Omerta (8 page)

“Very professional,”Di Benedetto said. “A beautiful piece of work.”

Cilke said, “So?”

“It doesn’t make any sort of sense,” Di Benedetto said. “You wiped out most of the Mafia bigwigs, a brilliant job too. My hat’s off to you. Maybe you even forced this Don to retire. So the wiseguys that are left have no reason to knock him off.”

“What about the string of banks he owns?” Cilke asked.

Di Benedetto waved his cigar. “That’s your line of work. We just go after the riffraff.”

“What about his family?” Cilke said. “Drugs, women chasing, anything?”

“Absolutely not,” Di Benedetto said. “Upstanding citizens with big professional careers. The Don planned it that way. He wanted them to be absolutely straight.” He paused now, and he was deadly serious. “It’s not a grudge. He squared everything with everybody. It’s not random. There has to be a reason. Somebody gains. That’s what we’re looking for.”

“What about his will?” Cilke asked.

“His daughter files it tomorrow. I asked. She told me to wait.”

“And you stood still for it?” Cilke asked.

“Sure,” Di Benedetto said. “She’s a top-notch lawyer, she has clout, and her law firm is a political force. Why the hell would I try to get tough with her? I just ate out of her hand.”

“Maybe I can do better,” Cilke said.

“I’m sure you can.”

K
urt Cilke had known the assistant chief of detectives, Aspinella Washington, for over ten years. She was a six-foot-tall African-American with close-cropped hair and finely chiseled features. She was a terror to the police she commanded and the felons she apprehended. By design, she acted as offensively as possible, and she really wasn’t too fond of Cilke or the FBI.

She received Cilke in her office by saying,“Kurt, are you here to make one of my black brethren wealthy again?”

Cilke laughed. “No, Aspinella,” he said. “I’m here looking for information.”

“Really,” she said. “For free? After you cost the city five million dollars?”

She was wearing a safari jacket and tan trousers. Beneath her jacket he could see the holstered gun. On her right hand was a diamond ring that looked as if it could cut through facial tissue like a razor.

She still bore a grudge against Cilke because the FBI had proven a brutality case against her detectives and on the basis of civil rights the victim had won a huge judgment—and also sent two of her detectives to jail. The victim, who had gotten rich, had been a pimp and drug pusher whom Aspinella herself had once severely beaten. Although she had been appointed assistant chief as a political sop to the black vote, she functioned much more toughly on black felons than on whites.

“Stop beating innocent people,” Cilke said, “and I’ll stop.”

“I never framed anyone who wasn’t guilty,” she said, grinning.

“I’m just checking in on the Don Aprile murder,” Cilke said.

“What’s it your business? It’s a local gang hit. Or are you making that another fucking civil rights case?”

“Well, it could be related to currency or drugs,” Cilke said.

“And how do you know that?” Aspinella asked.

“We have our informers.”

Suddenly Aspinella was in one of her rages. “You fucking FBI guys come in for info and then you won’t give me any? You guys are not even honest-to-god cops. You float around arresting white-collar pricks. You never get into the dirty work. You don’t know what the hell that is. Get the fuck out of my office.”

C
ilke was pleased with the interviews. Their pattern was clear to him. Both Di Benedetto and Aspinella were going to go into the tank on the Don Aprile murder. They would not cooperate with the FBI. They would just go through the motions. In short, they had been bribed.

There was a reason for his beliefs. He knew that traffic in drugs could only survive if police officials were paid off, and he had word, not good in court, that Di Benedetto and Aspinella were on the drug lord’s payroll.

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B
efore Cilke interviewed the Don’s daughter, he decided to take his chances with the older son, Valerius Aprile. For that he and Boxton had to drive up to West Point, where Valerius was a colonel in the United States Army and taught military tactics—whatever the hell that meant, Cilke thought.

Valerius received them in a spacious office that looked down upon the parade grounds where cadets were practicing marching drills. He was not as affable as his brother had been, though he was not discourteous. Cilke asked him if he knew his father’s enemies.

“No,” he said. “I’ve served out of the country for most of the last twenty years. I attended family celebrations when I could. My father was only concerned that I get promoted to general. He wanted to see me wearing that star. Even brigadier would have made him happy.”

“He was a patriot, then?” Cilke asked.

“He loved this country,” Valerius said curtly.

“He got you your appointment as a cadet?” Cilke pressed.

“I suppose so,” Valerius said. “But he could never get me made a general. I guess he had no influence in the Pentagon, or at any rate I just wasn’t good enough. But I love it anyway. I have my place.”

“You’re sure you can’t give us a lead on any of your father’s enemies?” Cilke asked.

“No, he didn’t have any,” Valerius said. “My father would have made a great general. When he retired he had everything covered. When he used power, it was always with preemptive force. He had the numbers and the materials.”

“You don’t seem to be that concerned that somebody murdered your father. No desire for vengeance?”

“No more than for a fellow officer fallen in battle,” Valerius said. “I’m interested, of course. Nobody likes to see his father killed.”

“Do you know anything about his will?”

“You’ll have to ask my sister about that,” Valerius said.

L
ate that afternoon Cilke and Boxton were in the office of Nicole Aprile, and here they received a completely different reception. Nicole’s office could be reached only by going through three secretarial barriers and after passing what Cilke recognized as a personal security aide, who looked as though she could take both him and Boxton apart in two seconds. He could tell by the way she moved that she had trained her body to the strength of a male. Her muscles showed through her clothing. Her breasts were strapped down, and she wore a linen jacket over her sweater and black slacks.

Nicole’s greeting was not warm, though she looked very attractive, dressed in a haute couture suit of deep violet. She wore huge gold hoop earrings, and her black hair was shiny and long. Her features were finely cut and stern but were betrayed by huge soft brown eyes.

“Gentlemen, I can give you twenty minutes,” she said.

She was wearing a frilly blouse beneath the violet jacket, and its cuffs almost covered her hands as she extended one for Cilke’s ID. She looked it over carefully and said, “Special agent in charge? That’s pretty high up for a routine inquiry.”

She spoke in a tone that was familiar to Cilke, one that he had always resented. It was the slightly scolding tone of the federal attorneys when they dealt with the investigative arm they oversaw.

“Your father was a very important man,” Cilke said.

“Yes, until he retired and placed himself under the protection of the law,” Nicole said bitterly.

“Which makes his killing even more mysterious,” Cilke said. “We were hoping you might give us some idea about the people who might have a grudge against him.”

“It’s not so mysterious,” Nicole said. “You know his life much better than I do. He had plenty of enemies. Including you.”

“Even our worst critics would never accuse the FBI of a hit on the steps of a cathedral,” Cilke said dryly. “And I wasn’t his enemy. I was an enforcer of the law. After he retired he had no enemies. He bought them off.” He paused for a moment. “I find it curious that neither you nor your brothers seem interested in finding out who the man was who murdered your father.”

“Because we’re not hypocrites,”Nicole said. “My father was no saint. He played the game and paid the price.” She paused. “And you’re wrong about my not being interested. In fact I’m going to petition for my father’s FBI file under the Freedom of Information Act. And I hope you don’t cause any delay because then we will be enemies.”

“That’s your privilege,” Cilke said. “But maybe you can help me by telling me the provisions of your father’s will.”

“I didn’t draw up the will,” Nicole said.

“But you are the executor, I hear. You must know the provisions by now.”

“We’re filing for probate tomorrow. It will be public record.”

“Is there anything you can tell me now that may help?” Cilke asked.

“Just that I won’t be taking early retirement.”

“So why won’t you tell me anything today?”

“Because I don’t have to,” Nicole said coolly.

“I knew your father pretty well,”Cilke said. “He would have been reasonable.”

For the first time Nicole looked at him with respect that he knew her father so well.“That’s true,” she said. “OK. My father gave away a lot of money before he died. All he left us was his banks. My brothers and I get forty-nine percent, and the other fifty-one percent goes to our cousin, Astorre Viola.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?” Cilke asked.

“Astorre is younger than me. He was never in my father’s business, and we all love him because he’s such a charming nut. Of course, I don’t love him as much now.”

Cilke searched his memory. He could not recall a file on Astorre Viola. Yet there would have to be.

“Could you give me his address and phone number?” Cilke asked.

“Sure,” Nicole said. “But you’re wasting your time. Believe me.”

“I have to clean up the details,”Cilke said apologetically.

“And what gives the FBI an interest?” Nicole asked. “This is a local homicide.”

Cilke said coolly, “The ten banks your father owned were international banks. There could be currency complications.”

“Oh, really,” Nicole said. “Then I better ask for his file right away. After all, I own part of those banks now.” She gave him a suspicious glance. He knew he would have to keep an eye on her.

T
he next day Cilke and Boxton drove out to Westchester County to meet with Astorre Viola. The wooded estate included a huge house and three barns. There were six horses in the meadow, which was enclosed by a waist-high split-rail fence and wrought-iron gates. Four cars and a van were parked in the lot in front of the house. Cilke memorized two of the licenseplate numbers.

A woman of about seventy let them in and led them to a plush living room jammed with recording equipment. Four young men were reading sheet music on stands, and one was seated at the piano—a professional combo on sax, bass, guitar, and drums.

Astorre stood at the microphone opposite them singing in a hoarse voice. Even Cilke could tell that this was the kind of music that would find no audience.

Astorre stopped vocalizing and said to the visitors, “Can you wait just five minutes until we finish recording? Then my friends can pack up and you can have all the time you want.”

“Sure,” Cilke said.

“Bring them coffee,” Astorre told the maid. Cilke was pleased. Astorre didn’t just make a polite offer; he commanded it for them.

But Cilke and Boxton had to wait longer than five minutes. Astorre was recording an Italian folk song—while strumming a banjo—and he sang in a coarse dialect Cilke did not understand. It was enjoyable to listen to him, like hearing your own voice in the shower.

Finally they were alone and Astorre was wiping his face. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said, laughing. “Was it?”

Cilke found himself immediately liking the man. About thirty, he had a boyish vitality and did not seem to take himself seriously. He was tall and well built, with a boxer’s grace. He had a dark-skinned beauty and the kind of irregular but sharp features you might see in fifteenth-century portraits. He did not seem vain, but around his neck he wore a collar of gold two inches wide, to which was attached an etched medallion of the Virgin Mary.

“It was great,” Cilke said. “You’re cutting a record for distribution?”

Astorre smiled, a wide, good-natured grin. “I wish. I’m not that good. But I love these songs, and I give them to friends as presents.”

Cilke decided to get to work. “This is just routine,” he said. “Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm your uncle?”

“No one at all,”Astorre said, straight-faced. Cilke was tired of hearing this. Everyone had enemies, especially Raymonde Aprile.

“You inherit controlling interest in the banks,” Cilke said. “Were you that close?”

“I really don’t understand that,” Astorre said. “I was one of his favorites when I was a kid. He set me up in my business and then sort of forgot about me.”

“What kind of business?” Cilke asked.

“I import all the top-grade macaroni from Italy,”

Cilke gave him a skeptical look. “Macaroni?”

Astorre smiled; he was used to this reaction. It was not a glamorous business. “You know how Lee Iacocca never says
automobiles,
he always says
cars
? Now, in my business, we never say
pasta
or
spaghetti,
we always say
macaroni
.”

“And now you’ll be a banker?” Cilke said.

“I’ll give it a whirl,” Astorre said.

A
fter they left, Cilke asked Bill Boxton, “What do you think?” He liked Boxton enormously. The man believed in the Bureau, as he did—that it was fair, that it was incorruptible and far superior to any other law-enforcement agency in its efficiency. These interviews were partly for his benefit.

“They all sound pretty straight to me,” Boxton said. “But don’t they always?”

Yes, they always did, Cilke thought. Then something struck him. The medallion hanging from Astorre’s gold collar had never moved.

T
he last interview was the most important to Cilke. It was with Timmona Portella, the reigning Mafia boss in New York, the only one besides the Don who had escaped prosecution after Cilke’s investigations.