Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
—
“If you want to be an idiot and throw your life away, that’s your business,” Federico said when he’d returned his call last night.
“You told me you had an idea,” Valerio urged. “What is it?”
“Not on the phone,” Federico grunted. “Come here, and I’ll tell you.”
—
In his apartment, the old man had said, “My brother’s a careful man. Splits hairs in four. If he wasn’t a psychopathic killer, he’d be an accountant.”
“So?” said Valerio.
“So, he keeps good records,” said Federico. “Can’t help himself. Luca’s got every detail of his operations documented: distributions, clients, routes. It’s a business to him, see? He’s proud. He thinks he’s some sort of CEO. Believe me, he’s hoarding all the evidence you’ll ever need.”
“Even if that’s true,” Valerio said, “I don’t have enough for a warrant, and I doubt my witnesses will testify.
Besides, building a criminal case would take months.
And you yourself told me that there’s corruption in the police.
They could warn him—he’ll clean everything before we have a chance to search. ”
“I’ve been thinking about this Silvestri fellow,” said Federico, tapping a broad hand against his leg. “Luca doesn’t like partnerships. He thinks other people are sloppy.”
“That’s probably why Luca sends his security team to visit Silvestri,” Valerio said. “To keep things tidy.”
“I’m sure,” agreed Federico. “But do you think Silvestri likes that arrangement? He’s rich.
Important. He lives a comfortable life. Do you think he likes Luca’s thugs at his place?
No. Believe me, he blocks them—pushes them out whenever he can.
Your best chance for evidence is there. At Silvestri’s house. Papers…documents.”
“But Silvestri’s protected, too!” said Valerio. “I’ll have the same trouble getting a warrant for his place. Besides, searching Silvestri would tip off Luca.”
Federico’s eyes were huge behind the thick lenses. “Then don’t get a warrant. Don’t let him guess he’s been searched.”
Valerio was starting to understand. He thought it through. He was willing enough to kick in doors alongside his team, but those skills didn’t transfer well to cat burglary.
“How would I get in?”
“You’re a clever man. Figure it out.”
They talked for hours, examining the photos Valerio had taken when he’d reconnoitered Silvestri’s place.
There was a high fence and cameras along three sides of the property, steep cliffs on the fourth.
Had Valerio been a much younger man, he might have attempted a scrabble along the cliffside, but his Mission: Impossible days were behind him.
“They didn’t really look at the delivery guy, did they?” said Federico, inspecting the picture.
“I can’t go through the front gate,” Valerio protested. “If Errichiello’s men are there, they’ll recognize me.”
“The Ghost might recognize you,” said Federico. “If you see him there, then get out. But nobody ever sees me when I’m making deliveries. I’m just a guy in a hat and coveralls. Besides, you said that Luca’s security team was only visiting. They might not even be there.”
“They frisked the driver,” said Valerio, straining to remember the details of that interaction. “And they searched his vehicle. They’ll know I’m armed.”
“So don’t bring a gun.”
—
They worked out the details. To pose as a deliveryman, Valerio needed to deliver something—and a lot of it—to justify loitering in Silvestri’s house.
Not wanting to waste good wares on a reconnaissance mission, they loaded items Federico had rescued from the trash: wine and olive oil dumped by a beach club after spoiling in the heat; cases of sardines and tuna past their expiry dates; velvety boxes with Belgian chocolates long since melted into misshapen wax.
Federico hummed discordantly, seeming to relish the task. He bustled around crowded storage rooms, yanking out this or that item.
“I knew these would come in useful,” he said with a grin.
“Give me some bottles of good wine,” said Valerio. “And a few other items. I’ve got to have something nice, in case they want to sample the goods.”
In his shop, Federico picked through and prepared a box of cheap—though not spoiled—wine, twenty eggs, a thick slice of shrink-wrapped pancetta, and two bags of fresh mozzarella.
He nestled a demijohn of local brew among the goods, and prepared a full sales receipt for Valerio to carry for signature on a clipboard.
This complete, Federico located a set of zippered jumpsuit, and a cap with a wide brim.
The thick blue canvas coveralls were clean, but stained in paint, suggesting their use in a previous incarnation.
—
Valerio slept fitfully on Federico’s threadbare sofa, which, no doubt liberated from some junkyard, smelled unpleasantly of mildew and dog.
He woke when it was still dark, and made espresso on the stove. He drank this down with a generous helping of sugar and checked his phone.
Orlanda had written several texts, demanding information.
He typed back, I’m fine.
Maurizio had written about his continued search on the identity of the Ghost. Two words: No Joy.
But where Maurizio had failed, he was surprised to see that Nikki had succeeded. She sent several photos of the white-haired man, and the text: Yasen Lazarov. Former Bulgarian special services. INTERPOL has a RED notice on him—cop killer. Dangerous. Be careful.
Not Ivan, Valerio noted with interest. He sounded out the name: “Yasen Lazarov.”
Despite his fatigue and worry, Nikki’s message made Valerio smile. He loved that she’d managed to squeeze drops of precious information from this dry stone.
“Little devil,” he muttered.
Federico was still sleeping when Valerio climbed into the Ape and headed off into the unusually quiet city streets.
—
From the cliffsides of Sorrento, the wide expanse of the bay was a tumultuous blue, the occasional gleam of sunlight breaking through the dark rainclouds, glistening on the roiling waters. The Ape complained and whined as he pushed it, clattering, up the steep roads.
Early morning was the best time for police raids and arrests.
Cocooned behind locked doors, deep asleep, people were vulnerable.
Startle them with chaos and noise, and their brains took a while to make sense.
Confusion created mistakes; they might spontaneously confess, implicate conspirators, or unlock cabinets and safes.
Valerio was operating with few advantages in this poorly planned scheme, and considered this early-morning arrival a necessity. As he approached the gate to Silvestri’s villa, however, he doubted himself.
He considered calling Maurizio and asking for advice, but his partner would try to talk him out of it. Valerio didn’t want to waste time arguing, or to implicate Maurizio in what he planned to do next.
—
Valerio stepped from the Ape, and pressed the button on the speaker. When nobody answered, he pressed again.
A sleepy male voice said, “What is it?”
“Delivery for Silvestri.”
He was loud, efficient, looking into the camera and gesturing towards the Ape.
A pause, then, “It’s very early.”
“My apologies, signore. I have a full schedule today.”
A buzz, and the gate slid open. Valerio drove through.
—
To his relief, the courtyard was empty—no armed guards pouring from the house.
Silvestri himself opened the front door.
A large black rottweiler bounded forward, putting its paws on Valerio as he stepped from the Ape.
“Down, Brutus,” ordered Silvestri.
“He just smells the pancetta,” said Valerio, and held up the box with the cured meats and eggs and mozzarella.
He approached Silvestri, holding out the clipboard for signature, then nodded back to the Ape. “Where do you want these?”
Valerio had reviewed footage of Silvestri last night: television appearances and interviews.
He’d laughed and joked, seeming robust. Lively.
Now he was shrunken. Centimeters shorter than Valerio.
The characteristic smile from his photos was missing.
His tanned face was thick and leathery, eyes swollen and sleepy.
He wore velvet loafers and a silk bathrobe, boxers visible beneath—and a rounded potbelly.
Silvestri checked and signed the delivery list, then led Valerio into the extravagant cliffside villa. The floors and staircase were in artisanal hand-painted tile, and the furniture was in leather and ropy canvas. White plaster walls displayed large canvas oil paintings in ornate gold frames.
—
They arrived in the kitchen, and Silvestri pointed. “Put that there.”
Valerio set the box on the marble countertop.
Continuing through the villa, Silvestri led him down stone steps into a cellar with a metal grate.
“Put the wine and other goods in here,” he instructed.
—
The dog, Brutus, followed Valerio on his first few rounds, before settling on a carpet in the living room area to watch. To extend his time in the house, Valerio unpacked and moved slowly, carrying fewer boxes each time.
Despite his best attempts at loitering, there was no opportunity to look around. Silvestri stuck close, preparing coffee, tracking his comings and goings.
—
When the Ape was nearly empty, Valerio stopped at the kitchen, where Silvestri sat at the table with his espresso, talking on the phone.
“Toilet?” Valerio asked. Silvestri gestured him away.
This was it. His single opportunity to find what he needed. He strolled out of sight, then moved rapidly, silently. He darted to the stairs, taking them up two at a time, then strode along the hallway, opening and closing doors. He wanted to find an office—someplace Silvestri might keep documents.
His heart was pounding so hard, he could see the movement through the canvas coveralls. His hands were slick with sweat, the back of his neck hot and electric. He was running out of time.
—
At the end of the hall, he opened the door to an enormous bedroom with plush white and gold furnishings—and stopped short at the sight of a teenage girl sitting on the edge of the large bed.