bony fingers. Legs he'd love to run his tongue up and down before unzipping those boots.
Taste. Touch. See. FEEL.
Creed was already feeling, feeling fully aroused. He had to shuffle positions on his window seat to shake off the fantasy.
Thought, feeling, ACTION.
ACT like a killer. Wasn't that what he was supposed to do? What all profilers were trained to do? Well, he could certainly do that – better than anyone dare imagine. He had great talents. Skills people still needed to recognize.
Creed wiped coffee from his lips, but his smile still lingered, and so did his own strange thoughts and fantasies.
7
Hotel Le Sirenuse, Positano Damn Don Fredo! May his soul rot in hell! Bruno Valsi slapped a hand against the wall of the hotel's honeymoon suite.
The old man was cleverer than he'd given him credit for. Elevation to the rank of Capo Zona was generous repayment for the loyalty he'd shown. But having Sal the Snake forced upon him – well, that was something else. It was humiliation. It was distrust. It was an insidious way of controlling him. It was damned clever.
'Bruno. Is that you?' called a hopeful voice from the bedroom of the luxury suite. As a teenager, Valsi had taken up with the young and plain-looking Gina Finelli. He'd done it purely as a way of ingratiating himself with her father, perhaps getting a little work, some protection in his life. Then Gina's accidental pregnancy had changed things. The obligatory wedding that followed proved a blessing in disguise and Valsi's ambitions vaulted. But now – to be honest – the Don's daughter was another problem he could well do without. What little feelings he'd had for her had disappeared as surely as her waistline had vanished during his years inside. He couldn't believe how she'd piled on the pounds.
A woman's disrespect for her body is disrespect for her husband.
The bedroom lights were out and the room was lit only by the flicker of candlelight. Enzo was sleeping in an adjoining suite with his nanny and a bodyguard ouside the door. Gina was reclining against a mountain of cushions and pillows on the bed. 'Did it go well for you?' Her voice was soft and calm.
'Well enough,' said Valsi coolly. He swept his jacket around the back of a chair, like a matador swirling a cape around a bull, then sat on the edge of the bed to untie his shoelaces. 'Your father, he sees fit to give me my own crew, but then he as good as tells everyone that he has me on a lead and that Salvatore – his trusted, thick-headed Salvatore – will walk me like a young pup that doesn't yet know when to bark or when to sit.'
Gina grimaced. This wasn't what she'd hoped for. For five years she'd faithfully waited for this night, for the very moment her husband would return to her bed. She'd not only personally chosen the suite, but the red and pink silk lingerie she wore had been specially made for her. No woman alive could have tried harder, or been more nervous about creating exactly the right mood for them to restart their marriage
.
Valsi stripped off his shirt and dropped it on the chair. He stood to undo his belt and could feel her eyes trace the sculpted muscles of his shoulders, chest and abdomen. He slid off his pants and folded them, as he'd done every night in his cell. Gina could see that his thighs bulged from endless squats performed in the prison gym.
'Let me help you,' she said, a girlish lightness in her voice as her fingers slid around the waistband of his Calvin's.
'Let me piss.' Valsi brushed her hand away.
He left her stranded on the edge of the bed. Her outstretched arms still held the air where he'd been. Her eyes followed him to the bathroom. He walked like a panther, taut and muscular, dangerous and exotic. She ached to dig her nails into his skin and feel the rush of him inside her. He was back, and she wanted him again. 'Uncle Sal really likes you,' she called, hoping to lift his mood.
'He's not your uncle. Why do you call him that?' Valsi urinated noisily as he spoke.
Gina picked at her fingernails. 'He's like an uncle. He's been around my family since I was a young kid.'
'So has the mailman. Maybe you should call him uncle too.'
Gina tried to stay positive. 'Maybe it is good that my father wants Sal to look out for you. Maybe this is a good thing?'
'And maybe not. Maybe it is a stupid and dangerous thing.' He flushed the toilet. 'Maybe it is the worst thing that could be done to me – and maybe your father knows that.' He stepped into the shower. Enough of the maybes. His wife and her bed could wait. He had no desire to be with her.
At Poggioreale, showers were dangerous places. Places where people got fucked in the ass. Places where people got knifed and killed. Places you were never safe. Now, he stood under the steaming waterfall, trying to relax, trying to clear his mind. One question bothered him more than most: How long can I stand living with this fat bitch?
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