Ded Reckoning (30 page)

"Aye."  Danny takes his eyes from the road for a second, glancing at Sean.  "We are."

 

 

Rocco unfolds a reason why he must leave to Adrianna.  Tells her to pack everything.  His and hers, and leave nothing here.  Then drive home to Roma.   He softens his tone and adds, "I'll call.  I promise.  Soona.  Tell you where I'll be, and if you want to come, good.  This time we will be together forever."

In her eyes the welling tears overflow, streaming down her cheeks.  She says nothing, only nods.  She understands the nature of this man, and enough of his business.  Adrianna whimpers, "I love you.  I will come to you."

They kiss and embrace.   She holds tight, trying to make it last.  Feeling it to be final.  It lasts only seconds longer.  Rocco pulls away, utters, "Yours."  Points and motions with his head to a cash stuffed large brown envelope on the small phone desk.  He turns and dashes out of the room slamming the door behind him.

Rocco takes the exit stairs down to the basement level, then another separate stairwell up to the kitchen thereby avoiding the lobby area.  He pushes through busy apron-clad chefs and uniformed servers to the rear entrance and out into the alley behind the hotel.

The apartments where Antonio is holed up are less than a kilometer from the Hotel Duomo.  Nice, upscale which leads Rocco to believe Antonio is there with someone, probably a girlfriend, and he has several.  The young man is good at capturing hearts but not with keeping his lips sealed.  He likes lira too much and would sell Rocco or his boss, Pisces, to the highest bidder, or any bidder.  Antonio's problem is there are not many bidders in this city, and those few there are know of Rocco which makes Antonio's market place as empty as a beggars pocket.

Rocco arrives and sees his informant casually smoking a cigarette in the doorway to the apartment building.  The man drops his cigarette, grinding it with his foot as Rocco approaches.   The man leans toward Rocco's ear, whispers, "305." Rocco shakes the man's hand and says, "Wait here.  Be my eyes and I will pay you well," then squeezes the man on the shoulder in a gesture of loyalty and assurance and disappears through the apartment's outer door and into an entranceway with mail slots.

All but a few have names.  More important they all have apartment numbers.  Across from them is a closed door with a sign "Manager" engraved on its tarnished brass plate.  Rocco checks the mailbox again, sees the numerals 305 and a meaningless name.  He mutters, "305.  At the back."  He strides quietly down the hall and uses the fire stairwell going up.  He doesn't need the sound of the elevator to alert anyone, especially Antonio.  Also not the likely snoopy manager.  On the way up he takes his Ruger .357 out of his beltline and affixes the suppressor, the silencer. He slides the weapon in his front trouser waistband.

At apartment 305 Rocco presses his ear to the door, a few inches below the imitation brass numerals.  He hears nothing.  Carefully tries the knob.  It's locked of course.  Presses his ear to the door again, and again hears nothing.  He presses harder.  After a few more moments   he picks-up a muffled gasp or scream.  Feels a slight bump but not from the door.  A muffled thumping sound.  He smiles.  Takes a few steps down the hallway, runs his hand along the wall.  The thumping is stronger, the noise is obvious, and the gasps are a mixture of groans, grunts and muffled screams.  He smiles again.

Bedroom to the left.  Having a go.  
His mind slips away for a second thinking of Adrianna.  
A screamer
.  Smiles, then dead-pan instantly.  

Rocco returns to the door in three giant soft steps.  Easily picks the flimsy apartment door lock.  Pulls out his Ruger .357, and in silence opens the door.  Steps in swiftly, eyes and weapon functioning as one searching the interior.  Nothing but the diminishing sounds of spent ecstasy and ended satisfaction from the bedroom to his left.  He opens the door and steps in, says, "
Caio, Antonio
."

The young brunette sitting astride Antonio with her head drooping forward, hands braced against the headboard, emits a startled yelp and spins off her lover.  She lands in a sitting position, mouth gaping open, eyes saucer wide and legs still spread open.  Rocco adeptly moves the muzzle to the right.  Pfsssst. Pfssst.  A double tap.  A professional, tight pattern like quotation marks without the swirl.  She is thrown back on the bed.  What's left of the back of her head clunks on the headboard just beneath the splattering of her blood, brains and bone on the wall, headboard and pillows.  A collateral spray splashes the side of Antonio's head at his ear.

Terror stricken, Antonio attempts to turn and get up.  Rocco fires again, hitting the young man in his left shoulder joint.  More blood and bone splatters.  Antonio screams and spins back to his left.  Before he can move again, Rocco has pushed the door closed and is sitting at Antonio's side with the muzzle of the weapon pressed hard directly under the chin.  Rocco grasps the young man by the hair.  He says, "Antonio, my man, we need to talk."

He struggles to get up.  Rocco puts a second round into Antonio's other shoulder.  As powerful as the .357 is, the hollow point may go beyond the headboard, but not through the wall.  Besides, Rocco knows this is the last room on the floor therefore on the other side of the wall is stone.  Antonio lies in anguish, writhing in pain near shock but trying to grasp his shoulders with his hands.  He can't.  Rocco presses his hand on the boy's forehead, says, "Antonio, who have you told what you saw by the university?  And at
Alberto's
?"

Antonio, tears flowing free now.  Eyes of a terror-stricken deer.  He shakes his head vigorously.  Gags while trying to speak.

Rocco asks, "No one?"

The boy trembles in dread, the blood oozing from both his shoulders pooling makes squishing sounds as he rigorously shakes his head, "no".  

"Antonio?"

More of the same, sobbing, shaking of the head regardless of Rocco's grip.

"And of me?  Antonio?"

The young man continues his energetic yet terrified denials.  Whimpering.  Trying to scream but Rocco has retightened his grip over Antonio's mouth after his severely animated "No's".  The coppery smell of blood soaking the sheets and pillows saturates the room.  On Antonio's left, it mixes with the girl's.

Rocco says, "No one, huh?  You know what?  I believe you, Antonio.  I do.  If you had, you would be gone.  Taken the money and ran."

Antonio's face contorted with fear begins to become less tense registering a glimmer of hope.  He is still trying to grasp his shoulders as the huge Italian stands.

Rocco smiles, says, "But, I don't trust you."  Pfstttt.

The fifth of the six rounds in the cylinder hits Antonio in the center of his forehead.  His side of the headboard now matches the girl's.  It's less than hers, smaller in circumference.  Not a matter of intellectual capacity but of the number of shots.  Still it manages to spray off the headboard and onto the girl's face.

Rocco takes out his handkerchief.  Moves to the bedroom door and swipes around the spot where he remembers pushing it closed.  Uses it to open the door, wiping as he closes it.  Wipes the knob on the outside.  Strides into the kitchen, rummages through cabinet drawers until he finds what he needs.  Then with handkerchief still in hand moves quickly to the apartment door.  Does the same with the apartment door after glancing up and down the hallway before exiting into the open.  Then he dashes to the fire exit and heads down to the first level two and three steps at a time and not touching the iron safety railing.  At the bottom he carefully and quietly opens the door a crack.  Looks out.  Sees nothing, enters the hallway and tiptoes to the front door,  opens it and slides out joining his associate.  Rocco nods a thanks and thrusts his lira stuffed hand out.  The man clasps the money as Rocco hugs him, and buries an ice pick in the back of the man's head at the neck, ramming it up into the skull.

The man slumps into Rocco's arms, and the big Italian lowers him to the white and black tiled floor.  He leans over and fits his .357 in the man's hand.  Wipes the handle of the ice pick clean.  Then looks out the door, first one way, then the other.  Sees nothing.  Smiles, lights a cigarette and walks briskly away from the apartment toward the hotel.  

 

 

In the hotel lobby, the Israeli agents, Itzak Levi and Namir Dayan, have been joined by Marnee  who has not had the opportunity to check back in to the Hotel Duomo.  Only time to be briefed on the current situation here, and that no one has found Reis, or wishfully so, his body.  Itzak and Namir are solemn-faced when they see Marnee's face register astonishment by degrees with each word.  Then she freezes, staring. They realize something is amiss and turn their heads to follow her gaze.

Adrianna is checking out, bags being toted to the door by the bellman.  He will need to make a second trip.  Alarmed, they stand from their lobby chairs tucked away in a far corner.  Itzak whispers, "Marnee, watch her.  Check the desk.  Namir, check the back and alley.  I will look upstairs.  Five minutes, or less, back here.  If not, the other two go to the one not here.  Move."

They do.  Namir at a brisk walk.  Marnee at a casual stroll to the front door, only to see the Alfa Romeo waiting at curbside.  Valet at its door.  Itzak striding to the elevator.  Regardless of their pace, it all is unnoticed in the busy lobby and lounge.

Within the five minutes all return.  Marnee says, "The valet says she's headed for the airport.  She's taken the big man's bag along with hers."    

Namir blurts out, "Saw or found nothing in the back or on the way.  Kitchen help are saying nothing, but they have that look."

Itzak remains calm.  Says, "He's gone.  The room is empty and being cleaned by the maid.  Let's get to the airport.  I'll drive."

Marnee says, "Okay, we can take my car.  It's still at the curb."

All three stride briskly out the entrance and into Marnee's rental car.  She lurches into the backseat.  Itzak and Namir up front.  Itzak extends his arm and hand backward, says, "Key."

Within less than a half of a kilometer, they pick up the Alfa Romeo with Adrianna at the wheel.  Rocco's car.  Within another half a kilometer Itzak shouts in Hebrew, "Harah!"

Marnee leans forward. Also in Hebrew, asks, "What?"

Namir answers for Itzak, again using their native language.  "She's not headed for the airport.  Looks like she is headed out of town."

"Maybe home," as Marnee now leans her elbows on the back of the  front seat.

Itzak says, "Well, wherever, I hope she has less petrol than we have.

All three are silent for several moments, concentrating on Adrianna who they have allowed to be a few cars ahead.  Finally, Marnee says, "Oh boy.  You know she is from Rome.  I believe she is going home and he is either going to meet her there, or he is gone.  And I assume the latter."

Less than a few moments pass when Itzak orders, "I think you are correct.  But we cannot follow her.  We must go back.  Call in.  They can have someone in Rome track her down.  We have to find Rocco.  Somehow."  And then again, his anger is vented, "Harah!"

Itzak slows, pulls over to the right, and makes a U-turn, heading back into Pisa and the hotel.  After going about a kilometer toward town, he mutters loud enough for the other two to hear, "It is easier to guard a sack full of fleas than a woman in love."

Marnee laughs and says, "Sorry, it is not funny."

Namir shakes his head.  "Nothing will be funny when the Chief is told."

"And that is my good fortune," Itzak sighs.

 

 

Maria DeLuca sits in her seat as the American Airlines flight climbs out over the Bay Bridge and continues its slow ascending turn to the east and New York.  She decided she didn't need a chaperone.   She's in the last row of First Class, As a result when she pushes her seat back, she'll have no one's knees to worry about, but plenty else.  Her troublesome discourse with her family did not go well.  In time, for her or for her dad or grandparents, the talk with Dee's children will be difficult at best and more likely, tragic.

The trip will be long, tiring.  First, Washington and another meeting with Joe Zachary.  Then for whatever their reasons, to New York's JFK.  Then Rome, onto Naples, and the helicopter to the Isle of Capri.  A long time to dwell on her sister's escapades, deceptions, and deceit.  Spells of going over her conversations with Hunter and Joe Zachary.  The painful expressions, sobs and denials of her family.  And spells of thinking of this man she believed she loved yet only knew for a few scattered days and without an ounce of return, only the yield in her heart and mind's eye.

Dee as an adulteress?  An accomplice?  My God, what has she done?

What have I done?

What am I about to do?

"Do you care for a cocktail, ma'am?"

"Oh.  Oh, my God.  Yes, please."  

 

CHAPTER 22

 

"The best way to forget all your troubles

is to wear tight shoes."

Anon

 

 

While on board her flight, Dee, aka Aimee Badeau getting on and aka Caterina Frati upon debarking, noted the late boarders and watched as they sat in the rear of the plane.  Caterina could feel their prickly presence and burning stares while she sipped a glass of wine and watched the Alps below slip beneath her window.  The shabby foursome did become uncomfortable when she glared at them as she slipped off her shoes after she returned from the rest room.

Here in Rome it is apparent she is now the target or they expect her to lead them to one.  Either way, something is amiss, and as a result Caterina Frati does exactly as Hunter ordered.  She does not board her connecting flight to Pisa; instead she sits in a conspicuous spot at the ristorante nearest to her would-be departure gate.   Waiting for Hunter to arrive and do his thing.

The two Germans mill about, gazing into shop windows full of items that only tourists would purchase, then move to a newsstand. They finally come to rest at an adjacent gate's waiting area, each paging through a local magazine.  Catarina's observations cause her to wonder.    
Businessmen, tourists and workers
.
Everyone looks the part except this pair in
cheap suits.  They look like something out of an old, black and white Humphrey
Bogart or Edward G. Robinson movie.
She mutters softly, "They need a better wardrobe department."