The Villa of Mysteries (28 page)

“Where did you get these?” Falcone asked, furious.

“Randolph Kirk’s office. This morning.”

“What?” he roared.

“Don’t rupture something,” she said quietly. “You didn’t look there. You weren’t even interested.”

“I didn’t have the damn time!”

His long brown nose was sniffing at her. She thought of the drinks Regina Morrison had given her. The bastard never missed a thing.

“Jesus Christ, woman,” he snapped. “You’ve been drinking. This is the end. Because of you—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He was too livid.

“Because of me what?” she yelled back. “What? Your beautiful traffic cop is dead? Is that what you think?” She stared at the men in the room. “Is that what you
all
think? May I remind you of one fact? Your beautiful traffic cop was a cold-blooded murderer. Maybe she did it for herself. Maybe she did it because someone told her to. But she killed someone. She’d have killed me too if I’d let her. I didn’t cause any of this. It was just there waiting to happen, and if it had been somebody else maybe there’d be two victims, more even, lying in the morgue right now, not one. Hell, maybe there are, maybe there have been more over the years. And we wouldn’t know. Because Barbara Martelli would still be riding that bike of hers, smiling sweetly all the time to fire up all your wet dreams, because none of you, not one, could possibly believe what she really was. Thanks to me you found out. Sorry—” She said this last very slowly, just to make sure the point went in. “I apologize. That’s the trouble with the truth. Sometimes it hurts.”

“You have damaged this investigation,” Falcone said wearily. “You have overstepped your position.”

“There’s a missing girl out there!”

“We
know
there’s a missing girl out there,” Falcone replied, and threw the four photos Peroni had given him onto the table to join the others. “We
know
she’s been abducted. We know, too, that somehow these things are all linked. This is a murder inquiry and an abduction inquiry and I will allot what precious resources I have in my power to try and ensure no one else gets killed.”

“Oh,” she said softly, staring at the pictures. “I’m sorry.” She was shaking her head. She looked utterly lost. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve got the flu, I think. What a pathetic excuse.”

Costa took her arm again and this time she didn’t resist. “Go home,” he said. “You shouldn’t be working anyway. Not after what happened yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday is
why
I’m working. Don’t you understand?”

“Teresa,” Silvio Di Capua bleated. “We need you.”

“You heard the man,” she whispered, knowing the tears were standing in her eyes again, starting to roll, starting to be obvious to them all, like a sign saying,
Look at Crazy Teresa, she really is crazy now
. “I’m sorry, Silvio. I can’t do this . . . shit anymore.”

The place stank of blood and the sweat of men. She walked to the door, wanting to be outside, wanting to feel fresh air in her lungs, knowing it wasn’t there anyway, that all she’d inhale was the traffic smog of Rome, waiting to poison her from the inside out.

And she was thinking all the time: what was it the crazy god offered Barbara Martelli and Eleanor Jamieson really? Freedom from all this crap? A small dark private place where you were what you were and no one else looked, no one else judged, where duty and routine and the dead, dull round of daily life were all a million miles away because in this new place, just for a moment, you could persuade yourself you had a part of some god inside you too? Could that have been the gift? And if it was, could anyone in the world have turned it down?

EMILIO NERI REFUSED TO SKULK around like a criminal, hiding from everything, a fugitive for no good reason at all. But even without an unwelcome visit from the cops and the DIA he could read the signs, digest the intelligence coming in through the channels he’d created over the years. He had to face decisions, make choices, and for the first time in his life he found that difficult. This was a new, unprecedented situation. Until he made up his mind how to proceed he felt he had little choice but to hole up in the house, trying not to let Adele and Mickey’s endless bickering get on his nerves. It was time to stop pretending he could lead from the front, as he had twenty years before, when he moved from
capo
to boss. Now he had to act his age, directing his troops, being the general, keeping their trust. He was getting too old for the tough stuff. He needed others to do the work.

There were risks too. He wondered what they thought in the ranks. When he was with the men, he had them tight in his hand. Now he was in danger of seeming aloof, his grip less sure. Adele and Mickey didn’t help either. A man who couldn’t control his own family could hardly demand respect from the ranks. He’d asked Bruno Bucci to keep an ear open to listen for any whispered remarks that might be the first indication of revolt. These were hazardous times, and not just from the obvious direction. Whatever he said in private, he had to make sure the Sicilians remained happy. He had to convince the foot soldiers it was in their interests to keep their hats in the ring with him too. Money only went so far. He needed to cement their respect, to continue to be their boss.

Then Bucci came in with more news about Beniamino Vercillo. The cops were trying to keep things quiet, but Neri’s mob had good sources. They mentioned the oddest part of the case: that the killer had been wearing some kind of ancient theatrical costume. This was, it seemed to Neri, a message, surely. The situation was more serious than he had foreseen. For a while, he was dumbstruck, floundering in his own doubts with no one to turn to. He blamed himself. As soon as he’d known a war could be on the way — as soon as those reports of American hoods coming in through Fiumicino reached him — he should have acted. If conflict was inevitable, the advantage always lay with the party that struck first. The Americans understood that lesson instinctively. Instead, he’d hesitated, and now they’d punished him in the most brutal and unexpected of ways.

Vercillo was a civilian. If they’d wanted to make a hit in order to prove a point, there were plenty of accepted targets they could nail: neighbourhood
capi
, underlings, street men, pimps. Instead they picked a skinny little accountant. It made no sense. It was
offensive
. Neri had no time for Vercillo personally. He wasn’t even a real employee. It had never occurred to Neri to warn the man to stay at home for a while, to keep his head down until the air cleared. However bitter a war got, it just didn’t involve people that far down the ladder. This was an unwritten rule, a line you never crossed.

Like killing someone’s relative, a wife or a daughter, Neri thought.

Bucci watched him, impassive, stolid, waiting for instructions.

“Boss?” he said finally.

“Give me a chance,” Neri replied with a scowl. “You got to think your way through these things.”

The big tough hood from Turin was silent after that. Neri was glad of his presence. He needed a man of substance in his trust.

“How are the boys feeling?” Neri asked.

“About anything in particular?”

“The mood.
Morale
.”

Bucci squirmed a little. Neri recognized the signs. They weren’t good. “They get bored easy, boss. Men do in situations like this. They get hyped up like something’s going to happen. When it doesn’t they get to feel awkward. Like they’re wasting their time.”

“I’m paying them well to waste their time,” Neri grunted.

“Yeah. But you know their kind. It’s about more than money. Besides, one of them’s cousin to that poor bastard Vercillo. He’s got a score to settle.”

“So you’re saying what, Bruno?”

Bucci considered his answer carefully. “I’m saying that maybe it’s not a good idea to sit here waiting for the next thing to happen to us. They’re good guys but I don’t want to push them too far.”

Neri’s cold gaze didn’t leave Bucci for a second. “Are they loyal?”

“Sure. As loyal as anyone gets these days. But you got to recognize their self-interest. You got to massage their egos too. These are made men. They don’t like thinking they’re just doing security work or something. It’d help me no end if we saw a little action. Let these assholes know where they stand.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Neri lied. Something else was bugging him. How had they known about Vercillo? He was a back-room guy. From the outside he looked straight. How did Wallis find him? Maybe Vercillo was less discreet than Neri expected. Maybe he’d been selling information on the side, and found out how dangerous that game can be. “You got any information about who’s doing this? Names? Addresses?”

“Not yet. The street’s not talking much out there at the moment. Hell, if it’s some people the American brought in for the job, our people probably don’t know them anyway. If you want my honest opinion—” Bucci dried up.

“Well?”

“We’re not going to get any more information than we have right now. People are bound to be sitting back on the sidelines, watching. They want to see who comes out on top. No one’s going to want to do you any favours, not unless they’re in with us deep already. It doesn’t make sense.”

Neri said nothing.

“You don’t mind me being frank,” Bucci said carefully.

“No,” Neri moaned, “it’s what I need. Jesus, these are people who’ve been sucking my blood for years!”

“Look, boss. You got plenty of respect with the guys here. Provided they don’t get pushed too far. Outside—” He didn’t say any more. He didn’t have to.

“Respect,” Neri grumbled, his face like thunder. “Tell the truth. Do they think I’m too old or what?”

Bucci hesitated.

“They don’t think that,” the man from Turin said eventually. “But they think about what comes next. You got to expect it. Anyone would in the same circumstances. Also, there’s rumours.”

“Rumours?” Neri wondered.

“The people I got in the cops are being real secret about this. Falcone isn’t letting anyone near except those close to him. And the DIA.”

Neri shook his head in disbelief. “The DIA? What the fuck has this got to do with them?”

“They think they got our books from Vercillo.”

Neri laughed. “Sure they got our books! Can’t do a thing with them. The little guy put a code on them or something. He was good with numbers. That was his thing. He told me. They could work on it for years and they’d never get nowhere.”

“They got the code. The DIA’s trying to work it all out now.”

“
What
?” It was impossible to work out what this all meant. Vercillo had been doing the books for almost twenty years. He was a meticulous man. He logged everything. Emilio Neri understood instantly that if the DIA and the cops managed to peer into that black hive of past misdeeds they could throw all manner of shit in his direction: fraud, tax evasion. Worse.

“Are you sure?” Neri asked in desperation.

“I’m sure,” Bucci replied. “Also they want to nail you over this dead girl. They seem to think they got something there. This dead professor guy left some photos or something. There’s this other girl, the one that’s missing now. They think she’s down to us too.”

Neri was outraged. “Do I look like the kind that goes around snatching teenagers off the street? Why’d I need to do that?”

“They think . . . it points in our direction,” Bucci said carefully.

Neri understood what he was saying. “And does it?”

“Not with anyone under me, boss.”

Neri raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“But I don’t get to control everyone. Mickey, for example. He’s just a loose cannon. God knows what he gets up to when none of us are around.”

“Such as?”

“We know about the hookers. I think maybe he’s back on the dope too. Maybe he’s been doing other stuff.” Bucci paused, reluctant to continue. “I don’t know where he is half the time. Do you?”

“No,” Neri grunted.

“And this thing years ago with the dead girl. It was before my time. But they seem to think he was there.”

Neri shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“I understand. Look, boss. I don’t feel right saying this kind of thing. It’s between you and him. It’s just that . . . Mickey affects the way the guys are thinking right now.”

“And you?” Neri asked. “I got this American asshole fitting me up for the cops and the DIA. I got a dumb son who can’t keep his dick quiet. What do you think should come next?”

“Whatever you want. This is your organization. You get to say what happens. It’s just . . .”

Bucci didn’t go on. Neri couldn’t work it out.

“Well?” he asked.

“It’s Mickey. He don’t help. Not with him and Adele.”

“Yeah,” Neri said, waving a hand, “I know, I know . . . it pisses me off too.”

He looked at Bruno Bucci. The man appeared deeply uncomfortable. He’d seen him less nervous than this when they were about bad business. It didn’t add up. Then Neri wondered about this idea that had been nagging him for a day or more. It was crazy. It was the kind of thing old men got into their heads for no reason whatsoever and that made fools of them if they blurted it out into the light of day. Which always happened anyway, even if they knew as much, because it was the kind of idea you couldn’t keep inside forever.

Neri put an arm around Bucci’s shoulder and said, “You wouldn’t lie to an old man, would you, Bruno? I always thought you were a bad liar. It was one of your limitations.”

“No.” Bucci’s eyes never left the floor.

The old man’s hand squeezed, hard. “You’ve been in the house a lot recently. When I’m not here. Tell me, Bruno. Mickey’s fucking her, right? That’s what’s really going on, huh? All this bad feeling between them. That’s just for my benefit? Right?”

Bruno Bucci let out a long sigh and struggled to say something.

“No problem,” Neri said, slapping him on the shoulder. “It just adds another job to the list. Now sit down. I want to talk.”

FALCONE LOOKED UP from the scattered piles of photographs on the table in his office.

“Close the door,” he said quietly. “We don’t have much time. I want this Julius girl found. I want that to be the focus of what we do from now on. Understood?”