Pia thought of saying something but checked herself. She'd only managed to kick the habit after she'd found out she was pregnant, so she knew she didn't really have the right to preach. She smiled dotingly at her baby as her sister grabbed her coat and headed outside.
The street was short and filled with cheap apartments that wouldn't argue at being called slums. The Spanish Quarter had beautiful historic homes but they were not in the area where Pia lived. The engine of an unmarked police Fiat idled not far from the front door, two cops in the front, as always, drinking coffee, eating junk and chain-smoking. For once they were early. It made a change. She lit up and smiled at them; the driver raised a hand in acknowledgement, blue-grey smoke clouding his face.
Alicia Madonna was beautiful. If Alberta had a child, she wanted it to be exactly like her niece. Though, given the state of her life, she knew there was little chance of her meeting someone and settling down.
The driver's door of the Fiat opened and a detective waved her over. Dangling from his right hand was a police radio, pulled tight on a coil of black curly wire attached to the dashboard. Alberta saw a dozen cops a week, and they all had that same edgy, scruffy look to them. She'd liked the one who had driven her over from Assisi, where she'd been relocated after the Valsi trial. His name was Dario and he'd been as big as a house and smelled of pine and fruit. This new one looked similar but had an even nicer smile and wore old-fashioned Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses. It made him look like a tall Tom Cruise from his Top Gun days.
'Buon giorno, mi chiamo Satriano, Detective Paolo Satriano. My Capitano needs to talk to you.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'We have a little problem with your transport.'
'What do I do?' asked Alberta, staring at the police radio he put in her hand.
'You press here. Keep it pressed while you talk.' He created a burst of static as he showed her how to click a button on the side. 'Please sit in the vehicle, so you can hear through the speaker.'
Alberta slid into the driver's seat, noticing the cop's eyes roam over her legs as she adjusted her skirt and squeezed in.
He smiled politely and closed the door. Not as handsome as the last cop she'd seen, but that smile already had her hooked.
'Pronto? ' she said, holding down the button in the way he'd shown her.
It didn't work.
The radio was a fake.
So too was the policeman.
The driver leaned against the car door and drew on his cigarette. His big frame blocked any view from outside. In the same movement, a hand snaked from the rear seat and clamped across Alberta's mouth. Simultaneously, the other man in the passenger seat slid out a gun, clicked off the safety and pushed it into her stomach.
11
Greenwich Village, New York City 'No more Dr Seuss, not tonight,' insisted Nancy King, doing her best to look serious as Zack begged for another bedtime story.
She kissed him on the tip of his nose, then swung her legs off his bed in the spare room at his grandparents' home.
'Sleep well, baby, and I'll read you some more tomorrow.'
'Night, Mommy! I love you.'
'Love you too, honey.' Nancy blew a kiss from her hand as she reached the doorway but didn't turn out the light. Zack would no longer sleep in the dark. Not since his nightmares about Daddy's work and the Black River Killer.
Downstairs, her father Harry sliced a slab of beef while her mom added roast potatoes and vegetables to willow-patterned plates that Nancy had been eating off since she was Zack's age.
'You have any mustard?' Jack was rummaging among the dishes, glasses and bottles that filled their old mahogany dining table.
'French and English. Behind the gravy,' said his mother-in-law.
Nancy joined them. 'That little guy doesn't look too sleepy. We might have a visit in a few minutes.'
As they finally tucked into the food, Nancy and her folks spoon-fed nostalgia to each other and Jack's thoughts slipped to Luciano Creed.
Was Creed a bungling amateur profiler who'd wrongly mistaken runaway women for murder victims? Was he the jilted lover – or, more probably, the unwanted admirer – of Francesca Di Lauro – and was he obsessed with finding her? Or was he something even worse – was he right? Were there a number of unsolved disappearances that the police in Naples for some reason – scarce resources, lack of interest – hadn't properly investigated?
'Could you pass me the wine, honey?' Nancy pointed to a bottle of Brunello that had come from a vineyard less than ten kilometres from their home in Tuscany.
A further thought distracted Jack. He remembered working a case in Queens – a hospital porter had called in at a precinct house with a tip-off on where to find a murdered youth. Said he'd overheard two out-of-state youths talking about a murder while they ate in a burger bar. Cops had followed up and dug a thirty-year-old black man from beneath steel in an old warehouse. Eventually, the white porter turned out to be the killer. And the dead guy hadn't been his first black victim. He'd contacted the cops with the bogus story of the youths because he'd killed three times before and 'wasn't getting the recognition he'd deserved '. The world was full of weirdoes, and those who killed for fame sometimes went as far as injecting themselves into the heart of the inquiry.
Nancy tried again. This time waggling a wine glass in her fingers. 'Could you please pass me the wine, honey?'
'What? Yeah, sure.' Jack grabbed the bottle and poured its rich red liquid into the sparkling glass. 'Sorry.'
His wife smiled, but he was already far away again. Tomorrow morning he'd go and see Creed. There were questions he just couldn't leave unanswered.
12
Napoli del nord Scampia's hollow-eyed skyscrapers cast slim shadows over the old Fiat gliding through town. Alberta Tortoricci took in the grim vista as she headed into her darkest nightmare. By the time the real cops had arrived to escort her back to her home in Assisi the fake ones had pulled into the grounds of one of the area's many disused factories. The huge building was derelict and bare of branded signage. Buckled and broken chain-link fencing ran all around it. Dogs sniffed garbage and lifted their heads as they passed.
Alberta's hands had been tied and her mouth gagged. But they'd made no attempt to blindfold her. There was no need. She wasn't going to live to identify them.
They dragged her down the side of the old factory. Her feet slipped on sodden cardboard boxes that had rotted in the rain. A metal door jerked back in rusted spasms and they pushed Alberta into the cold, damp twilight of the factory. Grey light drizzled through dozens of small windows high off the ground. Across in the corner of the room, in soft silhouette, she saw a man sitting on a slatted fold-up chair.
'Buon giorno, Alberta,' said a voice that leached the blood from her heart.
She recognized it as Bruno Valsi's.
'Please, sit down. I've been waiting. Waiting five years for you.'
Valsi stood up and stepped away as his men forced Alberta down on to the chair. Unseen fingers refastened her hands around the back of it and then bound her feet to its front legs.
'I'm sorry to be so impolite, but you've got to be tied. Otherwise, the sheer amount of pain that I'm going to inflict upon you will throw you to the ground.' Valsi snapped his fingers, summoning one of the two henchmen who'd brought her.
Alberta never saw the hammer in his hand.
Without any backswing he crashed its flat metal head into her gums and teeth.
The shock was instant. A dull crack. An explosion of pain in her skull.
Pieces of broken teeth jammed at the back of her mouth. She had to swallow jagged bone in order to breathe. Other teeth were hideously bent back at their roots. Blood and saliva drooled down her chest.
'Cantante! ' spat Valsi. His eyes were on fire.
Alberta knew what was going to happen next. The police had warned her about it. She'd seen it in her nightmares. The hand of the henchman reappeared. His fingers fumbled in her mouth. And then, she felt the acidic tang of metal on her tongue. Pliers. She could see the end of them as he squeezed tight and pulled the tongue through her smashed teeth. Punishment for the cantanti, those who sang to the authorities, was always the same. They had their tongues cut out. Then, almost as absolution for the sin of speaking to the police, the sign of the cross was razored across their lips.