Peter Leonard - All He Saw Was the Girl

"His estate's on 250 hectares," Teegarden said.

"What's a hectare?" Ray said.

"I knew you were going to ask me that," Teegarden said. "Two and a half acres."

"That's a big piece of property," Ray said, "You've got photos of the place, don't you?"

"How do you know that?"

Ray said, "You don't do things halfway."

"Just do me a favor, don't tell me what you're going to do," Teegarden said. "I don't want to know, okay?"

He handed Ray eight-by-ten prints, aerial photographs of the estate: the villa, vineyards, olive grove, outbuildings, and private road that led to the highway. There were also surveillance photographs of the villa, different angles, all shot with a long lens and printed in black and white.

"There's the man himself," Teeg said. "Carlo Gennaro."

"I remember him from the funeral."

He handed Ray another shot that showed the don in a bathing suit, sitting on the patio behind the villa next to a good-looking girl in a bikini, drinking a glass of wine. She looked about thirty.

Teegarden said, "Doesn't look like much, but he's got style, the hair and sunglasses."

He reminded Ray of an Italian actor, an older version of Marcello Mastroianni or someone from that era. "I can see how you might tend to underestimate him," Ray said. "Although I like his taste in women. Who is she?"

"Chiara Voleno, a model."

"Not bad," Ray said. "What do you know about Carlo Gennaro?"

"He's Sicilian," Teegarden said. "His wife and son were killed twelve years ago by a rival gang. Stabbed Carlo four times and assumed he was dead."

"That's usually enough to get the job done."

"The men who did it were found decapitated in an apartment, the don sending a message."

Teegarden handed him a photograph of the crime scene, two bodies without heads and blood everywhere. "The newspapers called it the Ribera Massacre."

Ray said, "Why did he come to Rome?"

"He has a daughter who hid the morning the mom and son were killed. I guess he decided to distance himself from his enemies, go where it was safer. Twenty per cent of the shops in Rome now pay him. Pizzo, it's called, protection money. He makes fifty thousand dollars a week."

"That's two and a half million a year," Ray said.

"And it's only a small part of his business. He's invested in real estate, clinics, retirement homes, supermarkets, funeral parlors, bakeries." Teegarden paused. "He's also a cultured Mafioso. Loves opera, has an extensive art collection. Makes his own wine and olive oil."

"A real Renaissance man, huh?" Ray said.

"Which is more impressive when you find out he quit school after fifth grade."

Teegarden handed him another print.

"The villa's half a kilometer from the road. He has his own private drive that's guarded twenty-four hours a day. The only other way in is a two-track path that cuts through the vineyard. The don has two barns where he keeps his equipment, and a stone building where he makes and stores his wine. He hires locals to come and pick the olives and grapes during harvest. Grape season's over but olives are harvested in November. You could hang around and taste the new crop."

"The daughter live with him?"

"She isn't in any of the photos so I'd say, no."

Ray had been driving along a wall of oak trees, and saw something on the right. He looked back at the entrance to the don's estate, saw the ancient stone pillars flanking the driveway, iron gate closed, car blocking the driveway on the other side of it. He drove three hundred meters past the estate, and now there were vineyards on his right, the branches thin and bare after the harvest. Ray looked for a place to pull over and saw a dirt path that led into the field. He hit the brakes and took a right and drove in far enough so the car couldn't be seen from the road. He walked out and checked.

He hiked back to the don's property through a forest of oak trees, leaves turning yellow at the edges, marking the distance off with three-foot strides, counting three hundred and knew he was close. He went twenty yards further and heard voices. Still inside the tree line he saw two guys standing at the pillared entrance to the estate, a dark sedan, some kind of Fiat parked, blocking the driveway.

They reminded Ray of two Italian guys from high school, Giancotti and Veraldi. Ray watched them for a couple minutes. Giancotti was on his cell phone, pacing, having an animated conversation. Veraldi was smoking a cigarette. He took a final drag, dropped the butt on the gravel drive and stepped on it. They were both right-handed and had guts and thinning hair. They weren't muscular or even especially big. Giancotti had a Beretta in a holster on his belt. He was wearing sunglasses and a long-sleeved white dress shirt tucked into jeans.

Veraldi, with an HK MP5 sub-machine gun on a strap over his shoulder, concerned him more. Ray didn't worry about them hearing him; they were making too much noise. He started moving again, due north this time, toward the villa, heading through the trees. He paced off four hundred yards and came to an olive grove that extended into the hills for as far as he could see.

To his right was Don Gennaro's sprawling villa that made Joe P.'s suburban colonial look like a shack. It had stone walls and a tile roof and had to be seven thousand square feet. Behind the villa was an enormous stone veranda that wrapped around the back of it, and had two levels. He took out the binoculars and focused on a dark-haired girl, had to be the model, stretched out on a lounge chair, sunbathing next to the pool. She was either wearing a flesh-colored bathing suit or she was naked.

He scanned the edge of the grove and saw two guys wearing berets, white shirts and black vests, peasants with shotguns slung on straps over their shoulders. They were talking and grinning, watching the girl. While they were distracted Ray decided to make his move. He came out of the woods and went left into the grove, circling around behind the guards for a better view of the villa.

The sun was almost straight up and it was hot. No wonder the girl wasn't wearing a bathing suit, she was trying to stay cool. He moved through the grove, smelling olives, the trees heavy with them. When he was directly behind the villa he slipped his bag off and took a few gulps of the Panna water and put the bottle on the ground. He was about fifty yards from the veranda. He couldn't see the guards but assumed they were still watching the girl. He was too, studying her with the binoculars. She got up and moved to the pool and stuck her tin the water and stood there posing. Knew she had an audience. She stretched and touched her breasts that were big and perfect, and had brown nipples the circumference of silver dollars.

He walked up the hill behind him, higher ground for a better angle. He scanned the vertical second-floor windows that opened like French doors and had balconies. He could see beds and furniture in the first room, a maid cleaning in the next one, and a skinny guy built like a teenager on the third balcony, hands on the railing, staring at the grove as if he knew someone was out there. Ray recognized him from Joe P.'s funeral.

He panned right across three more windows, looking for Sharon and Joey, but didn't see anyone, just rooms of furniture.

When he panned back the other way the skinny Sicilian was gone. Ray looked down and saw the guards on the edge of the veranda. They were probably trying to get a better view of the girl who was getting out of the pool, skin glistening, hips swaying, teasing the men as she went back to her lounge chair.

Ray saw the Sicilian come out of the villa now and move down to the lower level of the veranda where the guards were standing, said something to them and pointed in Ray's direction. He could see them coming toward him through the trees. He moved down the hill, picked up the backpack, gripped the SIG and started to run.