April Smith - White Shotgun

He laughs.

“The Bureau is in for a tough battle in the courts. God forbid the trial goes south, and after a huge investment of time and money, it turns out the evidence you provided isn’t all that solid. All I’m saying, Ana, is that it’s easy enough to stay in their good graces.”

I shake my head.

“I know how this investigation of Nicosa will proceed,” I insist. “You’ll want intel. Hard evidence. Pretty soon there are surveillance cameras planted inside the abbey, and I’m wearing a wire. Now we’re involving family members. It’s just too complicated for me.”

“Are they really your family?”

“Kind of.”

He hears my real hesitation. “Because I would never ask you to do something like that.”

“I know.”

“It seemed like since you never met these people, maybe it would fly,” he goes on. “But say the word, and I’ll send a new u.c. in tomorrow. If you have an emotional conflict, that’s a nonstarter.”

Dennis knows that admitting to an “emotional conflict” is a ticket to the community outreach squad, and that I’ve already gotten my teeth into this case. But part of his question is sincere. I can’t call Cecilia my sister in the real sense. It hasn’t been instant chemistry. Our lives are completely different. We’ve known each other for just a few tumultuous days. I entered her home with a role to play. She reached out precisely because I am an agent. I want to help, but we are more bound by circumstance than blood.

“There’s no conflict,” I say at last. “But I need you to take extra precautions.”

“Fine. How long is your nephew in the hospital?”

“He’s out of the coma, so hopefully not too much longer.”

“I hear what you’re saying. The safety of the family won’t be compromised. I will personally make sure Giovanni has protection 24/7. I’ll have Inspector Martini post a cop outside his room. No more creeps in the hall.”

There’s still something that feels out of joint. I slip off my shoes and swipe the water in the pool with a bare foot, kicking up a splash of frustration.

“Any news on the attack in London?”

“We had some progress,” Dennis says. “The number for the guy who bought the Ford used in the assault turned out to be a disposable phone, so the Brits kicked the investigation up to the Counter Terrorism Command. They have the resources to trace calls received by that number. Four calls were placed from Calabria — the last one a few minutes before they assaulted the restaurant. It was a mafia-ordered hit, which explains why the car was dumped in Aberdeen.”

“Funny, I thought Aberdeen was in Scotland.”

“Don’t be fresh,” Dennis advises. “Aberdeen has become a landing point for the penetration of the mafias into the U.K. Go down to Sicily any day, and you’ll see kids waiting at the docks, hoping to get on a boat with direct service to Scotland. For the up-and-comers, it’s a promotion. The shooters dumped the car in Aberdeen because that’s where they have protection. What I’m telling you is, these folks you came up against in London are well organized and connected to the Italian mafia syndicates. So be alert.”

“I get it, but none of this has anything to do with me. The fact that I was there at that restaurant is totally random.”

“Maybe,” Dennis says. “Enjoy the Palio.”

The surface of the pool has stilled. I’m looking at my reflection, not recognizable, just a play of darkness and light.

Palio, Day 1 —FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 5:45 A.M. The reflection of the empty ironwork bed slides around me as I open the doors of the mirrored armoire and pull out a linen skirt Cecilia has loaned me, wrapping it around my waist and slipping on a white T-shirt and leather sandals. I tie an Oca scarf around my neck, letting the point of the triangle hang down the back. Day by day, I seem to be losing my L.A. edge and looking more like Cecilia.

She and Nicosa were leaving at dawn for the tratta, or “choosing of the horses,” that begins the festival, when I cornered her in the second-floor arcade. She was dressed with conservative elegance in an Oca-green suit with an opalescent sheen. I was still wearing pajamas with rockets on them.

“Cecilia, look. I know who he is.” “Who?”

“The man with no hands we saw outside Giovanni’s room. He’s mafia,” I said quietly. “It’s obvious.” She squinted at the soft light filling the archways.

“What are you trying to do?” she said at last.

“Protect you and Giovanni. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me he wasn’t the Puppet, a mob boss from the south.” She seemed very busy with the contents of her purse, so I went on.

“You don’t think the idiots who attacked Giovanni aren’t watching the abbey?” “Giovanni is safe in the hospital under police security, is he not?” she said, making an inventory of her makeup case, sunglasses, keys, cell phone.

“Yes, but believe it — now they’re watching you. They know every time you come and go. They are very capable of taking both you and your husband out in a heartbeat, and where would that leave Giovanni?” “I know they are capable. Every day in my work I see people capable of the worst possible things.” Her dark brown eyes, moist and troubled, met mine. “I will tell you the truth. When I started out to look for you it was because of my duty to honor my mother’s wish — to make sure Miguel Sanchez’s daughter had her rightful inheritance. When the detective found you in the FBI, I thought it was a sign from God. I know that my husband is under the thumb of the mafias, and I don’t see how he will ever get out. I thought you could help me. Really, I am still a stranger here. I didn’t know what to do. You see now why I have been desperate, especially now that this beast—” Her voice was trembling. “He comes to my son’s hospital room—” I wanted my notebook very badly to write down every word of her confession, but if I lost her, with Palio about to begin, it could be days before I got her back.

“Let’s sit down,” I said, indicating the carved wooden chairs along the terra-cotta-tiled corridor.

“I can’t. The tratta is starting.” “Just tell me — how is Nicoli under their thumb?” “I don’t know for certain. It must be that he’s paying bribes, like everybody else, and wants it to stop. He has tried to get out and they won’t let him.” “How do you know?”

“That is my belief. When his mistress went white shotgun, he changed. He was very distant, even frightened. I see that today, but at the time I was so angry I could not see anything. And now, with Giovanni — I am afraid one day they will just kill us all.” “What does Nicoli say? Have you talked about this?” “He won’t speak about it. He says not to worry, that we are protected.” “By whom?”

She shrugged, holding back tears. “I don’t know his connections.” “I can help you,” I said firmly. “But you have to tell me everything you know about your husband’s business. It’s possible this all traces back to Lucia Vincenzo. You know she was laundering drug money for ’Ndrangheta? Maybe he is, too.” “Yes. Okay. I will tell you what I know. Maybe we can get inside his computer.” “We can do that,” I say, almost choking with excitement.

“Will you go to the provincial police? You have to be careful. They are also in the pocket of the mafias.” “We’ll take it step-by-step. But I need more information. When can we talk?” “During the feast is impossible. Every hour is taken up with one ceremony or another, and Nicoli and I are always in the public eye. He is waiting for me now. I have to go.” “You need more protection than just his word. I’ll go with you.” “It is not necessary. We could not be safer than to be in public, surrounded by contrada members.” Composure back, Cecilia struggled to look confident.