BELLA MAFIA (35 page)

"Please accept this. It is worth a considerable amount. It is all I have."

Sophia drove out of Catania, cocooned in her own misery. She had made no effort to trace the owner of the box number; nothing could have been farther from her mind. In a daze she headed back to Palermo, almost letting the car run out of gas.

She pulled in at a filling station and found herself listening to the attendant's radio blaring pop music. It was followed by a news flash: Paul Carolla had been shot dead during the morning's court session. The impact of the announcement cut through her dulled senses, and she sat, electrified, hearing that an elderly woman had been arrested and charged with the murder.

The television set in the kitchen was on; a newscaster was giving a rundown of the latest headlines. Teresa paused at the mention of Paul Carolla and turned up the sound.

A moment later Rosa came in. Teresa, shock on her face, turned to her daughter. "Oh, my God, I think Mama's shot Paul Carolla."

Commissario Pirelli spooned sugar into his coffee. It was cold. He was staring at the papers on his desk while trying to take in the morning's events. The excitement he'd felt with the lead to Luka Carolla seemed almost unimportant against the murder of Paul Carolla.

There was a tap on the door. Without looking up, he called, "Come in," expecting it to be his assistant, Bruno. When he finally looked up, he rose quickly to his feet.

"My apologies, signora, you wish to speak to me?"

Sophia Luciano hesitated in the doorway, and Pirelli walked around to the front of his desk. He ran his hands through his hair, thick, wiry hair that stood up, out of control. "May I help you?"

She came a little farther into the room. "I was not sure whom I should speak with. My name is Sophia Luciano."

Her deep, husky tones made the hair on the back of his neck rise. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

He swallowed and gestured toward a chair, which he then pulled out for her.

"You must be here about Signora Luciano, but I'm afraid I'm not handling the— Er, please sit down, signora. I can find out where she is, and then I'll take you to see her."

He offered coffee, but she refused, sitting with her head slightly bowed. "I heard it on the news. I came straight here. I wasn't sure where I should go. ..."

The feeling of loss, the terrible emptiness in her demeanor overwhelmed him, and he had an urge to take her in his arms. He was trying to remember which Luciano she was. Was she the mother of the two little boys? He excused himself and left the office.

He let out his breath as if he had been holding it the entire time he was with her. He hurried along the corridor and straight into the red-faced Ancora.

"Commissario, Luka Carolla was booked onto a flight two days ago, but he never got on the plane. There was a seat reserved in his name—"

"In the name of Luka, not Giorgio?"

"Yep, so it means he's still here, in Sicily, unless he has another passport or took off from Rome. I'm checking there."

Pirelli nodded, then caught Ancora's arm. "Which one of the Luciano widows was the mother of the two children?"

Ancora paused, chewing his lip as he tried to remember. "Sophia Luciano, married to Constantino."

"She's in my office. I'll take her down to the old lady. Who's got her, do you know?"

Ancora told him that Graziella was with the Mincelli team on the top floor, then bustled off to his own office.

Sophia was sitting in exactly the same position. Pirelli closed the door. "You will be able to see her in a few moments. All the statements have been taken, and ... I doubt very much if she will be held."

Sophia's dark eyes were so frightened that he busied himself with the pens and pencils on his desk.

"But she killed Paul Carolla?"

"No < . . She tried, but she did not kill him. There was another gun fired at the same time. I have no details yet, and perhaps I shouldn't have told you."

"Someone else shot him?"

"It appears so. ... I am sorry. When I take you to her, you will obviously learn more."

She nodded and whispered her thanks. He offered her a cigarette, but she refused, then opened her handbag and took out her own cigarette case. She clicked it open.

"I smoke only these, they are very expensive and difficult to find, and I pretend to myself that it helps me not to smoke so much. Would you care for one?"

Pirelli had already put his own Marlboro in his mouth, and he nearly cut his lip on the filter in his haste to remove it. "No,
grazie."
He fumbled for a light, and she beat him to it, holding up her gold lighter. Her cigarettes were a strong Turkish blend. She exhaled and let the smoke drift into a haze around her head.

"Did you see her?" she asked.

He loved the sound of her throaty voice. "No, I did not see her, but I believe she is greatly shocked. The officer said he was not sure whether it is from her attempt to kill Carolla or from learning that her gun did not kill him." He quickly wiped the smile off his face.

"Have they arrested anyone else?"

Pirelli shook his head. "Not to my knowledge."

She searched for an ashtray, and he moved quickly to place one near her. She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and stood up. He had not realized how tall she was, almost his height, and his eyes flickered down to her high-heeled shoes as he noticed her perfect legs.

"You have been very kind to me. May I see her now?"

After making a brief phone call, he went to the door. She moved toward him, seeming to sway slightly, and he reached out to clasp her elbow. For a moment she leaned against him.

"Are you all right? Would you like a glass of water?"

"No,
grazie,
no . . ."

She followed him up to the next floor and was introduced to the detective in charge. Pirelli waited while she asked what would happen to Graziella, then walked slowly away. He didn't want to leave her. . . .

He overheard the officer's reply: "She'll be charged with attempted murder and possession of a dangerous weapon, but with mitigating circumstances. She will have to stand trial, but I doubt if Signora Luciano will be imprisoned. You can come into my office while we sort it all out. Then she's free to go."

Pirelli entered his own office to find Ancora on his phone. He gestured for Pirelli to come to his side and wrote on a notepad, "Eva Carolla had a son . . . born in Rome. Giorgio Carolla . . . He's older than we thought, twenty-eight. Born 1959."

After a moment he put the phone down. "She died in childbirth. They're getting all the particulars sent over. Joe? Joe, did you hear what I said?"

Pirelli nodded. They were getting closer, he could feel it, but all he could think about was Sophia Luciano. The phone on his desk rang again, and Ancora answered, then held it out to Pirelli. "It's your wife."

Pirelli made a face and took the call. Ancora listened as Pirelli tried to explain why the case was taking so long, and yes, he hoped to have it cleared up shortly. . . . He interrupted her to ask about their son, but as she talked, he could only picture Sophia and her two little boys. He closed his eyes, remembering her musky perfume, then forced himself to concentrate on whether his own son should take extra violin classes or not.

"I thought it was the guitar? . . . Oh, that was last term? . . Well, do whatever you think best. . . . Yes, I'll see you this weekend."

He hung up and stretched, walking to the window and peering through the blinds to the street below. Sophia Luciano was helping her mother-in-law into a Mercedes 280SL.

Ancora returned while Pirelli was still watching. "Glad one of us is on the ball. I've just had words with Carolla's attorney. What a supercilious bastard he is! Seems more concerned with losing his fees than his client . . . Joe?"

Pirelli turned. "I call that one hell of a lady."

Ancora shrugged. "If my grandmother had started taking potshots at people, I don't know if I'd call her that. I'd put her in a home where she couldn't do any damage."

Pirelli didn't correct Ancora, who was now thumbing through a train timetable.

"You ever been to Erice? There's a monastery there. According to Ulliano, Giorgio, alias Luka, or whatever his name is, was staying there. Want to check it out?"

"Monastery? Are you serious?"

Ancora nodded. "I guess his son was for real. When Carolla gave his name to Ulliano's clerk, he was crying his eyes out."

Pirelli stuffed his hands in his pockets and wandered around the office. "They got any suspects for the shooting this mornIng?"

"None. They're still scraping Carolla's brains off the floor. It'll be a while yet. They've got to check every single person who was in the courtroom. You were there, weren't you?"

"I was at the back. I couldn't see anything. Then, when the shots were fired, it was chaos." He opened the file drawer and flicked through the files. In theory he was still heading only the Paluso murder, but he had retained the files on the Luciano children. He slid the drawer slowly back in. "Who's taken over the main Luciano case?"

"My old chief, Mincelli. Poor bastard, he's got the Carolla shooting as well. Guy's going nuts, but this'll take precedence. Joe ... a word of advice: Stay out of the Luciano business if you want to go back to Milan. You'd be here for—Joe?" But Pirelli had already left.

Sophia drove Graziella home, waited with her while the doctor gave her a sedative, and sat beside her until she slept. Graziella had held Sophia's hand like a child, crying with relief that it was Sophia who had come for her. She had thought her favorite daughter-in-law had gone away.

The act of madness touched her daughters-in-law, along with their guilt that neither of them had accompanied her to the trial. They arranged legal representation for Graziella, Teresa handling everything.

When they had exhausted the subject of the shooting, the shock dispersed and left them subdued and listless. They ate dinner in silence, until Teresa brought up the point that now that Graziella seemed safe, their main objective was to settle the family business. Sophia apologized for not being able to discover anything in Rome, giving the excuse that no sooner had she arrived than she heard the news and so returned.

Teresa flipped her notebook open. "Well, as it turned out, it would have been a wasted effort anyway because old Mario had already done the investigating. I found these photographs, don't know who took them, but on the back someone's written, 'Enrico Dante, alias Vittorio Rosales.' Dante works for Paul Carolla and has been doing the buying for him. He's the one who's waiting to exchange contracts. Mario obviously got on to it and refused to complete the deal. Now is our chance to get the contracts back."

She showed Sophia several columns of figures. "In this first column is what we might make from the sale of everything I've been able to verify as legally ours. The second is what we might be able to get back, with a little help. A couple are U.S.-based, trucking companies, et cetera. The third column is what I can see as a long-term prospect. That is, if we run the Luciano business ourselves."

Sophia paid little attention to the figures. "Do you think we'd be allowed to do this?"

"Whether or not we would be allowed is nobody's business but ours. I know enough about it, on the import side anyway. When Filippo was alive, I used to run—"

Sophia threw up her hands in a gesture of impatience. "And Papa was alive, and Constantino . . . You were protected, Teresa, you never ran anything. So maybe you did a few figures, juggled a few contracts. You're living in some kind of fantasy world. Papa wanted us to have the cash and get out. This is what Mama wants, what Mario Domino was trying to get for us—out, Teresa! And that is what we will do. We sell all of it, lock, stock, and barrel."

"But you don't understand. The companies are worth three times that amount. Dante, or Paul Carolla, was ripping us off. I agree to sell, if that is what you want, but not to Dante, not at the price he's offering. If he is prepared to pay us a fair price, then maybe we can discuss it, but until we know what we own,

there's no point arguing about who's doing what, okay?"

Too tired to argue, Sophia shrugged and gave in.

"What do you say, Rosa?" Teresa asked.

Rosa, bored and only half listening, leaned on her elbows. "I'll go along. Sooner we leave here, the better."

Teresa picked up her notebook. "Then it's agreed. I don't think it's necessary to tell Graziella about any of this. Let her rest. You stay with her, Rosa."

"Where are you going, Mama?"

"Dante's club, might as well do it right away. Sophia, you'd better come with me."

Sophia rose to her feet, muttering under her breath, "Do I have a choice?"